by Angela Petch
‘She needs help, that girl. My God, Alfi. Why did you stay with her for so long?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s hard to explain. Rationally, I don’t understand it myself. But I wasn’t in a good place for a long while. I was very lonely after my parents were killed. But…’ He fetched his towel to wrap around Alba’s shoulders. ‘It’s over now.’
She was shivering and it was getting dark. He pulled her up. ‘Let’s get back to that fire,’ he said. ‘I’m hungry.’
When they arrived back at the rifugio, the candles were still spluttering along the path, matching the twinkling stars above.
This is so romantic, Alba thought. What a shame lovely Alfi is just a friend. She went into the hut to change into her jeans and fleece. The air had cooled down.
While she was changing, Alfiero hunkered down by the fire and cooked half a dozen wild boar sausages, a favourite of Alba’s back in the day. He hoped her tastes hadn’t changed. Beatrice had never touched anything remotely fatty, and existed on a diet fit for a rabbit: lettuce leaves, grated carrot, the occasional egg and maybe fish. He’d always felt guilty when they ate out and he was tucking into his pasta and meat.
Alba sat on the bench watching him, the firelight bringing out coppery-chestnut shades in his hair. The water had washed away the gel he used to straighten it, and she preferred his natural curls. He looked relaxed. He was wearing glasses again, and she commented, ‘You look more like the Alfi I remember in those.’
‘Contact lenses irritate me after a while.’ He smiled up at her. ‘Guess why I wore them in the first place?’
She poured them both the remaining Prosecco from the bottle. ‘The things we do for other people, eh?’ she said. ‘Or, in my case, the things I stopped doing. James preferred to stay in bed at the weekend when I wanted to walk and explore London.’
Alfiero didn’t want to think about Alba in bed with anybody. ‘Beatrice would hate camping out at night and cooking over an open fire like this. It would ruin her nails.’
‘Right!’ she said. ‘Let’s exorcise ourselves of the pair of them and concentrate on the present,’ she said, knocking back her Prosecco. She felt light-headed and needed food to soak up the alcohol. ‘How are those sausages coming on? They smell good enough to eat.’
‘Instead of slavering over them, do something useful. There’s salad in that yellow container and a bag of crisps to open.’
‘What? No twice-fried chips cooked in extra-virgin olive oil? Not good enough, Alfi!’
He threw a pine cone at her. I want this evening to go on and on, he thought, busying himself with turning the sausages one final time.
This is such fun. I could almost fancy this boy. She smiled at the thought. It must be the romantic setting putting ideas into my silly head. It’s the person that matters, not the place.
As they were finishing the last of the meal, mopping bread into the juices from the sausages and oils from the vegetables, a huge clap of thunder followed swiftly by a downpour made them run for shelter in the rifugio. As they fled, they salvaged what they could from the table.
The hut was small, with two narrow wooden platforms secured to each side wall, useful for sitting at the pull-down table fastened with hinges to the end wall. The platforms were wide enough for one person to sleep on. A wooden flap acted as a window, but they closed that to stop the rain entering.
Alfiero lit the last tea light and placed it in the centre of the table. With a flourish he pulled a small flask from his rucksack.
She laughed. ‘Your bag is like a magician’s hat! What else are you going to produce?’
‘A white rabbit?’ he said, pouring strong espresso into two plastic cups and handing her one.
‘Wait. My turn now. Some of Ma’s fruit cake to finish off this brilliant meal,’ she said, unwrapping the foil. ‘This has been such a great evening. Thanks, Alfi.’
Her smile made his heart skip a beat. It’s not over yet, he thought.
‘This reminds me of the last time we were here together. Remember?’ she said.
How could I forget?
‘When you made a pass at me?’ she continued. She laughed and his heart sank. It was obvious her feelings were still the same as back then. He remembered how he’d clumsily tried to kiss her, and she’d pushed him away, telling him it was tantamount to kissing a brother.
‘What was I thinking of?’ he said, trying to make it sound as if it had been a ridiculous idea. ‘Typical randy seventeen-year-old, eh?’
If only she knew, he thought.
‘Do you think you’ll stay in Tuscany now?’ he asked, changing the subject, but genuinely curious.
‘I hope so. But I’m hoping to go to college and finish what I never started.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I’d like to enrol on an art course at the academy in Florence,’ she said. ‘I feel ready now. There’s so much more to learn. I’d be a mature student.’ She sniggered. ‘I don’t feel mature.’
‘You and me both. I’ve messed up, certainly.’
‘I don’t think we should look at it like that, Alfi. We haven’t messed up, just been dealt wrong paths for a while. But it’s never too late to change route.’
He smiled. ‘Nicely put.’ He held up the flask. ‘More coffee?’
She shook her head. ‘Keeps me awake.’
I don’t mind staying awake, he thought. I could stay awake the whole night with you.
‘Spending all this time with Massimo, hearing about his time away from Italy as a POW, and then the amazing story of what went on here with Lucia and the partisans… It’s been a revelation,’ Alba said. ‘I reckon we go on learning about ourselves throughout the whole of our lives. It’s all good.’
The tea light spluttered and they were plunged into complete darkness.
‘And on that deep note, I’ll bid you good night,’ she said. ‘And thank you for a brilliant evening. The best I’ve had in a long while. You’ve chased away all the ghosts,’ she added, thinking how James and her Seccaroni spirit, or whatever it was, had been dispelled. She hadn’t even felt the need to relay to Alfiero the creepy conversation she’d had earlier with Lodovica. Alba made a kissing sound with her mouth.
‘Sogni d’oro,’ he said, feeling for his sleeping bag in the dark, listening to Alba as she settled down, wondering if his dreams would be golden too and filled with images of her. He was so disappointed that this beautiful girl didn’t reciprocate his feelings.
Just as Alba was drifting off to the soothing sounds of raindrops pattering against the hut, Alfiero flicked on his torch, filling the rifugio with light.
‘What is it?’ she asked, sitting up.
There was a pause and then he spoke, his voice full of emotion. ‘This evening has been bonkers, Alba. I’ve decided I need to be more bonkers. Fact is, I’d like to continue to be bonkers and spoil you for the rest of your life.’
‘Alfi… are you drunk?’
‘I’m completely sober. I can’t keep quiet about this any longer. I love you, Alba. I think I always have, from way back…’
She tried to speak, but he held up his hand. ‘Hear me out. I won’t say Beatrice was a mistake, because she was probably meant to happen. Talking to Lodovica and Massimo has made me understand that. But she never made me feel… whole, complete, like I do when I’m with you.’
He moved over to sit next to her, taking her hand and looking deep into her eyes, but she shook her head and placed her fingers on his mouth to stop his words.
‘I began to suspect, dear, sweet Alfi. But—’
He removed her hand and interrupted her. ‘There have always been buts with you.’
‘Shh! Let me speak now.’ She searched for the right words, but it was hard to know how to stop herself from hurting her dearest friend, because that was the only way she could describe him. By now, they should be kissing passionately, carried away with the magic moment on the mountain. He had been so thoughtful; he was kind, good-looking, but she felt no chemistry. She s
truggled to explain.
‘I’m not ready, Alfi…’
‘Does that mean you might be ready one day? I’m prepared to wait.’
She felt whatever she said would be wrong. ‘Alfi, I’ve no time for a relationship. And… I can’t love you how you want me to.’
His shoulders slumped as she continued. ‘You say you can wait, but that’s not fair on you. I might never be ready.’
‘I love you, I can wait as long as it takes,’ he said.
Part of her wanted to take him in her arms, kiss him until dawn and make him happy, but it would be wrong.
‘Alfi, you’re a special part of my life, but… love is selfless, and I need to do my own thing right now. If I were in love with you, then you’d be the first thing I think about each morning. But I wake up and I think about all the things I long to learn at the academy, how I’m going to start or finish a painting or tweak a sculpture. I… I can’t think long-term, Alfi. I love you, but as a friend.’
He switched off his torch. It was a relief for Alba not to see the expression in his eyes. The evening that had started so brilliantly had now disintegrated into embarrassment, made worse by the fact that it was pitch-black outside, they were on top of a mountain and there was nowhere for either of them to escape.
Neither Alfi nor Alba slept a wink that night, and the walk down the hill next morning was passed mainly in awkward silence.
Twenty-Seven
Tuscany, 1944
It had been a little over one week since Lucia and Florian had made love in the cave. She ached to see him, but they were both involved now in different ways with the resistance and meetings had been impossible to arrange, with Lucia living with her parents in Tramarecchia and Florian now permanently on the move with the partigiani.
Rossa and Lucia were getting ready in the back room of the butcher’s shop that belonged to Rossa’s uncle and was frequently used for resistenza meetings in town. Rossa had whispered that Florian would be on tonight’s mission. The girls had opened up to each other in the short time they’d been working together, and now Lucia was counting the minutes until she saw him. They were dressed in low-cut blouses and tight-fitting skirts that came to their knees. Rossa had helped Lucia apply a slather of red lipstick and comb her hair high on her head, pulling a few tendrils down to soften the look. Standing back to examine her handiwork, Rossa laughed. ‘Dressed to kill,’ she said.
‘I hope not.’ Lucia peered into the cracked mirror on the washstand and pulled a face. ‘I look like a puttana,’ she said, privately wondering what Florian would think of her disguise.
‘Good. All the better to charm the trousers off fat Petrelli down at the Boccarini estate this evening.’
Lucia’s eyes widened and Rossa laughed. ‘Stop worrying, little one. The others will be there to step in when things heat up. Got everything?’
Lucia checked in her handbag for the umpteenth time, to make sure the brown twist of paper containing strong sleeping powder was still there. ‘Don’t lose that Veronal, cara,’ Rossa said. ‘It wasn’t easy to get hold of.’
They let themselves out of the door leading to the cobbled alleyway, shoes in their hands to tread quietly. At this hour the streets were deserted, families inside eating their supper. A cart was waiting at the edge of the village, parked under a beech tree. Stancko held the reins, and he pulled the girls up to sit beside him, grinning as they struggled in their tight skirts. With a click of his mouth, he urged the old horse on and the group was on its way.
They took a mule track that was seldom used and every now and then, when the cart bumped over a stone, swearing issued from under the tarpaulin, covered by a layer of potatoes, under which Quinto, Florian and three other partigiani were concealed. They were stopped at a checkpoint halfway by a lone carabiniere and Stancko handed down three bottles of grappa, followed by a promise that he’d receive more where that came from. The leader had done his homework and knew where weaknesses lay. On their return, the man would be in his cups.
As they pulled away, Rossa whispered to Lucia, ‘He won’t remember a thing in the morning. That grappa is laced with some of the Veronal.’
The Boccarini estate, down the road towards Sansepolcro, had been in the group’s sights for a while. The owner, Petrelli, was a self-made, greedy man who had turned his back on his humble beginnings. His vineyards extended across the lower slopes of the Apennines, and it was known that his principles swayed whichever way favoured him. He had removed the portrait of Mussolini from his wine labels soon after the summer of 1943, when he realised Il Duce’s powers were no longer what they were. But it was generally known where his sympathies still lay. Tonight, Stancko had his eyes on whatever he could acquire for his band. They were running out of food; local people had no more to give, and cooler nights warned that autumn was approaching. They needed to stock up with supplies. Nobody could fight well on an empty stomach.
He pulled the cart to a halt outside the high walls of the estate and the girls jumped down. Rossa pinched her cheeks and encouraged Lucia to do the same as she undid another button on her blouse. Then she hugged her new friend and whispered, ‘Coraggio, Lucia. We can do this. Andiamo!’
They knocked twice before the vast oak door was opened by an old man. ‘It’s late, what do you two want?’ he grumbled, his gaze sliding down Rossa’s generous bosom.
She moved closer. ‘We’ve smuggled potatoes down from Monteviale. Would your boss be interested?’ She smiled at the old man and held up her basket. ‘Perhaps you would like some, too?’
Monteviale potatoes were greatly prized, but the Tedeschi had soon discovered how tasty they were, and nobody local had been able to get their hands on them for a long time.
‘Who’s there at this hour?’ a man’s voice called. Petrelli waddled to the door, his belly straining at a white shirt flecked with sauce. He gazed at the girls and then said, ‘Come in, come in, signorine.’
They followed Petrelli, the elderly manservant taking up the rear, along a hallway, its walls lined with oil paintings. Lucia had never been inside such an opulent place before, and she had to force herself to concentrate on the mission in hand and tear her eyes from the highly polished furniture groaning with silverware and huge painted plates. Her feet sank into the deep rug as Petrelli led them into a dining room. A long table laid for one took up most of the spacious room. A roast chicken sat on a serving dish, and selections of cheeses and cured meats that both girls had only imagined in their dreams.
‘I heard you say Monteviale potatoes,’ Petrelli said. ‘They would have made a nice side dish with my chicken.’
Lucia’s mouth watered as she gazed on the food and plush furnishings, thinking how many families could live in this huge room.
‘Let’s talk business,’ he said, sitting down at the table and tucking his serviette into the top of his shirt. As the old servant moved to pour him more wine, he said, ‘That will be all for this evening, Domenico. I shall see you in the morning.’
‘Are you alone?’ Rossa asked after the servant left, closing the door behind him. She sat down beside Petrelli and topped up his wine. Lucia moved to sit on his other side, and he looked from one girl to the other, a greedy smile on his face.
‘I sent my family to Switzerland,’ Petrelli said. ‘It’s not safe here with cut-throat brigands in the area. My wife and daughters would be in danger with rapists about.’
‘You must feel very lonely,’ Lucia said, her head in her hand, gazing at the loathsome man with a look she hoped was flirtatious.
Rossa placed her hand over his and moved closer. ‘Such long, long nights with no company.’
Petrelli gulped as Rossa moved to sit on his lap. ‘We’ll look after you. We can talk business afterwards. We have all night.’
Rossa pressed Petrelli to her bosom and while his view was blocked, Lucia fumbled with the stiff clasp of her handbag. She hoped the sedative would work quickly; Rossa was performing far better than she ever could, and the thought of havin
g to canoodle with this man was turning her already bubbling stomach. Her hand shook as she poured the double dose into Petrelli’s glass and stirred it quickly, hoping he would not notice the cloudiness of his wine.
Rossa finished nibbling at the man’s ear and stood up, straightening her blouse from where his hands had wandered. ‘Let’s go somewhere more comfortable, caro,’ she said.
Petrelli, meek, mild and by now completely compliant, swallowed his drink, stood up and walked only a few steps before he swayed and started to stagger. ‘Che in diavolo succede? What the devil is going on?’ he asked, his words slurring before he collapsed face down onto the Persian rug.
Rossa bent to check if he was still conscious, slapping his face, calling to him to wake up. But there was no response. ‘Help me turn the fat oaf over,’ she urged Lucia. ‘As much as I’d love him to choke on his own vomit, it’s not in our brief. Dio mio, che schifo, I need to get the disgusting taste of him from my mouth,’ she said, swigging wine straight from the bottle.
The two girls pulled Petrelli onto his side and then Lucia opened the shutters and gave the signal to the others by switching the lights on and off three times.
‘There’s an old manservant somewhere in the house,’ Rossa warned Stancko as she let the men in. Lucia gasped as she recognised her cousin Moreno, and they exchanged smiles. The group spread out to perform their allotted tasks. In the kitchen, the girls filled sacks with as much as they could carry. Anything that was not perishable went in: salami, cheeses, jars of preserves, jams, bottles of brandy, dried beans. Upstairs, they pulled blankets, towels and sheeting from an antique linen cupboard and stuffed them into more sacks. Candles, matches, medicines – anything remotely useful and portable was taken.
Within minutes, they had gathered downstairs in the dining room. Stancko had found the servant hiding in an attic room and tied him to a chair.