Rosamanti

by Noelle Clark

  She sat back on the comfortable sofa and thought about what this place would have been like back then. She remembered Pietro mentioning that Rosamanti was four hundred years old. This map was created when the villa had been here for about seventy-five years. She thought of Pietro’s ancestors farming here, tending animals. A family quite isolated, living in the shadow of Tiberius’ villa. She wondered what the Lombardis were like. Were they wealthy landowners, or hardworking farmers? Her thoughts turned to Elena Lombardi—Nonna. If Nonna was Pietro’s grandmother, how come she had the name Lombardi? Sarah shrugged. Thinking of Nonna reminded her of the little envelope she found yesterday. She reached up to the shelf and pulled it out. Again she read the title and saw the letters E. L.—Elena Lombardi? Of course!

  She carefully opened the envelope and slid out several sheets of flimsy writing paper, folded neatly. In a copperplate, old fashioned, script, Sarah recognized the words Elena Lombardi, and Villa Rosamanti Lombardi. Under that, she saw 19 Dicembre 1928. The rest was in Italian. Frustrated, Sarah scanned the pages. On page three there was a hand drawn map, and under that Sarah saw what looked like a set of three instructions, each one numbered as Indizio 1; Indizio 2; Indizio 3.

  “Why didn’t I learn Italian at school instead of French?”

  Exasperation was getting the better of her naturally curious nature. She turned her attention to the map. It was basic, to say the least, but she was able to recognize the places easily. Villa Rosamanti was marked, as was Villa Jovis. Not far from there, another Villa was marked—Villa Lysis. Puzzled, she wondered why Lysis had not been marked on the older map. Examining further, she saw that Nonna had also marked Grotta Azzurra. She meticulously folded the thin paper, and put it back in the envelope. She would have to be patient and wait for Pietro to return.

  With a long exhale, she resigned herself to researching the mystery at Villa Jovis that Felicity French would deftly solve by discovering clues, one by one, to reveal the truth. Searching through the bookshelves in Nonna’s drawing room, she found several books, both contemporary and old, on the antics of Tiberius. She took them down from the shelf and, scooping up the seminal work of Suetonias that she had left on the table, she went upstairs to her writing room. Moving the laptop aside, she spread out the books and, with her notebook open and pen poised, jotted down notes and ideas that would end up in the latest Felicity French mystery.

  * * *

  Orange light cast a warm glow through the open window signaling that it was time to go and milk Geraldina and ensure the animals were safe for the night. She felt pleased with her day’s work. It was hard going, reading through the depravities of an Emperor who had been dead for two thousand years, but here on Capri, he was very much alive. His mark was everywhere on the island and included the baths at the entrance to Grotta Tiberio, where he apparently lounged and relaxed in the lap of luxury. But the infamous, sinister side of Tiberius made him unlikeable to a normal person, spoiling, for her, a piece of remarkable history.

  And so, in Sarah’s imagination, Felicity French, the modern, sassy Private Investigator, would stumble upon another dark secret of Villa Jovis. It would involve a well-known movie star, a major sporting identity, drugs and money laundering. Sarah plotted out the mystery, set the clues, and created her characters. Her heroine, Felicity French, would put her life perilously on the line to track down the crooks and turn them over to the law. Danger, intrigue, an attractive sleuth, sleazy offers from arrogant celebrities, sex, drugs and plenty of action. Perfect!

  Putting down her pen, she looked at the mind map on the pages in front of her. There it was, in dot points from the first chapter, to the last. She had drawn sketches of her characters, noted their physical attributes as well as their foibles, fears and weaknesses. She also sketched out a rough map of Villa Jovis and the surrounding area where the action was to take place.

  The story buzzed in her mind as she walked down the track to Geraldina’s yard. Excited bleating and an over exuberant nuzzle greeted her. As she milked the goat, she talked through the story with her.

  “You see, Felicity comes to Capri at the request of a wealthy friend. She is staying in Anacapri at one of the most expensive hotels. One day, she overhears a conversation by some celebrity types sitting near her in the hotel dining room.”

  Geraldina was a good listener. She happily waited until Sarah was finished talking her story through, enjoying the company. When the milking was finished, Sarah walked back up to the villa. On an impulse, she kept walking, down the steep driveway to the road. Heading toward Capri township, she stopped at the next entrance. Pietro had indicated this one when they walked home last night—Carlo’s home.

  As she made her way up the steep and rocky pathway, two large dogs came bounding down to meet her, barking ferociously. The warm goat’s milk sloshed onto her legs as she jumped with fright.

  “Basta, basta!” Sarah recognized Carlo’s voice.

  The dogs stopped barking, but still milled around her, looking aggressive.

  “Signora! Hello!” His welcoming smile was a relief. The dogs began wagging their tails and sniffing at the pail.

  “Hi, Carlo. I wondered if your mother would like some milk from Geraldina. I’ve just milked her.”

  Just then, a stout woman in her forties came out of the door of the little stone house, wiping her hands on an apron strapped around her waist. Her head was tilted to one side, looking curiously at the stranger. Carlo fired off some rapid Italian, pointing to Sarah. She heard the word Rosamanti. His mother’s face opened into a warm smile, and she came toward Sarah, kissing both her cheeks.

  “Ciao, signora. Come sta?”

  “My mother does not speak English, signora, but she understands OK. Her name is Teresa.”

  “Ciao, Teresa. Mio nome Sarah.” Sarah relished the opportunity to practice her Italian. She glanced down at the smiling boy, who looked rather pleased with himself. He reached up and took the pail of milk from her and went inside. A few minutes later, he came running out with it, all shiny and washed. He exchanged some words with his mother.

  “Grazie, signora. My mother would like you to join us for dinner tonight.”

  Sarah smiled broadly, very pleased at this unexpected invitation. She nodded her head. “Grazie. Piacere mio! Tell your mother I would love to stay for dinner.”

  The trio walked up to the small house and Teresa and Carlo warmly invited her inside. He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table where she could see the beginnings of a meal being prepared. When she was seated, he deposited a glass of red wine in front of her. Teresa smiled as she returned to cutting out squares of pasta with a special cutter, giving the ravioli a crimped edge. A large pot on the stove gave off a delicious aroma, its steam rising into the little kitchen.

  “Carlo, tell me about yourself. Where do you go to school?”

  While his mother happily looked on, busy with preparing the meal, Carlo proudly displayed his proficiency in speaking English.

  “I am in Santa Sofia’s school. Next year, I go to Napoli for school. For secondary school.” He glanced as his mother, his eyes not glowing as they normally did.

  “Naples? Aren’t there any secondary schools here on Capri?”

  “Si. Yes, but they are expensive, and…” He shrugged his little shoulders.

  “And, Carlo, does your father live here too?”

  Carlo picked at a crumb on the scrubbed wooden table. Teresa’s smile disappeared, and she focused on rolling out pasta dough. Sarah wished she hadn’t asked the question—it was obviously intruding. Before she could take it back, he looked up at her with his big brown eyes.

  “My father lives in Roma, signora. It is just my mother and me here.” An uneasy silence filled the little kitchen.

  “Would you like to know where I come from?” Once again, his eyes were curious as he looked at her. Sitting forward on the edge of the seat, a grin spread across his face.

  “Si, signora. Tell me.”

  The evening passed
very pleasantly. Carlo was a gracious young host and a good conversationalist. His interest in Australia—especially in kangaroos and koalas—was endless, and he fired question after question at her. Every time she answered, he would speak a few words in Italian to his mother, whose proud smile filled the room. Her ravioli and rich, aromatic tomato sauce was delicious. After dinner, Teresa produced a wooden board onto which she placed some crackers, olives, dried figs and delicious homemade goat’s cheese.

  “Geraldina. Geraldina!” Teresa pointed to the cheese, beaming.

  Geraldina’s cheese was indeed the best Sarah had ever tasted. It was hard to express her delight to Teresa, but the moisture in her eyes was enough to show Teresa how much she appreciated the humble yet beautiful meal and the wonderful company.

  “Signora, do you like—ah—I not sure how to say in English. Aragosta and gamberetti? Frutti de Mare. Food from the sea?”

  “Oh sure. Do you?”

  Carlo’s face lit up.

  “Si. I have a boat. My own boat. I catch the sea foods and sell them. I bring you some.”

  “Really? You have your own boat?”

  “Well…” He fingered the salt shaker on the table. “Mine and Bruno’s. We share it. But…well it really belongs to him. You want some fish?”

  “That would be wonderful, Carlo. Thank you.” Touched by their generosity when it was obvious they had so little, she made a mental note to ensure she reciprocated in some way.

  After they had finished dinner, Sarah’s thoughts turned to the map written by a twelve year old Elena Lombardi.

  “Carlo, what does the word indizio mean? Such as a list—indizio uno, indizio due and so on?”

  The boy looked curious. “It means, signora, clue number one, clue number two. You have a puzzle you want Carlo to help with?”

  “Hmm. I just might. Would you like to come and visit me tomorrow morning? If it’s okay with your mama.”

  He quickly spoke to Teresa. She nodded her head. “Si. Non c'è problema.”

  When it was time for Sarah to walk home, both Carlo and Teresa accompanied her, flanked by the two large dogs bounding along, nose to the ground, enjoying their own passegiatta. At the entrance to Rosamanti, Sarah turned and embraced them both, giving them kisses on both cheeks.

  “Grazie. Thank you so much.” Turning to Carlo, she added, “See you at nine?”

  Their faces shone in the moonlight. “Ciao. A dopo. See you later.” Carlo’s voice rung in her ears as she walked up to Rosamanti, where her three hungry cats gave her a welcome as though she’d been gone for weeks.

  Quickly filling their bowls, she fondled each one as they purred loudly, munching away at their food. An open bottle of wine sat in the refrigerator and she poured herself a glass, taking it through to the drawing room. She sat down on Nonna’s settee and went through the events of this amazing day in her head. She was so happy to have made friends with Teresa and Carlo. Their warm hospitality filled her with affection for them. Then her thoughts turned to Pietro. Warmth like a furnace blast seeped through her, starting at her toes and working its way up, centering on her heart. Pietro. She laughed to herself. How could I be missing him so much? This is only the first evening I haven’t seen him in the short time I’ve been here, but … Eventually she finished the glass of wine and made her way upstairs, falling asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  Chapter Six

  A little brown face peered around the open kitchen door. “Ciao, signora.”

  Sarah turned and smiled at him. “Ciao, Carlo. Come on in.”

  He sniffed the air and licked his lips.

  “I’ve been baking. I made some Australian biscuits—biscotto—for you to try.” She took the dish towel off a plate, revealing the large, golden brown cookies, glistening with the goodness of honey and oats. “They’re called Anzac biscuits.”

  His black eyes shone with anticipation as he reached out and took a biscuit. She watched as he bit into it, noticing his surprise that it was chewy rather than crunchy. Sarah waited patiently until he had eaten the whole cookie before he rewarded her with his opinion.

  “Questo cibo e molto buono, signora!” The enthusiasm in his voice helped her translate.

  “So, you like it?”

  “Si, oh yes. Very good. Mm.”

  “Good, then when you go home today, you can take them with you for supper.”

  They moved into the drawing room where Sarah showed him the pages written by Nonna so long ago.

  “Can you tell me what this says please Carlo?”

  Scrunching up his eyes, he studied the tightly written script intently. She watched as his face saddened. He shook his head and, frowning, looked up at her.

  “Signora, it is a letter from Signora Elena—my friend. But written a long time ago.”

  “I know. I worked out she would have been twelve. Just a bit older than you are now.”

  He looked back at the letter, reading it.

  “What’s she saying?” Sarah’s impatience was getting the better of her.

  “Ssh. Un momento.” His eyes never left the delicate paper. He turned over the first page and read the second through. The third page held the map and the three clues. Sarah saw his face infuse with color, his eyes widening. Soon, he looked up at her, his mouth gaping.

  “Tesoro! Treasure, signora!” He jumped up and began to head for the door.

  “Hold on! Hold on! Tell me what she says!”

  “Signora, we should go now before somebody else finds it.” Enthusiasm and excitement burst from him.

  Grabbing him gently on the arm, she put her face close to his.

  “Carlo. Signora Elena wrote this eighty-five years ago. There’s no rush.”

  His annoyance at the delay was quickly replaced by resignation. He let out a loud sigh.

  “Si.” He flopped down onto the settee and began to read the note aloud in English. When he had finished, he looked at her. “Signora, see on the map. We just follow the clues and we will find the treasure.”

  “But she doesn’t say for sure there is a treasure, Carlo. Does she give any clue as to what it might be? Maybe it’s just a secret that people would value.”

  “But signora, it must be gold—or diamonds.”

  A laugh sprang from her. “I very much doubt a twelve-year-old girl would have any gold or diamonds. But I do love your enthusiasm.” She ruffled his hair. “Come on then, let’s look at the clues.”

  Reaching over to the table, she grabbed a notebook and pen. “Read out the first one please Carlo.”

  “Come un cane, cercate l’osso.” Scratching his head, he frowned. “It says: like a dog, you seek the bone.” He looked up at her with a blank look.

  She wrote down the words in the notebook, then looked up to meet his gaze.

  “Signora? A bone? The treasure is a bone? Mama mia!”

  “Next one?”

  Lips compressed, he turned back to the handwritten note.

  “Bianco diventa blu,” he paused turning the paper slightly sideways and screwing up his eyes, “attenzione la tonalità.” Again he looked confused. “She has scribbled over this word.” He pointed with his finger. He read it out slowly. “White becomes blue, beware the hue.” He looked up at her and licked his lips. “Signora, I think it is a body. First there is a bone, then it says to beware.”

  She frowned. “Well if you’re right, there won’t be too much left after eighty odd years.” She wrote down the translation.

  “Prendete il vostro ultimo respiro, ora faccio la tua morte…” His face paled. “No signora. I am certain. There is no treasure.” He swallowed.

  “What does it say? Tell me!”

  He cleared his throat. “Take your last breath, you now face your death.”

  She nearly dropped the pen. “Are you sure?”

  “Si.” He looked small and vulnerable. She reached out and put her arm around his shoulders.

  “It’s okay Carlo. She probably wrote this for a game. Like someone who p
uts a message in a bottle and tosses it out to sea, hoping someone will find it and have a bit of fun.”

  His wide open eyes told her he didn’t think that very likely. She didn’t think so either.

  “But…” he paused, “what if it is real?”

  Exhaling noisily, She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”

  The excitement had faded. She looked at Carlo, wishing she hadn’t asked him to help her decipher the Italian clues. Why would a twelve year old girl write such things?

  “Come on, let’s go and see if there are any eggs for you to take home to your mama.” She stood up and reached a hand down to him as he knelt on the worn mat, his elbows resting on the coffee table. He looked at her hand for a moment, his expression still worried. Then he took it and stood up.

  “Can I collect the eggs, signora? I’ll be careful.”

  Her laugh rang out. “Of course you can.”

  * * *

  Sarah stared out at the view from the bus window, delighting in the brilliant colors of sea and sky. Sheer cliff faces, dropping majestically to the blue water, were dotted with villas and dwellings in pastel shades. Green pine trees dotted the cliff edge, some even growing from rugged ledges half way down.

  After collecting eggs with Carlo, she had walked in to Capri township. He gave her instructions on where to catch the bus to Anacapri. As she sat in the bumpy little bus—not much bigger than a large family vehicle—she mused how she had hardly ventured beyond the microcosmic world of Rosamanti. In such a short time, so much had happened. New friends, new pets, a new way of life, and she was writing again. It couldn’t possibly get any better! The narrow, steep and winding road hugged the sharp ridge stretching from east to west across the island. To the right—down toward Marina Grande—lay a couple of tiny, crescent shaped coves, where a break in the rugged cliffs created a small swimming bay.

  The bus turned off via Roma and veered right onto via Provinciale Anacapri. As they climbed higher, groves of olive trees drooped with fruit. Spread on the ground under each tree was a large net. Soon she saw people on ladders under the trees, shaking the branches and making the olives drop down to the net. Farther along, several people were gathering the net in by holding the edges and collecting the fruit, as fishermen would gather their catch of tiddlers on the beach. The bus driver changed gear several times, dropping to low gear. The motor whined as the driver negotiated several extremely tight hairpin bends, while climbing steeply upward. They passed orchards of citrus, looking lush and healthy. As the little bus ground its way painfully to the crest, Sarah sucked in a huge gulp of air as a view so magnificent it threatened to make her faint spread before her. The driver stopped the bus, looked over his shoulder, and called out to the four passengers.