Last Voyage of the Valentina

by Santa Montefiore

  “I’ve always wondered what kind of mother she was,” she said quietly.

  “She was a good mother. God gave her a child to teach her compassion, selflessness, and pride. She put you first, above everything else, even herself. Perhaps that is why He took her back, because she had learned the lesson she came here to learn.”

  “It’s a beautiful picture.”

  “I’ll get Falco to make a copy. It’s a wonder what things they can do nowadays.”

  “I’d so adore one. My father has the only other one. I have nothing.” Immacolata took her hand.

  “You have us now, Alba, and I will share my memories with you. I know that is what Valentina would want. You are so like her. So very like her.” Her voice was reduced to a whisper.

  “No, I’m not,” Alba replied sadly, recalling with a bitter taste her promiscuous, empty life. “I’m not like her at all. But I can be. I will be. I’ll change and become a good person. I’ll be everything she would want me to be.”

  “Alba, my child, you are already everything she would want you to be.”

  Suddenly the scent of figs blew in through the open window, even stronger than before. Immacolata took the picture and replaced it carefully behind the dancing flame so that Valentina’s face was illuminated. “Come,” she said. “Let me show you to your room.”

  21

  I mmacolata led Alba up a narrow stone staircase. The house was old, far older than Immacolata herself. It smelled of age, of time ingrained into the very fabric of the building. Immacolata climbed slowly and Alba had to restrain her impatience, for each step brought her closer to her mother.

  Finally they crossed the landing to a bleached oak door. Immacolata reached underneath the black shawl she wore and pulled out a ring of heavy keys; they rattled metallically on a chain where her waist should have been, as if she were a medieval jailer. “Here we are,” she said softly.

  The room was small, with white walls and shutters that were closed. Soft beams of amber light filtered in through the gaps in the wooden slats, giving the room an eerie mistiness. The air vibrated with life, as if the spirit of Valentina still lingered there, clinging on possessively to her lost world. Immacolata lit the candle on the pine dressing table. It illuminated the embroidered linen cloth upon which Valentina’s brush and comb, bottles of perfume, flasks of creamy lotions and stout crystal pot of face powder were placed neatly in front of a large Queen Anne mirror. Alba noticed her mother’s hair was still entwined within the bristles of the brush. Immacolata shuffled over to the wardrobe that was bleached and carved with vines of grapes. She opened the doors to reveal a row of dresses.

  “Valentina had simple tastes,” said her mother proudly. “We didn’t have much. It was wartime.” She pulled out a white dress and held it up for her granddaughter to see. “She was wearing this when she first met your father.” Alba reached out and ran her fingers over the soft cotton. “Your father fell in love with her when he saw her in this. She looked like an angel. So pretty. So very pretty, so innocent. I told her to take him down to the river to bathe. It was hot. They needed little encouragement. I knew they wouldn’t have much time to get to know each other. I understood that they wanted to be alone.” She crossed herself. “God forgive me.”

  “It’s so small. I always imagined she was tall.”

  Immacolata shook her head. “She was Italian. Of course she wasn’t tall.” Her arthritic hands rifled through the other dresses until she came across a black one embroidered with white flowers. “Ah,” she sighed wistfully. “This she wore to the festa di Santa Benedetta. Your father accompanied her. I helped sew daisies into her hair and rub oil into her skin. She was radiant. She was in love. How could she have known how it would all end? Her future held such promise.”

  “What is the festa di Santa Benedetta?” Alba asked, watching Immacolata replace the dress carefully in the cupboard.

  “You are descended from Santa Benedetta, a simple peasant girl who witnessed a miracle. The marble statue of Christ that stands in the little chapel of San Pasquale shed tears of blood. It was a miracle, God’s way of showing the people of Incantellaria that His power was total. Every year the statue wept. Sometimes the blood was a mere drop; then the fishermen would harvest few fish, or the water turned sour, or the grape vendemmia poor. If the blood was shed in abundance, the year that ensued was golden. Incantellaria produced juicy grapes and barrels of olives. The lemons grew heavy and succulent; the flowers blossomed more radiant than ever. They were good years. Then there was the year he shed not a drop, not a single drop. We waited, we watched, but he had written what was to come and He punished us by taking our most precious Valentina.” She crossed herself again. “He has not bled for twenty-six years.”

  Alba was slightly spooked by her grandmother’s devoutness. Alba rarely mentioned God, except when she swore, so Immacolata’s simple peasant beliefs seemed absurd to her. Her eyes shifted to the end of the bed where a wicker Moses basket stood on a stand. She sat on the bed and peered inside to the white sheet and woolen crocheted blanket.

  “This was mine?” she asked in wonder, picking up the blanket and bringing it to her nose so that she could smell it.

  Immacolata nodded. “I kept everything,” she said. “I needed something to hold on to after she was gone.” The two women looked at each other. “You have made me very happy. My little Alba.” She stroked her granddaughter’s cheek with her thumb. “Let me show you where you can have a bath. You can borrow Valentina’s nightdress tonight, then tomorrow we will buy you some clothes to wear, va bene?” Alba nodded. “Come. We will eat.”

  As they walked onto the terrace, the shrill sound of a child rang out to the accompaniment of a chorus of crickets. “Ah, Cosima,” said Immacolata, and her expression softened like snow caught in a ray of sunshine. A little girl skipped out from behind a cluster of bushes, followed by a small red dog. She saw her great-grandmother and hurried up to her, breathless with giggles, her dark, honey-colored curls bouncing about a round, rosy face, her pale blue and white dress flapping around her knees. “Nonnina! Nonnina!” Instinctively she stopped before falling into the old woman’s arms, knowing that her enthusiasm would unbalance her. Immacolata placed her hand on the child’s head and bent to kiss it. She turned to Alba.

  “God took my Valentina, but He blessed me with Cosima.” The little girl stared at Alba, her brown eyes wide and curious. “Cosima, this is Alba. She is your…” Immacolata paused, unable to work out the relationship. “Cousin. Alba is your cousin.”

  Alba had never liked children. They never seemed to like her much either. But the vulnerable expression in Cosima’s eyes, a blatant desire to be loved, like a puppy or a young calf, took her by surprise. She had a mischievous face with pretty curled lips. Her upper lip was plumper than the lower one and her nose was slightly upturned. Like Alba, she had charm. Unlike Alba, she was unaware of it. Cosima, noticing that she was being stared at, smiled shyly and blushed.

  “Who’s this?” Alba asked, bending down and patting the dog.

  “Cucciolo,” the child replied, drawing close to her grandmother. “He’s a dragon.”

  “He looks very frightening,” said Alba, playing along with the joke. Cosima giggled and looked up at her from under thick black eyelashes.

  “Don’t be frightened, he won’t hurt you. He’s a friendly dragon.”

  “I’m so pleased. I was rather nervous. After all, I’ve never seen a real dragon before.”

  “He frightens the hens, and Bruno.”

  “Who’s Bruno?”

  “The donkey.”

  “You have lots of animals.”

  “I love animals,” she said, her little face beaming with pleasure. When she walked toward the tethered donkey, Alba noticed she bounced on the balls of her feet. The exuberant gait of a child without cares.

  It wasn’t long before Falco appeared with Beata and their son, Toto, whose wife had run off with the Argentinean tango dancer. He was a handsome young ma
n, five years older than Alba, with brown curly hair and a wide, open face like his daughter. On seeing her father, Cosima threw her arms around his waist. “Alba is frightened of the dragon!” she squealed, nestling her face excitedly into Toto’s stomach so that her giggles were muffled against his shirt. He wrapped her in his arms and lifted her off the ground.

  “Well, you had better tell him to behave, or she might run away.”

  “Alba is not going anywhere,” said Immacolata, sitting down at the head of the table where she had sat for the best part of her eighty-odd years. “She is home now.”

  Toto shook her hand and smiled at her warmly. “From what I remember of your mother, you look very like her,” he said. Alba was surprised that his voice didn’t resonate with the same wretchedness as his father’s and grandmother’s when they mentioned Valentina.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  “I remember your father too, on account of his uniform. He was the most glamorous man I had ever laid eyes on. I couldn’t stop staring at him. I remember his humor too, because he was the only one to smile when old Padre Dino farted throughout an entire luncheon.”

  “Really, Toto!” Beata protested. But Alba was delighted by her cousin. His earthy presence lifted the heavy atmosphere that Valentina’s ghost had placed upon the house.

  Immacolata was keen to speak of her daughter. Suddenly, she had the excuse to tell stories and reminisce. Wounds still stung at the mention of her name, like throwing salt water onto cuts that had never been allowed to heal. But Alba forced her to open up the past, and Immacolata succumbed willingly. All the while she told stories illustrating her daughter’s virtue, her wisdom, her unparalleled goodness, Falco’s face darkened and his mouth thinned into a scowl.

  When the women retired to bed, Falco remained at the table, slumped over a glass of limoncello, smoking a cigarette and staring vaguely into the dying flame of the hurricane lamp. Alba’s return had been an unexpected blessing. She brought with her joy that she couldn’t begin to understand. However, she was also a piercing reminder of a part of his life too terrible to contemplate.

  Alba bathed, washing away the emotions of possibly the longest day in her life. It had been heady, fascinating, and somehow dreadful too. If she had thought the ghost of her mother haunted her little houseboat, how much more did it haunt this house. Immacolata had given her matches so that she could light the candle on the dressing table and the one beside her bed, explaining that they hadn’t had electricity during the war so she hadn’t had it installed in Valentina’s room when she renovated the rest of the house. She had wanted to keep it exactly as it was. So when Alba sat in front of the mirror, dressed in her mother’s white nightdress, her hair falling over her shoulders, her face pale in the dancing light of the flame, she was almost as frightened by her own reflection as she was by the sense of death that pervaded the little room.

  She picked up the hairbrush. It was silver and heavy. With slow, deliberate strokes, she began to brush her hair, watching herself in the mottled glass of the mirror. She knew she was staring at the truest likeness of her mother that she would ever see. More startling perhaps than the portraits, for it was alive and breathing. As she gazed upon it, her eyes grew heavy with sorrow, for she was aware that her mother possessed a virtue that she could never ever possess. If she were alive there was little doubt in Alba’s mind that she would be disappointed. Valentina had touched everyone with an effortless, otherworldly grace. If Alba were to die suddenly, what would people remember her for?

  That night she slept fitfully. She hadn’t imagined that her expedition to find her mother would lead her to search deep within herself. She had hoped to be able to move on, but Valentina’s ghost was now haunting her in a way that it had never done before.

  When she finally slept, her dreams were strange, incomprehensible, unsettling. When she awoke she was relieved it was day, that the sky was clear and blue and that the sun was shining, throwing light into the shadowy corners of the room.

  When Alba wandered out onto the terrace in the yellow sundress she had worn the day before, only Toto and Cosima were up and eating breakfast. The little girl’s face expanded into an enormous grin, her pretty pouting mouth revealing pearly teeth.

  “Alba!” she exclaimed, climbing down from her chair to embrace her. “You didn’t dream of dragons, did you?” she asked, wrapping her arms around Alba’s waist as she had done with her father the previous night.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You look tired,” said Toto, chewing on a piece of brioche.

  “I didn’t sleep very well. I think I was almost too tired to sleep.”

  “Well, have some food and then Cosima and I will take you into town if you like. I gather your suitcase got stolen.”

  “I need to go to the bank,” she said, sitting down next to Cosima, who had pulled out a chair for her.

  “Sure. You can buy now and pay when the money comes through. Your credit is good here.”

  It was good to be outside, with the eucalyptus-scented breeze wafting up from the sea. “It’s beautiful here,” she said. “It pulls at the soul, doesn’t it?”

  “I would never live anywhere else. It’s a quiet life, but I don’t hanker after anything more.” He grinned at his daughter. “It’s a good place for a child to grow up. You have lots of friends, don’t you, Cosima?”

  “Costanza is my best friend,” she said in a serious voice. “Eugenia wants to be my best friend, but I told her she couldn’t be, because Costanza is.” She sighed heavily. “Costanza doesn’t like Eugenia.” She screwed up her nose then forgot her train of thought as Cucciolo trotted out of the house with Falco. Falco smiled, but his eyes remained as hard as stone; there was something about them that reminded Alba of her father.

  “I’m going into town with Cosima and Toto,” she said as her uncle sat down and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Perhaps you can show me the chapel of San Pasquale,” she said. “It would be nice to see where my parents got married.” Falco put down the coffee pot and stared as if she had struck him on the face. “Immacolata told me about the festa di Santa Benedetta. It all happened in the chapel, didn’t it?” she continued, oblivious.

  “That miracle ground to a halt years ago,” said Toto with a grin. It was clear that he didn’t think much of the medieval ritual either.

  “Is my mother buried there?” she asked, directing her question at Falco, who had turned pale.

  “No,” he replied flatly. “She is buried on the hill overlooking the sea. It is a secluded spot where she can rest in peace. There is no headstone.”

  “No headstone?”

  “We didn’t want her disturbed,” he said. “I’ll take you there this afternoon.”

  As Toto drove Alba and his daughter down the winding lane to the town, she couldn’t help but reflect on the mystery that surrounded her mother’s death. She wanted to ask Toto about it, but she felt it wasn’t right to speak of such things in front of Cosima. Instead she asked the child about her animals, the real ones as well as the imaginary ones. Cosima leaned through the gap in the seats and chirped with the enthusiasm of a spring bird at dawn.

  In town Toto took Alba to the bank and helped her set up an account with the manager, whom he had known since his school days. They were happy to give her credit, having gotten through to her manager in London. Cosima was thrilled to accompany her into the boutique to buy clothes. Having no mother, she was unaccustomed to watching a woman try on dresses and shoes; her great-grandmother only ever wore black. Inspired by the child’s enthusiasm, Alba tried on everything, asking her to classify her opinion on each item with a number between one and ten. Cosima squealed with delight, giggling at the ones that looked awful, shouting out “zero” with exuberance. Toto left them alone to browse while he had coffee in the trattoria. Everyone knew Cosima and there were few who hadn’t heard of Alba’s dramatic arrival the day before. Together they walked hand in hand up the pavement, stopping at each shop, laughing at th
eir reflections in the glass. It hadn’t escaped Alba that Cosima could be her daughter. They were very much alike.

  “Now I’m going to introduce you to the dwarfs,” Cosima announced merrily.

  “The dwarfs?” Alba repeated, not sure she had understood correctly.

  “Si, i nani!” said Cosima, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She led her cousin into the dark interior of a cavernous shop that seemed to contain everything, from mops and food to clothes and toys. The woman behind the counter smiled affectionately at Cosima. She didn’t look like a dwarf at all. It was only when she stepped out that Alba realized she had been standing on a specially built box, so that she appeared higher. Without her pedestal she was no taller than four feet.

  “I am Maria. You are Valentina’s daughter,” said the woman eagerly. “They say you look just like her.”

  Before Alba could reply, the rest of Maria’s family appeared like mice out of doors hidden among the goods. There must have been about six of them, all four feet tall, with shiny red faces and merry smiles. Alba thought they’d all look wonderful in a garden with fishing rods and funny hats, then curbed her wicked thought, remembering that she was trying to be a good person.

  “Do you sell children’s clothes?” she asked.

  “Oooh! They do!” exclaimed Cosima, disappearing down one of the aisles, her lustrous curls bouncing about her head like springs. Alba, followed by an entire entourage of dwarfs, chased after her. The child was pulling out pretty dresses and holding them up for Alba to see. Her brown eyes were ablaze with hope.

  “Okay, Cosima, one to ten. Which ones do you like?” she said, folding her arms and assuming a serious face. At first Cosima didn’t know what to do with herself. She had never been offered more than one at a time. Feverish with excitement, she tore off her own dress and stood in her white pants, holding three at once, not sure which to try on first. Helped by Maria and her daughters, the child paraded the dresses like a princess, striding up and down the aisle, twirling around so that they billowed out like pretty flowers. None warranted a zero. Overcome with the pressure of the decision, Cosima was unable to decide.