If You Could Go Anywhere

by Paige Toon

  ‘I see. Okay.’ He seems to decide that this is acceptable, but when we get in the van, I’m sure he questions Alessandro about it.

  Alessandro brushes him off, waving his hand dismissively and tutting at whatever it is he’s saying as he drives, shaking his head, out of the car park. After that, they switch to English.

  The journey to Tivoli takes less than forty minutes, beginning on the motorway but changing to country roads as we near our destination. Out of my window, fields and farmyards zip past. Everything is so green. I’ve never seen so many trees in my life.

  Alessandro tells me that we might get a chance to visit the hilltop town of Tivoli later, but the family’s land is on the outskirts, situated to the north-west of the medieval centre. A bumpy dirt track leads us up to it.

  They must’ve heard us coming – it would be hard not to, with that diesel engine – because when we arrive, we have a welcome party. Serafina, Eliana, Enzo, who I’ve already met, and my cousins, Valentina and Jacopo, are all here.

  I have a strange knot in my stomach as Serafina walks towards the van with her arms open. It’s not anxiety; it’s something else.

  She can’t see me behind the darkened windows, but when Giulio climbs out to greet her, her smiling attention remains focused on the side door.

  Alessandro is on his way around the back of the van, but I don’t wait for him to open my door for me. I feel a bit odd about being presented.

  Serafina’s face lights up as I tentatively slide my own door open, and even though the rest of the family is behind her, at first, she’s the only one I see.

  Her eyes are narrow and her nose quite big, but her whole face is smiling, her cheeks bulging like a chipmunk with a mouth full of nuts. Her shortish hair is grey and thick with tightly packed curls and she’s wearing a blue and white checked apron. When I step out of the van, she embraces me. I’m taller than her by several inches, but I can feel the strength of her embrace. The knot tightens and my nose prickles with emotion.

  Oh, Nan… I’m overwhelmed with grief at the thought of her and desperately, desperately sad that she kept this part of my family from me.

  Serafina pulls away from me and clasps my face with her hands, looking intently at my features. She exclaims something and touches her hand to my hair, turning around to beckon excitedly to Valentina.

  My seventeen-year-old cousin steps forward. She’s beautiful, with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes, and she’s wearing a pretty fifties-style red and white polka dot headscarf that’s tied into a knot on the top of her head.

  At Serafina’s insistence, Valentina removes the scarf, and I gasp. We have the same thick, frizzy curls!

  I have always wondered where my hair came from and now I know: my father’s side of the family.

  My hair is medium-blond, whereas Valentina’s is dark, but it’s the same texture and length, although she wears it much better than I do.

  Valentina and my grandmother chat away animatedly to each other as Eliana steps forward.

  ‘My mother had hair like this too,’ she says, translating what Serafina is saying as my grandmother touches my hair with amazement. She seems absolutely delighted. I think she might now be saying that I have Giulio’s eyes, from the way she’s gesticulating and looking between her beaming son and me.

  Alessandro has told me that the whole family speaks English, although not necessarily fluently. In the heat of the moment, I don’t think it’s occurring to my grandmother that I can’t understand a word of what she’s saying.

  Eliana is stockier than her mother, but with the same bulging cheeks. Her hair is black, threaded through with grey, and tied up in a bun, and she’s wearing thick black horn-rimmed glasses.

  Enzo, Eliana’s husband, and I met at the restaurant the other day. His white T-shirt is splattered with cooking sauce and he smells of tomatoes when we hug. It reminds me of Giulio’s promise of a feast on our arrival.

  Last but not least, I meet Jacopo, Valentina’s twin brother.

  He’s been hanging back, talking to Alessandro, and he seems a little awkward and gangly as he steps forward to greet me. His features are still a bit too large for his face, but I suspect he will grow into them.

  I look over at Alessandro. Serafina has his face in her hands and is chattering away to him as he smiles down at her.

  She breaks away from him and guides me towards the house, a warm, soft arm around my waist. I feel oddly at ease with her. Maybe it’s because I’m comfortable around people of my nan’s generation. I know enough of them at home.

  The house is nestled amongst tall skinny cypress trees, but it’s a bit of a shambles, with old brickwork peeking out beneath patches of broken plaster. What remains of the plastered walls is painted salmon, but it’s obvious the colour has faded dramatically over the years and is washed-out in places. The many small windows are each fitted with wooden shutters, some open, some closed. The building looks a bit as if it’s on its last legs, but, inside, it’s a different story. The walls are whitewashed and clean with terracotta floor tiles and the cosy rooms are crammed with rugs and wooden antique furniture. The kitchen, by contrast, is as modern as they come: shiny stainless steel, the kind of thing a Michelin-starred chef would be proud of.

  I don’t stay inside long before venturing out into the warm sunshine with Alessandro, Eliana and my cousins on a tour of the grounds.

  The Marchesis own about four acres of land on a steep hillside peppered with fruit trees, stone pines and sprawling, ramshackle outbuildings.

  The higher land behind the house contains pens for the pigs, two goats and chickens. Valentina tells me that the goats are called Fiocco and Nocciolina – ‘Bow’ and ‘Little Nut’. It’s her responsibility to milk them every morning. She and her brother are generally responsible for the welfare of the animals.

  ‘Can I feed them too?’ I ask Valentina when she swoops down and pulls up a handful of grass, tempting Fiocco and Nocciolina over.

  ‘Of course!’

  I laugh as their teeth tickle the palm of my hand. I’ve never seen a goat in real life before.

  Nor pigs! I feel a bit sorry for them, knowing what I know about pork and fennel sausages, but they seem happy, especially when Jacopo and Alessandro scratch them between the ears. I copy them, giggling when the pigs snort loudly at me and try to nibble the sleeve of my shirt. I thought goats were supposed to be the ones that ate your clothes.

  Part of the land is terraced – flattened-out expanses with retaining walls made of stone. The herb and vegetable garden sits on one of these terraces and it’s huge. Eliana makes me promise to visit later in the summer when it’s in its prime.

  There’s also an orchard with lemon, fig and peach trees growing in abundance, and a vineyard that Eliana tells me was planted by her husband ten years ago. He and Jacopo have been making wine, but only enough for the family. They’d like to plant vines up on the higher slopes one day and maybe even buy some extra land.

  At the bottom of the property is a river rushing noisily downhill. The flora and fauna here have been left to their own devices and everything is so green and lush. It honestly feels like heaven on earth. I can just imagine myself sitting amongst the swaying grasses, relaxing in the sunshine.

  High up on the other side of the river is the town of Tivoli, a mass of medieval buildings of various sandy shades, from cream to pale orange. I stare up at a bell tower topped with a pyramid-shaped roof and sigh with contentment.

  Eliana tells me that Serafina used to walk to town at least three times a week when she was younger. Sometimes she, Giulio and Loreta, their little sister, would be dragged along as well. It would take them at least an hour to get there – longer if Loreta was dawdling – but the 500-metre climb was much easier in reverse, and of this they were thankful because they were always laden down with shopping bags from the market.

  The land closer to the house is also terraced with neatly mown grass edged with vibrant flowerbeds. Remnants of a happy childhood a
re visible in the rope swing hanging from a nearby tree and an old wooden playhouse.

  What a lovely place this must’ve been for Valentina and Jacopo to grow up, not to mention Giulio, Loreta and Eliana. The home has been in the Marchesi family for decades.

  We eat outside on a long trestle table and every one of the dishes is delectable. Along with the usual vast array of antipasti, there are fried artichokes that are shatteringly crisp on the outside and tender within; cacio e pepe, literally translated as cheese and pepper, a rich but simple Roman pasta dish that packs loads of flavour, made with Pecorino Romano cheese and freshly ground pepper; rich savoury and sweet Roman oxtail stew with slow-cooked, fall-off-the-bone meat, plus vegetable dishes such as cauliflower parmesan, and chicory, sautéed Roman style, with garlic and chilli pepper.

  ‘This really is a feast,’ I marvel. ‘It’s incredible.’ I’m full but reluctant to stop eating.

  ‘Come to Tivoli for Christmas!’ Eliana exclaims. ‘So much food! Loreta, Boris, Francesca and Francesca’s husband Pepe – they all join us, and Melissa, too, will return from Venice, maybe with Otello this year.’ Melissa is Eliana and Enzo’s eldest daughter – she’s twenty-one and, along with her boyfriend, Otello, is studying environmental sciences.

  ‘Si, si, you must!’ Serafina exclaims, and the table is full of loud, vocal agreements, a cacophony of sound.

  The thought of it… The thought of being surrounded by this vibrant, welcoming family… I have a return ticket to Australia booked for early September, but I can’t imagine Christmas in Coober Pedy without Nan. Who would I celebrate with? Jimmy, Vera and Laszlo, like last year? They came to my dugout for a very simple meal – I did a roast chicken with roast potatoes and a few veggies, but didn’t feel up to making all of the extra trimmings. Nan was very frail and barely touched her food.

  ‘Maybe you can get Alessandro to join us,’ Jacopo chips in.

  A hush falls over the table.

  ‘Francesca is pregnant!’ Serafina tells Giulio. ‘She called me this morning.’

  Everyone begins to talk about my eldest cousin, wondering if the baby will arrive by Christmas.

  I glance at Alessandro to see that he’s smiling, but then I realise: that’s not a smile. Not a real one.

  Why wouldn’t he come home for Christmas?

  *

  I try to help clear up after lunch, but I’m shooed away. ‘Take Angie into Tivoli,’ Giulio suggests to Alessandro. ‘Valentina and Jacopo might also like to go.’

  Valentina eagerly makes a suggestion in Italian and everyone else appears to agree.

  ‘They want you to see Villa D’Este,’ Alessandro explains.

  ‘Very beautiful gardens,’ Valentina says in English. ‘Lots of fountains – it is magical.’

  ‘Spectacular,’ Giulio agrees.

  Serafina grabs her son’s arm on their way inside, but he shakes his head at her and waves his hands at the table and in the direction of the kitchen. I think he’s saying that he’s too busy to join us. Serafina tries to persuade him, but he rebuffs her and as she follows him inside, she seems disappointed.

  Alessandro has vanished so I ask Valentina if she can show me where the bathroom is.

  On my way back into the hall via the living room, I pause to take a closer look at the photo frames crammed onto a side table.

  There are so many pictures, old and new. I bend down and peer closely at a black-and-white one of an elderly couple with a man, woman, boy and girl. There’s something about the little girl’s chubby-cheeked smile that makes me think she’s Serafina.

  I need someone to point out who’s who. I’m sure my second aunt, Loreta, will be here somewhere, and my other two cousins. I can guess who they might be, but I’d like to know if I’m right.

  Another photograph catches my eye and I gasp when I realise it’s Giulio on his wedding day. He’s wearing a sky-blue suit with yellow flowers in the buttonhole and, next to him, Marta – for that’s who I’m assuming it is – wears a dress of very light blue with ruffles around the collar, cuffs and hemline. Her face is gaunt and she appears startled, as though the photographer caught her unawares, and Giulio’s smile seems fixed, not the face-splitting beam I’ve become familiar with.

  But I’m most interested in the small boy peeking out from behind a fold in his mother’s dress. Alessandro eyes the camera cheekily, his eyes dancing. He, at least, looks happy.

  Outside, I hear Frida roaring into life. A moment later, Valentina appears.

  ‘Ready?’ she asks.

  ‘Please tell me who some of these people are.’

  She’s fast about it, pointing from one photo to the next. I’m not sure I’d be able to recite it parrot-fashion, but the whole family seems to be here, going back generations.

  ‘And who’s that?’ I ask, pointing at a little girl sitting on the grass in front of a flowerbed full of bright pink flowers. Valentina had skipped past her.

  ‘That’s Carlotta,’ she replies.

  The child is just a toddler, with bobbed brown hair and big brown eyes and she’s laughing at whoever is behind the lens. It’s hard to place when the picture might’ve been taken – she’s wearing a red pinafore dress over a navy blue and white striped long-sleeve T-shirt, and the colours are bright and vibrant. It could have been snapped in the last ten to thirty years, for all I know.

  ‘Come, we must go,’ Valentina says. She’s her perky self again as she ushers me out the door, but I’m left wondering why she sounded so melancholic when she said Carlotta’s name. It’s the first time I’ve heard her mentioned.

  I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach as Valentina pulls the heavy wooden door shut behind us.

  Chapter 23

  Alessandro, my cousins and I meander along narrow, cobbled streets in the hilltop town of Tivoli. Some properties are daubed with graffiti, others have grilles on their windows. Most houses have wooden shutters and crumbly walls with faded paintwork and sections of broken plaster and exposed brick. The beauty of the buildings still shines through and, anyway, after seeing inside the Marchesi residence, I’m not judging anything by its outward appearance. Who knows what lies behind these walls?

  Villa D’Este is entered from a doorway on Piazza Trento, next to the entrance of the church of Santa Maria Maggiore.

  The sixteenth-century villa once belonged to Cardinal Ippolito D’Este, who had ambitions to be Pope. Inside, the rooms are large and extravagant, with colourful frescoes adorning walls and ceilings, and intricate mosaics on some of the floors.

  The view from the sun-drenched rear terrace stretches for miles – Jacopo points out the direction of the family home, behind the medieval centre. I spy the bell tower that I saw from the house, with its pyramid-shaped roof and arched windows, and can roughly see how far we’ve come.

  But if I thought the Marchesi land was heaven on earth, nothing prepares me for the terraced hillside Italian Renaissance gardens of Villa D’Este.

  Famous for its profusion of fountains, I’ve never been in a more enchanting, fantastical place.

  The Aniene, the river that runs along the bottom of the Marchesi property, was diverted to furnish water for the complex system of pools, water jets, channels, fountains, cascades and water games. Sunshine streams through trees, sparkling on water and bouncing off spray from fountains.

  There are grottos and follies, niches and nymphaeums, crumbling walls thick with soft fluffy moss, tall sculpted pines and flowerbeds bursting with colour.

  My thighs are burning as we climb the stairs, forty-five metres from top to bottom. The air is pure and clean and everywhere we go we can hear the sound of running water, whether it’s trickling or cascading.

  Right now, we’re walking beside a long straight channel where a series of goggly-eyed creatures are spurting water from their mouths in our direction.

  Jacopo and Valentina become distracted by a fountain on the other side of the pathway, laughing themselves silly at the sight of water squirting from a statue
’s breasts. I do a double take and realise that the statue is half woman, half horse, or maybe those are angel wings… Whoever created it had a vivid imagination.

  Alessandro and I walk on. I point at one of the people on the wall on our left.

  ‘Is that a person or a monkey? Check out the ears on that one!’ I’m as immature as my cousins.

  He smiles but doesn’t laugh.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ I muse. ‘Are you hungover?’

  He frowns and shakes his head. ‘No. Sorry, I was lost in my thoughts. How did you enjoy lunch?’

  ‘Oh, it was amazing. I wish I could cook like that.’

  ‘You will find plenty of teachers if you want to learn.’

  ‘I’d love to spend more time out this way. They’re such a lovely bunch of people.’

  ‘They are. The best.’

  ‘How often do you come here?’

  He shrugs. ‘Not much. I’m usually busy working.’

  Valentina and Jacopo haven’t caught us up yet, so I give in to my curiosity.

  ‘I saw a picture of a child at the house. Valentina said she was called Carlotta.’

  He looks as though I’ve sucker-punched him. He turns away, but not before I’ve seen his stricken expression.

  ‘She told you what happened to her?’ he asks in a strange, strained voice.

  ‘No.’

  I feel awful – he’s clearly distressed. Seconds tick by without him elaborating and I’m certainly not about to press him for information.

  Valentina and Jacopo appear, laughing. ‘Come and see this,’ Valentina urges, taking my hand.

  I cast a look over my shoulder at Alessandro as I allow her to drag me away. He’s nodding along to something Jacopo is saying, but he looks pale.

  If he wanted to talk about it, he would have.

  Who was Carlotta? What did she mean to him? And what happened to her?

  I sense I’d better tread carefully if I’m going to find out.