Taken at the Flood

by K. J. Rabane

  I couldn’t sleep but when I finally closed my eyes my dreams were troubled by half remembered moments that dissolved into a mist as the faint rays of morning sunshine crept through the thin cotton curtains covering the windows.

  The smell of breakfast cooking surprised me. I suppose I’d thought a continental breakfast of rolls, coffee, ham and cheese was the most I could hope for. Ever since that night I’d had little appetite but the aromas wafting up the steep staircase from the Orsinis’ kitchen made me ravenous.

  Cecilia Orsini smiled at me as I entered the small dining room. She was wearing a striped blue and white apron and I suspected she’d had a hand in preparing the breakfast of eggs, bacon and large bright red tomatoes that she placed in front of me. “A nice hot day,” she said, and I suspected her English was limited to a few basic phrases.

  I complimented her on her cooking and she made the same facial responses that Mrs Bates would have done. The thought of River House made me shudder and I resolved to put it as far out of my mind as I could.

  My subsequent days were spent searching the medieval town for anything, which might lead me to Leonora. During this time, an idea occurred to me. In a small bookshop, I bought another blank notebook and decided to continue with the journal, which lay in the bottom of my suitcase. I hoped it would become an occupation that would eventually rid Leo’s ghost from my memory.

  I decided it might be a good idea to become known in the area as a tourist who was planning to stay for some time, in the hope that the locals would tell me as much as they knew about Leonora and her family.

  I spent my days in the Piazza drinking coffee and watching the world go by, lunching on spaghetti and red wine and chatting to the café owners. I strolled into the gift shops lining the cobbled walkways, bought trinkets and souvenirs, passed the time of day with the shopkeepers and inspected the churches with what I hoped would appear to be an interest it the architecture.

  The days were hot and at mid-day I often sought the shade of a large lemon tree growing in a field bordered by a low wall on which I sat and drank in the glorious scenery. If things had been different I could have stayed here and left Softcell and the rat race for good.

  It was at the beginning of the second week of my stay in San Gimignano that I met George Masters. The temperature had steadily risen during the day and I’d managed to escape the heat of the midday sun by finding shelter under a canvas awning outside a small restaurant with a great view of the surrounding countryside. I sat at a table covered by a red and white check tablecloth, ordered a pizza and a large glass of red wine, and then sat back in my chair to enjoy the view. In front of me lay a small stone wall about two feet high and beyond, for as far as I could see, were fields and trees in more shades of green and gold than I would ever have thought it possible to imagine. To my left sat a man with his back to me. He was sitting on a canvas stool, facing an easel. I watched him dip his brush into a pot of water, add a colour and transform the blank canvas in front of him into the scene that lay beyond the wall, skilfully converting blobs of paint into trees, flowers and rooftops catching the afternoon light. With each stroke of his brush, the canvas came alive. I was fascinated. Putting my glass down on the table, I strolled towards him and watched spellbound, as he put the finishing touches to the watercolour.

  “That’s really very good,” I said, standing behind him. He turned a weather beaten face in my direction, a myriad of fine lines framing his eyes and mouth.

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you consider selling it?” I asked

  “Certainly but for the right price, of course.”

  “Excellent,” I replied, holding out my hand and introducing myself.

  “George Masters,” he replied, “Although locally they call me Georgio.”

  “I wonder if you would care to share a bottle of wine with me whilst we wait for the paint to dry on my new acquisition,” I asked, pointing to my table under the canvas awning.

  “I think I can be persuaded, without too much effort,” he replied, packing up his stool and easel and resting them against the wall.

  We talked about art in general and the beauty of the Italian landscape in particular and as the wine flowed more freely he told me a little about his life.

  “I was a young art student when I first visited San Gimignano,” he explained. “I’d been travelling outside the town and was struck by the unusual light flooding the surrounding fields in the late afternoon. Today is a fine example - see there.” He pointed in the direction of a gentle escarpment lined with trees. The sunlight filtering through the leaves turned each one to colours only a true artist would appreciate. I nodded, as he continued, “I think I’d been in the town for as little as two days when I first saw my Maria. She was so beautiful, thick black hair, dark eyes and her figure!” His face softened as he spoke of her, “I fell in love with her at first sight and to my good fortune I found she held similar feelings. Afterwards, it would have taken an earthquake to uproot me from San Gimignano and my lovely Maria.”

  “Go on,” I prompted.

  “Well it took some time to persuade her family that she should marry a penniless English artist but I think they were able to see how much we loved each other and the rest is history as they say. I’ve managed to provide a decent living for my wife and family over the years and now it’s just the two of us.”

  He raised his glass to his lips narrowing his eyes in the sunlight, then said, “Our daughter is married and living in Lucca and our son is studying architecture in Rome. I paint now merely for pleasure and if I’m able to make some money from the tourists so much the better, eh?”

  He laughed and his face creased in good humour until his eyes almost disappeared amongst the laughter lines.

  When we’d finished the wine, we agreed a price for the painting and George gave me his address.

  “Maria and I would be glad if you’d come and visit us before you return to England,” he said, as I shook his hand once more. Then he left carrying his painting equipment under one arm and a bottle of red wine to share with Maria, under the other.

  I was beginning to see why Leonora had escaped to this place so often. The pace of life was slow to the point that I sometimes wondered if time had stood still and I found the longer I stayed I finally began to relax and to forget the reason for my visit.

  I met George Masters often and became a frequent guest at his house. His Maria was still beautiful, although her hair was no longer black but threaded with fine grey strands. She welcomed me into their home and encouraged me to visit when the fancy took me.

  “George, he misses his English friends. Oh, I know he would not say as much but I know him. It is so good he has found you. I’m glad you say you don’t have to hurry home,” she told me as she kissed my cheek.

  I remember my visits to their home as being always filled with laughter and I could well imagine why George had forsaken England for his place in the sun.

  It was the end of the third week and I’d become recognised by the locals who appreciated my faltering attempts to speak Italian and smiled encouragingly when I, more often than not, muddled up my sentences making little sense. It became usual for me to meet George most days, sit with him, and watch the world go by while he painted his pictures. I never asked him about Leo. I was afraid to spoil everything.

  I’d been in San Gimignano for nearly a month and the tourist season was in full swing. The temperature had risen with every passing day and I was as brown as the locals. Buses loaded with pensioners arrived on Sunday mornings. I watched them walking unsteadily over the cobbles until they reached the Piazza then became dwarfed by the twin towers looming above them.

  It was on one such Sunday morning that I saw Leonora again. This time I was sitting at a table outside Antonio’s café, a favourite haunt of George’s. The sun was beating down out of a clear blue sky, in the distance the Sunday morning peal of bells rang out and the usual line of pensioners, their sticks tap tapping on the cobbles,
passed in front of me. I looked across the street, blowing the froth off the top of my cappuccino and saw a flash of blonde hair. She was looking straight at me and I felt as though the past six months had been a dream. I watched her, my heart thumping in my chest as she entered a confectionery shop and re-emerged carrying a small package. Then as she walked up the hill, I hurried behind her afraid she would disappear like a forgotten dream.

  Chapter 33

  Walking quickly trying to lessen the gap between us, the nearer I came I was certain it was Leo; there could be no doubt. Then she turned the corner and disappeared through a wooden door with rusty hinges. The two-storey house was badly in need of repair. Chipped masonry fronted the building leaving bare concrete patches showing through in places. Three small windows faced the street, two on the upper floor and one to the right of the front door. The larger of the upper windows led on to a rusty balcony where an old woman was sitting on a green plastic chair. She was knitting and I watched her pause to drink from a bottle of beer. Her long grey hair was matted and untidy and she was shabbily dressed in a black dress with a grubby white cotton collar. Transfixed, I saw Leonora appear at the upstairs window and hand the old lady the confectionery, I’d seen her buying a moment ago, then she disappeared once more into the depths of the house.

  It was almost mid-day and the heat carried with it a pungent smell of drains and cooking. I was tempted to retrace my steps and head for the sweet aroma drifting out of the doorway of Antonio’s but was rooted to the spot. There was no doubt in my mind that it was my wife I’d seen but either I was going completely mad and Leo had risen from her earthy grave or there was a reasonable explanation, neither of which I could fathom. Either way I had to make sure.

  I stood hidden in a doorway for what seemed like an eternity, the sweat on my brow falling into my eyes like tears. However, I didn’t see her again. I even thought about ringing the rusty bell but what would I say ‘I just saw my dead wife and wondered if I could speak to her’? Frustrated, I retraced my steps to Antonio’s café and waited for George to arrive. Surely he must know who lived in the shabby house and if I was to retain my sanity, I needed the answer to the question more than anything I could contemplate.

  The day crept towards evening. I ate a sandwich sitting outside the café, watching the patterns of light drifting across the fields and wondering what had happened to George. He never missed our Sunday afternoon chats outside Antonio’s. As the sun slipped over the horizon, I made up my mind to call at his house. Desperation dogged my every step - I had to see him.

  The sound of church bells, drawing worshippers towards the church on the hill, rang in my ears as I arrived at my destination. Lifting the shiny brass knocker on the front door I heard a window open at the house next door, followed by Gina’s head. Gina was an Italian student who was on vacation from her studies in Venice and I had met her several times during my stay.

  “Hello, I saw you walking up the road but you won’t find Georgio today,” she said, leaning over the windowsill and peering at me through small black rimmed spectacles. “He and Maria ‘ave gone to Lucca to visit their daughter.”

  “Oh, he didn’t say he was going away when I saw him yesterday,” I said, my disappointment showing in the tone of my voice.

  “E didn’ know then, ‘e ‘ave a telephone call from his daughter, her son ‘as the chicken-pox. I think ‘e and Maria be gone some time.”

  The worst possible news, I thought, thanking her and walking despondently down the cobbled street to my lodgings. The likelihood of me putting an end to my nightmare, by an explanation from George who knew most people living in the town, would have to wait. Now it looked as if I’d have to be content with that, at least for the moment.

  Knowing I dare not approach the girl, who looked like Leo, for the fear of what would happen if I did gripped my heart like a vice and I slipped a tablet under my tongue for some relief. My sanity fluctuated from rationality to periods where I thought I was going completely crazy as I tried to make some sense of it all.

  During the time George was away, I saw the girl just once more, even though I spent hours at a time hovering in the vicinity of the house with the peeling masonry.

  The day before George returned, I saw my wife’s lover. He was leaving the library as I was coming out of a gift shop with a pile of books under one arm. I almost walked into him and he muttered an apology without looking up then quickly hurried away. His fair hair and pale blue eyes were unmistakable. My heart skipped a beat and the familiar pain gripped my arm. I stopped, felt in my pocket and slipped a pill under my tongue.

  Following him at a discreet distance, I watched as he came to the house where I’d seen Leonora disappear. I saw him stop, pick up a pebble and throw it at the upper window. Hardly daring to breathe I waited until she appeared briefly on the rusty balcony then hurled a key in the young man’s direction, as he waited in the street below. I shrank back into a doorway and watched as he opened the door and went inside. Then I stood in the shadows until darkness fell, my body aching from inactivity but neither he nor the girl appeared again.

  That night I couldn’t sleep. I was afraid to close my eyes. Shaking with fear, I watched the darkness blend into grey and waited until the sun crept over the horizon. My head ached. Dragging my feet towards the bathroom, I stood under the shower and let the jets wash away the terrors of the night.

  The following day, I was sitting outside Antonio’s when to my amazement George appeared as if he’d never been away. He sat beside me, ordered a strong black coffee, and said, “Hullo, my friend, did you miss me?”

  “More than you’ll ever know,” I answered ambiguously then added, “How is your grandson?” My hands were shaking as I lifted my cup.

  “He’s much better, thank you. It is always the way with small children, I’m afraid - they are poorly one minute and running about the next. Maria and I stayed to help our daughter because she developed the disease also and was feeling rough. It’s always worse in adults apparently. Of course that wasn’t the only reason; we enjoyed spending time with them all.” He raised his cup to his lips and squinted in the sunlight before saying, “Now then, tell me what you’ve been up to since I’ve been away? I must say I’m very pleased to see you sitting in our usual spot as I did wonder if you would have gone back to England before I returned from Lucca.”

  He squinted through the sunshine and looked at me properly. “You don’t look well, my friend.” He called to the waiter. “A bottle of Chianti, please.” Then to me, he said, “A hair of the dog, I think?”

  Anxious to dispense with the small talk as soon as possible, I nodded. I was desperate to turn the conversation around to the occupants of the shabby house but George was in an expansive mood and continued to regale me with tales of his grandson’s exploits well into the afternoon. Two bottles of red wine later, I eventually managed to seize an opportunity.

  “George,” I said, refilling his glass. “You seem to know most people in the town. I wonder if you know of a girl living in a rather run down property further up the street and to the left. I noticed her the other day, especially as she appeared so unlike most of the Italians girls I’ve seen locally. She had pale blonde hair and blue eyes. I wondered if she might be English.”

  George gave me a knowing wink. “Ah, so you have seen Laura Servini at last!” he said, smiling. “A real beauty wouldn’t you say?”

  I nodded, unable to trust myself to speak. Then after taking a deep breath, I said, “What nationality is she?”

  “Italian. Her father is Claudio Servini, a real waster and her mother Petra was Swedish.”

  “Oh I see, that explains the colouring. I thought it rather odd.” My heart was hammering against my ribs. The red wine burned my throat and I felt the contents of my stomach rebelling. Unwilling to make a fool of myself in front of my companion, I fled to the washroom at the back of the café and vomited into the toilet bowl. After washing my face in cool water, I returned to my seat knowing that what
I was about to hear would shed some light on Leonora’s past and I dreaded the outcome.

  Chapter 34

  George sat back in his seat preparing himself for what I was sure was going to be a long tale. I tried to remain calm but my appearance was at odds with the pounding in my chest and the tension behind my eyes. To stop my hand from shaking, I gripped the edge of my seat.

  “There’s a sad story attached to that family, my friend,” George began, as I shifted in my seat. He glanced at me for a moment then continued, “The father is a gambler, as fast as money comes into his hands it’s gone. His habit is the reason the family home is in such a state. He broke his wife’s heart. I remember her, she was a lovely woman who had stuck by him through thick and thin, until unable to take any more - she gave up. She died last year after a long struggle of trying to keep the family fed. It was very sad. They were a large family you see; Claudio was prolific, unfortunately for his wife and family and produced four boys and three girls. The family live with Claudio’s old mother but the youngest girl died of whooping cough when she was two and as if that wasn’t enough of a tragedy to hit the family, it was soon discovered that the youngest boy was handicapped.”

  George lifted his glass and I waited in the heat of the afternoon unable to move.

  “The two elder boys left as soon as they could. They are living on a sheep farm in Australia as far away as they could get from their father. Anyway, I know the family don’t see them anymore. They never visit and I can’t blame them. Their mother, Petra, pleaded with them not to leave but they had a violent row with their father and beat him within an inch of his life. I gather it was all because of Claudio giving Petra a black eye. The boys were furious and after attacking their father, escape seemed to be their only option. Claudio lives on the edge, always has and his family frequently has to bail him out one way or another.”