The Soul Room

by Corinna Edwards-Colledge

  Dead on eight I heard the clatter of the Amarena’s cart against the flags outside Nonna’s front door. I kissed her hurriedly and went out. Fabrizio looked more the patriarch than ever, high up on the cart, his leather-gloved hands nonchalant on the horse’s reins. He held out his hand to help me up. My weight seemed nothing to him and once again I thought longingly of John, his strength and solidity. As he shook the reins and urged the horse to turn, Fabrizio leant over to kiss me on both cheeks, I acquiesced, and even managed to smile.

  ‘Nonna tells me you and the child are doing very well. You certainly look lovely – no worse for your trip.’

  ‘Nonna has looked after me very well.’

  ‘Many people around here go to Nonna for advice about their pregnancies. They believe she is a clairvoyant, has a special way of seeing.’

  ‘Really.’ I said non-committally; my hand going unconsciously to my bump.

  ‘Yes,’ he grunted, ‘of course it is all nonsense, superstizione. Unfortunately, it is beliefs like this that have held the South of Italy back.’

  I nodded and another piece of the puzzle of the Amarenas fell into place. I knew now that there was no way that Sergio would have felt able to tell his father about his gift. Probably not even his mother either. Nonna must have been his only true friend and ally. He hadn’t even told me about it, though perhaps he would have done if he had had the chance to meet me when I was pregnant. Like Nonna he may have known that his son shared his vision.

  It only took ten minutes for the little cart to reach the Amarena’s house. It was a stuffy night and the black silhouettes of the vineyards stood out starkly against a strangely phosphorescent sky. There was a sweetness in the air that I remembered from the Summer before, my Summer with Sergio. As I daydreamed, Fabrizio regaled me with an update on his empire. They had been making wine in this region for nearly a thousand years; he filtered his wine through volcanic clay and gave it softness through a special kind of fermentation normally used only for red wines. He was particularly proud to have broken into supermarkets in the UK and other parts of Europe and had impressed them by combining state of the art wine-making techniques with timeless artisanship. His discourse washed over me until he moved on to the subject of his extensive wine cellar, at this point I found myself strangely alert.

  ‘And they are all under your house?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded complacently. ‘When Collette was a little girl she paced every corridor in the cellars and worked out that there was over a mile of them. They go even further than the boundaries of the building in some places.’

  ‘In England some 16th century houses have ‘Priest holes’ in them. Little rooms, passages and escape tunnels the aristocracy would use to hide priests when Elizabeth the first persecuted the Catholics.’

  ‘Ah! Yes it is very like that! My cellars too have such passages, some come out by…’ He stopped, I couldn’t tell if by circumstance or design. ‘Here we are.’

  The dinner was predictably delicious. There was a small dish of spaghetti with clams, fried breadcrumbs and chilli as a starter, a thin and tender steak of veal stuffed with chargrilled aubergine and Porcini mushrooms. I hadn’t realised how much I had missed real Italian food until that meal, and the greedy pregnancy hormones meant that anxiety did nothing to hamper my appetite or my enjoyment.

  Rosa and Collette made polite enquiries about my health and the baby, but I sensed that their modest interest was only engendered by Fabrizio’s zeal (which increased exponentially with the amount of his own wine that he consumed) and did not match it. He barely stopped talking about all that he would teach my son – the things he had done with Sergio when he was a boy, the history and methods of the Amarena estate. Every now and then I interjected, trying to remind him that my son was going to be raised in England, but each time he waved me off and carried on. It was hard not to let his talk lead to a growing sense of unease, but I knew it would serve no purpose, and deep in my core I had already decided that there was no way I was going to let Mr Amarena have any control over my baby or his future.

  With the arrival of the sweet, a fantastically sticky almond cake soaked in Limoncello and doused in cream, Mr Amarena’s eyes twinkled.

  ‘I have a very fine dessert wine in the cellar that I have been saving for such an occasion as this,’ he said a little pompously, and as you haven’t had any wine yet Maddie, a glass of it will not do you or the baby any harm. You must try some.’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  ‘You should come down to the wine cellar with me, I can show you the rooms and passages I told you about.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’d like that.’ I did not like the idea of being stuck under the house on my own with Fabrizio though. ‘Collette, why don’t you come too, Fabrizio said you used to love exploring them as a child.’

  Collette sighed but managed a small smile. ‘Si, ok Maddie.’

  Fabrizio took my hand and led me across the impressive tiled hallway until we came to the huge airy kitchen. Collette followed behind, her stiletto heels clicking. At the far end of the kitchen there was another small corridor. Once we entered it Fabrizio threw up his hands, ‘Ah, che stupido, I forgot the keys. Wait here please.’ He left us in the corridor and dashed back into the kitchen. Collette looked bored. He didn’t go far, I heard him open something, a tin perhaps, there was a metallic sound, and then a clunk as it was presumably put back in its place. He returned, smiling broadly. ‘Andiamo.’ He gestured forward. There were three big doors at the end of the corridor, one left, one right, and one straight ahead. The door on the left was made of thick planks of dark wood fastened with brass bolts. It was much older than the other doors in the house, which had been replaced with modern ones and embellished with kitschy cut-glass handles. He put the key in the lock and turned it.

  As soon as he opened the door, a delightful blast of cool air sprang up from the gloom. He reached for a light and a steep flight of worn stone steps sprang into vision. We descended, and again I was led through more corridors; I was trying hard to remember the turns but it was difficult. The air was still and strangely scented – dust, old wood, a vague fruity smell – but there was no mustiness.

  ‘I used to make myself come down here, as a dare.’ Collette’s clear high voice echoed down the corridor. ‘I was so scared sometimes, but each time, I would make myself go further.’

  Fabrizio put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders and pulled her towards him. ‘You always were my brave bambina.’

  Finally the corridor we were in came to an end, with two doors, facing one another. The one we were opening, Fabrizio told me, led to the main domestic cellars. The second door was smaller than the other and looked even older than the one we had come through.

  ‘The other door, where does that lead? It looks very old.’

  He glanced quickly over his shoulder. ‘Oh, that one. It goes nowhere; to a couple of store-rooms and passages that were used for bringing provisions into the house at inconvenient times - so that the family weren’t disturbed.

  ‘Ah.’ I nodded. I intended to open it and have a quick look – much in the way that you have a peak in a new friend’s bedroom when you go to the loo. I rested my hand nonchalantly on the ancient handle and then two things happened at once. The first was that my baby aimed a ferocious kick at the underside of my ribs, so hard that I felt the top of my belly distend, and the second was that Fabrizio – far louder than I think he intended – said ‘No! It is locked.’ With a deep, slow, silent intake of breath I managed to hide my response to both and instead shrugged and smiled at Mr Amarena.

  Collette took my hand. ‘It is this way for the wine cellar Maddie.’ She pulled me gently away from the old door and down the corridor. We turned left then right and into a low-ceilinged room with a stone-flagged floor. The walls were lined with bottles of wine, from floor to ceiling.

  ‘Ha, here it is.’ Fabrizio removed a small slim bottle filled with honey-coloured liquid from one of the shelves and blew the
dust off it. ‘It is very fine, possibly it will be the best you have tasted.’

  I realised that wine, and pride at least, were two of Fabrizio’s weak points.

  The rest of the meal passed without incident and I knew that I could call on tiredness at any time if I wanted to leave in a hurry. There was no need though, and I returned to Nonna’s just after 11. She had gone to bed but left a note and a pan of sweet, slightly spiced milk on the stove for me. She warned me in the note that storms were on the way – I had sensed them already on the ride back with Fabrizio. Despite the warmth, the hairs on my arms had risen with static, and there was a faint smell of burnt sugar in the air.

  I went to bed, drank my milk and tried to sleep. The day kept playing through my mind though, my thoughts dipping in and out of all that had happened, searching for anything that could possibly link the Amarena’s with Dan. I found my thoughts stopping regularly on the storage rooms that Mr Amarena had alluded to. They were linked to the house and the grounds. They were so deep in the Terranima earth that they would be an ideal place to hide something, or someone. I knew it was irrational to think that Fabrizio, a respected and prosperous businessman, had anything to do with Dan’s disappearance. I had no reason or evidence to suggest it, just a slight feeling of general unease and mistrust. I couldn’t stop my imagination exploring these passageways; adrenalin coursed through me and made me want to leap out of the bed that minute and go and investigate them.

  I breathed deeply and tried to calm myself. I wasn’t the only person I needed to consider any more. There was a small life inside me, totally dependent on me to keep it safe. I would have to bide my time, find some kind of proof to make it clear that the risk was worth it. As often happened at the end of the day, the baby started to kick and squirm. I stroked my belly affectionately, feeling the changes in skin tension – the ripples and gentle distending. It was always a comfort to feel him in this way, to have the reassurance that he was strong and well. Sometimes the kicks and movements were so intense I felt sure that he was already keen to be born and the thought scared me and motivated me in equal measure.

  I sighed and changed position. As I did so, the whole atmosphere in the room changed quite suddenly. The air became denser and hotter, and the Cicadas started to screech hysterically in the long dry grasses below the window. It reminded me of another evening, here in Terranima, when a thunder storm had woken me up and I had listened in to my parents and the Amarenas talking in the garden outside.

  I decided that sleep at that moment was a lost cause, and hauled myself inelegantly out of the bed. I rummaged through my suitcase and found my Mum’s diary. I had been meaning to finish it for weeks. I had surprised myself by not reading it in one sitting; but it was hard work emotionally - to hear those private words come out of the world of the dead. I had to steel myself before each reading and so it had been slow-going.

  The bedroom had lovely old French doors, leading out onto a small covered balcony which sat snugly over the front door. There was a rickety but pretty wrought iron chair and small table there; I fetched the pillows from the bed and tried to make myself comfortable. The sky had split in two. The top half was thick, impenetrable black cloud; the bottom half, strangely back-lit with peach coloured light. The air buzzed. Then the storm started, streaks of lightning laced the sky; some thick, like molten fissures in the air, others as thin and delicate as a spider’s leg. Great claps of rough, dry thunder followed, but there was no rain. I watched, mesmerised for several minutes, then eventually my mind drew down to the diary in my lap - the one disguised as a Dickens novel.

  I was about three-quarters of the way through. At the last sitting I had read June and July, the daily trials and tribulations of my mum’s life, affectionate little stories about my antics (all of which made me cry) and regular references about the much anticipated holiday in Italy. It also became clear in the diary that she had moments of ambivalence and doubt about her relationship with Dad. This hurt me. I had never seen any sign of it in my childhood, had never suspected. I had struggled to forgive Dad after his confession to an affair on the day of Mum’s death. It had taken me a long time, and more life experience of my own, to accept that I had no right to judge him. My mum’s feelings expressed in her diary, made me forgive him a little bit more.

  I had to confront the fact that my mum was consummate at hiding her feelings, that she maybe saw Dad sometimes as a compromise, always fearing that there was someone better around the corner that she had missed out on. Yet they managed to stay together, throughout it all, and always presented to Dan and me, a partnership that seemed based on mutual affection and respect. Did something happen that forced them both to start talking and sort their relationship out? Did Dad stop feeling lonely?

  I went back into the room and fetched a tissue and a candle. The storm was slowly moving on and the air had become darker and fresher. The candle burned brightly, the air was extraordinarily still considering the tumultuous clash of ions that had recently taken place, so it cast plenty of light to read by. The Cicadas had also ceased their atonal accompaniment, and a new peace settled over the house; the storm now a distant glow on the dark edges of the horizon. I opened the diary and started to read.

  AUGUST 3RD

  At last, today is the day! We fly to Rome to be picked up by Fabrizio and Rosa. Maddie is electric with excitement and has packed her own little suitcase for the plane; felt tips, a little pad, her favourite teddy, a pack of Cadbury’s chocolate fingers, a couple of Mr Men books and two matchbox cars! I do hope it’s not too big to be counted as hand luggage. The taxi is here so I’ll sign off for now. It’s a beautiful day outside though very hot so it’s bound to be scorching in Terranima.

  The next few entries were mainly records of what we got up to on the holiday – happy days spent exploring the vineyard, having picnics, bemoaning hangovers after long dinners on the terrace, staying out until the sun rose. Then I read the entry for Sunday August 20th.

  Oh dear God. What am I to do? I’m not religious, I never have been religious, but it’s what keeps going through my head, oh dear God, oh dear God. I can hardly bear to write this in my diary but I know I must. I’ve got to tell it somewhere or I’ll go mad. It would come out somehow and I have vowed that I never, never want that to happen. I want to bury it, here and now in these pages. These pages are it’s coffin, and if there is one good thing to come out of this horror, it is that I see what a fool I have been, what an arrogant, vain fool; and I make an oath right now to start to cherish my husband again as I used to; to love him and talk to him and open up to him. Except for this. He must never, ever know about this.

  I don’t know how I am going to write this down, how I can with all the revulsion and anger and guilt that is swarming inside me. As an old friend once said, ‘just say it’.

  Ever since we arrived I’ve noticed that Fabrizio has been paying me extra attention. Little things that other people wouldn’t notice – long looks, thoughtful little compliments and observations, delicate physical attentions, like taking my hand to help me down the last few stairs, his hand on my back to guide me – that kind of thing. I have to admit that I had found this immensely flattering, and that after a couple of weeks of this treatment I fancied myself a little in love with him. He is, or at least until yesterday I thought him, a very handsome man. There is also a power about him that made him very attractive, not just the power implicit in his build and strength, but in his manner and confidence too. It is no excuse for allowing this to continue, but I have felt bereft on the romantic front for a long time.

  Duncan long since forgot to tell me if he thinks I look nice, to stroke my hair like he used to. I’ve allowed these things to build up into resentment, and that resentment allowed me to indulge in Fabrizio's attentions blindly. Even to start to seek them and miss them if they weren’t given. I told myself that I deserved them – that I was still a woman and a desirable one at that, and that if Duncan wasn’t careful he would end up losing me. I was so
caught up in this, the glamour and excitement of it that I didn’t really stop to think of the consequences – of the hurt to Duncan and Rosa, and poor little Maddie. I was blinded. Until yesterday.

  Two nights ago, after dinner, when Rosa had taken Duncan to the stables to show him her new horse, Fabrizio declared himself to me. He was feverish and insistent. He held my hands and rested his forehead on mine. He told me he was in love with me, that I was the most beautiful woman he had ever known, that he would fight to win me. That I must make excuses and meet him at one of the old barns on the estate the next day at 2pm. I was blown away, we kissed, my heart raced. I hadn’t felt like that for twelve years. It was utterly intoxicating and utterly irresistible. We kissed, my insides went to jelly, it felt right. We stopped in time before Rosa and Duncan reappeared. That night I couldn’t sleep, I was caught in a fit of ecstasy and anxiety. I made love to Duncan and then felt aghast with guilt as I had only done it to release the desire built up by Fabrizio’s caresses.

  The next day I was hungover and felt a little guilty and subdued. But my heart still leapt when I saw Fabrizio. I told myself that I hadn’t done anything yet – not really – and I owed it to myself and Fabrizio to see if we were meant to be together. I would make sure I didn’t go too far, but by the same token I wasn’t going to give up on something that could give me a whole new chance at happiness, at least not yet. So I went to meet Fabrizio. He was as passionate and eloquent as the night before. We held each other and kissed, and then, imperceptibly something changed. He started to caress my breasts through my dress, his kiss became harder, more insistent. I felt myself on a precipice, poised between wanting it and not wanting it. His grip on my breast became harder. One of my hands was under his shoulder and behind his back. The other he pinned behind me with his spare hand and bent me backwards. It was uncomfortable, I tried to speak but his mouth was still clamped on mine. His hand moved down between my legs, that was when I managed to twist my head free. I had gone over the precipice, I didn’t want it. I told him so, I struggled. He held me tighter. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ He said to me, laughing. ‘Of course you want it. You wore that dress when you knew I could see your nipples through it. You become aroused every time you see me, every time I so much as touch you. Even now,’ he slid his hand roughly into my knickers and brought his fingers out, glistening, I gagged with shame. ‘It makes no difference!’ I managed to say. ‘I was attracted to you, but I don’t want it now. I don’t want you now, let me go.’ That made him angry. He pushed me onto the floor, now holding both my hands pinned behind my back and raped me. I don’t know for how long. I cried and struggled but his face was cold and showed no mercy and no shame. When he’d finished he got up and wiped himself. I lashed out at him, kicked his legs, but he just laughed and walked out into the vineyard. Somehow I got back to the house, managed to get in and shower before anybody saw me. Thank God Maddie was out with Colette, even just seeing her would have broken my defences completely. Later, Duncan came in and found me packing. ‘So you’ve heard already then?’ he said. I couldn't speak and could hardly bear to look at his kind familiar face. ‘Apparently some business emergency has come up. Fabrizio and Rosa have to go to Connegliano. They’ve booked us flights home.’