by Janet Pywell
I gasp.
I duck back out of sight. I swallow hard. My heart is beating rapidly. I wait a few seconds and when I look again, he is gone.
‘I think I am being followed,’ I say to Raffaelle over my shoulder. I have to tell him. I fear now that things are closing in on me. I have been living on borrowed time but now I will be held to account. Padre Paolo is taking too long. I must do something.
Raffaelle stands beside me peering over the railing, and I think how ridiculous he looks in his shorts with his mass of dark chest hair and pale skin. ‘Who would follow you?’ he asks.
‘He’s a journalist,’ I say, once I have controlled my breathing. ‘I have just seen him down there in the street. His name is Karl Blakey. He was in the square when you met me from the ferry yesterday but I wasn’t sure if it was definitely him.’
‘Do you think he knows about the Golden Icon?’ Raffaelle tugs his moustache. ‘Is that why you think he is following you?’ He is scanning the empty path below.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘He knows that Seán asked me to go to Munich but I don’t think Seán would have told him why. He didn’t want anyone to know about his family heirloom.’
‘How do you know this journalist?’
‘He wrote about me many years ago. He stalked me. He was determined to rake over my life and he treated me like a rotting corpse, picking over my bare bones, printing the smallest details, telling outrageous lies and sensationalising my decline.’
‘We all make mistakes. Do not worry. He has nothing more to print about you now. There is no more scandal.’
I think of my letter to Michael and its contents, and the effect and repercussion that it could still have, but I remain silent. Now is not the time to confess my past. I will block it out and hide it away from my conscience as I have done all these years. I will focus on only doing the right thing. Finding the rightful owner of the Golden Icon, and in that way, I hope, I may clear Michael’s name and finally make amends for my past.
‘He could find out that the stolen Golden Icon is in my possession. It is only one of the world’s greatest priceless treasures.’ My tone is sarcastic. ‘I would not under estimate Karl again.’
‘Let’s sell it.’ He turns to me. ‘Let’s go now to Florence. I have a friend who will help us. He can be trusted. We can start a new life together.’
‘Dieter said anyone who used the Golden Icon for their own means came to a bad end. They either died or were killed.’
‘Pouff, this is crazy. He said it, to frighten you.’
‘Even Michael never wanted to use it for his own gain. That is why he kept it hidden. He was afraid. It was only when Seán was going bankrupt and he was desperate for money that Michael began looking for someone to buy it, and Maximilian found out, and now look at what has happened to them. They’re both dead.’
‘It is a coincidence.’
‘I must find out who it belongs to.’ I begin wrapping the statue in the dirty linen with the frayed string. ‘I must do this or I will never be able to live with myself.’
‘You are making a mistake.’
‘I don’t trust Karl Blakey. My apartment is not safe I must hide the Golden Icon.’ My body is shaking. I know the danger involved.
‘Josephine, listen to me…’
‘I have a good idea where I can hide it. Will you come with me?’
7
Chapter 7
Thou sittest at the right hand of God: In the glory of the Father. We believe that thou shalt come: to be our judge. - Te Deum, Tosca
It is barely six o’clock. We throw on our clothes and leave immediately taking advantage of the quiet early morning. As I lock my apartment, church bells toll across the valley and a donkey brays a greeting.
Raffaelle’s footsteps and panting breath follow me. We climb past the felled trees and the palazzos, and an apartment block where an early swimmer stands under the outdoor shower. We cross the car park and take the narrow trail through the fir trees. The smell of rain in the forest is damp and musky, the path is stained by rivulets of mud and I taste moisture on my lips as we walk.
I walk quickly, passing sleeping homes and pathway shrines whose paint is peeling and walls are crumbling: cappella di san rocco and the edicola con affresco della beata vergine con bambino, and I wait for Raffaelle to catch up with me. I am studying the Virgin who holds her baby in her arms; a loving mother and son.
‘You should let me carry the rucksack,’ he pants.
‘You can barely carry yourself.’
‘Why did we have to leave this early?’
‘It will be too hot later on. There will be more people about.’
‘No-one comes up here anyway.’
‘Come on, or it will be dark by the time you get back.’ I make my strides long. I straighten my back and breathe deeply relishing the beauty of the sunlight that shines through the dappled trees.
‘I don’t know why we couldn’t drive.’ Raffaelle speaks in short bursts. ‘The track is narrow but it would be safe and much quicker.’
‘I didn’t want anyone to see your car has been moved.’
‘No-one is following me. Are you sure you are not being irrational?’
I ignore him.
The path through the woods is steep and narrow, and in places, more than a forty-five degree angle. To my right, is a deep ravine where a ditch of naked trees have been chopped, and on my left, growing up the hillside is an abundance of wild blackberry and black current brambles. A yellow and white butterfly settles briefly on a branch and when it flies away I am left with a fleeting memory of its thick veins and velvet skin.
I cast my eyes over my shoulder and look down the trail to make sure there is no-one behind us. Karl Blakey is not to be seen but my heart beats frantically, not through exertion but through anxiety. When I saw him outside my apartment, staring up at me I panicked. I am usually controlled. I perform on stage, and I am used to adrenaline surging through my body, even if I sing badly or my performance isn’t perfect, it is a disappointment but I have never felt fear, as I do now.
Karl Blakey could ruin my life. I can’t let him find out about my affair with Michael or the Golden Icon, and as I walk the rhythm of my gait brings back more recent memories and I begin to repeat the familiar mantra revolving in my head.
Seán is dead. Michael is dead.
Seán died because of the Golden Icon. I am convinced of that. I believe it was Maximilian or his nephew who killed him and took the fake Turner painting. Had they thought it was valuable? Had they been looking for a painting?
I always assumed Michael died of old age or a heart attack but Dieter led me to believe it was something more sinister. Had he been trying to frighten me?
It has been over two weeks since I was in Munich and I don’t know whether to feel lucky or scared that I have been left alone until now but Karl Blakey is definitely here in Comaso. I wonder too, if Santiago has been speaking to Padre Paolo. Perhaps the Padre is not helping me on Santiago’s orders.
Who can I trust?
When I estimate we are half way up, I wait in the cool shadow of the beech trees. On the hillside opposite us the orange cable cars are yet to begin operating. The green gantries lay plotted up the hill like static iron soldiers. Over our head leaves flap in the early breeze and I watch them sway finding the movement relaxing and hypnotising. I pull a water bottle from the rucksack and drink deep long gulps.
Raffaelle perches beside me on a bench made of pine logs. His breathing is heavy, his chest is heaving, and his hands grip his knees as he gazes down into the ravine. I pass him the water bottle.
‘Are you okay?’
He shakes his head. ‘No-one comes up here, cara.’ He guzzles the water. ‘There’s probably wild boar down there, certainly deer.’ He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
I survey the trail below. ‘No-one is following us.’
‘No-one would be so stupid as to hike up here. There are only sheep.’
/> We stand companionably listening to the bleating of the animals and their tinny bells, surveying the scene through the trees below us. The early sun glistens on the cross above the Santa Anna di Comaso church, and on fishing boats leaving the harbour. The lake looks green today, it’s an illusion, only a reflection of the dark forest from the mountains.
‘This is crazy,’ he says. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘It’s the right thing to do.’
‘For who? For you? For Seán or for Michael? Well, they are dead and this certainly isn’t the right thing to do for me, or for us.’
I suppress my anger, ignore him and walk on.
‘Since when were you so concerned about doing the right thing?’ he calls.
I take a few paces back so I can look him in the eyes. ‘I am not always right and I haven’t always done the right thing but I intend to do it now.’ My voice is harsh and my resolve resolute.
‘Why? What’s changed?’
‘Me. Everything.’
‘You are only thinking about yourself. Just because you didn’t get Tosca you are taking it out on me. You don’t think about me, or about us. Seán was your ex-husband. You owe him nothing.’
‘That’s why I haven’t contacted Barbara,’ I reply. ‘Although I probably ought to. It would pay off her debts and at least give her and her children a decent life.’
‘Forget them. What about us?’
‘I’ve made my decision.’
‘Well, it’s the wrong one, the thing is with you is that…’
He is talking to himself because I turn and walk away. I block off and don’t listen.
Some twenty minutes later I wait for him to turn the final bend and come into my view.
‘Almost there,’ I call encouragingly. I stand at a fork in the trail: to the right are stone steps that rise to the small garden belonging to the church, on the left is a steep grassy incline bordered by a stone wall with overgrown palms, ivy and fronds.
‘I smell wild roses,’ I call.
Raffaelle frowns. He is not impressed.
I take the stone steps two at a time as fast as I can until I reach the top then I am breathless. I stand with my hands on my hips, panting and gazing at the Chiesa della Madonna dei miracoli. Like so many Italian buildings it is faded okra, and the peeling paint only adds to its charm. At the front are three archways and two stone pillars. The roof is rounded with a small wooden spire. The grass is long and unkempt. There are old beech trees, wild orange buddleia and purple hydrangeas.
‘You want to leave it here?’
I ignore him.
‘Are you nuts?’ he shouts.
‘I cannot keep it at home. Karl Blakey will find it. He broke into my apartment once before.’
‘Your apartment in Comaso?’ He bites his moustache.
‘No. When I lived in Germany.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He wanted evidence.’
‘Evidence of what?’ Raffaelle’s eyes are dark brown.
‘Evidence that I was taking cocaine.’
He scratches his cheek and I continue speaking, ‘He followed me constantly. He took photographs and published them in magazines.’
‘He was responsible for your downfall?’
‘No, I was responsible for my behaviour but he was responsible for telling everyone how bad I was, and how I was struggling under pressure, and how I couldn’t cope.’
‘But I thought Guntar…’
‘Guntar was my opera coach and my agent was Antonio Marx. They knew I was at the height of my fame and they kept pushing me and touring me until I was exhausted. I couldn’t handle the pressure.’
Raffaelle is staring at me. ‘You never spoke much about it.’
‘I was a mess,’ I say.
‘I remember.’ He reaches out and rubs my shoulder which I find comforting.
‘Stay there.’ I point to a rocky wall at the edge of the tangled garden. ‘Turn your back, sit and look at the view.’
‘How long are you going to hide it here for?’
‘Just a few days, until I get news from Padre Stefano, Padre Paolo’s friend.’
‘We could have hidden it in the garden in my villa. It would be safe there.’
‘Under the wisteria?’ I joke.
‘You don’t trust me. You don’t want me to know where you hide it?’ His voice is pained but I ignore him. ‘Why did you bring me with you, if you don’t trust me?’
‘In case we were followed. I could pretend we were lovers out walking.’
‘Great. That makes me feel good.’
I laugh. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. No peeking.’
I walk to the back of the church and along the grassy track. Half way along I find the remnants of a rocky wall but it is safe and secure. It comes to the height of my hip. I pull aside dried twigs, ferns and rampant ivy. Sweet aroma from a fig tree tickles my nose and I push aside bamboo roots. Over my head hangs a blue buddleia, its branches are swaying in the breeze and its petals catch in my hair.
I pull the rucksack from my shoulder, take out a trowel and begin to dig. The earth is damp, loose and pliable. The hole is easy to make. I toss aside rocks and stones and make sure it is dug deep. When I place the shoe box into the small hollow, it fits easily.
I cross myself, say a small prayer to the Madonna, and make her a promise that I will return her to her rightful place. As I cover her with earth I realise that if I die, the Golden Icon may remain hidden for years.
It takes a few minutes to cover the box, pressing soil into place, tucking and replanting the ferns, spreading the ivy and throwing leaves over my buried treasure.
My forehead is damp, I am perspiring. The muscles in my arm aches and my fingers are sore from gripping the trowel handle. When I open my palm I see red patches at the base of my fingers and I know the skin will blister.
I take my time to rinse my fingers with bottled water, replace the trowel and the bottle in the rucksack and hoist it onto my back. I am pleased to be relieved of the burden. I retrace my steps to the back of the church and pause to catch my breath listening to sheep bleating across the valley. My heart beats furiously but I am relieved. No-one will find it.
I walk around to the front of the church and across the small garden, Raffaelle is sitting with his back to me. He is perched on a rock gazing at the scene below and crouching at his feet is a familiar looking boy. His skin is smooth and silky like an olive, and he doesn’t yet shave. On the hillside below is a flock of dirty grey sheep, their eyes barely focus as they graze and munch contentedly, their bells tinkle as they roam.
‘But why don’t you go to school?’ Raffaelle says insistently.
‘I’m not interested. I’m happy here. I love the views, and the sheep and it gives me time to think.’
‘But you must learn. You must be educated.’
The boy shrugs.
‘You are too young to be isolated from the world,’ Raffaelle insists.
They both turn at the sound of my footsteps.
‘This is Alonso,’ he says. ‘He’s the son of Luigi’s cousin.’
I smile. ‘Hello.’
He nods back and I remember his soft grey eyes.
‘Didn’t I see you with Sandra beside the fountain?’ I ask.
He shrugs.
‘Is she your girlfriend?’ Raffaelle nudges him with his knee.
Alonso blushes.
‘He doesn’t want to tell you. Come on, let’s go.’ I pull on his hand.
‘Women! They drag you up the hill for a romantic moment to watch the dawn then they need to pee,’ Raffaelle says. ‘Be warned, women are nothing but trouble.’
The boy laughs revealing a gap between his front teeth.
Raffaelle pats the boy on his shoulder. ‘Think about what I said Alonso. There’s so much to learn in life, so much to see, lots of girls–’
‘Leave the poor boy alone,’ I say, eager to be gone.
Raffaelle stands. ‘Vai con Dio,’ h
e says, and we walk hand in hand back down the empty trail. ‘All done?’
‘Yes.’
‘I still think we could have hidden it in the villa.’ I don’t reply. ‘We could have put it in the well. There’s a small shelf half way down.’
‘Too obvious,’ I laugh. ‘It’s the first place Santiago would look.’ From the valley comes the soft swell of gently rustling leaves like invisible waves ebbing in and out, and as the rhythmic calming sounds swoosh around us and I have a sudden urge to laugh.
Raffaelle mistakes my happiness, and he chuckles, pulling me closer. ‘We can still sell it. Think about it. Why are you always so stubborn and selfish?’
I release his hand and quicken my pace. ‘Let’s get some hot bread from the bakery.’ I lengthen my stride.
‘Perhaps you don’t love me enough,’ he calls.
‘Walking back will be easier,’ I shout. ‘Especially if you save your breath.’
In the afternoon I finish my vocalisation to a cacophony of a storm that blows in from the North. Black ominous clouds come rumbling from the Alps and I am distracted by the beauty of the ragged lightening that splits dark cumulus clouds, and the rolling rumble of thunder that echoes and bounces from the hillside until it recedes into silence and there is only the sound of rain thundering against my patio.
I wait for the clouds to break and to see a slice of blue sky before I venture outside onto the terrace. I sweep it dry trying not to think about the Golden Icon buried in the earth. I tip water from the candle holders, replace the cushions, and cut back the geraniums. It is cooler. It’s a welcome relief from the heat.
I have telephoned Padre Paolo three times and I dial his number again. It goes unanswered so I leave another message.
To calm myself I play the piano. First I play Wagner, then Bach, and I end with Schubert’s, Symphony No. 8 in B minor, his Unfinished Symphony.
Raffaelle telephones and we agree to meet in Luigi’s for supper later this evening.
An hour later my terrace table is littered with opera scores and I am thinking I may take Cesare’s advice and meet his producer friend Simone in London who wants me to sing with the Philharmonic. I telephone him but there is no answer. Frustrated I return my concentration to my music. I am marking scores and I am lost in my art and my love when the sound of my mobile phone startles me. I do not recognise the number and it is an unwelcome interruption so I ignore it.