‘You’ll like this, baby.’
She flung herself forwards, swinging high into the air, wind and breath and head a-rush, up and down, up and down, in flowing, rhythmic contractions. On every up, she could see her family. They’d reached old Sergio’s farm now, were unlatching the gate as Vita swung down. Another up, and they were on Sergio’s track. The old man was opening his door; he’d a goat bell fitted to the gate, it was one of the safeguards his cousin had insisted on.
—You’re staying with us.
—I’m going home.
They were all as stubborn as mules, the Bertinis. Down and down, with the breeze in her hair, the plum-coloured clouds speeding. Hurry, hurry, her belly was pulsing. Don’t miss the show – Ah!
Sergio let out a cry, a joyous one. Beyond where the tips of her toes were, Vita saw the old man’s face split until it was only laughing mouth, then it was hidden in Andromeda’s pelt, and Vita was hurtling down, and, on the down, she gave a jump.
Enough.
Vita, and the baby, jolted. Deliberately, she didn’t fall.
‘Alright, wee one?’ Stroking her belly. Stroking, stroking. ‘D’you think it’s time?’ She brushed stour from her skirts. Her baby would know two languages; two cultures at least.
Vita turned from La Limonaia, where tiles were ranged in neat rows, wood stacked by the far wall ready for work on the new floor. Joe and Cesca had got the back wall up already, the roof patched so it was almost watertight. Good stone, good stock. But they were staying in the Pieris’ house for now, who were still with family in the city. She wasn’t sure they’d come back. Joe thought the Guidis could sell La Limonaia when he was finished. He’d have other mouths to feed as well as his own; she understood his worries. But La Limonaia wasn’t his to sell. She went into Papà’s workshop, retrieved the piece she’d been working on. Aware of great, dragging pulses drumming inside her body. She was tired of being a cow. Once this new life was born, she could have a new life too. Where folk did not stare and mutter.
This wee soul would always bear the mark of difference. Italy, Scotland, America. Would it matter where? Was there a place in the world that loved folk equally, that saw no distinction between the colour of a person’s skin and the colour of their hair?
Vita made the climb to Sommocolonia slowly, pausing as the pains increased. Joe had taught her to breathe well, those nights when she woke yelling. The wound in her side ached, perhaps it would tear all over again. It was why the nuns wished her confined in the Conservatorio. One of the reasons. The Monsignor wouldn’t look the road she was on. The sisters said he was working to find the child a good home. He knows missionaries in Africa, they said encouragingly. It was Cesca who stood up for her. ‘The baby will have a home with us, thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, we’ll be returning to Catagnana.’
God love family. She put her hand inside her pocket. The letter she’d received this morning was still there. Unopened. Her other hand held the carved piece of wood. Vita was going to the place Joe had marched her to, when he told her what he’d done.
From beginning to end, Joe had told her it all.
‘He saved us both, Vi.’
Her Buffalo soldier, standing tall. Going forward so that they might fall back. The sunshine filled her head, and Vita could see the scene. Francesco. She saw him every day, polishing the image to keep it bright.
‘He wanted to stay here with you,’ Joe said. ‘He made me promise.’
In the dying days of the old year, the men were allowed to return to Sommocolonia. Joe went with them. Found more than half the village razed. They dug through rubble that had been churches and homes, gathering scattered weapons, and shoes and crockery; dragging lumps of stone from where La Rocca and the tower had been. La Torre, which had withstood earthquake and siege. All that remained was half of one wall.
The men tried to recover as many dead as they could. From the fields and hamlets as well as Sommocolonia itself, bodies were placed in black bags, laid in front of the tiny cemetery, and in the garden of the cottage at the foot of Piazza San Rocco. Then, Joe said, a cortège of jeeps carried them down to Catagnana, escorted by the 8th British Indian Division. Women lined the snowy route in silence. There were no flowers to hold, so they up held their children instead as the jeeps drove past, and old men removed their hats.
Francesco was not among them.
‘He left you these.’ Joe had pressed coldness into her hand, the coldness she wore round her neck now, which swung and clinked as Vita climbed.
‘His dog tags. I thought it was in the panic, you know? We’d only a minute. But I kept on hearing what he said. I want to stay here. It was me that found him, Vita. Afterwards.’
She’d shaken her head, not wanting the detail.
‘I think it was quick. Anyroad, when we were. . . you know. Sorting them. An Indian soldier told me they were taking the Buffaloes to Florence. To bury. Vi, I didn’t bring him out. From the Biondis’. I laid him in my old room – mind the cave? Take more than a hail of mortars to destroy that place. I wrapped him in my coat, and I came back up when everyone had gone. Nico gave me a loan of his spade. Well, he caught me in the shed, but he let me take it. I just went: “It’s for Vita’s man,” and he nodded, and let me take it.’
Joe had buried Frank here, where the heather grew. Vita grasped onto a tree as her body shuddered. She’d made it. Here, on the slope underneath the overhang where the Biondis’ terrace used to be. Facing Monte Forato. Facing every double sunset that would ever come, watching the sleeping shepherd across the way. That had ripped her; the rightness of the place. Joe’s kindness to them.
The pinkish seep on her side was spotting red. She’d need another poultice. Then a trickle started between her legs. It wouldn’t stop. God, she was leaking everywhere. Patting herself, embarrassed that someone would see. But Sommocolonia was deserted. The sun was lengthening into fiery streaks; folk were done for the day, were resting. Few had homes to live in here; they went elsewhere at night. In the daytime, you’d hear metallic clatters and the zizz of saws drift down the mountain. Already, people were sending money home from all the distant places they had settled, to rebuild their village as it was.
It would be ages yet. Vita rocked on her haunches. First babies took days. Renata had assured her of that. She’d have liked her mamma’s hand to hold all the same. Or his.
She knelt down to give herself extra purchase, then drove the wooden plaque she’d made deep into the soil. Papà would have done a better job, or she could have asked Joe. But she had wanted to carve it herself. It was only a slender thing; you wouldn’t see it from a distance. But it bore his name.
She rested her fingers lightly on the grave, on the warm earth. ‘We’re here. You can sleep now.’
They hadn’t let her climb to Sommocolonia for weeks. In your condition. Frank had had no one to watch the sunset with.
Is it time?
‘I think so.’
Are you scared?
‘Sì.’
But I’ll be with you.
‘I know.’
Wherever you go. You don’t need to keep coming here.
‘I know. Oh.’
The pain intensified, beating like a fist. From her pocket, she removed the letter. Tore it open, releasing his words, and the trace of him that was held there. And with the words came the thick purple smell of thyme, the musk of truffles and sweet chestnut, and every good thing this land had given her. The pain was sweeping her clear above herself, rocking her close, her and the earth and this vast, lovely curve that cradled them. The sky was magenta and vivid gold. Soon the stars would come out, in time for passeggiata. She felt a breath begin to sing. High and distant ringing, falling like metal rain. The bells were clanging from the Duomo.
She began to read.
24 December 1944
Dearest Vittoria,
Have I told you that I love you? Properly, bone-deep love you. You can never can tell someone that enough anyhow, but it’s hard to
remember if I did, when every day with you seems like a dream. But it’s a dream where you woke me up, you know? You have made me a different person. A better one. I’ve seen war send men crazy, and I think I know why. It’s because they don’t know what they’re fighting it for, because nothing makes sense but the blood and the pain, and who wants to live in a world of pain?
But I’m fighting it for your mamma. I’m fighting to keep your sister safe and bring your papà home. I’m fighting it for you.
I guess if you’re reading this, then it isn’t a dream any more. Not my dream anyhow. Not ours. I want you to know, if I have to die any place, then I’m glad I’m dying where you were born. Don’t let them take me home. Tell them I want to stay near you. Because home is where you are loved. Tell my momma. Oh, Vita, I wish you could have met her. I wanted so bad to take you to California. I wanted to grow old with you, to see your smile on our babies’ faces.
I wish we could have had more time, my beautiful girl. But you’ve given me a lifetime already. For all the misery and killing I’ve seen, I’m glad of this war, because it brought me you. It brought me love. So know that I died happy, Vita. And you go on and live happy. For me.
All of my love forever,
Your Francesco
The words bursting, jewel-bright, into hours. She stopped fighting. Let the tears come, quiet and steady. Let herself ride the pain, hide in the cool dips of quiet. Riding it quiet and forever, feeling its beat, following the tails of light behind her eyelids, all the pink-and-gold-crested waves that beat on and on and on.
When she opened her eyes again, the sun was almost gone.
You will always be loved, said someone in her dwam.
‘I know.’
Time to go home.
‘I know.’ She stroked her mobile, cresting belly. ‘I will. But can we watch the sunset first?’
And it came and it filled up the hole of Monte Forato, flashing blood-red beacons and ribbons of the most perfect light, bathing the hammered earth gold and the broken glass into diamond.
And everyone who saw said it was the most glorious sunset ever.
Paisley, Beginnings
‘Ciao, bella.’ Torri’s great-uncle Dario is sashaying into the room.
Torri holds a finger to her lips. Nonna is asleep.
He waves his car keys; pretends, like a mime, to tiptoe. She adores Dario. He lives with his daughter in the flat above Caffè del Rio, has her gran’s bouncy curls and the face of a very old cherub. With him is a man Torri has never seen before; he wears a beautiful overcoat, carries a small case. She feels an acute ping of embarrassment at the fluffy slippers she’s wearing. They’re my mum’s, she wants to say. The man, well, he’s lovely. He is tall, dark, handsome, and it isn’t even Hogmanay.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Hi.’ The man offers her his hand. ‘I’m Will. I’m real sorry to disturb you.’
American, so he is.
‘Away and don’t talk daft. Come in, son. Sit down.’
‘Zio Dario, Nonna’s trying to rest.’ Torri looks to her parents, who wait behind the American in the doorway of Nonna’s room. Mum smiles. Dario is the family’s patriarch, and also their favourite, indulged bambino. Dad shrugs. He’s not that much younger than Dario, but he’s not an old father. Her mum keeps him young.
‘She’ll want to meet this laddie. Won’t you, cara?’ Dario pokes Nonna’s pillow, causing her to start awake. Uncle Dario is cheerfully defiant around death. Not for him the stilted murmurs of folk who can only imagine the worst. He has the me ne frego of a survivor. He plumps his hands on widespread knees. ‘Now listen you to me. This laddie – wha’s your name again, son?’
‘Will. Will Chapel.’
‘Aye. This boy’s got a plane to catch, so we’ve no time for nonsense. He come to see me the day – daftie’s been sitting outside the hoose all evening, ’cause I was at the bowls, know, and Rina, she was. . . Och. Here. You tell them what you tell me, son. I’m getting all mixty-maxty.’
‘Sure. I’ll be quick. Look, can I just say, I’m truly sorry. I don’t want to intrude. But Mr Giusti insisted.’
‘Oh, come on.’ Dario gesticulates like he’s directing traffic. ‘Here’s you coat and wha’s you hurry? She’s no doing nothin except sleepin, sleepin. Are you, cara?’
‘Dario, please,’ says Mum. ‘Let the man speak.’
‘So. It’s like this. My grampa. . .’ Will hesitates, looking at Nonna, who has become alert, is pinned by his gaze.
‘Chapelley?’ she says.
‘Shh now.’ Torri holds the beaker of water to her mouth.
‘Yes, ma’am. That’s right. Chapel. My grampa passed recently. We’ve been clearing out his house, and we found a bunch of stuff that was his momma’s.’ Will opens his case. ‘Some of it relating to Grampa’s brother. Now I never met him; he died when Gramps was just a kid. But I’ve been interested in tracing my family tree for ages – I don’t have any kids of my own, so I guess. . .’ There’s an exchange of smiles between him and Torri’s mum, who is visibly falling in love with this exotic stranger in her mother-in-law’s bedroom. ‘Well, I was coming over to Europe on business—’
‘What’s it you do again, son?’ Dario folds his arms.
‘I’m a banker, sir.’
‘And you no married?’
‘No, sir.’
‘See. He’s no married, Torri. Our Torri – she’s a teacher.’
‘Zio!’
But they both laugh. Will continues. ‘So. In my great-grandmother’s papers, I come across this little sketchbook, full of pictures my great-uncle drew. And I found this one drawing in it, for an address in Italy.’
Torri can’t see the picture he’s showing her mum.
‘Now, my grampa reckoned the family never knew where Frank was buried, but he thought it might be near there. Anyhow, when I looked this place up, it wasn’t so far from Florence. So, I thought I’d check it out, when I was over in Milan. In case anyone there had heard of him. But I drew a blank – the house is a vacation rental. So then. . .’
Nonna’s elbows are pushing into the mattress.
‘You want to sit up more, Nonna?’
Nonna’s eyes are liquid black. It scares Torri. She hooks her arm under her grandmother’s oxter. The man, Will, does likewise with the other side.
‘Thank you,’ Torri says, surprised. Nonna is transfixed by this stranger. Her mouth gapes wide and her eyes are crazy-flitting. They lay her against her pillows. Her weight is thistledown. Torri hopes she’s not going to say something inappropriate. Will’s skin is the colour of coffee. Has her nonna ever seen a black man? Well, of course she has – she sees one every day.
Torri looks at her father. The war baby. Abandoned, adopted; the story is left deliberately vague, buried in the craters. But his skin is a shade darker than his brother’s and sister’s, with whom he shares the Guidi nose. They have talked about it, Torri and her dad. Is he not curious about where he came from, really? I came from love is all he ever says. This lack of curiosity intrigues Torri, the casual blend of her family; how it is accepted and never said and forever quietly present, adding to the flavour, swirling like Tally’s blood on gelato. Actually, she loves it. Loves that she is Scottish and black and Italian and Celtic and Godknows what else, and that it doesn’t matter.
‘Och, c’mon. You worse than me, son,’ Uncle Dario is saying. ‘Mind the Pieris? Well, their Giuliana works in the bank in Barga, so your man here uses his connections, she checks wi her nonna, and Bob’s you uncle – they gied him my address.’
‘Can I see the drawing?’ Torri asks.
She doesn’t know why, but she is asking Uncle Dario, not this Will who owns the sketchbook.
‘Sì.’
‘Sure.’
Torri smooths the yellowed paper. It is a drawing of a house on a hill. The house faces a horizon of mountains, and the one in the centre has a great hole in it, like an eye. The scene is breathtaking. But it is merely a stage, a frame for
the portrait of the young woman. The girl regards them from the foreground; a trace of Nonna, but the face is too long, too sharp. And the eyes are wrong too. Almond like a cat’s. How they blaze from the page.
Dario slips his hand under Nonna’s. Torri sees the transparent skin on Nonna’s knuckles tighten, squeezing Dario. Gently, her great-uncle raises Nonna’s hand, and presses his lips against it.
Torri reads the inscription below the drawing.
Ti amo. Il tuo Francesco
Per la bella Signorina Vittoria Guidi
La Limonaia, Catagnana
Frazione di Barga, Toscana
Vittoria Guidi. Torri stumbles over her own name, written there. Composes herself. There’s a tightness under her eyes.
‘Who’s Vittoria?’ she asks, at the same moment Will says: ‘Now, I was asking Mr Giusti here was if you might know – Sorry. You go on.’
Vittoria. Nonna’s always said it was chosen for no particular reason, they just liked it and Torri’s never quite believed her.
‘No. Please. Go ahead.’
‘OK. Well, I understand the Guidi family used to own this place. Lee-monia.’
‘La Limon-aia.’ Nonna’s voice is barely a phut of air.
‘Francesca.’ Dario hovers. ‘Is it time, cara?’ Then he looks at her father. The room is stifling, Torri wants to open a window. The sweet smell of chestnut mingles with fragments of thyme.
Will continues, oblivious to the delicate tendrils creeping through the room. ‘Like I said to Mr Giusti, I found a grave for a lady that fit the name. Up by Sommocolonia? So I wondered if, seeing as you guys are Guidis—’
‘Is no my place. Was never my place.’ Zio Dario addresses everyone.
‘Francesco.’ Nonna’s fingers flutter for her eldest. ‘Vieni.’ Her eldest, her clever professore, who is named Francesco for his mother, Francesco who is a mathematician and draws like an angel and whom the twins always joke is her favourite. ‘Vittoria.’
The Sound of the Hours Page 38
