“It isn’t wise to tell anyone where you’re going, or indeed that you’re going at all. So niceties like farewells will have to wait for another day.” Her father glanced at his wristwatch and frowned. “Signor Gerardi should be here soon. Go and pack, but take as little as you can. You should use my rucksack, the one I used to take on our holidays in the mountains. I’ll see if I can unearth it.”
She was tempted, once alone in her room, to climb into bed, burrow under the covers, and shut out the world beyond. She would close her eyes, hold her breath, and pretend she was still a child, still ignorant of the world and its ugliness, still greeting each new day with a heart that brimmed with hope and gladness.
Instead she went to her wardrobe and began the straightforward work of selecting the garments she would pack. She’d imagined this moment before; had even memorized a list of things she would take if they were forced to flee. How many sleepless hours had she whiled away in such a fashion? Yet not once, in all of those anxious moments, hemmed in by the dark and quiet of deepest night, had she ever truly believed this moment would come.
She had three dresses, the same number again of skirts and blouses, and two cardigans. To the growing pile on her bed she added the least shabby of her underclothes, her warm flannel nightgown, her walking boots, and her winter coat. None of the garments were anything close to new; all had been mended time and again. It was the one domestic skill she possessed, and even Marta had to admit that no one could darn a sock or turn a collar as well as Antonina.
She stepped back, assessing the collection of garments. Would they fit in her father’s pack? Would there be room for anything else?
“A list,” she muttered to herself. “I should make a list.”
“No need for that,” came an unfamiliar voice from the corridor. A man stepped out of the shadows, but hesitated at the threshold to her room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Are you Signor Gerardi?” He took another step toward her, and now she could really see him, and he was young, far younger than she’d imagined.
“Call me Niccolò, please. Or Nico, as my family do.”
“My father said I should only pack what I can carry.”
He held out her father’s rucksack. “He asked me to bring this to you. But don’t worry too much about everything fitting. I can help you. I can carry another bag if you need.”
It was kind of him, and unexpected, and she had to swallow back the dam of emotion that threatened to clog her throat. “Thank you.”
“I’ll return to your father now. Will you join us when you’re done? Then we can talk some more.”
“Yes. I won’t be long.”
She turned, waiting until his footsteps had faded, and then forced herself to survey her room. Photographs first. She removed them from their frames, a half-dozen family portraits that chronicled her life, along with her parents’ wedding photograph, and tucked them into the worn copy of Anatomia del Gray that she’d been slowly memorizing. To it she added her precious Medicina Interna di Goldman-Cecil and a dictionary of infectious diseases that had lost its cover years ago.
Her jewelry, what little there was, she emptied out of its papier-mâché box and into a handkerchief, its corners tightly knotted to hold her treasures. And then she took the empty pack that Signor Gerardi—Niccolò—had brought to her, pushed the books into the bottom, and methodically filled it with the clothing she’d already set aside.
She hefted the pack, testing it, and nearly buckled under the weight of all her books. And still she couldn’t resist adding one more indulgence: the mohair-and-velvet rabbit, missing one of its pink glass eyes, that had been her companion since before her memories began. It was childish to bring it, and Niccolò would think her silly if he noticed, but she could not, in that moment, bring herself to leave Pietro behind.
She was tempted to hide in her room, but she had so little time left with her father. Better to share those precious moments with him, even with a stranger as witness, than to forgo them altogether. She left the pack on her bed, switched off the light, and went in search of her father and the man who had come to take her away. Predictably enough, they were in her father’s study, standing side by side in front of the desk. She paused at the door, glad of the chance to study Niccolò Gerardi, for neither man had noticed her approach.
He was fair, with a day-old beard the color of dark honey and a tracing of freckles across his nose and cheekbones. He stood at least a head taller than her father, with shoulders that strained at the faded seams of a much-mended coat, but his voice, from the little he’d said to her, was that of an educated man, and there was a reassuring gentleness to his manner.
As she waited, half-hidden in the darkened hall, her father opened his hand, his gaze fixed on a small object in his palm. From the way it glinted in the lamplight, she thought it might be a coin. Then he shook his head, blinking hard, and swiped at his eyes.
She must have moved, or made some slight sound. Her father turned, his reddened eyes the only sign of his earlier distress, and beckoned her forward.
“There you are. Are you packed?”
“What is that in your hand?”
He held it out to her: a circle of gold, now gleaming dully in his palm. “Your mother’s wedding ring. It’s too big for her now, but see?” He took her right hand and pushed it onto her ring finger. “As I thought. It fits you well.”
The ring was warm against her skin. He took her hand in both of his, lifted it to kiss her palm, and then, his head bowed low, pressed her hand against his cheek.
“I don’t understand. Why are you giving me Mamma’s ring?”
“You will need it.” He did not let go of her hand. “You and Signor Gerardi will be traveling as man and wife.”
She turned to the stranger who hovered an arm’s length away, not bothering to hide her surprise and discomfort. He flushed, a flare of color beneath his boyish freckles.
“It is a fiction to keep you safe,” he promised. “No more than that.”
“This is all so sudden. An hour ago I was sitting with Mamma, and now . . .” Now she was the one who had to blink back her tears.
“I know. I know, and I am sorry. But you will be safe with Signor Gerardi and his family. I would not send you with him if I thought otherwise.”
“If it helps, Antonina, we aren’t leaving until the morning,” Niccolò said. “You don’t have to say goodbye just yet.” She nodded, and managed to twist her mouth into a smile, but then she had to blink hard to keep back her tears. If she remained in the study any longer, she would break down, and that would only make things harder for her father.
“I think I’ll go to bed now,” she said, and was surprised by the steadiness of her voice. “Good night, Papà.” She came forward to kiss her father’s cheek, and only just managed not to throw her arms around him and beg that he reconsider. That he keep her close, no matter what lay ahead.
Instead she stepped back and, after nodding politely to Niccolò, retreated to the bathroom, where she washed her face and brushed her teeth and spent far too long examining her wan face in the mirror. As she tiptoed along the corridor to her room she could hear the sound of her father talking; and though his words were too faint to make out, the underlying timbre of his voice didn’t seem at all distressed.
That slight comfort carried her through the minutes it took to close the shutters, to undress and change into her nightgown, which she had to retrieve from the bottom of the rucksack, and to crawl into bed.
Antonina lay motionless under the covers, under the hand-stitched coverlet that had been her mother’s when she was a girl, and listened to the soft sounds of her father showing Niccolò to the spare room. The house grew quiet, and the last of the evening light faded away behind her shuttered window, and still her mind would not rest. Hours passed, her silent tears dampening her pillow, and still she could not sleep.
She ought to have convinced her father that they needed to leave. She ought
to have persisted. She ought to have been more imaginative.
Why had she never suggested they go into hiding, all three of them, somewhere else in Italy? They might have found sanctuary with Father Bernardi, or another of her father’s many friends, and done so years earlier.
She ought to have known. She ought to have convinced her father to try.
At the first glimmering of dawn she put on her robe and crept down the hall to the kitchen. They hadn’t any coffee, nor even any caffè d’orzo, but after some rummaging she unearthed a tiny packet of dried chamomile blossoms. A simple tisane, then; it would warm her through, if nothing else.
She sat at the kitchen table, warming her hands around her cup, and watched the blossoms unfold, petal by wizened petal, in the steaming water. Footsteps, soft and measured, sounded in the corridor.
“Papà?”
But it was Niccolò who came to stand at the threshold. “I believe he’s still sleeping. Do you mind if I sit with you?”
“Not at all,” she said, though she’d have preferred to remain alone awhile longer. “Would you like some of this? It’s a chamomile tisane. We don’t have any coffee.”
He smiled a little shyly. “Yes, please. My mother used to make it for us when we were poorly.”
They sat together in silence, waiting for the tisane to cool. “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted after a few minutes.
“I’m sure I would feel the same way in your shoes.”
“What about you? It’s not even six o’clock.”
Another tentative smile. “I keep farmer’s hours. I can’t remember the last time I slept past dawn.” He lifted his cup, but set it down without drinking. “We should probably leave soon. And you should eat something if you can. We’ve a long day ahead.”
“I suppose I should make something for my father. He isn’t . . . he’s a very good doctor but he has no notion of how to take care of himself. What will he do without me here? And he’s sent Marta away, too.”
“He and I spoke about that last night. He told me they’ve found a room for him at the casa. That way he’ll be close to your mother, and can even care for the other residents if they fall ill.”
She nodded, a little embarrassed not to have thought of it before. “That makes sense. I had better go and wake him.”
“You do that,” he agreed, “and in the meantime I’ll make us some breakfast. Do you have any bread?”
“A little, yes. It’s in the box on the shelf. And there’s a jar of apricot jam in the cupboard.”
Antonina hesitated outside her father’s door, listening, before tapping on it lightly. “Papà? Are you awake?”
“Come in.”
He was awake, and dressed, and had just slipped his feet into his shoes. Rather than stand and watch as he struggled to lace them, she went to kneel at his feet and helped him, one last time, with the troublesome task.
“Thank you,” he said, ever courteous, but he made no move to rise, nor did she stand. Instead they simply looked in each other’s eyes, memorizing beloved features, letting the silence speak for them.
“Will you promise me something?” he asked at last.
“Anything, Papà.”
“You must try your best to fit in. I know it will be unfamiliar, but you must try. Eat the food they give you. Do the work that is expected of you. Never complain.”
“Do you think it will be awful there?”
“Not at all. Life in such places is simple, of course, and without most of the modern conveniences we take for granted here. But you’ll be safe, and that’s what truly matters to me and your mother.”
“I’ll be so lonely.”
“That I doubt. Signor Gerardi is an intelligent and educated man, and he feels certain his family will like and accept you. Don’t forget that Father Bernardi will be nearby, too.”
“But I won’t be with you and Mamma,” she protested, still unable to accept his assurances.
“Only if you chart the distance on a map.” He took her hands in his, kissed them, and pressed both to his heart. “Since the day you were born, my Nina, you have been here. And here you shall remain.”
“Oh, Papà,” she whispered, blinking back fresh tears. “Please don’t—”
“Signor Gerardi will be wondering what has become of us,” he interrupted, ever so gently. “Will you help me up?”
She nodded, swallowing back the plea that still trembled on her lips, and helped him rise. Then she followed him back along the corridor to the kitchen, her steps marked by the echoing lament of her heart. Too late, too late, too late.
Niccolò had cut the bread into slices and spread them with the jam. “Good morning, Dr. Mazin.” He waited until her father was seated and had helped himself to a slice of bread and jam before taking the smallest slice for himself.
She found it an effort to eat even a single bite of the food, for the bread was dry and the jam was watery, and her throat closed in with her every reluctant swallow. Yet she managed to finish the entire slice of bread, and drink the rest of her cooled tisane, while her father and Niccolò talked of inanities such as the weather and the coming harvest.
She collected her empty plate and cup and set them in the sink, and then she turned to face Niccolò. “Must we . . . ?”
He nodded. “Yes. I don’t wish to hurry you, but—”
“But you must be on your way,” her father finished. “Why don’t you fetch your things, Antonina, while Signor Gerardi and I tidy up in here?”
Moving as dully as an automaton, Antonina went to her bedroom and collected the rucksack. The room was dim, for she hadn’t seen the point in opening the shutters; yet still she knew where everything belonged. Her little room was a treasure trove of memories, its contents so familiar and precious, and now she was leaving them all behind.
Too late. Too late.
Her father and Niccolò were waiting for her on the landing.
“Are you sure there isn’t time for me to see Mamma again?”
“No, my dear,” her father said, shaking his head regretfully. “It’s best that you go now.”
“But she will worry so. She will wonder where I’ve gone.”
“I know, but I will be there to comfort her. And no matter what happens, I will remain at her side. You must remember that.”
“Yes, Papà.”
“Then let me hold you tight for a moment, and when I see your lovely face again this madness will be over.” He embraced her, his arms crushing her tight against his chest, but then, far too soon, he pulled away. “Now go, while the sun is shining and you have the entire day before you.”
He set a final kiss on her brow, and then Niccolò’s hand was heavy upon her shoulder, turning her gently, and her body obeyed even as her head was insisting that she plant her feet and remain rooted in place.
“Go, now, my darling child, my dearest Nina. Do this for me,” her father begged, and as she had always been a dutiful girl, the most devoted of daughters, she knew she had to obey.
So she followed Niccolò down the stairs, out the door, and away from her home, her family, and the only life she had ever known or thought to lead. Away, away, and into the unknown.
Chapter 4
When they were only a few steps into their journey, Niccolò took her pack and slung it over his shoulder. Then he hurried them along, his hand at the small of her back, guiding her as they crossed the small bridge at the end of the calle and turned onto the Fondamenta dei Ormesini.
“Antonina?” he asked after five minutes or so.
“Yes?”
“I think it would be safer to change your name, or rather to alter it.”
So she was to lose every part of herself—her home, her family, and now, it seemed, her name. “What do you suggest? Maria? That’s a good Gentile name.” She was being rude, but she couldn’t bring herself to care, not in that moment.
“Your father suggested Nina.”
The name Papà alone liked to call her. “I suppose that will do.�
� She could remember to be Nina. “What will my surname be? My maiden name, that is.” Simply talking about such a thing made her face grow hot.
“How about Marzoli? Not so different from your real name, hmm? We will tell people that you grew up in an orphanage in Padua. St. Anthony’s is the biggest.”
“St. Anthony’s,” she repeated.
“You only came to Venice a year or so ago. To train as a nurse—that makes sense, doesn’t it? Since you’ve been learning medicine from your father.”
“I suppose I could pass as a nursing student. All right. I was Nina Marzoli, an orphan from Padua, and I’d come to do my nurse’s training in Venice.”
“Yes. That should be easy to remember.”
“Where are we going now?”
“To Fondamente Nove.”
“It takes half as long to walk north to Sant’Alvise and take the vaporetto from there to the ferries.”
“I know, but I’ve only enough money for the direct fare to Murano. Do you mind?”
“Not really,” she admitted, for she was in no hurry to leave the city she loved. “Why Murano?”
“My cousin is meeting us there. He’ll take us to the mainland, to Campalto, where he and his wife have a farm. From there, it’s a two-day walk. About sixty kilometers.”
“To where?” she asked tartly. “Or is that meant to be a secret, too?”
“Not at all. We’re going to my father’s farm. It’s on the outskirts of a village called Mezzo Ciel.” He was smiling now. “Hardly more than a dot on the map.”
“I haven’t heard of it.”
“I’d be surprised if you had.”
“Can’t we take the train? It seems very far.”
“We could, but it’s best to do what’s expected. People in Mezzo Ciel would never dream of wasting money on a train ticket if they could walk. Even having the mule and cart with us is a luxury.”
“A mule?”
“Yes. An old fellow, and he doesn’t like to be rushed. But he’ll make the journey easier.”
After that she had no more questions. Instead she concentrated on walking, breathing, and swallowing back her tears before they blinded her. She longed to break free and run home, but her father would only insist that she leave again. What else could she do but follow obediently and ignore the protesting drumbeat of her heart?
Our Darkest Night Page 3
