Rosamanti

by Noelle Clark

  Sarah forgot all about Felicity French. She forgot all about her need to write a good thriller to satisfy her publisher and her fans. Instead, she picked her way through the ruins, letting her imagination conjure up the scene as it would have been back then. She wished she’d brought a map and guidebook with her, realizing it would have been better to wait until she knew exactly what it was she was looking at in this large complex, but the feeling it induced was delightful.

  After an hour of wandering, she sat down on a flat gray rock in the shade of a high wall, her mouth dry. In her anger, she had stormed out of Rosamanti without her hat or a bottle of water.

  “Stupido!” A laugh escaped her lips. Pietro would love that word. She didn’t even know if there was such a word in Italian. But it sounded good. Thoughts of Pietro entering her reverie brought her back to reality. She couldn’t deny she was attracted to him, but she couldn’t let any silly, vacation-romance ideas spoil her chance to fulfill her goals. She had to remain focused. Despite her determination, She heard a small inner voice whisper in her ear, are you sure this is a silly vacation romance? Aren’t you already falling in love with him? She stood up abruptly, silencing the words filling her head.

  Looking around her at the pale limestone ruins, she was filled with a sudden urge to study up on the life of Tiberius. What was he like? Why did he distance himself from Rome? Were the rumors of his “wayward” sexual practices true? Normally, she would turn to her good friend, Mr. Google, and read up on anything she needed. But with no internet, she would have to find the local library. A little ball of excitement formed inside her. “What if…” The germ of an idea settled in her mind. “What if…Felicity French came here? What if she stumbled upon a mystery—one that nobody knew about—but now it was vital that it be solved, otherwise lives would be in danger?”

  A rush of urgency flowed through her. She stood up and headed back through the ruins, ignoring her thirst or the heat. Unlike her trek up to Villa Jovis a few hours earlier, her feet skipped lightly on the earth as she headed back down the track to Rosamanti, a smile plastered on her face.

  After about thirty minutes, she reached the yard of Rosamanti, entered the cool, dark kitchen, washed her face under the running water of the tap in the sink, and drank water out of her cupped hands. She took the stairs up to her study two at a time. Pulling out a large notebook and pencil, she began plotting her new novel.

  * * *

  A shout from downstairs roused her. Pietro! She glanced at the clock on her laptop. Six o’clock. Jumping up from her chair, she ran down the stairs, nearly bowling right into Pietro as he came in the back door. His beaming smile disappeared and furrow lines drew his brows together.

  “Ciao, bella. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Geraldina. I forgot to milk her.”

  “Non c’è nessun problema. Let’s do it now.”

  He grabbed the milk pail and together they walked down to the goat shed.

  “Did you sleep through the afternoon?”

  “No.” She paused, then rushed out her explanation. “No, I wasn’t sleeping, but I was caught up in the moment of writing. I know I’ve let you down. I realize how important it is to milk her at the same time every day. Poor Geraldina.”

  “Mm. She will be a cranky old girl.”

  As he predicted, Geraldina was not happy. She refused to take the alfalfa from Sarah and twice knocked over the milk bucket while Pietro milked her.

  “You see, her udders get really full if she’s not milked on time. But more than that, she likes her food—and company.”

  After they had finished with Geraldina and walked back up to the house, Pietro offered to show her the cellar before it got dark.

  In the little utility room behind the kitchen, there was a trap door set in the floor. He lifted a brass ring and pulled, and the door opened up, showing a dark, steep staircase going down into the darkness. He reached up to a hook on the wall and retrieved a flashlight.

  “Follow me, but watch your step.”

  He climbed downward, shining the flashlight beam so that she could see the rungs. As she neared the bottom, he waited to steady her. Hanging the flashlight on a hook in the ceiling, he took her hand and showed her around.

  “These signs are the vintage. The dates are in Italian, so you will have to become familiar with them, but it’s easy enough. For the whites, drink these first, starting here.” He indicated a large rack of dust covered bottles, reaching from floor to ceiling. “The rosé is over here. They are best drunk in summer. Again, drink the oldest first. We don’t have many red wines, mainly because the grape variety grown best here is for white wines. But there are a few. Please, just help yourself to whatever you wish.”

  “I’m impressed, Pietro. No way in heaven did I ever imagine that I’d have access to such a wonderful cellar when I came here. Thanks.”

  “You are welcome, of course. So, what shall we have with our dinner tonight? Hmm, what can I recommend?” He thought for a moment, then walked over to the whites, choosing a bottle from the rack. “2007. It was a wonderful year. The wine is fruity and fresh. Unoaked. Does that sound all right to you?”

  “Perfect. I can’t wait to try it.”

  Sarah climbed up the steep little staircase first, emerging from the hole into the utility room. Pietro followed, carefully carrying the bottle of wine and the flashlight. They went into the kitchen and he washed the bottle under the tap and put it in the refrigerator.

  “What did you have for lunch today, Sarah?”

  “Um—well, I didn’t eat lunch today. I—was kind of—busy.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You said you have been writing. Brava. I’m happy to hear that. Rosamanti agrees with you, si?”

  She laughed. “Well, it wasn’t all that easy, actually. I went for a walk. As often happens, inspiration comes to me when I stop trying.”

  “And which part of Lo Capo was it that inspired you?”

  “Quite without intending to, I ended up at Villa Jovis. I started thinking about how ancient the structure is, about Tiberius, and presto, I think I can use Villa Jovis as a setting for my book. Tell me, where is the best library? I need to do some research on Tiberius and the Villa.”

  Pietro raised his eyebrows. “Follow me.” He led her up the hallway into Nonna’s sitting room. “Nonna collected many books written about Villa Jovis. After all, she and Tiberius were almost neighbors—give or take a couple of thousand years.”

  “But won’t they all be in Italian?”

  “Oh, my Nonna just loved collecting books about Villa Jovis. She always said she wanted to learn English, but…”

  Sarah wondered who had helped Nonna place the newspaper advertisement for Rosamanti, and who had written the letters to her. For some reason, she had just assumed it was Elena Lombardi herself. It obviously wasn’t Pietro. He knew nothing about Sarah coming here.

  Pietro indicated two shelves. “These are the books that you will need. For a controversial history of the not-so-nice behavior of Tiberius, read Suetonias.” Sarah looked at the title: The Lives of the Twelve Caesars.

  “Of course, some scholars discredit what Suetonias has said, but perhaps if I take you to see the Grotta di Tiberio and the nymphaneum at Matermánia, you will see that there is some justice for the allegations.” He turned to her. “But come, let’s see what is for dinner.”

  “Oh, I haven’t prepared anything.”

  “Ah, but we have eggs, flour, tomatoes, basil, and onions. And,” he added with a flourish, “we have an Italian chef! I will make you some pasta and a caprese sauce. OK?”

  She watched enthralled as Pietro spread the pliant dough on the smooth, floured bench in Nonna’s kitchen. Sipping wine, she could feel contentment oozing through every pore of her skin. He started singing as he worked—firstly skinning the rich, ripe tomatoes, and dicing the onion and basil finely. Every so often, he looked at her and winked, a happy smile resting on his handsome face. When the meal was ready, they sat opposite each
other at the old wooden table. She loved the meal, and she loved the happiness that he infused into the food. Wholesome, calm, generous, and sweet.

  When they finished eating, he raised his glass to her. She clinked hers with him and smiled.

  “Bella, you look so happy.”

  “I am happy, Pietro. I’m happier than I’ve been for a long time. I don’t know if it’s your wine, your food, or Rosamanti, but I feel like I’ve been transformed into a fairy tale where everything is good.”

  His face took on a look of mock admonishment. “Ah, bella,” he chided, “maybe it is because of me!”

  They both laughed. She looked thoughtful for a moment, tipping her head to one side. “You know, maybe—just maybe—it is.”

  The tender look in his eyes, and the happy smile on his face, warmed her heart.

  “Tomorrow night, how about I introduce you to one of the loveliest customs for all Italians, but particularly for we Caprese? I will pick you up and we will take la passegiatta—a walk into La Piazzetta for ice-cream—then we will eat dinner somewhere nice. OK?”

  Soon it was time for him to go. His work in the kitchen started very early.

  “Once the high season is over, I get more time off. But right now…” He bent and kissed both her cheeks. “Ciao, bella.” Without a backward glance, he rode off into the night on his funny little Vespa.

  She stood out in the garden for a little while, listening as the scooter wound its way up and over the hills, through the lanes, heading for the township. The peace and solitude of the garden hung in the air like a mist. Back home in Sydney, there was no way she could feel so confident living alone in such an isolated place, nor leaving the house wide open and unlocked. She turned and went inside. It only took a few minutes to wash up the dishes from their simple, yet magnificent, meal. She patted the cats and went upstairs to bed.

  * * *

  The next morning, she sat at her desk with the window wide open, smelling salt on the breeze. The sun was not yet fully up, and the crisp air was delicious. She had already fed the cats and chickens, collected the eggs, and tried valiantly to make friends again with Geraldina. At first, she received the cold shoulder, with Geraldina pretending she didn’t see her. But after a while, and after proffering several sweet apples, Geraldina came over for a rub, nuzzling Sarah with her nose. Eventually, the goat knelt down on her front knees, and settled the rest of her bulk up against Sarah on the grass. She was glad they were friends again. After a little while, she stood, giving Geraldina a pat on the head.

  “See you this afternoon, beautiful. I won’t forget you today.”

  Geraldina responded with a happy little bleat, and regurgitating more cud into her cheeks, she happily began chewing.

  Sarah entered the cool kitchen and decided to explore Nonna’s books. Entering the drawing room, she felt a strong presence of the lady whose life had been spent here in this house, in this room.

  She turned on the light to help her better examine the books on the shelf Pietro had indicated. At first, she only found books written in Italian or Latin. Eventually she found a large, leather-bound volume. She pulled it from the dusty shelf and laid it on the coffee table. The words Mappe di Capri were tooled into the thick brown leather. Carefully opening it, she gasped as she saw hand drawn maps of the island. The sites and towns were written in a spidery hand in black ink. Page after page of maps, some quite detailed, leapt out of the book. Some names she recognized—Marina Grande, Anacapri, Capri, Grotta Azzurra. Her heart beat rapidly as she turned the pages, hoping to find a map of Rosamanti and Villa Jovis. There! She first saw the word via Lo Capo, and then, a tiny black dot with the words Villa Rosamanti Lombardi. Several smaller dots surrounded the main Villa. Maybe outbuildings? She looked for a date, but found none. Following the tracks, she soon found a diagram depicting Villa Jovis. She was amazed to see how large the structure would have been. The map showed a large spa, spacious imperial quarters—even a lighthouse. She assumed the dotted black lines, following what looked like the contour of the ridges, were walking tracks from the center of the island, where the township of Capri was located, up to the cape where Villa Jovis commanded the entire head. She gently placed a fingertip on Rosamanti. There! A hairline black-dotted trail led up to the Villa. She realized that was the one she traveled yesterday! Her heart began beating faster. A twisting and turning, single black line, had a more direct route, and along it was written via Lo Capo.

  She closed the book of maps and perused the other books. As Pietro promised, there was an abundance of books on Villa Jovis and Emperor Tiberius. She scanned the titles, many of which meant nothing to her. She reached up and took out a cloth-bound hardcover. The Lives of the Twelve Caesars—Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus. She put it aside. “Hmm, some bedtime reading.”

  As she looked through the shelves, a flat shape caught her eye. She tugged gently, trying to extricate the item without ripping it. It was wedged in the bookcase, just where the shelf and the upright met. She looked down at a buff colored envelope, a deep crease across where it had been jammed in the gap. The flap wasn’t sealed, and she could feel that there was something inside. A faded, child-like script across the front said Mappi di Villa Rosamanti — mia casa. Hardly visible were the initials, E. L. Under that, a recognizable ink sketch of Rosamanti, drawn in a childish way, took Sarah’s attention. Curious, she held the envelope in her hands, feeling that something special was contained within its faded and discolored exterior.

  “Salve! Salve! C’è qualcuno in casa?”

  Sarah jumped at the sound of the voice. She placed the envelope back on the bookshelf and went downstairs. Standing at the kitchen door was a young boy of about eleven, with a shock of black curls, and a nervous smile hovering on his lips. In his hand he held a large jar.

  “Hello. Non parlo bene Italian.”

  “I am Carlo, Signora. My mother made you some passata di pomodoro. Welcome to Rosamanti.” A look of relief crossed his face as he ended the sentence. Sarah thought he might have memorized the sentence.

  “Carlo. Grazie! Please, come in.” Sarah took the jar from him. The rich red tomato sauce looked wonderful. “You speak very good English, Carlo.”

  His shy smile looked less nervous now. “I learn English at school.”

  “Would you like some lemonade? Ah…” She searched her brain for the Italian word. “Limonata?”

  “Si, Signora.” He sat down at the old wooden table, looking quite at home here. She poured him a glass of Pietro’s homemade lemonade.

  “Did you know Nonna—Signora Lombardi?” Immediately she wished she hadn’t asked. His dark brown eyes glazed over. He nodded his head.

  Not wanting to embarrass him, she turned and picked up a wire basket full of eggs. She turned to see Carlo draining the lemonade. Placing the eggs on the table, she sat down opposite him.

  “Can you tell your mother I said thank you? And can you please give her these eggs? She might make something for your dinner with them.”

  A broad grin spread across his face. “Si. I will tell her.” He wiggled off the chair and took hold of the wire handle with both hands.

  “Come and visit me often, OK?”

  He was already heading out the door. “Si, Ciao, Signora.”

  “Ciao!” Then he was gone. Forgetting about her search in the library, she made a coffee and took it upstairs to her writing desk. Turning on her laptop, she started typing out some more ideas for the Felicity French mystery set in Villa Jovis. She realized the trap had caught her again—the trap of getting too deep into research and not enough writing. As she typed, ideas began pinging through her brain, like meteorites shooting across a night sky. They didn’t have to make sense. She typed them down as they hatched, capturing them for later.

  * * *

  The sun was low in the sky when she came back to reality. Time to milk Geraldina. She stood up and stretched. Her brainstorming session had paid off. The rough outline of a story was already taking shape, with just the righ
t balance of suspense, tension, and red herrings. Early days yet, she thought. She always found this the hardest part of writing a book. But she felt pleased with herself. It had been a good day’s work.

  Geraldina listened attentively as Sarah told her about the book. She stood perfectly still and allowed herself to be milked, seemingly enjoying being the center of Sarah’s attention for a while. When the pail was full and Geraldina’s udders empty, Sarah gave the goat some carrots and tomatoes, then walked back up to the villa. She showered and spent some time making herself ready for her evening out with Pietro. Choosing a cool, sleeveless dress, she spent extra time on her hair and makeup. There had been no need to dress up for several days, so she was making the most of it.

  Eventually, she heard the familiar sound of Pietro’s scooter winding its way up the hill from Capri, and soon she heard it sputtering as it entered the courtyard of Rosamanti. She walked out to greet him.

  His eyes widened as he took in her dress, the cute sandals, and her shining hair.

  “Sei bella!” He strode over and hugged her tight, kissing both her cheeks. “You look beautiful tonight.” His voice shook a little.

  Pleased with his praise, she looked into his eyes. They were dark and stormy—dangerous. She looked down at his black slacks and well cut shirt. His hair had been recently trimmed, and he smelled of expensive aftershave.

  “You look pretty good yourself.” She was rewarded with one of his beaming smiles.

  “We will make a beautiful couple tonight in the Piazzetta. Come on.”

  He held out his arm and she slipped hers through the crook. They set off back toward Capri township on their passegiatta. An electric golf cart came hurtling around a sharp corner toward them, managing somehow to narrowly miss them and not scrape against the high stucco wall. Pietro held her by the shoulders and yelled something in Italian at the driver, whose broad grin reached from ear to ear.