‘Cara,’ he said, embracing her warmly. He felt the anxiety and worry in her body as he did so. He had anxieties too, but felt it his duty to maintain the strength they both needed. That was the husband’s role in Italian life. ‘I am sure that the good doctor is doing the very best he can for Enrico. Let us hope that the injection will help his chest.’ They had spoken in English, as Penelope’s Italian was nowhere near good enough to hold a conversation. ‘Perhaps it would be best for the boy if we were to move him to Florence … or even Rome: wherever we can find care that is the most modern and up to date.’
She turned wearily towards a pair of brocade-covered couches, took his hand and led him across to one. They sat down next to each other, hands held lovingly.
‘You mean psychiatric care… in an institution,’ she said softly, so that her voice was lost in the sounds of birdsong, which filled the sun-drenched gardens outside. Despite the opulence of the surroundings, the mood inside seemed to be one of darkness and gloom.
‘If that is what is required, perhaps that is what we should seek out,’ he replied, his face creased with the worry of his son’s condition. Apart from a weak chest, the doctors had found nothing else wrong with him – at least nothing physical. However, his attempted escapes from his invisible demons had continued – sometimes frequently and sometimes less so, when the demons seemed to have left him alone. But any respite was tempered by their return, each time with a little more intensity than the time before. That had led them to question an illness of the mind. Harley Street specialists had said that it could well be a passing phase and that he might well outgrow his demons; it often happened that young children had imaginary friends, whom they left behind as they walked through adolescence. It was very difficult to tell with one so young – one so uncommunicative in all respects – one who seemed to be devoid of even the most basic of responses to stimuli of any sort. Nothing further had been done, but the demons persisted. Enrico was gaining greater and greater mobility every day – a physical development which seemed to be at odds with the lack of any mental advancement. He had a full-time nanny, but even that was not going to be enough to constantly monitor him every hour of his waking day. Now that he was almost four, perhaps here in war-ravaged Italy, something could be done. Something would have to be done.
They had sat on the sofa, each smoking a cigarette, the silence acting as confirmation that their son’s condition could well lead down the path Giacomo had already suggested.
‘Do you know of any doctors?’ Penelope had asked, eventually, as she stubbed out her cigarette. A few weeks later, however, the need to know of any leading psychiatrists was brutally and quickly dispensed with, as Enrico di Capezzani-Batelli – in a terrified world of his own – sought to escape his demons by running out of the villa as fast as his still unsteady little legs would carry him. With saliva dribbling out of his silent, open mouth and arms flailing the air against the pursuing demons, he tottered across the narrow corridor of well-maintained lawn. He reached the statue of Ceres with her arm raised in an imperious blessing of fertility to the vineyards which spread before her, turned on the top stair to fend off his invisible pursuers, caught his foot on the ridge at the end of the lawn and flew headlong out and down to the lower terrace.
There were those in the district who mourned along with the family; those who admired Giacomo’s stand against Mussolini. There were also those who muttered that it had been an appropriate sacrifice to the goddess. After all, had not Il Conte’s elder brother been a diehard Fascist with blood on his hands? There were many still living in the surrounding area that were as vehemently anti-Fascist as Giacomo’s brother had been pro-Fascist. They felt nothing; they had also lost family members recently to both the Fascists and the SS; the Germans had been no friends of Italy. To some of Giacomo’s fellow countrymen, one Capezzani-Batelli was much like another.
When the grapes were harvested a few months later it was a bumper crop and the resulting vintage was one of the best anyone could remember. Matteo Ignazio, Gilda’s father and also the hard-working overseer of the villa’s vineyards and extensive gardens had just reason to be proud. Ceres, the smiling marble goddess, had, indeed, been bountiful.
‘Everything is as the Contessa always requires: blooms which are magnificent in themselves, but without any fragrance … to protect the singers’ voices.’
Gilda Ignazio’s voice echoed hollowly in the Contessa’s head. She forced her mind’s eye to dim the unwelcome scene at the foot of the goddess’s marble stairs as she returned her attention to what Gilda was saying.
‘What was that, my dear? I’m afraid that I didn’t quite catch what you said. I was thinking of something else. I do beg your pardon’
Gilda smiled patiently. She had come to realize that elderly people sometimes did tend to drift off during a conversation. ‘Your bouquets will be ready for delivery tomorrow afternoon, as usual,’ she repeated. ‘Everything is as the Contessa always requires: blooms which are magnificent in themselves, but without any fragrance … to protect the singers’ voices.’
‘Ah yes, the angels,’ corrected the Contessa. ‘They have the voices of angels, every one.’
Gilda smiled good-naturedly.
‘It promises to be a very fine concert. They have all worked very hard towards it. We have a final rehearsal tonight and then…’ The Contessa smiled happily, closed her eyes and raised both hands, as if playing the music she had started to hear in her head.
‘And where is Carlo today?’ asked Gilda pleasantly, noticing, with relief, that neither of the Contessa’s wrists were tethered to a leash. Every time the little beast came into her shop a trail of devastation, of chewed or mangled foliage, bore grisly testament to his movements. And speaking of movements, there had been that time when… But Gilda Ignazio was spared any further dwelling on that topic by the Contessa’s reply.
‘He’s at home having a bath with Elizabeth. She seems to be far better at it than I am these days. My back, you know…’
This simple statement of fact produced two quite different responses in the two women. For her part, the Contessa had a mental picture of the irascible maid hell-bent on getting the better of a snarling and snapping Carlo. He would be standing in the bath, resembling a chipolata sausage – a largish one at that – on four thin toothpick-like legs. Once his luxurious curls got wet, the true proportions of his grumbling form made themselves clear. Elizabeth would be covered in more suds than there were in the bathtub or, for that matter, on Carlo. That expensive dog shampoo purchased from the vet didn’t go far at all. There would be water everywhere, but, with a little luck, it would soon dry and Elizabeth would neither slip on anything nor trip over a bedraggled pedigree bent on canine revenge. Gilda Ignazio, on the other hand and despite her pleasant smile, had only the image of the little beast meeting its grizzly and waterlogged end. She had been scared of dogs – especially bad-tempered ones like Carlo – ever since she had been badly bitten on the arm by Carlo Terzo (the third of the Contessa’s Maltese poodles) when she was a girl of just five – not much older than Enrico had been.
Carlo Quinto could hardly be held responsible for the actions of one of his predecessors, but as far as Gilda was concerned, one Maltese was the same as another. Because of this firmly held belief, she wished the Contessa’s current Carlo nothing but the very worst. She had absolutely nothing against his mistress. In fact, Gilda Ignazio had an enormous amount of respect for La Contessa, and that was not just because the Contessa had recently given her the huge green awning that stretched over the front of the shop and in the shade of which a considerable portion of her stock was now comfortably displayed. Gilda also remembered the emotional support she had received when her father had died and the financial assistance she had been given to set up her florist’s shop. The Contessa regarded her as one of the family and ‘families should always stick together’, she had said on the day the shop had opened nearly ten years before. Gilda loved the elder woman for that and admired h
er simply for being a good member of the human race.
Somewhere in Lucca a clock chimed the half hour. ‘I had best get on,’ said the Contessa. ‘I know I can leave the flowers in your capable hands, my dear,’ she said, ‘and you know we’re performing at the istituto as usual.’
Gilda nodded and smiled. ‘All will be delivered and ready for your performance.’
‘Thank you, my dear,’ said the Contessa, ‘and now I really must be getting along. Things to do, you know.’
She almost made to tug at the leash to get Carlo into a walking position, but remembered in the nick of time that he was at home, hopefully washed and dried by now. She made a theatrical gesture to her cheek to hide the unnecessary movement.
‘Such beautiful flowers,’ she said as she turned to go. She seemed to be trying to find a way out of the shop, through the large phalanxes of greenery and perfumed colour. ‘I must say that you’ve done really well for yourself, my dear,’ she continued as she carefully picked her way through the buckets and display stands, ‘but I think that you are going to have to find a bigger shop, you know.’
Four stories above them, Maria Santini was still rocking gently backwards and forwards. She continued humming softly to herself. It had not escaped the notice of the two herons that the intricate, yet faded, beauty of the cherry blossom that entwined them was now flecked with several random blotches of melted chocolate. Even more silver Carezze wrappers lay on the floor. Though Maria’s considerable bulk prohibited direct communication, the herons knew that they would be in for a rough flight before the day was out.
28
Amilcare Luchetti had a girth of ample proportions, which was well-matched to the glorious velvet of his deep bass voice. He was COGOL’s totally reliable vocal foundation. He loped, perspiring, into the main hall of the Ufficio Postale on the Piazzetta della Posta. The day was edging towards its hottest part and tempers in the large expanse of the crowded post office were rising in sympathy. Luchetti took a ticket from one of the machines serving the postal side of the hall. Other machines dispensed tickets to those wishing to use the banking and business side of the same hall.
Clutching his ticket in his free hand, he made his stately way across to a seat and sat down to await the appearance of his number over one of the service counters. In his other hand he held a small packet, the size of which was diminished by the podgy fingers of his hand. He rolled in his seat, removed a large white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. His weight seemed to be out of control these days. He had always been well-built, but that solid construction seemed to be leaning a little too much towards simple bulk these days.
And what is one supposed to do? Luchetti deliberated. There is no competition between a bowl of salad with no dressing and either a steaming dish of fresh cannelloni in a cream sauce or generous ravioli in a rich tomato passata with extra olive oil!’
The image of these delectable delights – despite the high calorific content promised particularly by the cream sauces – caused his mouth to start watering. He switched the cotton handkerchief from his face to the flow of saliva that had suddenly started to well up on his lips. Suddenly, he felt a little stupid as he held the handkerchief over his mouth and looked over the top of the crumpled folds of the fabric at the other people in the hall. The action of clamping the cloth to his mouth had pushed his ample cheeks, which were not quite jowls, but were well on their way to becoming such, up into his face. This produced the undesirable effect of a pig-like appearance. His eyes, reduced in size by the restructuring of his cheeks, peered out over the rolls of flesh in a somewhat startled manner. He suddenly felt that the entire hall was staring at him, which of course was not the case at all. The saliva suddenly dried up. He coughed and replaced the handkerchief in his pocket without even folding it back into its neatly creased squares. He rolled back onto the iron mesh of the seat, so that with protesting equality, both ample buttocks once again supported his bulk, which towered above them. Others of less substantial build often complained about the discomfort of these utility seats at the post office, but Amilcare had to confess to never having felt the same discomfort himself.
A number flashed above one of the counters. 89. His ticket was 95, so it should not be too long now. At least, he hoped it would not be as it was getting close to lunchtime and… He closed his eyes tightly and tried, in a half-hearted sort of way, to banish the highly appealing pictures of food that had suddenly appeared in his imagination. He fought to regain control of himself as the saliva started to fill his mouth once again. He opened his eyes – 90 flashed above another desk – and he sighed.
He suddenly became aware of a heated discussion at the counter nearest to where he was sitting. Without turning his head he moved his eyes towards the noise, which was of sufficient intensity to be heard above the general din of the hall.
‘Aaww … come on, mate!’ said a young man in accented English. ‘Ya gotta be joking! How’s a fella supposed to know which is which? Where’s the English on it, then?’
The counter clerk glared back in barely hidden contempt.
‘Siamo in Italia…’ he said, a smirk appearing on his face, ‘…quindi la forma è in italiano.’
‘What’s that?’ said the young woman who was standing next to the young man with the accented English. ‘Non comprendo,’ she said, using the universal expression for ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about’.
‘Ah! Lei parla italiano?’ continued the clerk, his smile deepening. He knew perfectly well that she did not.
‘Geeze, mate, all we want to do is send one miserable little packet back home.’
‘Eh?’ replied the clerk, whose expression indicated that he understood far more than he was about to let on. This was sometimes the case; those Italians who were working with the public would often have a good comprehension of English and would be able to respond where necessary. But in his opinion, these two, who were obviously backpackers and foreign, had been quite rude and he wished to satiate his position of power behind the safety of the post office counter. At least the man had been rude, he thought; the young woman, however, was very attractive in an adventurous sort of way with her firm young breasts filling her T-shirt with its message, ‘Enjoy the Delights of Siena’. The nipples were erect, so that the taut fabric seemed to place undue emphasis on the ‘Enjoy the Delights’ part of the message. The clerk’s mind was dwelling on that very thought as he surreptitiously eyed her up from behind the restrictive barrier of his counter. Her attitude had been no worse than the average local customer.
‘Excuse me, please,’ boomed a deep, molasses-like voice in English. ‘Perhaps I can be of assistance? I use the post office regularly and I know this gentleman,’ he continued, moving his head slightly in the clerk’s direction.
Just in time to catch the movement, the two backpackers turned to face Amilcare Luchetti, who had padded across the short distance of marble floor to join them at the counter. Further on down the row, 91 flashed above another service point.
‘I am 95,’ he said, smiling and waving his ticket in the air with his free hand.
‘Oh … right y’re mate,’ replied the man, a look of relief crossing his face. ‘We just want to post this packet back home and they’re making such a performance out of it.’
Luchetti smiled and shuffled nearer the counter.
‘Ciao, Salvatore,’ he said in Italian. ‘What is the problem?’
‘They have filled in this form, which is only for internal posting. They want the packet to go to Australia and so they have used the wrong form,’ he replied rapidly, ‘and he thinks he is so smart and yet he cannot read the instructions on the form and complains that they are in Italian. We are in Italy and he cannot read Italian. And suddenly that is everyone’s fault, but not his own! At least she is not so arrogant – quite attractive, actually, wouldn’t you say?’
‘What was all of that?’ asked the young man, a look of non-comprehending expectancy on his well-tanned feature
s.
Luchetti flushed slightly. Wanting to placate the situation, he realized that the moment could be a little tricky, given Salvatore’s observation of the stretched message on the Siena T-shirt.
‘It is simple,’ he said, switching back to English. ‘It is just a case of using the wrong form.’ Amilcare turned back to the clerk. ‘She is like a ripe peach ready for the picking,’ he said, ‘but a little of the wild beast about the quarry often heightens the excitement of the chase and eventual capture, would you not agree?’
Salvatore burst out in a peal of lecherous laughter, breaking the tension of the previous few minutes. Luchetti continued, smiling.
‘We must keep our grip on reality, must we not? Some fruit in wild orchards is simply not attainable, no matter how desirous.’ He smiled and shrugged, his ample cheeks vibrating as he did so. ‘So, my dear Salvatore, can you remedy their ignorance and fill out the correct form … for Australia.’
Number 93 appeared, a fact which, despite the jocularity and relaxed laughter between himself and Salvatore, Luchetti did not fail to notice. He was not about to lose his place in the queue.
‘What was all that about?’ asked the young man.
‘He will fill out the correct form for you … to Australia.’
‘That’s great,’ said the young woman, smiling and leaning forward towards the counter. ‘Enjoy the Delights’ wobbled as she did so. Salvatore kept one eye on the message and the other on the form he was filling in.
‘Yeah, that’s great,’ echoed the young man. ‘Thanks, mate.’
Salvatore looked at him with an expression of intolerance. ‘Prego,’ he muttered.
‘He says that you are welcome,’ translated Luchetti. Further up the row, 94 suddenly flashed. ‘Excuse me, please, I must prepare for my number, which is next. I wish you a pleasant stay in Lucca. Goodbye.’ He did not tell them that the implied tone of Salvatore’s voice really meant ‘idiot’.
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