“She’s very pretty. She likes to wear her hair up. She has long, shiny hair. I like to wear mine up too. I look like her, I think. At least, that’s what everybody says. She used to tell me stories before I went to bed so I wouldn’t be frightened. I didn’t like it when she shouted at Papa. Papa didn’t like it either. She never shouted at me, though.”
“Of course not. Grown-ups shout at each other for the silliest reasons, especially Italians,” said Alba, working on the eyes. Cosima had wide-set eyes like Toto’s. They were the softest honey brown.
“She’s a good cook,” Cosima continued. Then she laughed. “Papa said she cooked the best mushroom risotto in Italy.” She paused a moment then added lightly, “She never bought me three dresses.”
Alba looked up from her drawing. “She’d be very impressed with those, wouldn’t she?”
“She’d brush my hair and wash my face.”
“No point wearing lovely things if your face and hair are a mess.”
“Do you have children?”
Alba smiled and shook her head. “I’m not married, Cosima.”
“You might marry Gabriele, though.” Cosima giggled mischievously.
Alba was taken aback. “Who told you about Gabriele?”
“I heard my grandfather talking to Papa.”
“I don’t really know Gabriele,” she said. “I met him in Sorrento and he brought me here in his boat.”
“Papa said you might telephone him and invite him here.”
“He did, did he?”
“Is he handsome?”
“Very.”
“Do you love him?”
Alba chuckled at her innocent questions. “No, I don’t love him.” Cosima looked disappointed. “I love a man called Fitz,” she said. “But he doesn’t love me.”
“I’d forget Fitz then. I bet Gabriele loves you.”
“Love is something that grows, Cosima. He hardly knows me.” She shaded in the hair ponderously.
“He can come on one of our picnics if you like. Then you can marry him.”
“I wish life were that simple,” said Alba with a sigh, missing Fitz.
“You know, I’ll be seven soon,” chirped Cosima, beginning to tire of sitting for the portrait.
“You’re very grown-up!”
“I’ll wear one of my new dresses,” she said happily. “And I’ll wear my hair up like Mamma.”
When Alba had finished she held the pad out in front of her to study it from a distance. It was really rather good. This surprised her, for Alba had never been good at anything—except shopping. Cosima stood behind her and breathed heavily over her shoulder. “That’s brilliant!” she exclaimed.
“It is brilliant, isn’t it?”
“You won’t throw it into the sea, will you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Can I have it?”
Alba was reluctant to part with it. “Well, all right,” she conceded. “If you bring me a panino?”
They walked down the hill to the olive tree. “This is where my mother is buried,” she told Cosima. It was strange to think she was under her feet, the closest they had been for twenty-six years.
“She’s not in there!” Cosima exclaimed. “She’s in Heaven.”
“I like to think of her there too,” she said, but privately she thought Valentina’s spirit lingered in the house amid the candles and shrines and the memorial Immacolata had made of her room.
As Alba walked down the path toward the town, having left Cosima at the house with her animals and the portrait to show her family, she found her thoughts returning to Fitz. She considered telephoning him. Her spirits were high, having enjoyed a picnic with Cosima, of whom she was growing extraordinarily fond. The beauty of her surroundings was breathtaking. The evening light was pink and wistful and her heart yearned to love. She wished he were there to wrap his arms around her and kiss her in that intimate way of his. She didn’t think she’d feel so embarrassed by it now. Perhaps she’d telephone him that evening after all, what was the worst that could happen?
When she got to the trattoria, she was greeted by Lattarullo, who sat on his own, drinking a cup of strong coffee. His shirt was stained with grease and his hair was unkempt, sticking up in gray tufts. He invited her to join him. “Let me buy you a drink to welcome you to Incantellaria,” he said, beckoning the waiter. “What will you have?” Although Alba wanted to be on her own to wander about the town where her mother had grown up, she was left no option but to accept his offer.
“I’ll have a cup of tea,” she said, sitting down.
“Very English,” he chortled, sniffing and running the back of his hand across his nose.
“Well, I am English, after all,” she replied coolly.
“You don’t look English, except for the eyes. They’re very strange.” She didn’t know whether to take that as a compliment. Lattarullo, who enjoyed the sound of his own voice, continued regardless. “They’re very pale. An odd color of gray. Almost blue.” He leaned toward her and his coffee breath enveloped her in a malodorous cloud. “I’d say they were violet. Your mother had brown eyes. You look just like your mother.”
“Did you know her well?” Alba asked, deciding that if she were going to suffer his coffee breath and intrusive observations she might at least get something back.
“I knew her when she was a little girl,” he said proudly.
“So, what was she like?”
“A little ray of sunshine.” Most unhelpful, Alba thought. He and Immacolata had the habit of speaking about Valentina in clichés.
“What was her wedding like?” she asked. That, at least, was one question she hadn’t asked yet. Lattarullo frowned at her.
“Wedding?” he repeated, looking at her blankly.
“Yes, her wedding.” For a moment she thought she might have chosen the wrong word. “You know, when she married my father?”
“There was no wedding,” he said in a whisper.
Alba’s heart stopped. “No wedding? Why not?”
He looked at her for a long moment, his face reminiscent of those stuffed fish stuck on the walls of English pubs. “Because she was dead.”
Alba’s face drained of color. Valentina had never married her father? “The car crash happened before the wedding?” she asked slowly. No wonder her father hadn’t wanted her to come to Italy.
“There was no car crash, Alba,” he said. “Valentina was murdered.”
23
Beechfield Park, 1971
A fter Valentina’s murder, Thomas vowed to himself that he would put the memories of that dreadful time in a trunk, lock it up, and let it sink to the bottom of the sea, like the scuttling of a boat that contains the bodies of the dead. For years he had resisted the macabre temptation to find it, prise open the lock, and rifle through the rusty remains. Margo had rescued him from the dark shadows where he dwelled and brought him, blinking in bewilderment, into a world of light and love, albeit a different kind of love. He never forgot the locked chest, but the memory of it only tormented him in dreams. Then Margo was there to run a soothing hand across his brow, and the chest was willfully discarded in the ever-mounting silt at the bottom of the ocean. He had hoped that when he eventually died the chest would sink into the silt, never to be seen again.
He had not anticipated Alba’s determination to dive into those waters. For years he had endeavored to keep her firmly on dry land. But she had found the portrait, the key to the chest, and she knew that somewhere was a lock that fitted it to perfection. He was proud of her intelligence and a part of him admired her resolve; it was the first time in her life that she had demonstrated purpose. But he feared for her. She hadn’t the slightest idea of what lay in the chest. That, once opened, it could never be closed. She would learn the truth and have to live with it, even rewrite her own past.
Now Thomas was left with no choice but to drag the chest out of the sea, brush off the silt and coral that had grown up around it, and open it again. The m
ere thought of it caused his skin to bristle and turn cold. He lit a cigar and poured himself a glass of brandy. He wondered whether Alba had found Immacolata. Whether she was still alive. Perhaps Lattarullo was there too, retired maybe, chatting as he did without caring whether or not anyone was listening. He thought of Falco and Beata. Toto would be grown up now, perhaps with children of his own. After Valentina’s death they might have decided that living on in that peculiar place would only bring them unhappiness. Alba might never find them. He hoped, for her sake, that she’d return with her imagination still fresh and innocent for, although he had never lied to her, he had never corrected her own childish version of the truth. He hadn’t told her that he had never married her mother. That she had been murdered the night before the wedding. After all, he had done it for her. He was protecting the secure world he had built for her. If she discovered the truth, would she understand? Would she ever forgive him?
Puffing on his cigar, he sat back in his leather chair. Margo was out with the horses and he was alone, the chest at his feet, the key in his hands. All he had to do was turn the lock and lift the lid. He didn’t need to look at the portrait, for her face was as clear now as if she were standing before him. Once again the warm scent of figs enveloped him, transporting him back to Incantellaria. It was evening. He’d be married in the morning. His heart was full and bursting with happiness. He had forgotten the festa di Santa Benedetta. The disastrous moment when Christ had refused to bleed. He had ignored Valentina’s strange words. Now he put the key in the lock, lifted the lid, and remembered them, pondering their significance.
“We need Christ’s blessing. I know how to get it. I’ll put it right, you’ll see.”
Italy 1945
That night Thomas was restless with excitement. He was unable to sleep in the trattoria, for the air was hot and sticky, in spite of the breeze that swept in off the sea. He pulled on a pair of slacks and a shirt and walked up and down the beach, hands in pockets, contemplating his future. The town was silent. Only the odd cat crept silkily across the shadows in search of mice, belly to the ground. The blue boats dragged up onto the beach took on an inky color in the semi-darkness. The moon was full, the sky deep and glittering with stars that reflected off the gentle waves like gemstones. He recalled his wartime adventures, now an age ago, and felt a moment of guilt that his family were excluded from his wedding. But he would take Valentina and Alba home and surprise everyone. He was sure they would love them as he did.
With a smile he thought of Valentina. He would show her off in town. Take her to church on Sunday, as was tradition, with little Alba in her arms, and everyone would admire her beauty and her poise. They would watch her glide down the aisle in that unique way she walked, as if she had all the time in the world. He would invite Jack for the weekend and they’d share a cigar and a glass of whiskey after dinner in the study. They’d laugh about the war. About the adventures they had. And they’d reminisce about the day Fate took them to the shores of Incantellaria. They would remember Rigs’s rendition of Rigoletto, the wanton women of the night, and Valentina, as she had been then, standing in the doorway of Immacolata’s house in her white dress, semitransparent in the sunlight. Jack would envy him and admire him. Oh Jack, he thought as he wandered up the beach, oh that you were here to share this with me.
Thomas had left the wedding plans and preparation to Immacolata and Valentina. He knew the little chapel of San Pasquale would be adorned with flowers, Valentina’s favorite arum lilies. He knew her dress would be exquisitely made by the ancient but incomparable Signora Ciprezzo, whose fingernails were long and yellowed like old cheese. There would be dancing afterward at the trattoria. He imagined the whole town would be invited. Lorenzo would play the concertina, the children would sip wine, and laughter would resound, the war forgotten, a bright and optimistic future attainable to everyone. Immacolata, Beata, and Valentina had been cooking for days. Marinating, baking, icing, garnishing. There seemed no end to the preparations. So much so that Thomas had barely seen his fiancée. She had left him with Alba while she disappeared into town on an errand or for a dress fitting, skipping happily off down the rocks, waving to him as she went, shouting out instructions for Alba, who was fastidious and indulged.
He looked forward to nights alone with his wife, when he could taste again the salty pleasure of her skin. When he could kiss her mouth knowing that he could take his time, that he wouldn’t be interrupted. He looked forward to making love to her. To holding her in his arms as his wife. He looked forward to their belonging to each other by law, as God would be their witness.
If Freddie were alive today, what would be make of her? Knowing Freddie, he would mistrust her beauty and her smile. He hadn’t been a romantic, Freddie. He had been a realist. He would have married a woman he had known all his life. A cheerful, earthy woman who would have made a good wife and mother. He hadn’t believed in the kind of love that Thomas and Valentina shared. He had thought it a dangerous thing, that ferocious, all-consuming love. Now, when Thomas thought of Freddie, he didn’t wince with pain. He had grown to accept his brother’s death and although no one could replace him, Thomas’s love for Valentina had filled his heart where before it was desolate. But he believed Freddie would have come to love her in the end. It was impossible not to. Freddie would have patted his brother on the back and conceded that he was truly blessed, beyond the expectations of an ordinary man.
It was three in the morning. He didn’t want to be tired on his wedding day. In Italy wedding celebrations went on for days, so he needed to muster all his strength. He wandered back up the beach toward the row of buildings that looked out across the sea. Soon it would be dawn and the blue shutters would be thrown open to allow the sun to tumble in. The pots of geraniums that adorned the balconies would be watered and dead-headed, and the cats would return from their night’s hunting to sleep there in the warmth. As he walked back to the trattoria he heard the distant though unmistakable music of the concertina. Lorenzo’s low, doleful voice rose into the sultry air as he sang words of sorrow and bereavement. His words of death were lost in the echo and Thomas was none the wiser.
Tonight I sleep as a bachelor for the last time, he thought happily. Tomorrow I will be wed. He placed his head on the pillow and drifted into a serene and contented sleep.
He awoke a few hours later to frantic knocking on the door. “Tommy, Tommy!” The voice was Lattarullo’s. He sat up in bed, gripped by icy fear. He opened the door to find the carabiniere gray-faced with desolation. “It’s Valentina,” he gasped. “She is dead.”
Thomas stared at him for a long moment while he tried to make sense of what he had just heard. Perhaps he was trapped within a nightmare. He hadn’t woken up properly. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “What?”
Lattarullo repeated what he had just said, then added, “You have to come with me.”
“Dead? Valentina dead? How?” Thomas felt the world falling away around him as his heart began to unravel, slowly at first and then with frightening speed. He held on to the door frame to steady himself. “She can’t be dead!”
“She’s in a car on the road from Naples. We have to go now before…before…” He coughed.
“Before what?”
“Before the circus,” said Lattarullo.
“What are you talking about?”
“Just come with me. Then you will understand.” Lattarullo’s voice was a plea.
Hastily Thomas pulled on the trousers and shirt he had worn the night before, slipped into his shoes, and followed Lattarullo outside to where Falco waited in the car. Falco’s face was white and gaunt. Dark shadows circled his eyes and bore into the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes were raw and shifty. Thomas didn’t trust him. The two men exchanged glances but neither spoke. Falco was the first to look away, as if Thomas’s stare weighed too heavy with suspicion. Thomas climbed into the back seat and Lattarullo started the engine. The car coughed and wheezed and finally revved sufficiently to start. Dawn
was breaking. The sun was pale and innocent as if it knew nothing of the brutal murder it now brought into the light of day.
Thomas had dozens of questions to ask, but he knew he had to wait. His head throbbed as if clamped in a cold metal frame. He wanted to abandon himself to tears as he had done when he heard of his brother’s death, but he was unable to let go in the company of Lattarullo and Falco. Instead he clamped his jaw and tried to breathe evenly. What was Valentina doing on the road from Naples in the middle of the night? The night before her wedding? He remembered her words: “We need Christ’s blessing. I know how to get it. I’ll put it right, you’ll see.” What had she meant? Where had she gone? He felt his stomach plummet with regret. He should have asked her. He should have paid more attention.
Finally, he could take the suspense no longer.
“How did it happen?”
Falco groaned and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know.”
Thomas was irritated. “For God’s sake, this is my fiancée we’re talking about,” he shouted. “You must know something! Did the car fly off the road? There are no barriers to prevent an accident…”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Falco said in a quiet voice. “It was murder.”
When they arrived at the scene, the first thing Thomas noticed was the car. It was a convertible burgundy Alfa Romeo with an exquisite leather and walnut interior. It was parked neatly in a turnout overlooking the sea. When he saw the woman lying slumped in the passenger seat his heart momentarily inflated with joy. It wasn’t Valentina. Of course it wasn’t she. Here was a woman with her hair piled on top of her head, her wrists and fingers and ears sparkling with diamonds, her face painted like a whore’s with black kohl and crimson lipstick. Her neck had been sliced with a knife and blood had stained the front of her sequined evening dress and the white fur stole that was draped over her shoulders like a slaughtered beast. Her cheeks were as white as the stole. Beside her was a man he did not recognize, elegant, with gray hair and a thin gray mustache. Blood dribbled out of his mouth. It had already dried on the ivory silk scarf that was tied around his neck. Thomas looked at Falco and frowned.
Last Voyage of the Valentina Page 26