She closed her eyes and pictured him. He must have lain here in his pajamas, breathing the same scents, listening to the same sounds, escaping the world as she was. Had he come here when his business had collapsed to hide from the reality of not having a job to go to? Had he perhaps dreamed of escaping forever? If he loved it so much, why seek death? Why such finality when there was so much to live for? These thoughts strengthened her resolve, and she climbed out of bed and dressed in a pair of white slacks and a pale blue shirt, a silk Hermès scarf around her neck. She brushed her long blond hair off her face so that it fell in waves over her shoulders.
Downstairs Federica’s dogs rushed at her excitedly. A couple of maids smiled as they wandered past with clean towels and sheets. They were small, with brown faces and glossy black hair cascading down their backs. Clearly impressed, they broke into chatter the moment they passed her. Waynie was already eating breakfast in the dining room, at the long refectory table that was laid out with bread, prosciutto, and fruit.
“Good morning, Celestria,” she said brightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever slept so well in all me life. That bed beats the old one Alfie bought when we moved into Anslem Road. He got it off Pete Duff what owned a warehouse in Harrogate, full of God knows what junk, in exchange for a bit of plumbing. Alfie never paid for nowt if he could help it. Even me ring.” She looked down at it and smiled. “Makes no difference to me. It’s the thought what counts.” Celestria wandered past the sideboard, gazing hungrily at all the pomegranates and figs piled high in wooden bowls.
“I do like it here, Waynie,” she said emphatically, helping herself to a pomegranate.
Waynie smiled. “You know, I never expected to. I was very nervous, to tell the truth. But there’s something magic here.” She lowered her voice, glancing about the room suspiciously, and leaned forward. “Can you smell the lilies? I haven’t seen a single lily since I arrived. That’s magic.” She straightened up and spoke normally again. “I can’t put me finger on it, but I feel years younger already. Don’t the bells sound lovely? Not at all like bells in England. I should have slept like the dead, but I woke with excitement in me belly. Something extraordinary is going to happen, I can feel it.”
“Is there a bird to corroborate this feeling?” Celestria teased, sitting down.
“Now you’re pulling me leg, and that’s not wise. It’s old and might come off!”
They both turned as a tall, silver-haired man strode in, accompanied by a younger man who grinned toothily. “Welcome,” said the older one. “My name is Gaitano; I’m Freddie’s husband.” Like his wife, he spoke good English, but his accent was more pronounced.
Celestria extended her hand, which he took in his as he bowed again, almost bringing her hand to his lips, his small brown eyes settling on her warmly from behind a pair of fine silver glasses. Her heart lurched with longing; the only other man to have ever greeted her like that was her father. In a sudden cascade of memories she recalled that day on the beach when he had gone out in his boat with Harry and their small cousins; he had kissed her hand then. She could still remember the affectionate twinkle in his eyes as he had offered her a place in his boat. She pushed the painful image from her mind and concentrated on Gaitano. His face was noble, with a straight Roman nose, chiseled jaw, and high cheekbones, still a devastatingly handsome man.
“And this is Luigi, the most talented cook in Puglia. Luigi speaks no English,” he added, patting the young man’s back affectionately. “But food is a language common to us all, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Naturally!” Celestria nodded, liking Gaitano already. “This is Mrs. Waynebridge,” she added. “Neither of us speaks Italian, but we both like our food!”
Gaitano bowed, but Mrs. Waynebridge was too nervous to extend her hand. She felt it wasn’t her place. She thrust it into her lap, where it remained until the danger had passed.
“Ah, Mrs. Halifax,” said Gaitano as a plump elderly woman walked into the dining room, aided by a walking stick that rang with the tinkling of tiny bells. She had a jolly, round face, seamed with laughter lines and lines of sadness as her full and active life had impressed itself in all its diversity onto her peachy pink skin. Celestria remembered Federica’s comments about her guest’s shoes and slid her eyes down the crushed velvet housecoat to her feet. They did not disappoint, neatly clad in green velvet slippers decorated at the toes with furry gold balls.
“Good morning, young man,” she said to Gaitano in a voice that was thick and smoky. “Goodness, we have company. How very nice. Are you American?” Celestria wondered how the old woman had deduced that just by looking at her. Mrs. Halifax explained. “I heard you talking outside my room last night.”
“Oh,” Celestria replied. “Well, my mother’s American but my father’s…He was English.” Mrs. Halifax noticed the hasty change of tense and discreetly moved on.
“Well, it’s lovely to have the company of fellow countrymen.”
“This is Mrs. Waynebridge,” Celestria added.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Mrs. Waynebridge, putting down her teacup and allowing her right hand to slide up from her knee to shake Mrs. Halifax’s.
“Oh, you must be from Yorkshire,” said Mrs. Halifax, resting her stick against the table and taking the chair that Gaitano pulled out for her. “I have spent some wonderful times up north, near Skipton. Do you know Skipton? It has a glorious old castle. The Fattorini family are dear friends of mine, you know.” Mrs. Waynebridge nodded. She knew the castle, it was famous, but she had never been there, and, as for the Fattorini family, she would never have presumed to make their acquaintance. “Salt of the earth,” Mrs. Halifax continued. “They speak their minds with a good dollop of warmth and humor.” She shook her head, sending the little cluster of purple feathers she had pinned in her hair into a floating dance. “I’d love a cup of coffee, Luigi,” she said. “And an egg. Could I trouble you for an egg? Four and a half minutes and a piece of toast, lightly browned, not burned. I do hate it when they burn the toast, don’t you?”
Luigi, who understood her request only because it was what she had ordered every morning for the last month, went into the kitchen, leaving Gaitano alone with the women.
“If there is anything you want, Luigi will be happy to oblige, and Nuzzo will take you anywhere you wish.” He directed his speech to Celestria, but it was Mrs. Waynebridge who blushed at the mention of Nuzzo’s name. “He can be your personal guide.”
“That would be very kind. We’d like to take a look around, wouldn’t we, Waynie?” Mrs. Waynebridge nodded enthusiastically.
“He will be back at midday. I have had to send him into Castellino on an errand. Might I suggest a ride up the coast and a picnic lunch on the beach?”
“Sounds just like Cornwall,” she replied. “We’ll be waiting in the courtyard at twelve.”
“Good. Luigi will prepare something to eat. Now I shall leave you to get to know one another,” he said, bowing again. His face twitched with an ironic smile. The three women must have seemed to him a rather incongruous group.
Luigi brought Mrs. Halifax her egg and a small cup of black coffee, the smell of which was too much for Celestria to resist. “I don’t usually like coffee, but that smells delicious!” she said, leaning across the table to breathe it in.
“They grind it fresh, you see. They don’t make it so well anywhere else in the world, I assure you. Why don’t you try it with hot milk?” Mrs. Halifax suggested. “It’s like hot chocolate.”
“That’s a good idea, I shall. Luigi?” When Luigi returned, Celestria pointed at Mrs. Halifax’s coffee, then at the jug of milk. “Lots of milk, mucho mucho,” she said, tossing him an enchanting smile. As she turned her charm on him, his ears turned red and his stomach flipped over.
“Si signora, molto latte,” he replied enthusiastically. He returned to the kitchen with the intention of making her the best caffé latte ever made.
“Have you been here before, Mrs. Halifax?”
; “Yes, every summer for the last four years. I met Freddie and Gaitano when I was staying near Pisa about six years ago. They used to live in Tuscany, you see. Then they discovered this wonderful place and bought it. It’s been a labor of love putting it back together again. It was a ruin. Recently things have gotten difficult, and they’ve had to open it to paying guests.” She lowered her voice. “With all due respect to nice people like you, I don’t think it’s been easy for them. They won’t ever leave it, though. Too many memories. That’s another story, and it’s not my place to tell it.” She sighed heavily and straightened up. “I like to paint, you see. I find a place I like and return every year, like a swallow, I suppose. I used to travel with a couple of friends, but then Debo passed away, and it was too miserable just being the two of us. Besides, Gertie and I fought all the time. It worked when we were three—Debo was a good buffer—but then just being two, I don’t know, it wasn’t the same. I’ve tried many different places, but after Maurilliac in France, nothing was as lovely or as special until I found the Convento. Freddie and Gaitano are like family to me now.”
“Did you live in France?” Celestria asked.
“No. We painted there after the war, at a gorgeous château that had been converted into a hotel. England was so gray and miserable. France was beautiful. We returned the following year, but it had changed.” She looked sad, as if her jolly face had suddenly melted, and took a sip of coffee. “I’m a silly old woman with too much attachment to the past. It’s a long story, and one evening I might tell you if I feel up to it.”
“I’d like that,” said Celestria softly.
“So this is your first time here?” Mrs. Halifax rallied.
“Yes.”
“There’s so much to see. The church next door is lovely, and over the road is a rather magical city of the dead.”
“City of the dead?” said Mrs. Waynebridge a little uneasily.
Mrs. Halifax’s eyes lit up. “The cemetery. It’s simply magical. Can’t you smell the lilies? You must go and visit. It calms the soul. I have painted it a few times. It looks different depending on the light. I find it feeds something inside me and fills me up. I don’t know, perhaps as I am old, it gives me a rather reassuring feeling about death.”
“Who’s buried there?” Celestria asked, crinkling up her nose at the distasteful idea of death.
“Everyone from around here. It’s a walled city of beautifully built, white stone and marble crypts: big ones, small ones, communal ones, plain ones, ornate ones, all alive with candles and flowers. The extraordinary thing is that you won’t find a single dead flower there. Not one. They take care of their deceased with love and devotion. That’s the way it should be. Not like in England, where graves are left to rot.”
Celestria was immediately curious, though Mrs. Waynebridge was more than a little spooked by the idea of a city of dead bodies. Graveyards were lonely, bleak places where she didn’t like to linger if she could help it. A whole city of graves was another matter altogether. “I think I’ll let you go on your own,” she said to Celestria.
“Don’t be silly, Waynie. You’re coming with me whether you like it or not. It’s important for you to soak up the whole experience.”
“Don’t imagine it’s anything like English graveyards, Mrs. Waynebridge,” interjected Mrs. Halifax. “It’s nothing of the sort. You’ll see. It’s magical.” She smacked her lips. “Simply magical!”
After breakfast, Mrs. Halifax hobbled off to paint, leaving Celestria and her companion to the wonders of the city of the dead. They stepped out of the building into the dazzling sunshine. Celestria, already hot, untied her scarf and threaded it through the belt loops of her slacks, tying it at the side. She slipped on a pair of sunglasses and breathed in the scent of the sea, which she could now see sparkling in the distance behind the cluster of little houses that had been built outside the walls of the city of the dead. Mrs. Waynebridge put on a white hat and withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab the sweat that had already begun to seep through her face powder and gather in little drops on her nose. All was quiet; the people of Marelatte were attending Mass in the little church attached to the Convento.
The road was empty, leading out of the town into the wild, rocky countryside of little brick walls and sheep. They passed a pack of stray dogs, tails high, noses to the ground, ribs showing through their thin coats. The city of the dead rose up before them, its walls warmed to a pale yellow in the morning sunshine. The gates were large and imposing, open to people and dogs alike, but there seemed to be no one there. Celestria and Mrs. Waynebridge wandered inside in silence. They both stopped to gaze at the long paved walkways that ran between the rows of little mausoleums built out of stone that contained the remains of the once living. “Come on,” Celestria hissed, afraid of breaking the tranquillity. The smell of lilies, warm wax, and pine was intoxicating. Mrs. Waynebridge followed nervously, fearful of intruding. Celestria walked on, her light walk almost a skip. In the center was a grassy square of tall pine trees, their branches full of twittering birds, their deep green needles bristling in the breeze. The sun filtered through them, throwing a kaleidoscope of dazzling sunspots onto the neatly cut grass below. “You see,” said Celestria with a laugh. “It’s not frightening at all. In fact, it’s beautiful. When I die, I’d be happy to rest in a place like this.” She sighed. “It’s so serene and heavenly, don’t you think?”
“It’s still eerie to think that all them houses are full of dead people,” said Mrs. Waynebridge with a shiver.
“Oh, I think there’s something rather romantic about it. Let’s take a look inside one of them.”
“I don’t think we should,” Mrs. Waynebridge protested. “They don’t belong to us.”
“I don’t imagine anyone would mind. Besides, the dead aren’t in any position to complain.”
Celestria disappeared up some steps into a communal crypt. Row upon row of little plaques marked the graves, and each grave was decorated with a vase full of fresh flowers. They covered both walls right up to the ceiling. Entire families were buried alongside one another. When Mrs. Waynebridge entered, she found Celestria running her hand over the words thoughtfully. “Look, here’s a whole cluster of a family called Salvatore.” Beside each name there was a small photograph. “These were all old people. Rather nice to live a long life and then end up here. I don’t think I’d like to see a young person. Much too close to home.” At the end of the crypt stood a small altar covered in candles, their flames flickering gently amid the heavy aroma of flowers. She thought of her father, dead like these old people. Unlike them, he had had a good many more years ahead of him. “I wonder if we shall ever have a body to bury. Somewhere we can come and remember him. I can’t imagine him lying in a coffin, lifeless.” She turned to Mrs. Waynebridge, her voice a whisper. “I can’t imagine him dead, you see.”
Mrs. Waynebridge wrung her hands anxiously. “Let’s get out. There’s too much death here. Gives me the willies,” she said in a wavering voice.
Celestria followed her into the sunshine. As they wandered back Celestria noticed a crypt that stood out from the rest. It was up a few steps, a little apart, and looked as if it had been built recently—the stone was whiter and newer than the others. It wasn’t that it was bigger, just that it somehow overshadowed the place where it stood. It was plain but for the initials N.McC. engraved into the marble above the door. Without saying a word Celestria felt herself drawn inside.
Within, two candles burned on a small altar, beside which a photograph stood in a silver frame dominated by an enormous vase of white lilies, their scent more pronounced than ever. Celestria moved to take a closer look. The photograph was of a young woman. Her face was radiant and smiling and breathtakingly beautiful, set against the deep blue sky, as if she was already in heaven, smiling down with love. Her hair was rich brown, blowing in the wind, the expression in her eyes light and carefree. Celestria turned to the stone tomb that contained her coffin. It was made out of m
arble and carved with a relief of a vine heavy with grapes. She wondered who the girl was and how she had died, suddenly saddened by the loss of such a young and vibrant life.
Without warning, a shadow fell across the doorway. She turned with a start to see the tall, arresting figure of a man. His face was gray with fury. He leaned on a stick, but he wasn’t old. His hair was fair and unruly and much longer than was fashionable. He shouted at her in Italian, his voice deep and granular like the growl of a bear. He stepped aside so that she could leave. “I’m sorry, I was just curious,” she apologized hastily, her hand immediately shooting up to her chest in mortification. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Bloody American!” He switched to English. “You’re all the same. Why can’t you mind your own business?” Celestria had never been spoken to in such a rude manner. She didn’t know how to respond. She wasn’t equipped to deal with this sort of person. He stared at her, his pale green eyes ablaze with indignation. She felt her face throb with embarrassment, and, to her shame, her eyes began to water. Suddenly, the man seemed to check himself. His fury abated, and he said quietly, gesturing to the door, “Just leave.”
Celestria pushed past him. He was very tall, well over six feet, and broad shouldered so that as she swept past he dwarfed her. Mrs. Waynebridge waited for her outside, pale with shock. The city of the dead spooked her enough as it was, without some scruffy, unshaven demon rising up out of nowhere to shout at them. Celestria took her arm and hurried away. She felt him watching her, his eyes burning holes into her pale blue blouse. She waited until they were far away before she risked a glance back. To her horror, he was still standing there, his face grim, his gaze fixed upon her. Celestria turned away and hurried on.
Sea of Lost Love Page 22