by Angela Petch
‘Why do you sit outside with your fire?’ Robertino asked one evening. ‘Why don’t you use your hearth, like everybody else?’
‘Because I can,’ was Massimo’s simple reply.
He planted a row of deep purple iris along one side of his vegetable patch and dug up young bushes of bright yellow broom from the wild to fence off his plot, thinking back to Molly’s English country garden spilling over with roses, and her tangle of strange-sounding flowers like delphinium and snapdragons that she used to stuff into jars on her windowsills.
‘What are you planting that stuff for?’ Robertino asked, when they were sharing a bottle of vinegary wine another evening, the women sitting on chairs by their front door, darning cotton bed sheets. ‘You can’t eat any of it,’ Robertino observed.
How to explain that he wanted to surround himself with the beauty of nature that he hadn’t been able to freely enjoy for so many years? On his walks, Massimo would stop to observe the shapes of the leaves in the canopies of trees above, or bend to examine the many separate petals on an orchid flower, relishing the ability to do what he wanted in his own time. It was too hard to explain to somebody who hadn’t been confined for years and years. Massimo knew that his neighbours had not been without suffering, but his own war had been different. His privations had been of another kind.
Occasionally there was a shot from the woods and he would jump, instinctively wanting to dive for cover. He’d done that once and Robertino had roared with laughter. ‘They’re hunting for boar,’ he said. ‘If there are any left. The Tedeschi stole our game, too. They stole everything, our crops, wine, cheese… even our women. And there’s thieving still going on. Somebody stole my best shirt the other day from where it was drying on the bushes. Pah! This country will never be the same again.’
Massimo wanted to tell him to shut up, to stop being a pessimist, to look around and be thankful for everything that lay before them: for the mountains encircling them, the lush forests producing wild strawberries and blueberries, the birds that woke him each morning with their song instead of a camp alarm call, for the river that gushed below the village and gave them fresh, clear water. But he kept his counsel and shut his mouth. It was pointless trying to reason with somebody who had never been parted from this paradise.
One night, he was kept awake in his single metal bed by continuous rounds of gunfire. Robertino had told him the poachers would be busy because the first-ever rigorous hunting regulations were coming into force. People were trying to fill their larders before game shooting was restricted to number and season.
The next day was his birthday, and he left his bed just after dawn, unable to sleep, curious about the hunting that had gone on all night. Up the steep track that led away from the river on the opposite bank, he noticed blood trails and presumed it would be from the corpse of a boar or deer, dragged away by hunters to collect later. But, rounding a corner, he came across the tiny, shivering body of a small dog, crouching beneath a rock. As Massimo approached to examine the creature, it snarled, baring little white teeth, shrinking further back against its shelter. Massimo hunkered down, speaking softly, trying to soothe the injured animal that was frantically licking blood from its front right paw. It was young, probably no more than a few weeks old. Massimo stood up and searched around to see if there were any more puppies, and a metre away from the path, further into the woods, he found the corpses of a fully grown she-wolf and five cubs, shot and left to rot.
The puppy wasn’t a dog, after all. He didn’t have a gun on him to dispatch the lone cub, and neither did he have the heart to finish off its misery with a rock. Death had been too present in these last years. So, removing his jacket, he reached for the cub, which yelped and whined as he bent to scoop it up. He quickly wrapped the wriggling bundle to avoid scratches, noticed it was a male and hugged him tightly to his body. He stood, rocking it like a baby for a couple of minutes, trying to calm the terrified animal, thinking fleetingly back to the restless, colicky moments of baby Denis, wondering how Molly was and debating if he might drop her a line one of these days. The animal stilled, warm from Massimo’s body, and he set off home.
Once he was back, Massimo placed the little cub in an old crate in the storeroom, where onions and hams used to hang when his mother ran the household, and lined it with a piece of sacking for a makeshift bed. He woke and started to whine. Massimo fetched a bowl of milk and added torn-up pieces from a loaf, hoping this substitute for a mother’s milk wouldn’t harm the little animal. Placing the bowl on the floor, he watched in amusement as the cub devoured his first human breakfast with greedy laps of his little tongue. When he had finished, the cub crouched to wee on the stone floor and Massimo decided there and then that he would build a kennel and place it by the front door. Scooping him up before he could deposit anything more, he went outside with his new charge.
His little tummy was swollen like a ball and his jaws were wet and white from the milk. Massimo wiped it away with his fingers. As they sat together on the front step, the cub turned on his lap three times before plonking down and curling up close to Massimo’s stomach, and closed his eyes.
What the bloody hell have I done? Massimo thought as he observed the rise and fall of the little rounded tummy. I’ll call you Lupino, little wolf, and you and I will probably fall out over lots of things before long, including chasing my chickens. But I couldn’t leave you to die. What a birthday present I’ve given myself!
He stroked the short, stubby fur on top of Lupino’s head and nearly dozed off himself on the step.
Massimo’s worries were banished from quite early on. The little wolf cub behaved himself and followed him around as if Massimo were his mother: nipping at his trouser legs if he felt neglected, staying near him while he worked in the vegetable patch. Massimo discovered Lupino liked to eat earthworms, and he would sit patiently, head cocked on one side, waiting like a robin for Massimo’s spade to reveal another wriggling brown titbit. At first, when Massimo walked in the forest, he made sure to lead Lupino with a rope, afraid he would run off and get lost. If a wolf from another pack were to come upon him, that would mean certain death. And Massimo was growing fond of the company of his new pet that didn’t answer back or expect anything more than food and affection.
Sitting by his front step at the end of the day, they would play together, Massimo teasing the cub with a length of string or chucking him pine cones to fetch and carry. When Lupino had chased one of his chickens, he was sternly reprimanded. He knew the animal had understood when his little tail curled under his back legs and he lay down in submission.
‘If that dog comes anywhere near my geese, I’ll shoot him,’ Robertino had said, observing Lupino’s antics. Massimo had lied to his neighbours when they saw the new arrival. ‘It’s an Alsatian puppy,’ Massimo said. ‘Meet Lupino. They were giving puppies away at market today.’ He wondered for how long they would believe him. And once or twice he wondered himself how things would develop. A cub was one thing. A fully grown male wolf, another. But for the time being, he was enjoying the new member of his family.
A couple of weeks after buying them, his hens started to lay fewer eggs. Most days he could collect at least ten, but they were dwindling to six, and he thought about buying half a dozen more next time he was at market. Maybe he’d been swindled and sold old layers the first time. He resolved to be more prudent next time he bargained with the poultry seller. It occurred to him that the presence of Lupino might be slowing down egg-laying, and so he stopped allowing the cub anywhere near the coop.
Early one morning, before the cock had crowed, he heard Lupino barking and he rolled out of bed to peer through his window. The cub was straining at the long chain that secured him at night to his kennel. Massimo caught a movement near the chicken house and watched as a young boy crept away, holding something to his stomach.
My eggs, Massimo thought, and pushing open his window, he yelled, ‘Hey, ladro. Come back here, thieving rascal!’
The
boy turned, eyes wide with fear in a dirty face. Massimo pulled on his trousers and, ramming his feet into his boots, clattered down the stairs as fast as he could. He ran in pursuit of the boy, but he had disappeared.
Fifteen
Tuscany, Present Day
Over minestrone and home-made bread, Alba and her parents discussed arrangements about a lunch invitation for Massimo.
‘I kind of feel it’s best to not put things off with him,’ Alba said. ‘It sounds morbid, but he’s really quite frail.’
‘Let’s see if he can come tomorrow,’ Anna suggested.
‘I’ll pop up to the village later this afternoon and sort it. Is there anything I can do to help before then? I’m treating home like a hotel at the moment.’
‘Help me make the beds in the mill for the guests arriving tomorrow. Thanks, Alba.’
* * *
Jobs completed, two hours later Alba fetched the Vespa from the stone garage at the side of the house. Her phone pinged and she pulled it out, thinking it might be Alfiero. Despite trying to push thoughts of the night she’d spent in his flat to the back of her mind, she was worried about him. The message was from someone else, but she sent Alfiero a line anyway.
Hope things are okay. Take care. Alba
Almost immediately a message pinged back:
Best you keep away.
Slipping her phone into her rucksack pocket, she was puzzled. They’d been getting on so well. If it was something to do with his awful girlfriend, then he needed to sort himself out. If she was honest, she felt a little hurt. If that was the way he wanted it, then good riddance.
Massimo was having an afternoon sleep, Tanya told him.
‘Oh dear,’ Alba said, looking at her watch. It was only three o’clock. ‘Is he ill?’
‘No, cara. But he didn’t have a very good night.’
You and me both, Alba thought.
‘So, he’s having a little rest.’
‘Will it be all right to collect him for lunch at my parents’ home tomorrow? They really want to meet him,’ Anna asked the carer.
Tanya laughed. ‘That sounds like future parents-in-law wanting to make sure he is suitable for you.’
Alba smiled. ‘Well, if he was younger, I’d be after him like a shot. Wouldn’t you?’
‘He is a very nice gentleman, signorina,’ Tanya said, ‘but I like a man to be… how you say it? Robusto.’ Her raucous laughter bounced off the walls of the care centre.
‘I’ll pick him up at half past eleven tomorrow. Phone me if anything changes.’
Alba walked across the square to the tourist office to check in with Egidio.
‘Ha! Just the young lady I wanted to see,’ he said, greeting her with a friendly smile. ‘Alba, I have a proposition. I’d like to make your job official and pay you for the work you’re doing for us.’
‘Really?’ she said. ‘That’s amazing.’
‘I was at a meeting yesterday, Alba, and we discussed how useful you’d be with your knowledge of English when the turisti come in…’ He lowered his voice. ‘Keep this to yourself for the time being, but I’m handing in my notice soon. I’m an old man and it’s time to move over for younger blood and fresh ideas. So, it’s a good time for you to join. Let’s talk about it more over an Aperol in the bar,’ he concluded, picking up his leather manbag and coming out from behind the counter. ‘We’ll lock up now. Nobody ever comes in here at this time of day.’
As they sipped their drinks, Alba looked around the little bar, feeling a part of this community again, noticing a couple of old school friends who waved at her from another table. The conversations with Massimo had helped in her understanding of what this little town had been through during the war years; what had shaped the place. The prospect of working in the tourist office really appealed, and would make it easier to carry out further research. She raised her glass to Egidio. ‘Cin cin!’ she said. ‘Grazie!’
‘Let me take your coat, signor Massimo,’ Anna said, as Alba guided her old friend through the door into the Stalla. Despite the warmth of the morning, he was still dressed for winter.
‘Don’t cast a clout until May be out,’ he said in English and continued in Italian, ‘That’s what my English boss always used to say to me. It’s funny what I remember in English. But it was always much colder in Inghilterra. That was one of the many things I missed about being away from Italia.’
‘But it’s July,’ Alba said with a laugh. ‘You can take your thick coat off now. It’s plenty warm enough.’
‘You wait until you’re old, tesoro,’ he said to Alba. ‘The cold lingers in your bones.’
They sat straight down at the table. After twenty years of living in Italy, Anna knew that was the way it was. No lingering, polite conversation before the meal; no peanuts and nibbles to spoil the appetite, but simply getting down to the serious business of eating. Anna had made vegetable soup from home-grown produce to start with, which Massimo seemed to enjoy. As he slurped noisily from his spoon, Francesco winked at Alba.
‘What else did you miss of Italy when you were a POW?’ he asked the old man.
‘My mother especially, and my friends,’ he said. ‘But there were many simple things I missed. Our toscano bread, for example. English bread is soft and salty. And the coffee, even though at home we couldn’t afford proper coffee. We used to drink roasted barley or acorns.’
He spoke in Italian today, lapsing into occasional dialect. Anna understood most words, but occasionally she had to ask for a translation as he gained speed.
‘But I didn’t have such a bad time, really,’ he continued. ‘If you take away the fact that we weren’t ever free – even after the Armistice when we were kept on as labourers – I think I had it a lot easier than my family here in Tuscany.’
He fell silent for a few moments, lost in thought.
Alba noted that the way he talked to her parents was different from when she and Massimo were alone together in Tramarecchia. With them, he was more guarded in what he related. He spoke in general terms, explaining about the type of jobs he had to carry out on the farm in England, the differences in the crops he had to help sow and harvest, saying that even the taste of the apples and pears had been different.
‘Don’t forget it was wartime,’ Francesco said. ‘The planting would have been different from normal. It was all done to provide as much food as possible in the quickest, easiest way to the population.’
‘My friend’ – Massimo leant forward in his chair – ‘with respect, I know only too well that it was wartime. I could never forget that. All six years of it.’
‘Of course, I didn’t mean to offend…’
‘No offence taken, young man. But it is a time I lived through and you have only read about in your books.’
Alba had never considered her father to be a young man. He had turned sixty. ‘Babbo will love you for calling him a young man,’ she said with a laugh.
‘Everybody is young to me – except for my friends in the care centre prison.’ He winked at her.
He refused the second course of roast rabbit and guinea fowl, but ate a side dish of spinach beet that Anna had prepared with plenty of garlic and good olive oil. ‘My appetite is diminished,’ he explained. ‘But I’ll have more of your excellent wine,’ he told Francesco, holding up his glass. ‘Sangiovese, isn’t it?’
The home-made tiramisu went down well too, as did the glasses of Vin Santo and hard cantuccini biscuits served afterwards, which he had to soak well in the strong digestivo. It seemed he had a sweet tooth.
‘Your daughter is a special girl,’ he said, slightly slurring his words, holding his tiny liqueur glass up to her in a toast. ‘I enjoy her company. I never had a daughter of my own.’ He hiccupped and apologised. ‘So, after my coffee, I wonder if she could take me back to the prison? I feel weary.’ He smiled. ‘It’s wrong of me to call it the prison, I know. They are very good to me at the centre. I have to accept it is my home now.’
He thanked Francesco
and Anna politely after his espresso and Alba drove him back to the village, kissing him on his whiskery cheek after she’d delivered him into Tanya’s care. In the car, she’d asked him if he knew anything about the partisan raid of the Boccarini estate. He shook his head and turned his face towards the window.
‘I’ve come across a book that talks about the partisans up on the Mountain of the Moon,’ Alba continued. ‘And a young man called Quinto. Did you know him? I think he went to school in the village.’
There was silence from Massimo, and she wondered if he had dozed off, but after a few seconds, he turned to her and spoke. ‘Many things went on around here during the war, but I was in Inghilterra, and when I returned to Tuscany, people wanted to forget the war and get on with life.’ He turned up the collar on his coat and leant back against the seat and closed his eyes, preventing further conversation.
‘I think he’ll sleep well tonight,’ Alba whispered to Tanya as he tottered off to the residents’ living area. ‘I was wondering if it would be possible to let him stay a weekend in Tramarecchia?’ she asked Tanya. ‘I’d be with him. I think he would love it.’
‘What a wonderful idea, signorina. Leave it with me and I’ll chat with the manager.’
Alba hoped there would be no objections. Massimo deserved a treat. But she couldn’t help thinking that he knew more than he was letting on. She hoped he would share more of his stories with her.
Sixteen
Tuscany, 1946
After a few days, Massimo’s egg supply dwindled again, and he decided he had to catch his thief. He attached thin wire to the gate latch of the hen run, tying a sheep bell to the other end. The nights were warm, and he made a bed outside from his grandfather’s thick old shepherd’s cloak and lay down next to Lupino’s kennel. The cub curled up beside his master and, watching the fireflies before he fell asleep, Massimo wondered why he hadn’t done this before. He drifted off with the sounds of an owl hooting and, in the distance, the river splashing over the weir.