by Angela Petch
‘Seriously, Lucia,’ he said, lifting her off and reaching for their clothes scattered about on the dirt floor of the cave. ‘Next time we have to use protection. What if you get pregnant?’
‘Then you will marry me, and we will wait for this baby to come, and after a few months we will make more together and live happily ever after, with a squabble or two that we would solve by doing this.’ She was naked, her long hair covering her breasts; she wound her curls up in her hands and pulled them on top of her head, revealing herself to him, and he imprinted the image on his brain. It was an image that would have to sustain him through the difficult times he knew were coming. He picked up her shirt and helped feed her arms into the sleeves. ‘Put this on before you completely bewitch me,’ he said.
He kissed her again before pulling a rectangular parcel wrapped in oilcloth from his haversack. ‘I took this from the art store. It was stolen from somewhere near here and it deserves to remain in Tuscany. I hope it’s still in one piece after this evening.’ He smiled shyly. ‘I think it is exquisite, and each time I looked at it, I thought of you.’
She gazed at him. Nobody had ever said such sweet words to her. She unwrapped the cloth with care and gasped at the small plaque, its bright blue, yellow and white ceramic glaze shining in the gloom of the cave. The figures were of a Madonna holding a plump baby wearing a coronet of flowers.
‘This is too beautiful for me,’ she said.
‘Keep it safe, and each time you look at it, think of us and the family we will have one day. When the time comes, when this damned war is over, we shall return it to its rightful place. For now, you should have it. It is special, like you, meine Liebe. And you are Italian. It should stay in the church where it came from, so that all your people can enjoy it. Keep it safe.’ He leant to kiss her. ‘But now, I have to leave for the Mountain of the Moon.’ He slung the rucksack on his back and before he left, she clung to him, wishing she could go too. He kissed her long and deep and then pulled away. ‘I have to go, mein Schatz. Pfiat Di,’ he whispered, ‘may God protect you.’
When he was gone, she sat with the image of the mother and baby in her lap, running her fingers over the intricate artwork and then, after wrapping it again in the cloth, she dug at the very back of the cave with an old spoon and gently placed the plaque in the hole she’d made. She was careful to remove signs of her digging and, so that she would remember where she had hidden it, she scratched a tiny cross one metre above in the rock face. It was safer here than back home where her mother would no doubt come across it, no matter how carefully she concealed it.
Twenty-Six
Tuscany, Present Day
On the following Saturday morning, after Alba had helped Ma with the changeover for the guests in the mill, she sat in the garden, drawing with her pastel crayons. A fading rose, rust fringing the edges of the petals, matched her mood as she worked. While she rubbed brown with her finger into the velvety red on the page, her head was full of Massimo’s stories. When she’d recounted the events to her parents at breakfast, they were visibly moved.
‘I bet there are many stories like his, Alba,’ her father said. ‘Swallowed by time, taken to the grave.
‘I know that after the war, people were keen to make a fresh start, wipe the slate clean, if you like. There will have been resentments – I believe there still are today… In fact, when we bought the mill, the vendor confided to us that somebody else had been interested in purchasing it, but that he didn’t agree with his politics and past, so he wanted us to have it, even though the other man had offered a higher price.’
‘It’s so strange he will only talk to me about it,’ Alba said, pouring herself more coffee. ‘Alfi tells me he has never opened up to him about the past. And he only uses English with me. He says it’s easier not to speak in Italian when he talks about the war.’
‘A psychologist would have a field day,’ Anna said. ‘It must be a kind of therapy for him, I should imagine. He feels removed from it by not using his mother tongue, and yet it’s a way of getting it out of his head by sharing. He’s clearly very fond of you.’
‘I feel so… privileged,’ Alba said, searching for the correct word. ‘But responsible, too. He doesn’t want me to record him talking, so he doesn’t want the whole world to know his story, but something of it needs to be told.’
‘Maybe you can tell it through your paintings, Alba,’ Francesco said. ‘Art is up for interpretation, isn’t it? You’ll find a way, I’m sure.’
* * *
She was sketching a sprig of rosemary growing within a circle of river rocks when Alfiero called. ‘Come up to the rifugio at Monte dei Frati today. For old times’ sake,’ he said.
‘Do you know, Alfi, that would be just great. I need a change. I can’t stop thinking about Massimo, and I feel my head will burst. How did you find him last week?’
‘Quiet. But he still had me doing more tidying up in the garden. What with him and Lodovica, I’ll be an expert soon. What I don’t know about the different varieties of manure, and which farmer has the best, is nobody’s business.’ He laughed. Alba realised she hadn’t heard his laughter in a while.
‘I’m setting off now. What time shall I pick you up?’ Alfiero asked.
‘Tell you what, I’ll make my own way and see you up there later this afternoon. And I want to drop in on Lodovica first. What can I bring?’
‘Nothing – just yourself! I’ve got it all under control, even the food.’ He paused. ‘Maybe bring your sleeping bag, because I thought we’d stay overnight in the rifugio. If I leave now, I’m hoping to get there before anybody else has the same idea.’
There was an unwritten agreement about these walkers’ huts that it was first come, first served; you couldn’t book them, and they were free of charge. This rifugio only had capacity for two, so it was best to arrive early.
* * *
The sky was a moody blue after lunch as she set off, and she packed a light waterproof in her rucksack. Ma had given her a container of roasted vegetables marinated in olive oil, a jar of preserved courgettes with chilli peppers as well as slices of her famous English fruit cake to add to whatever Alfiero would provide.
Stopping by at Lodovica’s involved a slight detour, but she was curious to see her. Alba was careful not to slip off the stepping stones as she crossed the gurgling stream. There would be no time today to dry her footwear, if she was to get to Alfiero before dark.
Unusually, Lodovica was resting on the bench outside the chapel when Alba arrived at the hermitage.
‘Salve,’ Lodovica said in greeting, patting the seat next to her.
Alba bent to kiss both her cool cheeks. ‘I’m on my way to a night on the mountain with Alfiero. He gave me your message. Thank you for looking after him.’
‘It was a pleasure,’ she said. ‘He’s a pleasant young man. On the way to recovery, I hope. Now… the silver jug,’ Lodovica began. ‘He told me you’d mentioned it.’
‘Yes, it’s been puzzling me why you should have such a thing.’
‘I know. And I wanted to explain.’ Lodovica sighed. ‘I had an uncle who died in the war.’ She paused. ‘His name was Basilio – Basilio Gelina.’
Alba’s eyes rounded. ‘Quinto,’ she said, her voice breathy as she recalled Massimo’s story about the young boy from his school who had become a partisan.
‘When you told me that you thought you had seen somebody up on the Mountain of the Moon, I knew immediately what you were talking about. You’re not the only one with a sixth sense.’
Alba turned to her. ‘Sixth sense? I don’t know… I’m not convinced now if I really did see anything.’
She felt the nun’s hand gently on top of hers. ‘Don’t be scared, Alba. He has appeared to me in dreams since I was a child. And he led me to the silver jug in the forest. I never knew him, but I do know that he was very disturbed, and suffered from a hard life.’
‘So… you think your uncle owned this silver? I’m not sure if I can believe
all this, to be honest,’ Alba murmured.
‘There is a lot we don’t understand about life… and the shadow of death. I know you’ve been worried, maybe thinking you were going a little mad. I wanted to allay your fears.’
‘How can I not be frightened? It’s… spooky. I prefer to push it out of my mind and not to believe it.’
‘I think Basilio is trying to tell us something.’
Alba shivered and got up to leave. ‘I have to go – it’ll be dark soon. I don’t really know what to say.’
‘There’s no need to say anything, Alba. The first time you came here, I talked to you about there being a reason for us to have met. Hold that in your thoughts. Maybe you and I should pay a visit to these ruins together quite soon.’
* * *
The first part of Alba’s walk was steep, and she set herself goals to reach the top, her mind going over Lodovica’s words, which had given her a lot to think about. But up in the fresher air, the birds singing and the breeze playing on her face, she felt anything but spooked and she concentrated on the here and now.
Every five hundred paces she allowed herself a breather, thankful it wasn’t as hot as the past days. When she reached the meadows at the top, she sat for a while on a boulder painted with the red and white waymark sign. There was a three-hundred-and-sixty-five-degree view of the countryside, the plains on one side extending as far as the sea down to the Rimini coast. A study in blue, she thought, committing the image to her phone, planning how she would try out an abstract painting when she was home. The mountains stretching away on the other side were hazy purple and grey, the occasional rusty, terracotta red of an isolated farmhouse punctuating the scene, the roads twisting around the valleys and heights like grey snakes. It wasn’t difficult to conclude why these peaks had been fought over for the vantage point they offered. From here to the rifugio, it was another three quarters of an hour. She would arrive just before six.
The final stretch was through an area known as the forest of ghosts and once again Quinto, or Basilio, dropped into her thoughts. Was what she’d seen really Lodovica’s uncle? She half expected him to appear again in the shadows cast by the trees. The beeches were twisted by the elements so that they looked like figures about to break into a macabre dance. Giving herself a shake, she told herself sternly that there was no such thing as ghosts, just welcome shade after her hard walk, and the rustling whisper of leaves in the gentlest of breezes.
Alfiero had been pleased to find the rifugio empty when he arrived at midday, and he had immediately deposited his large rucksack inside the wooden hut by way of proving it was his for the night. It was rarely used, but the way his luck had been lately, he thought, somebody else might have got there first. He mentally ticked off the first hurdle from his list. His next task was to collect firewood to cook the meal he had planned. At the base of a huge fir, where he’d gathered handfuls of cones to use as firelighters, he’d been lucky to find half a dozen Boletus edulis, Alba’s favourite king porcini. Things were going well, and he felt a long-forgotten tingle of optimism.
With only a few things left to do, he pulled his book from his rucksack and sat in the shade to read. He couldn’t remember the last time he had held a book in his hands and felt so relaxed. Beatrice had always wanted to be out and about in the city. He should have said no to her so many times, he realised that now, but the relationship had tied him up in such knots that in the end he couldn’t think straight. Lodovica had been a lifesaver. She’d persuaded him to talk and had given him perspective again, and he was slowly claiming back his identity. And Massimo had a quiet strength that had worked wonders. The old man didn’t talk much, but when he did, he seemed to know the right thing to say.
The way Alba had appeared back in his life seemed like perfect timing, too. Maybe it was destiny; he didn’t quite know how to define it, but he knew it felt right when he was with her. He’d talked about his feelings to Lodovica, and she’d advised him not to be in too much of a hurry; to show Alba just enough affection. Lodovica had said that if love was going to blossom and it was meant to be, it would happen in its own time. At last everything was falling into place in his life. The letters began to blur on the page and his thriller dropped into his lap as he fell asleep under the trees. When he woke two hours later, it was a scrabble to add the finishing touches to his plans. With a final flourish, he set out candles along the pathway. He was pleased with the effect they made.
* * *
Just before six o’clock, Alba passed the sign for the rifugio, which told her she had five more minutes to walk. She was hot, sticky and hungry, and looked forward to pulling off her boots and thick socks. Rounding the final corner of the track before the hut, she came across a line of flickering tea lights and she smiled. Typical Alfi, always thoughtful.
‘Benvenuta, Alba,’ he called. ‘Welcome to Ristorante Alfiero!’ He picked up a bottle of Prosecco from the table at the side of the hut and popped the cork as she approached, and she clapped her hands in delight.
‘Wow, that’s some welcome. Thanks!’ she said, sinking down onto the bench after removing her backpack. ‘You’ve been busy!’
‘Actually, I fell asleep for a couple of hours and have had a mad rush to get this ready.’
‘Book not very good?’
‘Not that – I was tired.’
She clinked her plastic glass against his. ‘It’s so wonderful up here. I didn’t pass a single person on the way. Bliss!’
The Prosecco was cool and sweetly sharp, hitting the right spot. When he produced a paper plate with tiny appetisers – cubes of parmigiano and little peppers stuffed with cream cheese – she laughed. ‘This is getting better and better by the minute. You’re such a smoothie, Alfie.’
‘Something to soak up the alcohol, because we are going for a dip next,’ he said.
‘The pool!’ she said. ‘Glad you have the fire lit, though, it will be freezing in there. Are we sure?’
He nodded his head once, decisively. ‘Yep, we are sure.’
The pool was known locally as the Mirror of the Moon, and was set in a shaded hollow two hundred metres below the rifugio. It was a steep hike down, but the place was idyllic, with natural steps leading to a plunge pool fringed with ferns and willow. Hardly anybody ventured there as it was a long, arduous way from anywhere and, shaded as it was, no good for sun worshippers. You had to be slightly mad to dip into its icy depths, but Alba adored it. She’d found crayfish in the crystal-clear waters. It was a time-stopped-still location, and she was touched that Alfi had remembered how much she loved the place.
Leaving the fire to smoulder, and trusting nobody would turn up at the rifugio at this time of the evening, they left their possessions and clambered down to the pool. It took them thirty minutes. On the way they startled a porcupine emerging from its hole for its night hunting, and they stood stock-still until it shuffled off into the undergrowth. These animals shot quills when under pressure, and they were painful if they hit their target.
The setting for the pool was ethereal in the fading light dappling through the leaves. Shadows danced patterns on the surface of the water, the shapes of stones round the edge like huddled figures, their language the murmur of water as it gushed over the natural steps. Alba had always felt the river possessed its own life. Her stepmother said it washed away worries.
‘Last one in is a chicken,’ Alba shouted, stripping off her top and shorts down to her underwear. ‘I would have brought my bikini if I’d known this was on the agenda, but, hey ho…’ She screamed as she hit the icy water. Once, years ago, they’d tried to jump in and touch the bottom, but neither of them had managed to fathom its depths.
Alfiero was wearing his trunks beneath his shorts and he jumped in after her. It was freezing and he was relieved, because catching a glimpse of Alba in her skimpy panties had stirred him. He stayed in the water longer, using the icy cold to help calm his erection, willing himself to think of anything else but her.
‘I don’t
know how you can stay in so long,’ Alba squealed as she hauled herself out of the pool to perch on a rock, watching him in the water.
You are so beautiful, Alfiero thought, treading water as he stared at her. I could never imagine Beatrice ever doing anything like this.
How cool is this guy, Alba thought, watching him in the water. How lucky am I to have him as a friend!
Unable to stand the chill any longer, Alfiero climbed out of the pool, thankful he was wearing baggy trunks. He sat down next to Alba and pulled a weed from her hair. She gasped when she saw the large scar beneath his shoulder blade, the skin puckered and purple. She touched it lightly.
He flinched at the touch of her fingers.
‘Does that hurt? My God, Alfi, how did you get that?’ The scar was triangular, and she looked at it more closely. It resembled the shape of the base of an iron. She touched him again, lower down on his back, and gazed in horror at the mark.
Don’t touch me like that, Alba. Don’t you know what you’re doing to me?
He slipped back into the water and, turning to look up at her, he said, ‘It was Beatrice.’ The fact that he was finally able to admit what his girlfriend had done to him was a milestone. He’d kept so much hidden for so long, believing her behaviour was his fault, his inability to please her or understand her explosive nature. He had so much to thank Lodovica for and… Alba, too. It had been her idea to take him to see the hermit. It was more than that, though. Alba was straightforward and refreshing. And she was lovely. He realised he’d never really stopped thinking how lovely she was.
‘How on earth did she do that?’ Alba asked, mesmerised by the sight of the ugly scar as he climbed out of the pool again.
‘She did it when I was asleep. I’d annoyed her, apparently, by not complimenting her on a new dress she’d been wearing that evening. So, she punished me with a hot iron.’ He sat beside her. ‘It looks worse than it is. But when it was healing, it irritated like hell.’