by Angela Petch
‘Sorry, Ma. There’s no signal in Tramarecchia.’
‘The care centre has called to see how you’re getting on. And there was a rather disturbing call from Alfiero, too.’
Alba’s phone started to ping as messages began to come in. ‘Whoops! They’re all coming in now,’ she said. ‘Ma, Massimo wants to stay another night. Do you think they’ll let him?’
‘Phone the centre and ask. Do you want me to let Egidio know you won’t be in for work tomorrow?’
‘It’s my day off anyway. If I don’t phone again, I’ll see you tomorrow evening.’
Tanya answered when Alba called the home. ‘As long as you think he is coping, signorina,’ she said, ‘then until tomorrow at five will be fine. We are still short-staffed here. Give him my love and tell him to behave.’
Next, Alba called Alfiero. He answered almost immediately. ‘Alba, did you get my texts? Would it be okay to see you?’
‘I’m with Massimo in Tramarecchia. I’ve only just got your messages. There’s no signal here. What’s up?’
The call ended abruptly. She waited for a while for him to reconnect and then gave up, not wanting to leave Massimo alone for much longer. If she was honest, she selfishly wanted to devote tomorrow to Massimo. It seemed he only opened up about his past to her, and she wanted to hear more without anybody else intruding. And she was still sure he knew more about the silver goblets.
The old man had stoked the fire by the time she returned to the little red house and he was sitting close to the flames. He looked up when she pushed open the door. ‘When you’re old, your bones grow cold,’ he said.
‘You’re probably tired, too, Massimo. Let me get you ready for bed. Down here again?’ she asked.
‘Tonight, I think I would like to climb the stairs and sleep in the big bed,’ he said. ‘Where I was born.’
After she’d helped him, Alba sat downstairs for a while, her thoughts full of Massimo’s accounts of Florian and Lucia and wondering if their friendship blossomed into romance. Love helped the world go round, she thought ruefully, and then she immediately banished gloomy thoughts about James. The room smelled of woodsmoke; the chimney probably needed sweeping, but she liked the timeless smell. She picked up her phone to scroll through the messages that had come in. Alfiero had sent half a dozen. They were all short:
Call me when you can
Are you there?
Can we talk?
I can talk now
Where are you?
Feeling guilty, she slipped out and made her way once again up the incline to where she knew she could get a signal. The trees rustled and swayed in the wind that had blown up just before nightfall, clearing the fog that often descended without warning in the summer months. When she tried to connect with Alfiero, there was no answer and, checking, she saw there were no further messages from him. Soft light beckoned through the little windows of Massimo’s house as she returned down the slope, but the other buildings were shapes in the dark. She stood for a while observing the scene. Above her, stars were scattered like diamonds in the ashen light cast by the moon and she caught her breath at its beauty before quickening her pace, anxious to capture the impression of the village at night before she lost inspiration. For the next half hour, while the house creaked itself to sleep, she used pen and ink, trying to recreate the soft tones of the ghostly village, contrasting the mood with bold, skeletal outlines of branches against the night sky. When she felt she could do no more, she stopped, leaving her sketchbook open on the kitchen table to dry.
Creeping upstairs, she peeped in on Massimo. He was snoring gently, his slight frame hardly making any outline beneath the covers. She pulled his door to and prepared herself for bed. She couldn’t sleep, her mind full of the story of Lucia and Florian, and Massimo’s advice about James, which made perfect sense. Eventually, she went downstairs to make herself a chamomile tea. The cinders still had a glow and she placed a couple of thin logs on top, watching the flames dance into life as she cupped her hands around her drink.
She felt at home in this little house, and imagined what she would do if it were hers. There wasn’t really much she would change. The windows were small compared with a modern house, but they served their purpose – making the rooms snug in winter and keeping them cool in high summer. She imagined hand-painted plates on the little dresser, instead of the battered pans, and a deep settee to sink into near the hearth. Moving over to the window, that she would dress with simple linen fabric, she gazed for a while at the crescent moon, like a curl among the stars, and then she noticed headlights from a car strobing the bumpy track leading to the village.
The engine cut out and she wondered who could possibly be out at two in the morning. Poachers, maybe? For a minute or two, her imagination went into overdrive, conjuring up stories of robbery and murder. She’d heard that antiques had been stolen from the village of Montebotolino last year; an old hand-carved fire surround and a wardrobe had been removed overnight from the hilltop village where nobody lived permanently any more. She turned the key in the lock of the old front door, disquiet entering her mind. There was no phone signal here; how could she contact the carabinieri if she and Massimo were attacked? Freddie growled and came over to stand at her side.
A light tap on the door almost made her jump out of her skin and she reached for the fire poker.
‘Are you still up? Can I come in?’ It was Alfiero’s voice, but she still went to the side window to check. He was using the torch on his mobile phone, the dull light on his face eerie in the dingy moonlight.
Unlocking the door, she put her finger to her lips. ‘Massimo is asleep, be very quiet.’ She pulled him in and gestured to a chair by the fire.
His face was a mess; congealed blood from a deep cut crusted one cheek. She gasped. ‘What happened? Have you been in an accident?’
She went over and peered at the wound. ‘That needs stitching. You should go to the pronto soccorso to get that seen to straight away.’
He waved her off. ‘I’ll go in the morning. Alba, can I stay here tonight? I don’t know where else to go.’ His hands were shaking, and she poured him a glass of the basil liqueur.
‘This is all I’ve got, but get this down you,’ she said. ‘Or would you prefer tea?’
He shook his head and knocked back the alcohol.
‘What happened, Alfi?’
‘Beatrice…’ he started to say, and then shook his head.
‘Where is she? Was she in the accident too? Where did you leave her?’
‘There was no accident,’ he said, leaning towards the fire, his elbows on his knees, head bowed. ‘She did this on purpose,’ he said, in a muffled voice.
‘My God, Alfi. What are you saying?’
‘She had a knife. She went berserk.’
‘Have you told the police?’ Alba knelt before him and tipped his face to the light, looking in horror at the deep slash on his cheek. ‘She’s crazy. For fuck’s sake, Alfi. You’ve got to go to the police.’
He looked so weary and defeated, she realised it was pointless lecturing him. She pointed to the daybed to one side of the hearth. ‘Massimo slept there last night. He’s upstairs tonight, and I’m in the room next to him. Will you be all right here? Just let me wash that cut for you first and we can talk in the morning.’
He told her not to make a fuss, but she insisted on cutting up a clean towel and dipping it in boiled water to bathe his wound. ‘We don’t want this to go septic. But you must go to the clinic tomorrow morning. You need stitches – it’s deep. And then we’ll go to the carabinieri.’
‘No,’ he said, grasping her wrist. ‘Not the police… they won’t believe me, anyway.’
Again, she felt instinctively that the last thing Alfiero needed tonight was advice from her – especially as she felt out of her depth. While she sorted out bedding for him, she suddenly had a brainwave. Alfi didn’t want the carabinieri involved for some reason, maybe because he felt ashamed. But she knew just the person to h
elp him.
* * *
Massimo and Alfiero were drinking coffee together and sharing the rest of Ma’s cake when she came downstairs at eight next morning. They were deep in discussion, and Alba watched as the old man placed his hand on Alfiero’s arm, a look of concern on his face.
‘Your young friend has been in the wars, Alba. We’ve introduced ourselves.’
‘Massimo, do you mind if we postpone today and I take you back to Badia? I need to go somewhere with Alfiero,’ she said, helping herself to the rest of the coffee in the pot.
‘Alba, please don’t change your plans for me,’ Alfiero said.
‘Alba and I can see each other another day, young man. I think you’ve taken over as number one today,’ Massimo said. ‘As long as you don’t steal her away from me forever, then I shan’t be too jealous.’
Alfiero smiled weakly. ‘Grazie,’ he said.
‘Is there anybody we should talk to about your being here, Alfi?’ Alba asked.
He jerked his head up in dismay. ‘There’s no need to tell anybody. Work think I’m on annual leave. Beatrice and I were all set to fly to Sicily this morning, but…’ His voice trailed off and then he added, ‘I don’t want her to know where I am.’
‘Don’t worry. Only you and I will know where we’re going.’
His shoulders relaxed as he slumped back in the chair. ‘Grazie, grazie, Alba.’ And, turning to Massimo, he said, ‘And you too, signore. I apologise for turning up like this. I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘I am enjoying being with young people again,’ Massimo said. ‘My house has finally come alive after a long time of feeling empty.’ He stood up, leaning on the table for support. ‘We will close the place up until next time you visit. Take me back to the centre, Alba, and then sort out your friend.’
* * *
One hour later, Alba was on the road again, having deposited Massimo. She drove Alfiero away from Badia into the next valley.
‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked. ‘I don’t have the energy to protest, but I’m completely in your hands.’
‘To see a special woman who I’m sure will be able to help you. I met her back in May, and she is amazing.’
‘Will she mind us turning up out of the blue?’
‘I haven’t been able to warn her because she rarely switches on her phone. She lives cut off, in her own world… but she is amazingly clued up. Fingers crossed she’s not gone away.’
Suor Lodovica was in her small vegetable garden, hoeing the weeds between her salad plants, her habit hitched up above her ankles, an old straw hat pulled down to shade her face.
‘Dio mio,’ Alfiero muttered under his breath. ‘You’ve brought me to a nunnery.’
‘Be patient. You asked for somewhere to stay, and I feel in my heart this is the safest place. You could talk to me, if you prefer, but I’m out of my depth here, Alfi. Please trust me.’
He held back and she pulled him forward as the hermit stood up, shielding her eyes to peer at her visitors. Then she leant her hoe against the fence and walked over to them with her steady gait.
‘I’m so glad you came back,’ she said, clasping Alba’s hands in her own. ‘I’ve thought of you often… How are you doing?’
‘I’m fine, Lodovica. But my friend needs somewhere peaceful to stay for a few days. Are you able to help?’
Lodovica looked at Alfiero. ‘If he is willing to be here, then that is fine by me.’
‘I’m not a churchgoer,’ he said.
‘You don’t have to be,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘The only condition I have is that you let me tend to that wound first.’
She beckoned them to follow her into the cool of her stone house and told them to sit at her table, while she washed her hands thoroughly at the sink.
Alba watched as she fetched a first aid box, then gently bathed Alfiero’s face, before applying butterfly clips to the cut. ‘We’ll see if this holds. The important thing is to keep it really clean.’
Alba had forgotten how calming her presence was and she was pleased to see that Alfiero seemed more relaxed. ‘Are you medically trained too?’ she asked.
‘I told you something of my past in Milan, Alba. I used to self-harm, and this was what the doctors used on me eventually. Here, because of where I live, I have a pretty good first aid kit. I have no neighbours or car, remember.’
When she had finished working on Alfiero and removed her sterile gloves, she pulled back the sleeves of her habit to reveal faint scars. ‘When I was on the catwalk, they always gave me garments with long sleeves, or tied silk scarves around my wrists. It wasn’t good publicity to display injured models.’ She rolled down her sleeves and clasped her hands together. ‘I was going to have a simple lunch. Will you both join me?’
She asked Alba to wash the slender tips of vitalba, or old man’s beard, that she’d collected that morning and then she blanched them, before adding them to an omelette. ‘My girls are laying well and I have to think of different ways to eat their eggs. You are helping me out.’
Next, she grated cheese from a hunk of pecorino on the top of the golden frittata in the frying pan and asked Alba to slice boiled beetroot and cold potatoes to make a salad, sprinkling fresh basil and thyme on top. She then placed an unlabelled bottle on the table. ‘I think a glass of this Verdicchio will do us well today. An old friend of mine from Jesi visits me from time to time, and he produces this on his estate. I don’t like to drink on my own, so can you do the honours, Alfiero?’ She fetched three earthenware tumblers from a corner cupboard. ‘I don’t have wine glasses, but these are good for white wine. They keep it cool.’
The simple food was as delicious as the first time Alba had shared a meal in this place, and the wine was excellent.
‘Thank you, Suor—’ Alfiero started.
‘Call me Lodovica.’
‘Lodovica,’ he said. ‘It’s a beautiful name.’
‘It means “fighter”. Life can be a battle, but there are peaceful ways to withstand.’
‘My life lately is far from peaceful,’ he said.
Alba listened quietly to her friend and the hermit talking, like the beginning of a slow musical movement.
‘My girlfriend can be wonderful, most of the time, but she’s so unpredictable. Worse than fiery,’ Alfiero said, touching his face below his wound.
There was silence while they waited for him to continue. Alba felt angry with herself for not understanding the signs – his accident on the stairs, Beatrice’s curt remarks on the phone – but the last thing she had expected was a woman attacking a man.
Alfiero poured himself another glass of wine. ‘She will be so full of apologies when I see her again. Full of love, but I don’t know how to cope with her any longer.’
‘Love is gentle, love is kind… Love never fails,’ Lodovica quoted.
‘She is very difficult to love at times,’ Alfiero said. ‘And if I say I’m going to leave her, she says she’ll kill herself.’
Lodovica stood up. ‘I think you need a long sleep, Alfiero. Alba, please come back in a week. In the meantime, Alfiero and I will find time to talk.’
Alba hugged them both and climbed into her father’s old car. She wound down the windows while she drove, letting the summer air blow her anger away, needing the arms of her parents, who had never shown her anything else but true love.
A couple of days later, Massimo and Alba were chatting under the walnut tree in Tramarecchia. There was no wind, and even the birds were quiet in the humid Sunday heat. The stretch of River Marecchia that ran alongside her parents’ mill was busy with families up from the even hotter coast, and Alba had been only too pleased to pick up Massimo and spend time in his quiet hamlet.
‘What you need for here is a hammock, slung between those two low branches,’ she said. ‘I might hunt one out for you next time I go down to Sansepolcro. I saw some at the market last time I was there.’
‘For me, or for you?’ he asked. ‘At my age I am not abou
t to clamber into one of those things, fall out the other side and break my back.’
They were quiet for a while. Massimo rolled up his shirtsleeves, leant back in his chair and shut his eyes. ‘How is your friend getting on?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him. I expect Lodovica made him turn off his phone. I hope she can help.’
‘It will take time. He talked to me a little about what has been going on. He feels ashamed and worried about what this girl might do if he leaves her. She’s threatened suicide several times. Do you know her?’
‘I’ve met her briefly a couple of times. I didn’t take to her.’
‘I think he likes you, Alba.’
‘I like him too. He’s very kind.’
‘But you’re not in love with him.’
She snorted with laughter. ‘No way! He’s like a brother. I’ve known him since I started primary school and anyway, he has his peculiar… girlfriend.’
‘The poor boy is suffering,’ Massimo said. ‘But he will be all right in the end, I’m sure.’ He opened his eyes to look at Alba. ‘And life will mean more to him after he has suffered. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my ninety years, it’s that only after we have been through a tragedy can we feel here.’ He thumped his heart to emphasise what he was saying. ‘You can have an easy life, sail on a calm sea, but you won’t feel life if there are no ups and downs.’
‘Are you talking about yourself, Massimo?’ she asked.
‘Not just me. Lucia suffered too, poor girl. Ah, how she suffered.’
Twenty-One
Tuscany, 1944
Lucia knew that contacting the partigiani would not be easy. Her father sometimes talked about the young men who had disappeared. ‘They’re not all dead,’ she had overheard him telling her mother one evening. ‘Some of them are busy up on the ridge.’