“Well, I’m sure you… You must know, you probably don’t want to be reminded.”
“I don’t know much about Malva. Actually, I don’t know anything about her.”
“Well, they went to America, and she passed away there.”
I gasped and closed my eyes. My head spun. And so… She was gone. I would never meet her.
“I’m sorry… You didn’t know?”
I shook my head.
Tommaso was silent. And then: “I’m so sorry it had to be a stranger who told you.”
Malva was dead.
A heartbeat passed, then I found it in myself to open my eyes and reply. “Everything I’m learning about my family has been told to me by strangers.” I tried to smile.
A roll of thunder shook the house, and Morella curled up closer to Tommaso. I barely noticed, lost in my own thoughts. Even such shocking news seemed to be far away – I felt a little numb. My brain was so full, I couldn’t take any more discoveries. I needed to sleep, but first I had another question.
“Tommaso, I was told the house hadn’t been lived in for years. But it’s spotless. No dust, everything clean. The shutters are open. It even smells nice.”
“I think Flora comes to clean it. It’s only a guess, but I see her occasionally, coming up to the villa.”
“Flora?”
“She’s Malva’s sister… Your… aunt?”
I smiled broadly. “I have an aunt?”
“Yep. You didn’t know that either?”
I shook my head. My mother’s letter had mentioned she had no family left.
“Wow. I’d like to ask you how you didn’t know any of this, or why you never came to visit… but I’m beginning to sound like a village busybody. And you need rest.”
I sighed. “Yes. Thank you. I wonder… why does Flora” – another sweet name – “come to clean if nobody lives in the old place? Why bother at all?”
He shrugged. “You’ll have to ask her. You know, it’s funny…”
“What is?”
“Casa delle Lucciole never actually felt abandoned. I mean, yes, the castle’s gardeners keep the garden trimmed, I knew that, of course, and Flora cleans the place. But apart from all that, it always felt like there was someone there.”
“That’s exactly what I thought when I was inside.”
“Maybe it’s just my imagination, though. And you must have been frightened by the storm, and jet-lagged.”
I couldn’t deny it. My reaction in the house and outside it had been dramatic, to say the least. I couldn’t explain what had happened, not even to myself. I stifled a yawn. Talking to Tommaso had been so easy, it was as though I’d known him for a long time, but my thoughts were fading, and sleep was taking over.
“You’re exhausted. I’ll make up your bed,” he said and stood, followed by Morella.
“I can sleep on the couch,” I protested.
“No way. I’m a gentleman. And she’s a gentledog. You take the bed, Morella and I will sleep here.”
“Thank you for letting me stay. I hope it’s not too much of an imposition.”
“No imposition at all. Really. It’s a pleasure. I have girls from Texas appearing out of the blue, attacking me with a branch, then staying over all the time. It’s routine.”
“Don’t remind me. I’m so sorry.”
After Tommaso had finished changing the sheets, I wasn’t even too self-conscious to let myself fall into the bed. I was too drained to focus on the fact that I was about to fall asleep in a stranger’s house, in an isolated place almost in the middle of nowhere. The sheets smelled fresh and clean, and the warm blankets weighed heavily on me, cocooning me.
I had no time to think before falling asleep, the noise of the storm acting as a strange lullaby. I slept so deeply that if there was any thunder during the night, I didn’t hear it.
5
The feeling of something wet against my cheek woke me up. I opened my eyes to see an enormous black nose, belonging to an enormous dog, sniffing me. It took me a moment to remember where I was.
Italy… the storm… Tommaso…
“Hey, pup,” I murmured, and reached out to stroke her head. I rolled over and gazed at the ceiling, with its red, intricate brick patterns. A soft light came through the window, pale golden, and the place was in silence.
The events of the day before, good and bad, came back to me.
Malva was gone. I would never meet my birth mother.
Grief bit me, and I closed my eyes again, letting the emotion roll through every fiber of my body.
And then: Firefly House. The family I might have left. Flora… Montevino… everything left to discover.
I lifted myself out of bed, every muscle sore from travelling and tension, and tiptoed through to the living room as quietly as I could, in case Tommaso was still sleeping on the couch, but the place was deserted. On the table, I discovered a caffettiera, Italian-style, a dish covered with a cloth, a box of matches, and a note with a few words and a small sketch titled Orissi. What did that mean? It was a drawing of a girl with long hair brandishing a branch, and a tiny man with a speech bubble that said ‘Help!’ The rest of the scrap of paper was filled by lashes of stylized rain. I giggled. The handwriting in the note was almost indecipherable, but after a lot of squinting and turning the note left and right, I managed: Help yourself. Please let Morella out. Caffettiera on the stove, firewood in the shed. T.
I followed Tommaso’s instructions, turning on the ring underneath the silvery contraption on the stove and observing it suspiciously for a few minutes, until it began bubbling. The scent was incredible, so much better than machine coffee.
Under the cloth I discovered a small cake; it looked home-made and smelled divine. I was starving. Morella and I had a quick breakfast, then I slipped my sneakers on, still a bit damp after last night, and we walked out into the almost blinding sun. I blinked as my eyes took a moment to adjust to it. I rolled up my sleeves – Tommaso’s shirt was huge on me – and stood outside for a moment, contemplating my surroundings.
Reminders of last night’s storm lay beneath my feet: the ground was soaking and there were fallen branches all around – I was thankful, now, that I’d accepted Tommaso’s hospitality and not attempted to drive – but it was a clear spring morning with a bright blue sky and even brighter sunshine. I made my way across the few hundred yards that separated Tommaso’s cottage from the villa with Morella, who went on her way, leaving me alone to reverently step through the wrought-iron gate and into the villa’s garden.
Casa delle Lucciole. Finally, in the light of day, I could see it clearly. The dark burgundy color of its outside walls, the frescoes that decorated the walls, the terrace and the little tower on the side took my breath away. The frescoes were delicate and slightly faded, representing vineyards and fields dotted with men working the land and women in long dresses carrying baskets of grapes on their heads. I was dizzy for a moment – maybe it was because I’d been looking up for a few minutes, or maybe I was a little overwhelmed.
I pushed the wooden front door, left slightly open from the night before, and there I was, back in the hall, simply decorated with portraits, framed mirrors and a small antique side table. Through the first door on the left was the drawing room, bathed in light. Stony steps led upstairs, but I wanted to explore the ground floor first. Once again, the scents of vanilla and cinnamon hit me, and I was greeted by the feeling that the house was very much lived in. Now I could see properly how spotless it was, how well kept, with long white curtains hanging from the windows, the colorful antique rug, the blonde wood floors and immaculate white walls. I could so easily imagine a fragrant breakfast on the coffee table, clothes left around, hanging jackets and post in the hall.
This morning I could see that the focal point of the room was an immense fireplace, framed in wood and stone. The mantelpiece had a few knick-knacks on it, but no photographs. Seeing the fireplace reminded me of Tommaso’s note about the wood – and yes, the place was c
hilly, even if the night before the heating had been on. I would explore everything first, and then try my hand at lighting a fire.
I kept wandering and discovering the rooms, my feet making no noise on the parquet. Another reception room at the back of the living room, and then, on the other side of the stairs, the kitchen. Like Tommaso’s, it had a brick vaulted ceiling and white walls, and it was all made of wood and stone in a perfect mixture between ancient and modern. There was a fireplace in here too, blackened and full of soot. I opened a cupboard to see what was inside: crockery – some modern, some looking like they were made at the same time as the house – and utensils.
I was suddenly reminded of the Mary Celeste, this ship I’d read about somewhere, was found sailing the seas with nobody aboard and everything left suspended in time: food still on plates, beds unmade. It was like everyone had vanished…
I left the back door that led to the garden for later and moved down the hall. The small round tower I’d seen from the outside contained the study I’d been into the night before, and its shape made it look like a miniature castle. There was a set of stairs here too; I made my way upstairs on granite steps, the walls whitewashed like the first floor, the ceilings high and decorated with small stucco flowers and vines. I walked, silent and awed, among the antique furniture and paintings on the walls, until I found what seemed to be the master bedroom. There was a large cabinet against one wall and the four-poster bed opposite was made and covered with an immaculate crocheted bedspread. On both bedside tables were pristine crocheted doilies and painted glass lamps, and on the wall behind the bed hung a portrait of a woman.
Her face hypnotized me for a moment. It was white and round, with large black eyes and wavy black hair; the woman wore a cream blouse buttoned down the front and ruby earrings. She was beautiful, and there was a determined air about her, a gentle strength.
I tiptoed to the bed, still wrestling the uneasy feeling of being a guest here, of intruding on someone, living or dead, but desperate to look at the painting more closely. Gingerly, I took off my shoes and climbed onto the bed to get a better look. Then, as carefully as I could, I took the picture frame off the hook and turned it around. But there was nothing. No name, no signature.
The woman’s eyes were incredible, I thought, as I placed the portrait back on the wall. They looked so real, so clear. Elisa! It had to be her. Yes, there was definitely a likeness to the woman in the photograph that I’d found in the diary, minus the glasses. But that could be because the portrait had been painted to mark a special occasion, therefore she’d removed them.
I climbed down, and in doing so I moved the bedspread a little. The sheets were rough to the touch. I could see the threads criss-crossing as the loom had woven them, just like the linen cloth that covered the box my mother had left me. The sheets and pillowcases were embroidered in burgundy thread with two initials inside a flowery garland.
ES
I smiled, as if I’d found an old friend. That was the link, for sure – Elisa had lived here, and she had to be related to me. Maybe this had been her room. But how was she related to me, if indeed she was? I wondered, too, if her second name was really Stella. I could almost feel the eyes of the woman in the portrait looking down at me… Elisa, who are you? I called in my mind.
“Who are you?” A voice behind me spoke, loud and hostile. I was so lost in thought that I jumped almost to the roof. I clutched my chest and stood to face the stranger.
I blinked. The woman in front of me blinked too. It was like looking in a mirror. It had to be her: it had to be Flora, the woman Tommaso had said was Malva’s sister. Same hair as me, same eyes as me, same heart-shaped face, and with a tall, slight build. We were like twins, apart in age. I began to shake all over.
“Flora,” I whispered, and I sounded like a little girl.
“Who are you? What are you doing in this house?”
“I’m… Callie.”
The woman’s light blue eyes, identical to mine, widened under her eyebrows, thick and dark. She had a mane of black hair, curly and unkempt, and dangling earrings. I couldn’t tell her age; she seemed young, and yet there was a sense of weariness about her that made me think almost of old age. Her smooth, olive face contrasted with the shadows under her eyes.
“Callie?” she murmured, like she’d seen a ghost.
“Yes. Your niece? You might not believe I’m… me…”
“I think it’s pretty plain we are related,” she said.
Of course. You couldn’t fake such a resemblance.
I nodded. Words failed me.
“How… how did you find out? About this house? About… me?” she said. She sounded as shocked as I felt.
“I… I… My mother left me a letter, and, well, she left me this house. I only found out the truth two days ago… I had no idea I’d been adopted,” I rushed on, half forgetting my Italian along the way. There was so much to say, so much. I couldn’t possibly condense it all in two sentences. We had to sit down, and talk, then I could explain everything. But she wouldn’t give me the chance.
“Your mother?”
“Malva. Your sister.”
There was a moment and then the woman’s eyes widened even more, and her lips parted in a silent ‘O’. Once again, I wondered why my mother said she had no family left.
I held my breath, hoping she would open her arms for me and hold me, and my wish would come true… Not to be alone in the world anymore.
“You need to go away and never come back. It’s for your own good,” I heard instead.
“What?” I murmured. Then a little louder, “What?” Tears began gathering in my eyes. It was as if something had thawed in me, the hard, icy wall around my heart melting slowly in the Italian sun. I pressed a hand against my chest. It was a physical pain, to be spoken to like that after so much hope.
“Yes.”
There were a few heartbeats of silence. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, emotion almost electric on my skin. But I took my courage in both hands. “There’s so much I want to know. Why Malva gave me away, who my father is, where he is. Please, let’s talk,” I pleaded with her. “I know this is all so sudden, and I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you I was coming, but I… I didn’t even know you existed!”
Flora’s mouth trembled underneath her iciness. “Go back where you came from, Callie. And don’t come looking for me again.” And then: “I’m sorry.” She turned on her heels and left, leaving me frozen in shock, the spring sun scattering white rays across the floorboards, the scent Flora had carried with her – something fresh, herbal – vanishing slowly behind her.
This woman was my blood relative – my biological mother’s sister. My aunt. The way we looked was a clear sign that the same blood ran in our veins. My wish, not to be alone in the world, had come true – but not in the way I’d wished for. Flora clearly knew of my existence; she’d recognized my name. But I was a ghost from the past, someone she didn’t want in her life at all, now or ever. The thought I’d been tormenting myself with – that there was a reason why my parents had given me up – came back into my mind. Clearly, that reason was still valid, whatever it was.
I realized I was shaking; it took a few seconds to find myself again. When I could finally move, I ran to the window to see Flora’s slight figure running out the house and disappearing beyond the gate. I found my way to the terrace and stood there, breathing deeply, more tears finding their way out of me. Like Alice in Wonderland, would I drown in my own tears? The ones I’d had stored away for years…
The same questions kept coming back, echoing in my mind: Why had Flora never looked for me? Had she met me as a baby? Maybe she had looked for me, but never found me. Or maybe she’d just deleted me from her life.
Only Flora Stella had the answers. Only she could tell me what had happened to my mother, and why I’d been given away. She was also the only link I had to my father, and the mystery surrounding him. I would not stop trying to get her to tell me the truth.
But for now, all that could be seen of the woman I had hoped would hold me close to her, was a dark figure running down the winding road toward the village.
There was no other way to move on from the shock and upset of meeting Flora: I had to keep going. I retrieved my luggage from the car, and had a look around for Morella – after her wander she had returned to the cottage and she sat, mellow and contented, on the doorstep. I assumed it was okay for her to stay out, as Tommaso had said nothing about shepherding her back inside.
I ran upstairs with my things and looked for a bathroom; to my joy, there was a clean, sweet-scented, all-white bathroom beside the master bedroom. The clean smell in this room made it even more evident that someone had been there very recently. I locked the door. Just in case.
After a long, warm shower I put on my own clothes – jeans and dry sneakers, a long top and a cotton scarf to protect me from the chilly breeze – and having brushed my hair and put some make-up on to hide the worst of the jet lag, I began to make my way down the road to the village armed with the documents for the Italian lawyer and more than ready for a second breakfast. No point in driving – I needed the fresh air to wake myself up. I also had to find somewhere my cell phone worked, because back at the Windmill Café, Kirsten must have been worried sick by my sudden disappearance. And, finally, I would go and apologize to Adriana and Nonna at the Aquila Nera for cancelling the room during the storm.
As I walked, I breathed in the pure, sweet-scented mountain air, still full of moisture after yesterday’s rain. Oh, the smell of rain and wet earth was incredible. It seemed that May here was still a little chilly, colder than I would have imagined, and colder than in Texas too; but the sky was now perfectly blue. The road was asphalted, sandwiched either side by dense woods, with an undergrowth of dead leaves, and walnut and chestnut trees whose new leaves had taken a battering. Their branches seemed almost to be woven into each other, making the woods thick and dark. After the storm there were broken branches and puddles everywhere.
The Italian Villa: An emotional and absolutely gripping WW2 historical romance Page 6