As he moved towards the car, Giò stood there, an unusually dreamy smile painted on her face. For once, she was unable to think. Had her heart collapsed, or was it beating so furiously she didn’t recognise it as such?
In a few minutes, he had returned with some bags and a rucksack strapped over his shoulders, a thermos in his hands.
“I asked the receptionist for something warm to bring with us.”
“Not alcohol at this time of day?”
He laughed. “Sorry, I didn’t think of alcohol. It’s just some hot fruit tea with honey.”
“I didn’t mean I wanted some alcohol. On the contrary.”
But he was still smiling, and she understood he was teasing her. She shook her head. Where had all her defences gone?
Fortunately, Guido was now concentrating on his work. He said something about using the path up to Christ’s statue as a launch pad and, once he had placed the camera on the drone, it started to lift from the ground with a buzz, moving along the path and pointing just above the statue. They followed it as he guided the drone all around the head of the statue to capture the bay below from all perspectives.
“Now to the castle.” He showed her the display, grinned when he was happy, shook his head when disappointed. Then he’d call the drone back and repeat the process until he had exactly the sequence he wanted. From what he was saying, Giò realised he had already visualised the finished film in his mind.
“I thought you’d gather your material and edit it later, depending on what emerged from your shoot…”
“That’s one way to work, but usually I envisage things in my head, and I want to make sure I get the right sequences on the camera. It’s so annoying if I don’t shoot the things I want.”
He flew the drone around the church, and from there on to the mountains inland, flying it towards the ridges perpendicularly, as if he meant to crash against them, to capture the rising sun. He checked around once more, took some shots of the serpentine road, the Castello ruins, and finally packed the drone back into the rucksack with a satisfied grin. He then opened the thermos, offering her the first cup.
“It’s still hot, so delicious,” she said, feeling the liquid warming up her mouth, her throat and, most pleasantly, her chest and stomach.
“I love the feeling of being in the mountains, but I wasn’t expecting to experience it here in a Mediterranean town. Giò Brando, you live in paradise.”
Giò nodded.
“Have I got a right to disrupt your life?” he said, taking her hands in his.
Giò again felt that words were failing her, as they did every time this man spoke to her seriously. She could laugh at his jokes, speak to him about dreams, ambitions, difficulties, but now he was looking at her as if he could see into her life with the same clarity as his drone had filmed the landscape. He’d understood from the start; she hadn’t been so fast. She hadn’t even realised until now how attracted she’d been to him from the first moment she’d met him.
“Good morning.” A young priest was standing in front of the little church, wearing sandals despite the chill of the morning. He showed them the key in his hand. “You can come inside if you want,” he told them as he opened the metal gate protecting the inner door.
Giò went over to him and, from the inviting open portico, beckoned Guido forward. The sanctuary was small and intimate, and Giò let Guido look around in his own time. She then took him to stand in front of one of the columns and showed him a fresco in vibrant reds.
“It’s the Madonna of the Pomegranate,” she said, gesturing towards the Virgin holding the Holy Child in her hands. “I know it’s far from perfect, but I love its bold colours when the rest of the church is so simple and low-profile.”
Guido nodded, and she signalled to him to follow her below the arches on the left. There was nothing to see there, but she waved a hand towards the empty space.
“There used to be a beautiful crib here with terracotta statues, on display all year round. It was this large,” and she held out her arms in front of the columns. “It was animated, with a mill splashing water, a man pulling out freshly baked bread from the oven, a blacksmith beating and forging iron in the fire.” And Giò went on, describing the crib as if it was there. “And I never knew why they removed it. When we were young, my siblings and I would beg Dad to bring us up here just to see the crib.”
He smiled at her while quietly shooting the interior of the church. Giò lighted a candle below the Madonna and, despite no longer being a regular churchgoer, asked her silently, “Please, help me clear my mind before I make a decision.”
“I’d say it’s time to go back to Maratea,” she said aloud when Guido had replaced the lens cap on his camera, “and eat a large breakfast to warm ourselves up.”
“I’m starving,” Guido agreed, pulling the heavy rucksack on to his shoulder.
14
The Qazvin Bazaar
Angelica glanced at the cute red-brick café with high arched vaults on Imam Khomeini Street. They were in Qazvin, a town three hours north of Tehran.
“Time for a break?” Rolando said as if reading her thoughts.
“Indeed,” replied Angelica, smiling with gratitude. They had arrived in Tehran at 5am, only to get straight in a taxi to Qazvin. There, they had rested for a couple of hours in their hotel, then curiosity had got the better of them and they had gone out to discover the city.
The waiter crossed over to them and handed them a couple of menus. They both ordered tea, then Angelica wanted to get closer to the glass counter to make her selection from the goodies on display there. She’d already learned that the Iranians could cook delicious bread and tempting sweets of all sorts.
With her finger, she pointed what she wanted out to the waiter. She was not confident speaking English, and so far had let Rolando do most of the talking. When the waiter returned to their table, he was holding a number of small porcelain dishes in various colours, carrying food of all shapes and sizes. Rolando looked at her in amazement.
“Did I order too much food?” She chuckled. “I feel so curious, I want to try everything.”
“It seems Iran has stimulated your appetite.”
“And my curiosity too. I’m not sure Qazvin is the best city to be… I was expecting a traditional city centre full of ancient monuments, but here the little gems are scattered between rather mundane places.”
Her thoughts went to the Tehran gateway, its splendid mosaics and tilework displayed in the middle of… a traffic island; the neglected Jameh Mosque; the ruined facade of the now closed Grand Hotel, which she had insisted on going to see because of its atmosphere of long-gone glory days.
It had been different at the Aminiha Hosseiniyeh, the luxurious mansion of a rich Qazvin merchant. There the central hall had left her speechless, with its decorated sash windows and incredible vaults. Painted masterpieces, mirrors, stuccos, wooden panels, the intricate designs of the ancient rugs on the floor, the decorated windows hit by the sunlight… that’s where it had struck her that she really was in a place far away from home. But once they’d left the house, they were back in the streets of anonymous low buildings, large and ugly shop signs. Only the people made a difference – they were curious, shy and kind. She had only to approach them and they would take the trouble to help her find her way. Even if they couldn’t speak a single word in the same language, they would try hard to understand what they could do for her.
In any case, Qazvin was only a short stop. The next day, they would wake up early and head for the Alborz mountains and Alamut, the legendary Assassins’ Castle, sleeping in a lodge nearby.
How strange, she thought, stirring her amber tea, that Rolando should choose this very place. Now that she was depending on him for guidance – he’d got directions and selected the driver who had taken them in the early hours of the morning from Tehran airport to Qazvin – all the bitterness she had felt against him had at least lessened, if not disappeared. It was so easy to be happy now she was out o
f her daily environment.
“I wonder if we will manage to eat anything tonight at the hotel,” Rolando said when every last morsel had disappeared from their dishes.
“I don’t know how good their food will be, but I’m glad we stopped here for lunch. I loved it all.”
Rolando nodded, paid the bill and asked her if she felt like visiting the Sa’d Al-Saltaneh, the Great Bazaar just behind the café.
“Of course, I’m looking forward to that.”
As they entered the imposing building, she felt once again that the country was surprising her. She had envisioned an overcrowded market with sellers shouting to grab her attention, yet here they were in huge, empty vaulted corridors – red bricks, beautiful mosaic patterns, tall arched wooden doors leading to elegant modern boutiques, all immersed in an eerie silence. There were hardly any visitors around.
Rolando stopped at a carpet shop; he loved to see how the designs were created and the skills with which the artisan worked. He had found a seller who spoke decent English, and the man was more than happy to show him the workshop in the courtyard out the back.
Angelica, who had no great interest in the noble art of carpet making, had spotted a shop selling antique jewellery and trinkets.
“I’ll wait for you there.” She pointed to the shop opposite and left, curious to see what was on display. The bell rang as she opened the door, but nobody came to say hello. A fair-haired man with grey eyes, probably another European, was waiting at the counter. He gave her a distracted look, and then went on examining some items in front of him.
Angelica was too enchanted by the silver jewellery on display to take any more notice of him. A woman she hadn’t noticed before left the shop and the bell rang again. Five minutes later, the Iranian seller was finally back, followed by a man who could have been a boxer, so large were his shoulders, so flattened his nose. His hard eyes glared icily at Angelica, then he headed towards the fair-haired man.
“It’s OK, that’s my wife,” Angelica heard the fair-haired man say as the small Iranian disappeared into the back of the shop.
“So, did you like the jewels?” the boxer said. He spoke English with a strange accent – was he Russian?
“Indeed,” the other replied, still checking the contents of the box on the counter.
“You show me your stuff then.”
The fair-haired man handed him a leather bag. It was so big, it took both hands to lift it. The boxer opened it and took something shiny out, looking at it carefully.
“Deal closed,” he said and went out the back towards the courtyard. Through the window, Angelica saw him gesturing to the Iranian seller, as if to tell him he could return to the shop now. The Iranian came in and tried to speak to the fair-haired man, who ignored him.
“Karen?” he said, walking in Angelica’s direction. Angelica shrank back into the corner. As the man moved towards her, she hid behind one of the brick pillars, wondering how she was going to explain why she was there when the man discovered she wasn’t actually who he’d thought she was.
Just then, the shop door opened again.
“Liam?” a woman called.
The man turned round. “There you are! I thought you were browsing the jewellery here. I was wondering why you didn’t reply.”
“Done?” she asked.
“Done and closed.” He smiled, turning back and dropping something in the Iranian man’s hands. The Iranian didn’t say a word, just nodded.
The couple, who Angelica still assumed were European, left and she made her presence known to the seller. The man gulped in surprise, but she smiled reassuringly as she headed for the door to return to her husband. Rolando was still chatting with the carpet seller, and so enthusiastic was he that it was some time before she was able to tell him what she had seen.
“Smuggling, most likely,” he commented.
“Yes, and the European man thought I was the one who had left the shop when the bell rang, when in fact, it was his wife.”
“Lucky he didn’t realise his mistake,” he teased.
“What an adventure!” she said. “I felt as if I were a child again, up to mischief and hiding from the adults.”
“And now, my great adventurer, shall we go back to our hotel? A hot shower, dinner and an early night?”
“Yes, I’m looking forward to some sleep.”
They passed the Chehel Sotun Palace they had seen that morning, its light architecture, porches and garden with its early spring leaves even more beautiful and romantic in the sunset hour. From there, it wasn’t too far to the reassuring entrance of their hotel. As they walked back, Rolando put his arm around her shoulders, and she felt like she had done when they were young and in love with life and each other.
15
A Lost Manuscript
That afternoon, Giò worked hard on her travel memoir, going through the diaries and photos of her various trips in Scotland. Reading her notes, she found that describing the people she had met – friends, friends of friends, other walkers, chance meetings in a B&B or hostel lounge – was a perfect way to introduce readers to the country’s lesser-known attractions.
She jotted down a chapter dedicated to Rannoch Moor, a place in the middle of nowhere. Around Loch Ossian, the only human beings you’d encounter for miles were other wanderers. There was no road to get there, and even the train would only stop at the tiny platform – you could hardly call it a station – if a passenger asked to be dropped there.
She reread what she had written, and for once felt happy with it. For sure, it needed some revision and tidying up, but it was all there: her sense of marvel; her sudden fear at the total isolation on a harsh winter’s day, the wind howling over Loch Ossian. How gradually that scary place had become more familiar as she passed time there and heard the stories of the few hardy people she met. By the next morning, a hint of sun was peeping from behind the clouds, and the loneliness had turned to an absolute sense of freedom. She had felt more liberated than she had ever done before or since… until this very morning at the statue of Christ the Redeemer.
She parked the thought in the back of her mind and returned to her piece of writing.
If only I could write like that every day, she thought, looking at her watch. A quarter to six – almost time to meet Guido in the hall. He’d promised to show her how he’d processed the videos they had shot earlier.
All day, Giò had done her best not to think of what had happened that morning. She had repeated to herself over and over again that it had just been the euphoria of the moment – that amazing view; the cold air; the sense of freedom that had overcome them. Maybe the kiss meant nothing. It had been too sudden, too unexpected. She hardly knew this guy, after all. True, he was… well, he was a tad attractive. True, he was living a life she had always dreamed of. True, he could be a fascinating man, with so much to tell. Heaving a deep sigh, she remembered being spellbound as he’d shared his impressions of Iran with the group.
Giò Brando, she addressed herself seriously, please don’t pretend to be a romantic soul. You always end up in trouble when you start down this route. It was just the stunning beauty of the landscape at dawn, the amazing light. He hasn’t spoken a word about it since; I’m sure he’s as embarrassed as you are and doesn’t know how to handle it.
She looked again at her watch, put a touch of gloss on her lips.
What if I don’t turn up? I can text him, say I’m too busy writing and want to carry on while the inspiration lasts.
She looked at her phone: five to six. The short text she started to type seemed to take longer to put together than the ten pages she’d written about Scotland. She deleted it, started all over again, deleted, and finally threw her phone in her bag.
Why should I run away? I’m not afraid of him.
Guido was already sitting in the hotel lounge, a cup of coffee beside him and his laptop on.
“Hello,” she said, more sheepishly than she would have liked.
“Hi.” He invited
her to sit beside him with a winning smile. “We did some good work.”
He had already edited the first part of the video. Offering her one of the earplugs he was using, he spoke about the music he had selected.
“The beat slows down here, which is a perfect way to open the film up to the landscape behind Christ the Redeemer’s statue.”
He cut past chunks of video quickly, his fingers flying on the keyboard.
“This is our short sequence in time-lapse,” he said, showing her the gulf and how the light of the dawn overcame the darkness. Giò was fascinated. “But the best part comes next.”
The drone had shot a close-up of the San Biagio church and Guido had already edited, in his dynamic style, the flight sequence to incorporate what he had shot with the hand-held camera inside the church. From the quick flight over the church, they were inside all of a sudden; from light to darkness. And from the darkness, they took a quick tour round the church’s interior, its altar and arches, then darkness again. From that darkness, a woman’s shape materialised. Picking up a candle, she lit it and set it amongst the others flickering in front of a pretty Madonna. Then the woman turned towards the camera and smiled; close up on her face, the flickering candles reflecting in her green eyes.
“I love that smile,” Guido said, hugging Giò’s shoulders and kissing her cheek.
“Is it really me?” Overwhelmed by emotions on too many levels, Giò hardly recognised the figure in black who was standing in front of them, asking something.
“Giò, may I talk to you, please?”
Guido looked in surprise from Paolo, the brigadiere, to Giò.
“Can you please come with me?” Paolo asked Giò again, his expression sombre. “It won’t take long.”
“Sure,” she stuttered finally, standing up.
Paolo didn’t speak a word as he strolled down the corridor, giving Giò time to recover.
Peril at the Pellicano Hotel Page 10