by Angela Petch
‘We’re back. Where are you?’ Francesco called and Alba jumped, bringing herself back to the present. She stood up and popped her head through what remained of a window and waved. ‘I’m in here,’ she shouted.
‘Looking for more treasure?’ Anna called.
‘Something like that,’ she said, walking over to them as she replaced her book in her rucksack.
Francesco held out his basket and she peered inside. A dozen or so creamy-white mushrooms were nestled there. ‘I found treasures of my own. Prugnoli for supper!’ he announced. ‘I told you I would find funghi today,’ her father said proudly.
Later that day, as she rode her repaired scooter down to Sansepolcro, any lingering thoughts about James were dispelled as she enjoyed the scenery unfolding around her. Her mind was more concentrated now on Tuscany, and Massimo’s story. As she descended, the landscape changed with each bend. She stopped to take a photo on her phone of a grove of olive trees, splashes of red from poppies in the grass around the twisted trunks like a paint effect, with an old farmhouse in the background. The house looked solid, but it was uninhabited, ivy beginning to smother its shutters. There were so many of these vacant properties dotted about. The human exodus that had started post-war was still going on all these years later, with people giving up work on the land for jobs in the city. You couldn’t blame them, she thought, but it was a pity.
A couple of cars with Dutch registration plates overtook her. With the weather warming up, tourists were appearing again. A child waved at her from the car window, and she beeped her horn and smiled at the youngster. The city would be busy today with people visiting the market and sightseers taking photographs in the picturesque backstreets.
She made her way to her favourite bar in the main square and sat at a table while she waited for her cappuccino, watching people clustered around the market stalls, rooting for bargains. She tried three times to phone Alfi. He’d told her about his flat in the centre, but she had no idea where it was, and nobody was answering on his number.
After her coffee break, she dodged her way through the stalls, heading towards the tourist office where he worked, pushing the Vespa, loving the operatic sound of sellers trying to outshout each other, describing their goods, joking, exchanging rude comments. One of the wags held up a huge pair of white frilled knickers and offered to exchange them for Alba’s vintage Vespa as she went by. ‘That’s seen better days, signorina. Like these,’ he said, waving the underwear about. ‘Let me relieve you of your ancient machine.’
She laughed and replied, ‘In your dreams… give those to your nonna.’
She was certain the office would have Alfi’s address and she hoped they’d give it to her. Italians were hung up about privacy; they’d even commandeered the English word, but she hoped they’d remember her from last time when she and Alfi had gone to lunch together.
‘He lives in Via della Cipolla, number seventy-eight. On the top floor, signorina. Give him our best wishes and tell him to stop skiving,’ said the girl called Marianna, who thankfully was on duty again today and greeted Alba with a cheerful smile.
Thirteen
Via della Cipolla was a narrow cobbled alleyway. Sheets hung down to dry from a couple of houses and there were boxes and pots planted with fresh herbs on many of the windowsills. Looking at the names of the residents listed at the side of the ornate chestnut door, she found Paoli, Alfiero’s surname, and rang his bell a couple of times. Just as she was about to give up, his voice crackled through the intercom. ‘Chi è? Who is it?’
‘It’s me. Alba. Can I come up?’
‘Ciao, Alba. Sorry to keep you waiting. I…’
‘You’ve hurt your leg.’
‘How did you know?’ He yelped in pain and she heard him swear under his breath.
‘Just let me in and I’ll explain. Where can I leave my Vespa?’
‘Bring it inside and park it in the courtyard. I’m on the top floor. Use the lift.’
The door opened with a buzz from the intercom and she pushed the scooter into a central courtyard where a covered well took centre stage, a terracotta vase spilling with white roses and lavender gracing its cover. On the far wall, a stone lion’s head spewed water from its mouth into a large marble basin shaped like a shell, the splashing sound echoing around the cortile. She whistled under her breath at the upmarket space. Propping the Vespa on its stand in a corner of the courtyard, she pulled aside the two metal concertina doors and took the lift to the third floor.
His keys were on the outside of the door and she let herself in. He was sitting on a black leather settee looking sorry for himself, his bandaged leg propped up on a matching footstool.
‘This takes me back a few years,’ she said, going over to him to kiss him on each cheek. ‘What happened?’
‘I fell down the stairs.’
‘Take the lift next time,’ she suggested. ‘Can I get you anything? Poor you.’
‘A coffee would be very welcome,’ he said, adding apologetically, ‘and something to eat? I missed lunch.’
‘Didn’t Beatrice prepare you anything?’ she asked, wishing she could bite back her words. It wasn’t her place to criticise, but she was surprised his girlfriend wasn’t here to help him. She could at least have left him a tray with a flask of coffee and a plate of sandwiches.
‘She had to leave for a meeting in Milan. A fashion fair for work – the highlight of her year.’
‘Right, point me in the direction of the kitchen. Cool flat, by the way, very stylish,’ she said, taking in the walls bearing abstract paintings and beams painted in a pale lime wash. The look was stark, but it went well with the old building with its high vaulted cotto ceilings.
‘First on the right down the corridor,’ Alfiero said. ‘Not sure what’s in the cupboard, though.’
The kitchen was a showpiece, its stainless-steel worktops and pristine cooker showing no signs of recent food preparation. A swish espresso machine sat alone on a surface. There were plenty of pods, so she inserted one and placed a cup underneath the nozzle and switched it on. When she opened the fridge, she found six cans of Peroni, a tub of parmesan and a bag of eye creams. There was nothing in the cupboards except for a jar of oregano and a bottle of extra-hot chilli sauce.
‘Christ, Alfi, are you on a starvation diet, or what?’ she said as she came back into the lounge. His eyes were closed, and he looked pale. ‘Did they give you any painkillers at the hospital?’ she asked, handing him the espresso.
He opened his eyes and shrugged. ‘Beatrice was meant to get some from the farmacia but she was running late.’ He leant forward to pick up a piece of paper from the coffee table. ‘Here’s the prescription.’
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Give me some cash and I’ll pop out for some bits and bobs. This is ridiculous.’ She took the prescription from him. ‘Where’s the nearest chemist? I’ll be as quick as I can.’
* * *
One hour later she struggled back to his flat with two laden shopping bags. Eggs, bread, milk, pasta, three jars of ready-made sauce, cheese, ham and a selection of fruit would keep him going. He was asleep and she tiptoed into the kitchen and rustled up a cheese omelette.
‘Alfi,’ she whispered some minutes later, shaking his shoulder to wake him up.
He winced and brushed her hand from where she had touched him.
‘Sorry, Alfi.’
‘Badly bruised,’ he explained, hauling himself into a sitting position.
She held out a glass of water and the packet of painkillers. ‘You’re allowed two, four times a day. Here!’ she said, handing him a couple. ‘And then get this down you.’ She placed the tray of food on his lap.
‘Grazie, Alba. You’re very kind.’
She refrained from commenting that it would have been kind of Beatrice to have cancelled her important fashion meeting and stayed to look after him. Instead, she plonked herself down on a leather armchair opposite and watched him devour his eggs.
‘That was so good, I ca
n’t tell you,’ he said, leaning back. ‘I can’t remember when I last ate.’
‘Don’t your parents know about your accident?’
He looked at her in surprise. ‘Didn’t you know? They were killed on a holiday last year. They were on the cruise ship that went down off Lampedusa. They drowned.’
‘Oh, fuck. I had no idea. Forgive me.’
‘How could you know? We haven’t been in touch for years.’
‘My parents obviously don’t know either, otherwise they’d have told me. I’m so sorry.’
He was quiet for a few moments. She didn’t know what to say. He was an only child. An orphan. The word sounded like something from an old book.
‘No aunts or uncles?’ she asked eventually.
‘They live in Sicily.’
‘When does Beatrice get back?’
‘Two days.’
‘Let me stay and look after you.’
He looked at her. ‘She’d love that,’ he said, with sarcasm.
She wanted to say she didn’t care, but she didn’t. ‘It makes perfect sense,’ she said. ‘You can’t manage on your own. You’d do it for me, wouldn’t you, if I was in your position?’
‘But you’re not. You have a wonderful family, I always thought that. I used to love coming round to your place when we were at school.’
‘And I used to envy you being an only child! It was chaotic at times, with the twins and Davide. Like living with a batch of puppies.’
He laughed.
‘So, that’s settled,’ she said. ‘I’ll let Ma and Babbo know and you can lend me an old t-shirt to sleep in. I’ll concoct us a gourmet supper of pasta and ready-made sauce later. If you weren’t on painkillers I’d even go as far as running out again for a bottle of wine. But water it will have to be.’
She fetched fruit from the kitchen, which now looked less sterile with the dirty frying pan and utensils heaped in the sink, and they sat side by side, sharing grapes and segments of peaches.
‘I wanted to fill you in about those documents you unearthed,’ she said. ‘Guess what I found out?’
‘I haven’t a clue. Enlighten me!’
‘I’m pretty sure I know the identity of the young man I drew and… you’re going to think me crazy…’
‘I know you’re crazy, Alba,’ he said, adding, ‘in the nicest possible way.’
If he hadn’t been so poorly, Alba would have thumped him with a cushion. ‘I think I saw him.’
He snorted. ‘You’re right – I do think you’re crazy.’
‘You can think what you want, Alfi. Nothing like this has ever happened to me. I mean, I’m not religious or anything, or spiritual, but I can’t think of any other explanation. I photocopied the page. Look,’ she said, coming over to sit next to him. ‘That’s who I saw.’ She pointed to the photograph of the group of partisans. ‘Basilio Gelina – otherwise known as Quinto.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Neither do I, really. My family think my head’s messed up because I’ve been grieving for James—’
He interrupted her, placing his hand on hers. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to tell me about that, Alba. I’m so sorry. It seems we’ve both been touched by death recently.’
She looked down at his hand, the dark hairs on the back of his long fingers so different from James’s. ‘It’s getting easier as time goes on,’ she said, pulling her hand away. ‘And my head is not messed, but during my first time up at Seccaroni, I truly believed I saw somebody…’ She paused before rushing through her next sentence. ‘And I wondered if there was some kind of link between the silver I found and… the person I saw.’ She looked at Alfi earnestly, as if willing him to believe her theory. ‘I told you how there was no pathway down that sheer drop. Unless the person I saw could fly, where did he go? I saw him disappear, Alfi. I wasn’t hallucinating. I’m not on medication. The only possible explanation for me is that he was some kind of… messenger. He wanted me to find the silverware for some reason.’ She produced a second photocopy of the description of the attack on the Boccarini estate, waving it in front of Alfiero’s nose. ‘Maybe the silver was stolen on this occasion…’
She flopped back against the sofa cushions. ‘I’m sounding mad even to myself, but I’m determined to find out more. I’m hoping Massimo might know something about it, since he’s lived here all his life.’
‘He wasn’t in Italy at that time, was he?’
She blew out a huge sigh. ‘That’s what my parents say. But there’s no harm in asking.’
‘I suppose there has to be a good reason why that silverware was hidden up near the partisans’ house,’ Alfiero said, ‘although what good would it have done them? They needed guns, food and clothes, not fancy goblets and plates.’
She turned to him. ‘Exactly! It’s got my head in a spin. Maybe they thought they could sell the stuff and make some money for the cause.’
‘Or maybe your ghost was greedy and wanted it for himself?’
She flung her arms around him and he winced with pain as she touched his shoulder again. ‘Ouch, Alba. What was that for?’
‘For saying it was a ghost,’ she said, gently extricating herself. ‘Thanks for listening to my crazy ghostly ramblings.’
‘Prego,’ he said with a grin.
* * *
While he slept that afternoon, she decided to slip out to town, rather than stay in the flat. She borrowed the house keys from his door and took the stairs to the courtyard. A middle-aged woman was deadheading the roses growing on the well, and she turned to look as Alba appeared. ‘Buona sera, signorina. Have you been to visit signor Paoli? How is he?’
It didn’t surprise Alba that the woman knew where she’d come from. In a block of flats in Italy it was typical for neighbours to know everything that what went on.
The woman introduced herself. ‘My husband is the portiere, we take care of things here together.’ She leant in closer to Alba. ‘I found signor Paoli at the foot of the stairs. I thought he was dead at first, lying there so still and quiet.’ She gestured with her secateurs. ‘And his girlfriend, shouting and screaming. She wasn’t any help at all. My husband is a trained volunteer with the Misericordia – he helps at all the fairs and feste in town. He took over and tended to the young signore and called the ambulanza. There’s always arguing in their place, you know. We’ve had complaints about the noise.’ She tutted.
‘He’s resting right now, signora,’ Alba said. ‘He’ll live!’
‘And you are…?’ the woman asked.
‘An old school friend, signora. We go back a long way.’ She left it at that. ‘I’ll pass on your good wishes,’ she said, even though the woman hadn’t asked her to. ‘Is it all right to leave my Vespa over there for a couple of days?’
‘Sì, sì, signorina. I will keep an eye on it.’
Alba was sure she would. Bidding her goodbye, she let herself out of the main door, warm air hitting her as she stepped into the alley from the cool courtyard.
It was siesta time, and most of the shops were closed for the afternoon break, a civilised practice that Alba approved of. It meant there was life in the town in the evenings, shops staying open until eight o’clock, people greeting each other on the streets, lingering at outside bars with their aperitivi instead of closeting themselves away in their homes to watch television. She’d learned the expression that an Englishman’s home is his castle. But she thought their drawbridges went up too early.
She stopped in the small square of Piazza Garibaldi and sat on a low wall for a while, relishing the late-afternoon sun. She was only a stone’s throw from the main square with its popular bars and restaurants, but this place was equally picturesque. Later in summer, it was used for the fair that took place to coincide with the famous crossbow tournament against Gubbio town, enacted in colourful medieval costume, a pageant that made the little town throng with the sounds of drumbeats and bugles summoning all to come and participate. Two cats were stretche
d out on the warm steps of a house opposite in full sunshine and she pulled out her sketchbook to capture the shape of them. The street lights in this little square were elaborate wrought-iron pieces that would have looked good inside a period house, as would the ornate paving stones on the street, laid in herringbone patterns. Her page was soon filled with images, and when she looked at her watch, it was already half past four, time for Alfi’s next dose of painkillers. On the way back to his apartment, she passed Chieli, the best pasticceria in town, and selected half a dozen pastries as an afternoon treat. If they couldn’t have wine, they could have cake.
‘Only me,’ she called as she opened the door. She heard water splashing from the bathroom. The door was ajar and as she went past to the kitchen, she saw Alfiero was washing at the sink, his muscular torso and biceps on show. As she went by, he apologised, ‘Sorry, Alba, I get used to not shutting the door.’
‘No worries, Alfi. That’s some dressing you’ve got on your shoulder. Did you have stitches?’
‘It’s a bruise,’ he said. ‘They put something on it to ease the pain.’
It struck her as odd that a bruise should need a dressing, but the hospital doctors obviously knew more than she did.
‘I’m brewing more coffee,’ she said. ‘And it’s time for your next dose of painkillers.’
She found a plate to arrange the cakes on and waited until he returned to the living room on his crutches.
‘A man could get used to being looked after like this,’ he said, easing himself onto the settee.
‘Doesn’t Beatrice look after you?’