I, Sofia-Elisabete, Love Child of Colonel Fitzwilliam

by Robin Kobayashi

  ‘La superba,’ we obedient pupils agreed with him.

  ‘Otra vez,’ commanded Señor Gonzalez. ‘Again, but with feeling.’

  ‘La superba!’ We waved our hands high above our heads.

  ‘Bueno. And now for your reward.’ Señor Gonzalez placed a rosolio drop on each of our tongues.

  I closed my eyes, eager for the sugar pebble to explode on my tongue in a burst of flavour. ‘Mmm, I got lemon this time.’

  Bom! Bom! Bom! The brass-cannons situated on the jetty saluted an important personage. Having espied three royal carriages, Señor Gonzalez announced that the Queen of Sardinia had arrived to join the King and that the Queen’s suite was en route to the Palazzo Doria. Our Genoese boatmen spat into the sea on hearing this piece of news, and I wondered why. Señor Gonzalez explained that Genoa had once been the capital of an independent republic for eight centuries until Napoleon vanquished it, and now that Napoleon had been vanquished, Genoa belonged to the Kingdom of Sardinia.

  I wrinkled my forehead. ‘Is that why they speak Genoese and not Italian?’

  Both Señor Gonzalez and the mariner laughed as if at a good joke, and I prided myself on being clever even though I had no idea why I was so. But I dared not ask them about it. Papai always said there’s nothing worse than spoiling a good joke afterwards by trying to explain it.

  We disembarked at the landing-wharf near a galley filled with a gang of slaves chained at the ankles. With mingled feelings of compassion and terror, I gaped at the sweaty, ragged men. Señor Gonzalez learnt that they were criminals, and he asked us, did not it instil a fear of being punished likewise for committing a crime? I nodded in reply. ‘Libertas,’ said he. ‘One must never take freedom for granted.’

  Further down the pier I observed children a few years older than myself wearing a tin medal of Infant Asylum round their necks and embarking on a voyage to a destination unknown. Some of the shoe-less children stared at me as if they knew I had been a foundling. Once you are a foundling, you are always a member of the foundling club, thinks I, because the taint and sorrow of it always seems to follow you – to remind you of it – even if your papai is of noble blood.

  Upon our return to Villa Leone, we found Doña Marisa reclined on a chaise longue, weeping into her handkerchief. How glum she looked. Alone in the villa with no one to speak to, she had been struck with sudden doubt. She feared we would never find Villa La Luna and we would be homeless, for ever to roam the continent like gipsies. Señor Gonzalez grasped her hand to kiss it, and he begged her to repeat what Don Luis had told her.

  Doña Marisa became thoughtful. ‘Don Luis said it was “a hidden villa in a place near the sea”. Those were his exact words.’

  ‘Ay! What a conundrum,’ lamented he.

  ‘A riddle? Almost every village here in Liguria is “near” the sea. We shall never solve it.’ Doña Marisa sobbed into her handkerchief.

  ‘A place near the sea…’ repeated Emmerence. ‘Padre Pozzi knows the history of many a village here.’

  As quick as can be, we got into the carriage, our destination being the Santa Maria del Prato to speak with Padre Pozzi. He disappeared for several minutes, when he returned carrying a large, ancient book, its binding crackling with age. For the next fifteen minutes, we waited patiently while he turned the musty pages until he found something of interest. He mentioned there was a small fishing village about four miles distant to the east called Nervi, the name of which might come from a Celtic phrase, for the Celts once settled there before the Romans. ‘Guarda!’ cried he, pointing to a drawing of the Nerviese coat of arms with its motto ‘near av inn’ or ‘place near the sea’.

  Doña Marisa hung her head, confessing to the padre that she had overlooked Nervi, not thinking it of consequence, or rather, not befitting her station. Now humbled, she thanked the padre, and she begged for God’s forgiveness. The padre told us that Nervi is known for its excellent air, lofty views, rich gardens and groves, and temperate weather all the year round. It serves as a place to heal, he believed, and several wealthy families have built villas there – Grimaldi, Gropallo, Saluzzo, Gnecco. Near Villa Bonera, the noble Ponte Romano provides passage over a torrent. Once, as a young man, when he had suffered from doubt, he walked across this ancient arched bridge, and when he reached the other side, he obtained clarity of mind.

  In Nervi the next day, all this sleepy fishing village offered as far as I could see, besides the small harbour, were the ruins of a castle and hay tower, and several villas half-hidden in the green mountain sides. But on closer inspection, I espied lemon groves, orange groves and olive trees scattered throughout the peaceful hamlet. And near the wild cliffs, the views of the sea abounded. Doña Marisa appeared half-anxious, half-determined as she searched the hills with her spyglass.

  ‘I don’t care if it’s a mud hut,’ declared Doña Marisa. ‘We shall be happy at Villa La Luna.’

  Señor Gonzalez examined the large, ancient key on her necklace. ‘Mi amor, it must be a very large mud hut.’

  This made her laugh, and it was then that I knew without a doubt that Señor Gonzalez truly and sincerely loved her and that he would live in a mud hut if it pleased his lady. The two of them linked arms, and they strolled off. For the first time, their romanticking didn’t bother me.

  Having found the Ponte Romano – the one that had helped a young and confused Padre Pozzi – we determined to cross this ancient Roman bridge. While Doña Marisa and Señor Gonzalez stood atop the highest point of the arched bridge, speaking in whispered tones, we children descended to the other side where a young italiano and his donkey cart approached us. He was a handsome italiano with nut-brown skin and curly raven hair, and he whistled a sprightly tune.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ I waved my red cap at him.

  He touched his cap. ‘Buongiorno.’

  ‘Sì?’ I pointed to the donkey.

  He nodded, and thus I petted the gentle beast. I nudged Emmerence with my foot, giving her the broadest of hints.

  ‘Come ti chiami?’ inquired she.

  ‘Luca,’ said he with a blush.

  ‘Ask where he’s going?’ I half-whispered to Emmerence.

  ‘Dove andate?’

  ‘Villa La Luna.’

  Emmerence and I shared a look of amazement, whereupon we became nearly wild with excitement. Our burst of loud squeals startled poor Luca, who wobbled about as if his legs had turned to maccaroni. Emmerence gleaned from our shy friend that he was the gardener, the ortolana, at Villa La Luna, and he would guide us there; otherwise, we would never find it – so well hidden it was. Pico rushed back to the bridge, shouting ‘La Luna! We found La Luna!’

  Doña Marisa cried out in wonder ere she fell into a half-swoon. ‘Help me, Pico,’ ordered Señor Gonzalez. Pico fanned Doña Marisa with his cap, while Señor Gonzalez placed a small phial under her nose, giving her a whiff of orange-blossom scent to revive her. ‘I’m quite recovered,’ protested she, when Señor Gonzalez carried her down the bridge. But I thought she looked as pale as an orange blossom.

  Worried that Doña Marisa could not walk far, Señor Gonzalez placed his brown capa inside the donkey cart for his lady. There, situated amongst pots of flowers and baskets of fresh vegetables and grey kittens with yellow eyes, Doña Marisa reclined inside the cart in a most noble fashion, shading herself with a parasol. She laughed at herself, saying, ‘Is it not befitting that I’m being conveyed to Villa La Luna in a donkey cart? It serves me right for thinking so highly of myself. Andiamo!’

  Luca led us in a long march west, after which he turned seaward. He approached a thick grove of dark cypress trees, where a dirt path wound through it until it ended at an unadorned iron gate. Señor Gonzalez handed his lady out of the cart, and he escorted her into a small park of sorts. Luca, who served as cicerone, pointed out pine trees, olive trees, oleanders, myrtles, and in the distance, a bowling-green and a magic orange grove protected from the strong winds. An Italian garden came into view, and Luca, with great pride, d
rew our attention to the rows of potted lemon trees, low box hedges, flower beds and octagonal fountain depicting all sorts of moons – crescent moon, half-moon, gibbous moon and full moon. He swept his arm upwards to the villa at the end of the gravelled path.

  The villa was anything but a mud hut. The colour of it reminded me of a pale lemon, while the shutters were a peculiar green – something that Señor Gonzalez referred to as Veronese green – but now weathered with age. On the ground floor stood the entrance with an arched wooden door. Above it, the first floor boasted several arches, which Señor Gonzalez described as an open loggia with a view of the sea. And above the loggia, on the second floor, a row of round windows brought to mind full moons.

  But the most fascinating feature of the villa, at least for me, was the lofty tower that rose in the centre, as if it had burst through the roof. I imagined myself in the evenings sitting high up in this fortress, where I would reach out to the starry heavens and rearrange the stars to my liking, and once I had done creating new constellations, I would curl up to sleep, safe in my celestial dream.

  Doña Marisa pressed her hands to her face. ‘I must be dreaming,’ murmured she, staring at the grand vision before her.

  I nodded like a wise man. ‘It’s a waking dream.’

  ‘How do you know what that is?’

  I shrugged at her. ‘My papai has them often.’

  Doña Marisa and I advanced towards the wooden door, her hand trembling in mine. She kissed the ancient moon key, and with a deep breath, she inserted the key into the lock. This key, being rather large, required both of her hands to turn it, so turn it she did two-handed with alacrity. Click. Click. The door opened, creaking on its hinges, and we stepped inside as silent as thieves. There, in the spacious entrance-hall, she knelt to embrace me with happiness and relief, the tears sparkling on her cheeks like tiny diamond stars. She spoke to me in a quiet, confidential tone.

  ‘There are those who say you and I are low creatures, but mind you, we are descended from a titled Spaniard, Don Luis de Luna, he being a native Genoese.’

  I wrinkled my brow. ‘Is Emmerence a low creature? What of Luca?’

  This gave her pause. ‘The truth is, we are all equal before God.’

  Thereafter, our companions joined us inside, and Doña Marisa and Señor Gonzalez broke out into raptures with the fine frescoes, the lofty ceilings, the great staircase, the niches with statues, &c. Doña Marisa found the bell-pull, and within seconds, a robust housekeeper appeared. She bowed to us, introducing herself as Ninetta, the housekeeper and cook for Villa La Luna. To Doña Marisa’s surprise, Don Luis had written to Ninetta several months ago, instructing her to ready the villa for her new mistress, Doña Marisa, and so she had done. ‘He must’ve recognised the key when I showed it to him,’ murmured Doña Marisa. Ninetta left us then to prepare a small repast for us.

  Of a sudden, Doña Marisa clutched at her belly.

  ‘Ay, I’ve felt it move,’ marvelled she.

  ‘Is your maccaroni swimming in there?’ wondered I.

  With a broad grin, she patted my cheek. ‘I’m having a baby, and you will have a new brother or sister.’

  I goggled at her swollen belly. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Indeed,’ confirmed she.

  ‘Will you put it in the roda?’ I frowned at the thought of my baby brother or sister eating meagre soup every day, sleeping on a patch of straw and begging for alms.

  This shocked her. ‘I shan’t go near a foundling turnbox wheel again.’

  ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘Sí, I promise,’ said she in a clear and quiet voice.

  She placed my hand on her belly, and I felt something mysterious move therein. Had I ever lived inside of her belly? I certainly didn’t remember having done so. And that is how I discovered the best thing in the world would happen and by far much better than a moon, namely, I would have a new brother or sister. That night I dreamt of a tender-hearted boy, a sweet boy, with golden hair, rosy cheeks and clear blue eyes as pretty as rosolio drops, the two of us sitting under an orange-tree arm in arm, feeding each other sugary gewgaws. I kissed my little brother, and I tickled him on his belly. ‘Ha! Ha!’ giggled he, my half of a brother. Thereafter, I dressed him in my majo costume, and he leapt high in the air, crying ‘Olé!’ He possessed the spirit of a true bolero dancer, because he was the brother of my soul.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Lion and the Savage

  MY FIRST BIG LIE, thinks I, was the one I kept telling myself that the perfect world of a moon existed. On this journey, I had discovered that we lie because we refuse to own the truth. We lie to make ourselves feel better. We lie because we don’t think we’ll be caught, and so forth and so be it – there are a thousand reasons to lie, it seems to me.

  When I think on it now, of the sizes and shapes and appearances of lies, I imagine a sea filled with fishes of all sorts. Some are pretty colours and fanciful, others are ugly and vicious, and then there are the skittish ones, which dart about, not wishing to do any real harm. Sometimes a small fish is gobbled up by a big fish, such as when a small lie turns into a bigger lie. Sometimes a fish is hooked or caught in a lie. Sometimes a net catches a boatload of fish, and all the little lies come to the surface to be revealed. Sometimes a cunning fish eludes capture and it becomes emperor of the sea, until one day it is vanquished, and its lies and deceptions sink to the bottom of the sea, where there is nought but the murky truth; at least that’s what my papai said.

  At Villa La Luna the days passed by with almost perfect happiness, the main thing wanting here being a reunion with my papai, my mamãe Aggie and my puggy. After Ninetta prepared us children our noon-day meal of minestra or polenta, I would beat my drum in the garden, hoping that papai would recognise ‘Tree on the Hill’ and find our hidden villa near the sea. One such afternoon Señor Gonzalez followed me to the garden, and he asked me why I always played the same drum beating. I told him that it was a special one that I must needs play every day.

  He paused to examine my drum. ‘I wonder, does your drum ever talk to you?’

  I considered this for a moment. ‘It says rat-a-tat-tat tap-too.’

  This made him laugh for some reason.

  ‘Señor Gonzalez, do you like being a cortejo?’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he tugged at his jacket. ‘I am not just a cortejo. Have you ever heard of the book, Adventures of a Wheel of Cheese? No? Well, what about, The Life and Times of a Hairless Hare? No?’

  I shrugged at him.

  Señor Gonzalez groaned with disbelief. ‘Well, I wrote them for children but under a lady’s name, of course.’

  I scratched my head. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Why? Because I, being a manly man, don’t want my good name associated with books where a wheel of cheese speaks to people, as does the hairless hare.’

  I squinted at him. ‘But cheese and hares can’t talk.’

  ‘Indeed, that’s why the books are droll and written by the drollest of drolls, Madame de Coccinelle, otherwise known in England as Lady Le Buggo. I am now writing a book titled The Magic Drum’s Grand Tour. The drum, which has eyes, ears and a mouth painted on it, befriends little boys and girls wherever it goes on the continent.’

  To be sure, I was wholly bewildered. ‘Do you like children?’

  ‘Ay, Dios mío!’ He waved me off as if to dismiss the thought. ‘The crying, the whining, the jodeling – I can do without them.’

  This gave me pause. ‘Señor Gonzalez? Methinks you’re a contradishin.’

  ‘A ha!’ He smiled broadly. ‘You do understand what a contradiction is.’

  In the course of the evening, as we sat in the loggia watching the sun set, Señor Gonzalez got monstrously drunk, calling himself a ‘big lying bug’ and bemoaning that he could never publish anything of significance now. Doña Marisa pulled the bell with alacrity, and she requested that Ninetta take us children to our rooms. That night, as we slept, I heard the mournful blare of an alpho
rn in my dreams. Bwwaaarrrhhhmmm. I opened my eyes, wondering what Señor Gonzalez was about. I sneaked up to the tower where I could watch him in his tipsy state, tottering to and fro in the park, with his alphorn slung over his shoulder. By the light of the moon, I observed instead a white triangular ghost sailing atop the orange-trees. I rubbed my sleepy eyes, convinced that it had been real.

  A young child I might have been in those days, but I knew enough of the world to realise that I lived amongst pairs of people in this ark near the sea: Doña Marisa and Señor Gonzalez being one; Pico and Emmerence being the other. One day, when everyone had paired off – the grown-ups strolling near the cliffs, and Pico and Emmerence playing at Mora – I felt it most keenly. I pondered whether Oskar Denzler, my Swiss beau, pined for me as much as I pined for him, because an inward feeling told me he just might not. To cheer myself, I determined to go courting. I wore my stylish majo breeches with red silk sash, white cambric shirt and bright red Genoese cap set jauntily to one side. From the tower, I espied my prey: Luca, the shy and handsome gardener. I rushed out of doors, bare-legged and barefoot in the Genoese way, intent on making him mine.

  ‘Luca! Oh, Luca!’

  Luca touched his cap and grinned at me. ‘Scì?’

  ‘Luca, I have come to flirt with you in the Genoese way.’

  Luca shrugged, because he didn’t understand English.

  ‘Amô! I am in love with you,’ I clasped my tiny hands over my heart in a grand gesture of devotion.

  He cast a worried side-glance at the orange grove. ‘No, no, no,’ he shielded himself with one hand as if I had the plague.

  ‘Scì, scì, scì,’ I pressed my suit. ‘Luca, will you be my beau?’

  I had no sooner made my proposal, than Luca hastened down the foot path, pushing his ancient wheelbarrow at great speed.

  ‘Oh, hang it!’ I pitched my red cap onto the ground. As if in concert with my dismal mood, the sun hid behind a heavy bank of clouds, and a ghostly gloom descended on earth.

  ‘Have you forsaken me already?’ A hoarse, strangled voice called out to me.