by Angela Petch
‘She doesn’t buy cakes. We have to watch our weight.’
‘Where did you two meet?’ she asked.
‘At a fair laid on by our tourist office. “Health and Beauty in Tuscany” was the theme. We invited various organisations in the region. She’d just opened a salon offering natural therapies. It wasn’t long after I lost my folks.’ He paused. ‘I was lonely, she was friendly. We got together quickly.’
‘I’d like to get to know her better.’
‘She’s very jealous, Alba. She’s had a hard time and she’s… fragile,’ he said.
‘She didn’t seem the fragile type to me.’
‘Yes, well, you only met her for about one hour. The more you get to know a person, the more you discover about them.’
‘Or, the more differences you discover,’ she said, pouring coffee into their cups and offering him the plate of cakes. ‘Help yourself, but bags I have this one,’ she said, licking her finger and putting it through the middle of a tart filled with fruits of the forest and crème pâtissière.
He laughed and took a small sponge cake, decorated with walnuts and spirals of dark chocolate. ‘Very genteel! You haven’t changed,’ he said.
‘But I have. Of course I have,’ she said. ‘Eight years of being away in England has definitely changed me from the eighteen-year-old you last met.’
‘How did you meet James? You don’t mind talking about him, do you?’
‘As I said, it’s getting easier. We met in Cornwall. I’d always wanted to go there. I used to look at photos on the Internet. The secret coves and stormy seas. And there was this programme on British TV that I loved. Starring a hunky actor.’ She pretended to fan herself.
‘Not Poldark,’ he groaned. ‘It’s on Italian TV now. Beatrice loves him, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if she made me parade around Sansepolcro in a puffy white shirt, breeches and boots.’
She giggled. ‘Well, it’s good to know we have something in common. Good girl!’
‘I think you’re very different, Alba.’
‘So, anyway, I went off to Cornwall for a long weekend and I met James when I was walking along a beach off St Agnes, a stunning, romantic coastline, just how I’d imagined. He’d been surfing and he walked out of the sea in his wetsuit and I fell under his magnetic spell.’
Alfiero groaned. ‘You women.’
‘He smiled at me and invited me into the beach café, and as his hair dried, it was dirty-blond and his eyes were as blue as the sea he loved, and I was hooked.’
‘So, it’s important to you as well? The looks, the image?’
‘Yes and no. It’s not everything, obviously. But don’t tell me you never eye up a pretty woman? There’s always a first attraction, even if it doesn’t work out later on…’ She paused. ‘He was an adventurous guy to be with. He made me feel alive. We travelled a lot. He took me to Thailand, Tanzania, Greece. Always on a shoestring, backpacking and hitching lifts. We stayed in hostels or slept rough on beaches. He showed me a side to countries I’d never have discovered on a normal tourist trail. I loved being with him.’
‘I’m sorry if I’m making you sad. Don’t talk about him if you don’t want to.’
‘It helps, Alfi.’ She paused. ‘If I’m honest, I think I tried too hard to pin him down and he wasn’t the type. He wanted to be free, and… I suppose the bottom line was he didn’t love me enough. And maybe I was in love with a romantic idea. But I wish we hadn’t argued the last time we were together. I wanted us to move into a new flat, I was forever making wedding preparations… I can’t rid myself of the guilt, Alfi. He stormed off, and if I hadn’t made him so mad, then maybe he would have been concentrating and he wouldn’t have died. He cycled all the time in London. He knew about the danger of pulling up on the nearside of a lorry. I must have caused him to be distracted…’
‘You shouldn’t blame yourself, Alba.’
‘I wish I could believe that.’
It was the most she had talked about James since he’d died, and it was a relief.
There was silence before he continued to speak. She was grateful he didn’t keep insisting it wasn’t her fault. That was something she had to come to terms with for herself.
‘I get what you said about having a romantic idea,’ he said. ‘We’re all looking for something, aren’t we? Maybe we look too hard sometimes, instead of letting life happen by itself.’
‘Now that I’ve got distance, a perspective, call it what you like, I can see that we really didn’t have enough in common. Trailing around the world with James forever wouldn’t have been enough for me. One day I want a family, and I couldn’t imagine the way of life we had fitting with that dream.’
‘I’m not sure Beatrice would want to get pregnant. It would spoil her figure.’
‘Do you live together?’ When she’d helped Alfi into his bed, she hadn’t noticed women’s clothes on the chair in his room, or cosmetics on the chest of drawers. The only giveaway was the skincare in the fridge.
‘She would like to, but I’m not sure. But she stays over sometimes.’
‘Are you hungry after that cake? How about I start to rustle up my killer spaghetti dish?’
‘I’m always hungry.’
As she prepped their supper, which wasn’t very complicated – opening a jar of sauce and boiling up a pan of water for pasta didn’t require much skill – she wondered about Beatrice and why Alfi was with her. He hadn’t talked about why he liked her, except to say that he was lonely when they met, having lost his parents so tragically. It was a shame, because he was such a kind guy, ready to help anybody. As she timed the pasta, it occurred to her that maybe that was it. He needed to help Beatrice. He’d said something about her being fragile. To Alba that didn’t seem enough reason to be with another person.
They ate their meal together. The food was adequate, that was all.
‘Sorry, Alfi! Not the best meal you’ve ever tasted, I’m sure.’
‘When I’m on my feet again, we’ll go to the new pizzeria in the square. They bake the most amazing calzoni in a wood-fired oven. I think they’re the best I’ve ever tasted, especially the ones with grilled vegetables.’
They talked for a while about their time at school, wondering what their classmates had ended up doing. Alfi had met up with some of them last year. ‘I’ve taken up a new hobby,’ he said. ‘I’m a flag-thrower now for Sansepolcro, and Leo and Sergio are part of our team. Remember them? They were both in the football squad. I was never good at sport, but I really enjoy this. I’ve got some photos on my phone.’ He patted the settee and she went across to sit by him, leaning in to look at the images of the Palio as he scrolled through an album.
‘I always enjoyed the Palio,’ she said. ‘It was an annual outing for us kids. A special trip down from the mountains. I hope they never stop putting it on.’
He showed her a video of his group of sbandieratori, moving together, criss-crossing each other in figures of eight, throwing their colourful flags up and catching them on the way down.
‘Is that you? No way!’ she shouted. ‘Pause it, pause it,’ she said, as they reached a moment when two sbandieratori were performing a complex act.
Alfiero looked amazing in his tunic, tights, leather ankle boots and frilly white shirt.
‘You’re Poldark,’ she said, laughing. ‘Look at you. Quite handsome, if you don’t mind my saying. No wonder Beatrice likes you to dress up!’
He looked at her, caught hold of her hand, his grip strong. ‘Don’t tease me, Alba.’
‘Sorry…’ She snatched her hand away and there was an awkward silence while she rubbed her wrist. She stood up, bemused at the change in his mood.
‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll turn in. Can you tell me where to find a t-shirt and a blanket? I’ll make up a bed for myself on the settee. Don’t forget your next dose of painkillers.’
‘You can have my bed and I’ll sleep here.’
‘No way. You need all the rest you can get. I’ll be fine in here
.’
‘There’s a new toothbrush in the bathroom cupboard. Is there anything else you need?’
‘Nope. I’m good, thank you.’
They spoke in staccato phrases, the friendly atmosphere gone.
* * *
She took a while to get to sleep, thinking again about Alfiero’s sharp reaction earlier, hoping they could resume their banter in the morning. She fell asleep after two o’clock and was woken in the early morning by somebody shouting in her ear.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
Beatrice stood over her, her expression furious, making every effort to wake up all the inhabitants in the block with her shouting.
‘I came back from the Fiera to look after my boyfriend,’ she continued, ‘and you’re here. I’ve been gone only a day and you’ve moved in. Well, you can get up and get out, you piece of shit. Stronza.’
Alba, barely awake, wondering at first if this was a nightmare, swivelled round to a sitting position. ‘Whoa, Beatrice. Keep your voice down. What are you on about? I came to help Alfi, that’s all.’
‘His name is Alfiero.’
Beatrice stormed off to the bedroom and her tirade continued. ‘I turn my back and you go with another woman,’ she yelled at Alfiero. ‘I should have stayed in Milan.’ She slammed the door to the bedroom and the shouting continued within. Alba heard the splintering of glass as something crashed to the floor, and she decided to make her exit and leave them to it. Pulling on her clothes and grabbing her rucksack, she left the apartment.
Outside in the street, a cleaning truck was clearing the gutters with its brushes. The driver, in bright orange overalls, saluted her as she started her Vespa. The noise of the machine as he passed by muffled her scooter’s tinny motor as she accelerated away from Via della Cipolla and through the sleeping town.
The early-morning air was cold, and she was glad of the fleece she’d stuffed into her rucksack. The road up the mountain was empty of traffic and as the sun rose, mist evaporated from the tarmac. In a field to her right, she spotted four deer grazing at the edge of a copse and as she drew nearer, they bounded off into the woods. Her thoughts were full of Alfiero’s raging girlfriend and what he could possibly see in her. All she wanted to do now was get back to the calm of her parents’ home and fall into bed.
Three quarters of an hour later, she steered the Vespa down the drive, the reassuring view of the mill and stable bathed in early sunshine a welcome contrast to the grim atmosphere she’d left behind. Inside, she made sure she was quiet so as not to wake Ma and Babbo and scribbled a note, leaving it on the kitchen counter, telling them she was back and needed to sleep in late. She fell into bed and almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, she was gone.
Fourteen
Tuscany, 1946
Although Massimo was burning to search for Lucia, his first duty was to make his way back down to Sansepolcro and visit his parents. They were sharing a house at the edge of town with another uncle, within walking distance of the Buitoni pasta factory where the two men now worked.
His mother was pegging out clothes when he turned up, unannounced. She shrieked and dropped a pillowcase on the ground. ‘Dio mio, my God, it’s my son, figlio mio…’ and she came rushing over, covering his face with kisses, pinching his cheeks affectionately between her finger and thumb. ‘Is it you, Massimino? Is it really you? Wait until your father and Uncle Pippo get back from work,’ his mother said, retrieving the pillowcase from the ground and taking it to scrub away the soil in the outside sink. ‘Madonna buona, I never thought I would see this day,’ she said, her tears of joy dropping into the water.
That evening, he shared another delicious homecoming meal: his mother’s special dish of ribollita, the age-old Tuscan peasant’s recipe for using up stale bread, adding white beans, black cabbage, celery, garlic, potatoes, the best olive oil – all the staples of a country larder – to make a delicious, substantial soup. He had forgotten how good it was and he ate three helpings, undoing the belt of his trousers at the end and leaning back in his chair.
‘I surrender,’ he said. ‘Basta! Mammina, enough! You are a magician.’
His father topped up his son’s glass with more red wine. ‘Your mother is a witch, not a magician,’ he said, and everybody laughed when she flicked at him with her kitchen rag.
He sat between his parents on a bench outside the kitchen once everyone had left for their beds. His mother held his hand in hers, leaning back against the building, its huge stones still warm from the day’s sun.
‘I am so happy, Massimino. To have you home with us is the best kind of dream,’ she said.
‘Is this home now, then?’ he asked. ‘What about our house in Tramarecchia?’
‘We are better off here,’ his father said. ‘There is plenty of work. For you too, figlio mio.’
‘I am never going back to live there,’ his mother said, ‘not after what happened.’
‘What happened?’ Massimo asked.
‘We don’t talk about it,’ his mother said abruptly, getting up from the bench. ‘I will clear away the plates and make up a bed for you downstairs. It’s late, and your father has work in the morning. Buonanotte, Massimo.’ She bent to kiss her son.
‘Buonanotte, Mamma.’
His father told him, under cover of the noise of pots and pans being washed in the sink, about the night when soldiers had come to the village and burned down Lucia’s house in the square. Her parents didn’t escape the flames, but she had run away.
‘Some people say she’s still out there somewhere. We searched, but nobody could find her. She must be dead by now.’
‘But why did the Tedeschi only burn that one house?’
‘Because they were searching for one of their own men and Lucia’s family had been reported to them, because they knew him.’
Massimo shook his head in disbelief at the horrific images that were conjured, almost hearing the cries of Lucia’s family trapped inside the burning building, the terror of his special friend as she ran away, maybe badly burned herself. He knew that awful things had happened all the time in his homeland, but the burning of a simple country family in a tiny hamlet was unimaginable to Massimo.
‘Why would they do such a thing?’
‘Because they were collaborators,’ his father said, spitting into the dirt.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You weren’t here, Massimo. How do you know what went on here during those years? You were in Inghilterra.’
There was silence between father and son, and the old feelings of guilt returned to Massimo for having been away from action for so many years. Yes, he had suffered from the war, but he was beginning to realise his sufferings might not begin to compare with what his family had endured.
‘Your mother is right to not want to talk about these things,’ his father eventually said, rising from the bench. ‘Let’s not spoil your homecoming with this discussion. Buonanotte.’ He squeezed Massimo’s shoulder and went up to bed.
Massimo stayed outside to smoke another cigarette. Gazing upwards, he watched a shooting star slide its way down the night sky. But he found he had no wishes he wanted to make. All he could think of was his need to get to the bottom of what had happened to Lucia. If nobody was prepared to tell him, then he would have to find out for himself.
* * *
The next day, he kissed his mother goodbye and told her he needed to return to Tramarecchia and would live in the family house and work the family meadows. ‘Until I know what to do with my life, Mamma. I need time on my own after years of being ordered about. Tell Babbo I don’t need a job in a factory. Forgive me.’
Urging him to come down and see them as often as he could, she clung to him for a while and then kissed him before making the sign of the cross. She took her gold chain and medal from her neck and fastened it around his.
‘My guardian angel will look after you,’ she murmured. ‘At least I shall know where you are now, so that will have to be
enough for the time being.’
She wrapped a cheese and half a ham into a cotton saccone that she had woven for her own larder and waved him off, watching until he disappeared down a side street leading to the bus station.
In the first days of being back in his mountain village, Massimo did little more than sleep late and go for long walks during the day, revelling in his freedom and for the first time in seven years doing what he wanted, without permits or curfews. He was warned by his neighbour not to wander too near the peak above Montebotolino.
‘The bastard Tedeschi have sown mines up there as a leaving present. Agostino lost one of his prize cows last month when she got through the fence, blown into nothing,’ Robertino told him. The women who had ignored him at the fountain on that first day when Massimo had returned to Tramarecchia were his wife and daughters. The sisters made a curious pair as they scuttled about the hamlet, casting their eyes down whenever they were in his vicinity. He wondered why they were so afraid of him.
But he preferred to keep to himself anyway. During the war years, he’d always been with others. The greatest gift to him in those first weeks was solitude. When he wasn’t rediscovering the mountains that had once been so familiar, he whiled away his time with household tasks: collecting driftwood for his fire from the riverbed; digging the neglected patch of garden, sowing lettuce, tomatoes, courgettes and spinach beet. In the woods, he set snares for pheasants and hares. He had bought a dozen hens and a noisy cockerel in the market square. They soon provided him daily with eggs, and he took what he couldn’t consume back to the little market square in Badia Tedalda, selling them for a few lire. He spent that on sugar, coffee and cigarettes. Robertino was happy to exchange eggs for the occasional bottle of home-brewed wine. Massimo needed little else.
In the evenings, he took to lighting a fire outside his front door and sitting on a bench, smoking his roll-ups and gazing at the stars in the black sky. One evening he heard wolves calling from the opposite peaks. He could identify with their wildness, their freedom to roam, and he felt like howling back.