He covered them as if ashamed. “My friends call me Vitto.”
“Is that what I am? A friend?”
“Right now you’re the girl who stole my hiding spot.”
She huffed and folded her arms for effect, but truthfully she enjoyed the give-and-take more than even playing the violin. Until now she hadn’t had much use for boys, but Vittorio Gandy was different. He seemed wise beyond his years, and judging by the work she’d seen on the ceiling of their hotel room, he had a talent with a brush that even the most gifted of adult painters would covet.
She didn’t really know him, but she understood him immediately.
He asked her what her parents did and said it like he knew they did something with the arts. So when she told him her father played the cello and her mother played the flute and both of them were also composers, he nodded. “They’ll fit in really good then.”
“Well.”
“Well, what?”
“They’ll fit in really well.”
He didn’t answer, just shrugged. After another awkward silence, he checked out the dormer again. Night was almost upon them, and the temperature was dropping. She said, “And what do your parents do?”
He looked at her as if she should already know but said, “My father is a sculptor.” That explains the dust and the hammer. “He built this place. He considers himself a Renaissance man. Not only a Renaissance man but the Renaissance man. Oh, and I think deep down he believes he’s a god.”
Valerie laughed, but then covered her mouth. “And what if he is?”
“He isn’t. Although he carves statues like one.”
“You sound like you disapprove of him.”
“Of my father?”
“Isn’t that who we’re talking about?”
“He doesn’t like me.”
“I doubt that.”
“How would you know?”
“Because it’s obvious you idolize him. And who wouldn’t like that?”
“He’s jealous of my talents.”
“I doubt that too. He’s your father. And you’re still a . . .”
“A what?”
“A boy.”
He grumbled. “Maybe not so much my talent, but the attention it steals from him. Once I even did subpar work on purpose, but he saw right through it and accused me of being arrogant.”
“If not arrogant, then silly.”
“Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“Since we’re both stuck up here, I suppose I’m on yours.”
Vitto folded his arms. “That’s good to know, I guess.” But he didn’t look convinced.
“So what about your mother?” Valerie asked. “What does she do?”
He bit his lip, pondering, and then smiled. “She makes people do this.”
“Get stuck in lofts?”
“No. Smile. She makes people smile.”
Valerie laughed. “And that’s her talent?”
He sat rigid, as if offended. “What better talent is there?”
Cold now, she folded her arms and noticed the breath crystallizing before her when she breathed. “Should we call for help?”
“And lose the game? Trust me, they’re still out there looking.”
“And our parents?”
“They won’t even know we’re gone. That’s just what it’s like out here. The place does something to people.” He was leaning with his back against the wall, the top of his hair skimming a wooden beam. He patted the floorboards beside him. “I won’t bite.” He laughed. “Unlike you.”
She recalled biting his finger earlier and apologized as she scooted next to him. She pressed down her dress so her knees weren’t showing. His legs were longer than hers, his shoes muddy and worn. His clothes smelled of paint and turpentine, of olives and oil. They sat silent for a minute as the ocean breeze hugged the stones and moved the rickety branches in the vineyard outside. Laughter carried from the belly of the hotel.
He said, “I don’t usually like girls.”
She nearly choked on the olive she’d just tossed in her mouth. But the bluntness of his statement somehow opened them up, and within minutes they were talking like old friends, like she was a repeat guest come home to roost instead of a new arrival. They spoke of his painting and her violin playing, of her life in San Francisco and his at the hotel. She told him how left out she felt at times, with her parents so focused on their careers—or lack thereof—and how she was practically raising herself. He answered that, by the looks of it, she’d done a swell job so far, and she smiled.
And then he told her that he’d been an accident, which made her laugh. Said his parents had tried for years—no, decades even—to have a child, with no luck, until suddenly—here he opened his arms theatrically—“Here comes Vittorio Gandy.” Her laughter seemed to fuel him, because he continued on, and she was glad for it, because she liked to listen to him talk and it felt good to laugh. He explained how, in autumn, the olives would be harvested and pressed or brined—“We do it all right here”—how the wine was made—“That happens next door, in the other house”—how the hotel had been decorated by visiting guests for nearly three decades.
They paused in their conversation to listen to the singing from afar—he said it was the monks chanting their nightly prayers—then continued on about the hotel food, the Tuscan recipes and flavors, and the many hotel customs. And then, come midnight, Juba made his call. She nearly hit her head on the beam when his voice first reverberated. She’d been on the verge of falling asleep on Vittorio’s shoulder.
“He does it every night,” he said. “At midnight. Last call at the bar.”
He told her about the nightly game at last call, truth or lies, and after he explained how it was played, she rested her head back on his shoulder and said, “Tell me one.”
“One what?”
“A story. Tell me a story. We’ll pretend we’re playing too.”
“Okay.” He sounded hesitant, as if thrown off guard. She could somehow feel his nervous heartbeat humming through his shoulder, his voice an echo in her ear. He said, “There once was a woman named Psyche. She was a mortal princess.”
“Psyche? What kind of a name is that?”
“The name she was given,” he said. “Now, let me finish. She was the youngest of three daughters. And she was the most beautiful woman ever. But the goddess Aphrodite—the Romans called her Venus—she became jealous. So she urged her son Cupid to use one of his arrows to make Psyche fall in love with the ugliest creature on earth. But when Cupid witnessed Psyche’s beauty firsthand, he accidentally shot himself with his own arrow and fell in love with her instead.”
“Not true,” said Valerie, half-asleep.
“How do you know?”
“Because those people aren’t real. Does that mean I win the game? Vittorio?”
He didn’t answer. But then he rested his head on hers and said, “My friends call me Vitto.”
“Mine call me Val.”
And soon they both fell asleep.
Fourteen
1945
The Tuscany Hotel
Vitto’s eyes had grown heavy during Valerie’s story, recalling her arrival much as she told it.
“True,” he whispered. It was deep into the night by now, and his father was still out on the piazza chiseling stone.
“Of course it’s true,” Valerie said into the back of his neck, both of them remembering that night they’d spent in the loft overlooking the olive press.
“But you never let me finish my story that night.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“There were trials and tribulations,” he said. “Breaks in trust.”
“I know the story of Psyche and Cupid now, Vitto. I’ve seen the statue.”
He continued anyway. “Venus puts a spell on her, a long-lasting sleep that takes a kiss from Cupid to finally awaken her.” Valerie’s heart raced against his back. “My mother once caught me staring at that statue outside the hotel,” he said. “It
was the morning you first arrived here. She told me that story. So I told it to you.”
“And I said not true.”
“Because those people weren’t real.” He tilted his head back toward her. “What would you say now? Truth or lies?”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me how you really got down from the loft the next morning. It wasn’t Juba who helped you reposition the ladder, was it? Because I never saw or heard him.”
“No. I climbed down on my own and then reset the ladder for you.”
“You climbed down on your own?”
“I’d never used the ladder to get up in the first place. The stone wall has niches and grooves, perfect for climbing.” He smiled, and the emotion cracked through the rest of the rust that the fountain water hadn’t gotten to earlier. “I’d been up and down that wall to that loft so many times I could have scaled it blindfolded.”
The bed creaked. She’d slapped his arm, leaned up on an elbow to see if he was kidding her. She playfully slapped him again. Rolled him on his back and straddled his waist.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said, looking up at her.
“What question?”
“Would you call that story I first told you a truth or lie?”
Her answer was a kiss on the lips, the one she’d promised him from the train station the day he was carted off to war, and for the first time in months he felt human again. She stared down at him intently, as if trying to wish back time, but the best she could do was act in the now. “I missed you.” She didn’t give him time to respond. She just kissed him again, passionately, and when he said, “Are you sure?” she said, “Of course I’m sure.” But she stopped abruptly a few seconds later, giggling.
“What?”
She grinned and pulled him from the bed. Told him to come on and follow her and he did, out onto the landing and around to the opposite spiral staircase so that Robert wouldn’t see them come down. She squeezed his hand like she’d never let go again. They tiptoed down the stairs like two sneaky children and spied on Robert across the piazza, who never looked up from his work as they slipped into the shadows of the main portico, still holding hands, and exited the hotel.
“Where’s William?” he whispered.
“Asleep,” she answered. “Remember, kids police themselves at the Tuscany.”
“But . . .”
“I asked Beverly to listen for him. Now, quiet.”
She didn’t tell him where they were going, but he had an idea, and as they approached the stone house where the olives had once been pressed into the finest oils in the region, his heart was ready to jump from his chest. Inside, he expected mold and mildew, cobwebs and stale air, but instead found the wood floors newly cleaned and glimmering in the moonlight that shone through the windows. The smell of fresh cedar oil permeated the air, along with ghost remnants of freshly pressed olive oil and baked bread.
He asked who had done this. She said the house had been the first thing she cleaned upon their arrival.
He took her in his arms, and she gently backed him against the window, their shadows dancing across the floorboards. His shirt untucked. Dark strands of her hair came loose from her pinned-up curls and hung across her eyes. He brushed them away, kissed her forehead, kissed her nose, kissed her mouth, only to be halted again as she led him toward the ladder, which she’d apparently angled perfectly against the loft floor. He asked if the ladder was still sturdy, and she said yes. He asked if she’d cleaned up there, too, and she said yes and then told him to stop talking. He did that when he was nervous.
She went up first, and he couldn’t help watching as she navigated each rung. Once atop, she helped him up, and they rolled as one away from the drop-off, eyes locked and breathing heavily.
“That day we met,” he said, voice quivering like the youth he now felt like, “I accused you of stealing our grapes. That wasn’t the only thing you stole that day, Valerie.”
Her weight settled on him, her breath on his neck. “Vitto, shut up.”
And so he did.
Fifteen
September 1883
Pienza, Italy, Southern Tuscany
Magdalena didn’t remember why, but out of habit or even instinct she waited for the clopping of the horse hooves to fade across the cobbles outside before getting out of bed.
The sound that meant he was gone.
And he, she would remind herself upon opening the leather-bound journal on the bedside table, was Francesco Lippi, the famous painter who, seven years prior, had adopted her from the Hospital of Innocents in the weeks before it closed. All this was written on the first page of the journal, right under the sketch he’d done of himself. The portrait showed a handsome man with a thin nose and a kind smile hinting at an easy disposition. Something in Magdalena knew the truth was different, although she couldn’t remember exactly why she knew it.
Beside the journal lay a note he’d left with her instructions for the day; without it, she wouldn’t remember what to do or even where she was. She’d gotten to the point where, with practice and notes and habit, she could remember enough to get through the day, but then it was as if her memory reset every night. Every morning was a blank canvas. But she’d looked at the journal and the instructions often enough now over the years that it had become a habit, as regular as combing her hair at night and brushing her teeth in the morning.
And flinching every time he came near. She shook that residue of memory away and focused again on the note. She was to clean the kitchen, sweep all the floors, and launder the clothes. He was off to Florence to sell his two latest paintings and would expect dinner by the time he arrived home. He wanted chicken with mushrooms and pecorino, a bowl of olives, and a bottle of their finest wine. He was expecting his paintings to sell for quite a sum and thought they should celebrate. And then they had work to do in the evening—another masterpiece to create.
As usual, at the end of the note, he reminded her of the dangers that lurked outside and that only fools give in to the temptation to venture out. He’d hammered it into her head daily that they had moved from Florence for that reason. But Magdalena knew somehow that this was a lie as well, that there were other reasons. If only she could remember them.
You’re mine now. Another bit of memory residue she shook away. She dropped the note on the journal and stepped away from the bed, toward the middle of the room, where her reflection watched from the large mirror above the dresser. Hair like a Botticelli angel, fire-orange and cascading now to her lower back. She winced upon the next step as pain shot across her hips, sore as if they’d been beaten. She removed her nightgown and washed her face with water from the basin. She cleaned under her arms and noticed fresh bruises on her wrists, bruises from what looked to be strong hands. She stepped closer to the mirror and noticed another bruise fading along her right collarbone.
She swallowed over the lump in her throat and fought back the tears of frustration that struck her every morning. Why can’t I remember like everyone else? There must be some purpose. What is my purpose? she silently asked the mirror, but to no avail. So she dressed in a plain blue dress and combed out her hair until curls bounced.
The chores could wait. In the main room, sunlight bled through curtains Lippi insisted they keep closed. But the Pienza street noise beckoned. She peeked through the divide and saw vendors and carriages and merchants, heard hammering and music and singing and laughter. Her heart raced in anticipation, but of what? Had she been out there before? Had she dared go against his word and venture out?
She smoothed her hands down the sides of her dress and felt something in the pocket on the right side. A note. She pulled it out and read, “Look under your bed, Magdalena.” She smiled, folded the note, and did as it said. This all seemed familiar to her now. Back in her bedroom, she dropped to her knees with a grunt and felt beneath the framing. Out she pulled another journal, the worn journal Lippi knew nothing about, the journal where she kept the truths and not the lies. She sat on the
floor and opened it to years of notes, years of pages, years of words that took the place of her memories.
Ever since her adoption, she’d made it a habit to write in it every night before falling asleep, quickly jotting down what she remembered during each day. Writing only what was necessary and penciling it smaller and smaller because the pages were nearly running out. Perhaps God had been cruel to grant her a life without memory, but at least he had granted her the ability to read and write, two talents she’d mastered much earlier than the other orphans. By following her own words, she could fight her helplessness.
Now, reading from the beginning, Magdalena was reminded that they had moved to Pienza because Lippi had wanted to get away from the swarms of artists wanting to carve and paint her or simply to have her by their side as they worked. And he’d been especially eager to get away from the “pestering” Nurse Pratesi, who for months after the adoption had visited his humble stone house overlooking the Arno River daily to make sure Magdalena was being cared for properly.
“Like a gnat,” Lippi had said of her old caretaker, the only woman she’d ever called Mamma. The nurse who’d wept the day Magdalena was taken away, literally pulled from her arms while Nurse Cioni watched down her angled nose, arms folded, with a smirk on her face, secretly pleased that the orphan who couldn’t remember was finally being adopted and the lines of artists appearing daily to see her would soon end.
Nurse Pratesi had then walked across the stones and slapped the smirk from Nurse Cioni’s face. The first must not have satisfied, so she’d slapped her again and again in quick succession, flat blows that had echoed across the loggia and somehow etched themselves into Magdalena’s memory that wasn’t. She had recorded all this in the journal Lippi knew nothing about, adding that the older nurse had terminated Mamma Pratesi’s employment right then and there.
Midnight at the Tuscany Hotel Page 14
