Last Voyage of the Valentina

by Santa Montefiore

  He carried little Alba in her basket up to the crumbling tower. She was still asleep, her hands beside her ears and her head on one side. She looked angelic, like one of Raphael’s sleeping cherubs. She might just as well have been on a cloud and if she had turned over to reveal wings he wouldn’t have been in the least bit surprised.

  “She’s just like you,” he said as they sat down in the shade. The aromatic scent of the hills was carried on the breeze with the fresh smell of the sea and Thomas felt that in all his life he had never been filled with such lightness, such happiness.

  “I hope she does not grow up to be like me,” she replied, but Thomas shook his head.

  “How lucky she would be if she were to grow up like you, Valentina.”

  “I don’t want her to make the mistakes that I have made in my life.”

  “But you’re so young. What mistakes could you have possibly made?” He laughed at her and she grinned bashfully.

  “We all make mistakes, don’t we?”

  “Yes, we do. But…”

  “The best thing I ever did was meet you.” She wrapped her arms around him and they lay down on the grass and kissed. As much as he wanted to make love to her he didn’t feel it was right while their baby slept beside them. He knew Valentina felt the same, for small beads of sweat had collected on her brow and nose and her breathing had grown heavy, but she did not encourage him to take it further.

  They waited as long as they could before returning to Immacolata’s house. They lay entwined as the day slowly drained away. Alba awoke and Valentina put her to the breast. Thomas was moved. He had never seen a child suckled before. Valentina looked luminescent, serene, unattainable somehow. As she fed her baby she no longer belonged to him, but to Alba. Once again he sensed her ethereal nature. That quality he had recognized the year before that placed her beyond his reach. He suffered a moment of possessiveness. It didn’t matter how much she told him she loved him, or that the child she fed was his child. He felt as if a hand squeezed his heart.

  “Christ, Valentina,” he said in English. “You do the strangest things to me!” She turned her head on one side and looked puzzled. “You’re so beautiful,” he continued in Italian. “I just want to hold you forever.”

  Now she laughed at him. “You don’t know me, Tommy.”

  “You like lemons, the dark, the sea, and the color purple. You wanted to be a dancer when you were a little girl. You see,” he chuckled wistfully, “I remember everything about you.”

  “But you don’t know me.”

  “We have the rest of our lives to get to know each other.” He swept her hair over her shoulder so that it did not obscure her face. “It’s going to be the greatest project of my life.”

  “We will have more children,” she said, stroking Alba’s forehead as she suckled. “I want Alba to have brothers and sisters. I don’t want her to be alone. I’ve been alone in this war. I hope she grows up in a peaceful world,” she said suddenly and her eyes filled with tears. “War reduces men to animals and turns women into shameful creatures. I want her to see only the good in people. Not to be cynical. To be able to trust without that trust being broken. I want her to be sure of who she is. To be confident. Not to have to rely on anyone. To be independent and free. She will be all these things in England, won’t she?”

  Thomas was confused. “Of course she will. That is what we fought for, Valentina. For peace. So that children like Alba can grow up unafraid, in a free, democratic society.”

  “You are so brave, Tommy. I wish I was brave like you.”

  “You don’t have to be, because I’m here to protect you.” He traced his fingers down her cheek where the tears had left shiny wet trails. “Alba will grow up not knowing the horrors of war. But we will tell her about how brave men lost their lives so that she appreciates her good fortune.” Then he spoke in a quiet, sad voice, about Freddie, memories he had only ever shared with Jack. “My brother died, Valentina. He was a fighter pilot. No one imagined he’d go down. Not Freddie. He was indomitable, larger than life. Yet so many were lost in Malta, in the end he was just another number. I never got to say goodbye. Death is a lonely business, Valentina. One always dies alone. I’d like to believe in Heaven. I’d like to believe he’s with God now. The truth is, his body’s at the bottom of the sea and I have no way of honoring him.”

  Valentina reached out her hand and touched his. “I understand, my darling Tommy. My father and Ernesto, one of my brothers, died too. So many lost and yet there is no comfort in numbers, is there? Mamma built a shrine for my father and now she has built one for Ernesto. The candles flicker day and night; like their spirits they never go out. They live on in our memory. It is all we can do. You honor your brother by remembering him, Tommy. You must tell me about him. You must tell me all that you remember because it is by remembering that we give them life.” Her face had taken on a maturity and wisdom he hadn’t seen in her before. To his surprise her words comforted him; Jack’s had never been able to.

  Finally Thomas grew hungry and Valentina was anxious to get home for Alba. They sat in the cart once again and the horse, who had been asleep in the shade of a gnarled eucalyptus tree, reluctantly set off up the dusty track.

  Valentina warned Thomas that her brothers had returned from the war. Ludovico and Paolo, the two who had been imprisoned by the British, would be friendly enough now that the war was over and they had been well treated in captivity. Falco, however, would not. He had been a partisan, she explained, and was dark, mercurial, and troubled.

  “He is a complicated man,” she said. “He always has been, ever since childhood. Mamma says that because he came out first he expected to be loved more than the rest of us and was consequently disappointed and jealous. He has a wife, Beata, and a little boy of five called Toto. You would have thought that the love of a woman and an adoring child would soften his heart, but it has not. He is as cold and suspicious as ever.”

  Thomas felt anxious about meeting Falco. He was the head of the family now their father was no longer alive. Yet, he reasoned, how difficult could he be? They had fought on the same side. If anyone was going to begrudge him it was the other two, who had sided with the Germans.

  As they approached the house the scent of figs engulfed him again and he was reminded of his first visit the year before. Like a bat, Immacolata bustled out, blinking in the light, wringing her hands. She was clearly agitated. “Where have you been? I’ve done nothing but worry.”

  “Mamma!” Valentina scolded. “We only took Alba to the lookout point.”

  “Falco has been anxious. Filling my head with all sorts of rubbish.”

  “I apologize, signora,” said Thomas, helping Valentina down from the cart. “We wanted to spend the afternoon alone.”

  At that moment Falco stepped out and stood beside his mother. He was a rough-looking man, coarse due to years of fighting, with deep-set eyes of the darkest brown and thick, weathered skin. He was undoubtedly handsome with his long, curly hair and brooding brow. Thomas noticed at once that he was tall and broad in the shoulders; he also walked with a limp, an injury probably left over from his violent past as a partisan. He doubted he’d come off very well in a fight. He attempted a smile but the man, who looked older than his thirty years, simply scowled at him.

  “You have to be careful,” he growled and his voice was deep and grainy, like sand. “The war might be over but the hills are full of bandits. People are still starving. You don’t appreciate how lucky we are in Incantellaria. Beyond is a dark and dangerous world.”

  Thomas immediately felt irritated that Falco was implying he was naïve. “We were quite safe, I assure you,” he replied coldly.

  Falco laughed at him. “You don’t know these hills. I know them better than I know the lines on my own hands. I know my way around every rock and bush with my eyes shut. You’d be surprised at the demons that lurk there. Sometimes they do not appear like demons at all.”

  Valentina placed her hand on Thomas�
��s arm and said, “Don’t listen to him. There were no demons where we were. The only demons that haunt these parts are the ones in Falco’s head.” Thomas leaned over the cart and pulled out the Moses basket. Valentina walked straight past her mother and brother and into the house.

  “Valentina knows what I’m talking about although she’s as stubborn as a mule.” Thomas wanted to leap to Valentina’s defense but he saw the pain contort Immacolata’s face and took the peaceful option instead. He extended his hand to Falco.

  “The war is over,” he said. “Let’s not start a new one here.”

  Falco’s mouth tightened but he took his hand. Thomas felt his rough, calloused skin but there was something reassuring about his grasp which was the firm hold of a man in possession of himself. However, he did not smile and his eyes were dark and impenetrable so that Thomas was unable to decipher his thoughts. Immacolata, subdued by the presence of her son, was no longer the omnipotent matriarch she had been before. She was clearly in awe of him, if not a little afraid. However, she was pleased they had called a truce.

  “God has brought you together through Valentina. Let us eat and be friends.”

  It wasn’t long before the rest of the family turned up. Ludovico and Paolo, who still lived with their mother, were the total opposites of their elder brother. Where the battle-weary partisan was as dark and cold as a winter’s night they were warm rays of summer sunshine. It was difficult to tell them apart, for they were both short, wiry, and athletic with brown eyes like their sister’s and crooked, mischievous grins. They did not possess their brother’s magnetism or his good looks, but they were amusing and their laughter had worn through the youth on their faces and carved out deep, attractive lines. In spite of having fought against the Allies they shook Thomas’s hand and slapped him on the back, making jokes about taking Valentina off their hands and saving her from the motley lineup of poor Italian suitors.

  Beata arrived with Toto for dinner. She was a sweet-natured woman who clearly knew nothing of her husband’s wartime activities. She was a simple peasant girl who thought little beyond her child and preparing the next meal. Fearful of the foreigner, she did not even shake his hand but lowered her eyes and took her seat at the long table beneath the vine where Immacolata had presided over dinner the year before. Her son sat beside her and rested his head against his mother’s body, nestled beneath her protective arm. Like a docile, watchful animal, Beata blinked about her, listening to the conversation but contributing nothing. Falco rarely looked at her and certainly didn’t talk to her. Beata had obviously been pummeled into the dust by this overbearing, overopinionated man. Thomas was thankful he had arrived in time to save Valentina from a similar fate.

  Immacolata punctuated their discussion with religious references. She seemed to have God’s ear for she knew exactly what His intentions were, why He had allowed the war to happen, even why He had taken her husband and son. God was the only way she could make sense of it all. Perhaps it hurt less to believe in the will of God, like a child who trusts without question the actions of its parents. Thomas was barely able to reconcile the woman who had bellowed at her staff in Trattoria Fiorelli with this soft-spoken, submissive mother who seemed to have shrunk in the shadow of her eldest son. If Lattarullo was able to see her now, he thought with amusement, she would no longer frighten him so.

  At the end of the meal Valentina and Beata cleared away the plates, taking the dishes through to the kitchen. Toto followed, carrying the small things that weren’t too heavy. He was a pretty child with wide brown eyes and a full, sensual mouth that curled up at the corners in quiet amusement. He clearly loved his grandmother, who stroked his face and kissed him with solemn affection.

  It was dark. Moths fluttered around the hurricane lamps and the chorus of crickets rang out in the bushes and trees. Thomas lit a cigarette and watched the smoke float up on the cool air, twisting and turning as the breeze blew in from the sea. He could hear Beata and Valentina laughing in the kitchen. There had been no laughter at the table and Immacolata seemed to have lost her sense of humor a long time ago. It was heartening to hear their gaiety. He imagined they were talking about their children, sharing the day’s stories or perhaps a joke at the expense of the men, he didn’t know. He noticed that for some reason Valentina incensed Falco. He watched her through narrowed eyes and there was dislike in them bordering on hatred. Valentina, to her credit, ignored him. When he tried to put her down she retorted with amusement and rolled her eyes. Thomas was proud of her. He remembered her dancing at the festa di Santa Benedetta; she had shown surprising spirit then too. He gazed upon her through the smoke with sleepy eyes and realized that she was right; he barely knew her.

  Finally the family retired to bed. Immacolata knelt before the shrines to her husband and son and mumbled an inaudible prayer. After crossing herself vigorously she bade them good night. Then she took Thomas’s hand and thanked him for returning. “You will take my Valentina to a better place,” she said solemnly, patting it with soft, doughy fingers. “Tomorrow you shall meet Padre Dino. The sooner you are married the better.”

  Valentina kissed her fiancé demurely on the cheek, but Thomas knew from the glint in her eyes that she longed to take him to her bed. “Until tomorrow, my love,” she whispered, then disappeared into the shadows. He thought he heard Lattarullo arrive in the car he seemed to share with the rest of the town and wandered over to the window. Behind him, Falco smoked alone on the terrace, with only the night animals and crickets for company. He looked troubled as he sat hunched over the table, the last of the wax maintaining the flame in one of the hurricane lamps. Beata had returned to their house, a short walk through the olive grove and well lit by the moon. Thomas wondered why Falco had not accompanied his wife and son.

  There was no sign of Lattarullo. He must have heard the roar of the sea in the distance, or the echo of bombs dropped months ago that still rang in his ears and in his dreams. He withdrew from the window. Not wanting to join Falco, he took a seat in the dark and lit a cigarette. He watched the flickering candles illuminate Immacolata’s shrines to her husband and son, causing the gold leaf on the icons to glitter. It wasn’t long before he heard voices coming from the terrace. They were muffled but staccato. There was obviously a heated discussion going on. He recognized Valentina’s voice. Hidden in the shadows he looked out on to the terrace where she stood in front of her brother, her hands raised in protest, her voice an angry hiss. They spoke so fast and so low that Thomas was unable to understand a single word. He strained his ears until they ached, but still he was unable to make sense of it. Suddenly Falco leaped to his feet, leaned across the table, and fired a sentence at her in fury, his hands on the table like two large lion’s paws. She retaliated like a fiend, her chin up, her face proud, her eyes lively and bright. Once again Thomas recalled her dance in the street the night of the festa. She had had the same light in her eyes then too.

  The normally demure Valentina possessed a passion that she rarely revealed. She looked even more beautiful enraged and Thomas’s blood grew hot in his veins at the sight of her blazing eyes and haughty smile, enhanced now by the eerie flicker of the dying candle. He caught his breath as he felt the dizzy sensation of falling in love again. He wondered whether they were fighting over him. Perhaps Falco was angry with her for falling in love with a foreigner. Thomas was wise enough to remain hidden, and anyway, it wouldn’t be long before she was far from Incantellaria and her surly, resentful brother.

  Finally the rattle of Lattarullo’s car alerted him to the carabiniere’s arrival. He leaped to his feet and hurried quietly out of the door. He did not want Falco and Valentina to know that he had witnessed their argument.

  In the car Lattarullo took great pleasure in telling him all about his own wedding day. “Though sadly,” he said without sounding sad, “my wife left me. A personal tragedy of no consequence to anyone but myself.” Thomas wasn’t listening. “The war taught me that there are things of far greater importance and sig
nificance than women.”

  Once back at the trattoria, Thomas undressed for bed. Immacolata had placed a large jug of water beside a wash bowl. He picked up the small bar of soap and remembered the bath he had enjoyed in the stream with Jack. He imagined Valentina as he had first seen her, dressed in that virginal white dress that clung so nicely to her slender young body. He remembered the way the sun had shone behind her, casting her legs in silhouette.

  He lay awake, staring up at the ceiling, mulling over the scene he had just witnessed and its implications. Outside the breeze danced among the cypress trees, whispering playfully at his window with softly salted breath. Tormented by anxiety, he felt hot and uncomfortable and deeply protective of Valentina and their child. No one is going to prevent my taking them both to England, he thought angrily. Even if I have to sneak off in the middle of the night like a criminal.

  16

  P adre Dino had the deep, gritty voice of a bear. It echoed up from his round and cavernous belly. His face was almost entirely covered with bushy gray hair that fell from his chin and cheeks down to his chest, ending in knotted clumps that resembled tiny paws. When he spoke his beard twitched as if it were a mangy animal and not something he had grown out of choice. It didn’t look clean, and Thomas had the distinct feeling that if he were unfortunate enough to get too close he would be struck by an extremely unpleasant odor. Surprisingly, above the beard the padre’s eyes were long and sweeping and a rather beautiful shade of green: pale, iridescent, like a mossy pool bathed in sunshine.

  The priest had arrived on a bicycle. It was a wonder his long black robe didn’t get caught in the spokes and cause a terrible accident. He shuffled onto the terrace huffing and puffing after the exertion of pedaling up the hill. However, when Immacolata offered him wine he brightened and what little one could see of his cheeks flushed the color of plums. “Blessed be the Virgin and all the saints,” he said, tracing the sign of the cross in the air in front of him. Thomas caught Valentina’s eyes but her expression was one of solemn reverence.