by Rhys Bowen
There were nods all around. “And that time he had that grappa for sale? Who knows where that came from? Certainly not from around here.”
I could see relief in all those faces. Not from around here. His death had nothing to do with anyone in San Salvatore.
“We have to go to the Carabinieri and make a statement,” Paola said.
“Good luck with that,” one of the men who had been loitering at the edge of our circle said. “You go in that place and you’re lucky to come out again.”
They chuckled, but I could see they also glanced over at the yellow building.
“Don’t say that in front of the English signorina,” one of them said. “She will not believe you’re joking.”
“Tell her she will be fine as long as she leaves a good bribe,” the man said.
“Don’t talk like that.” A woman in black turned and gave him a hefty shove. “Shouldn’t you be minding your shop, not meddling where you are not wanted?”
The man shuffled away. Paola took my arm and marched me toward the open door of the Carabinieri building. “Pay no attention. That man is a troublemaker,” she said. “He is as bad as Gianni was. He sold some of the illegal grappa at his shop, didn’t he? Claims he didn’t know there was anything wrong with it.”
We went up three steps and into the cool darkness beyond. It smelled of stale smoke in there. The room we went into was lit only by a small, high window with bars on it. I felt as though I had stepped into a prison cell. I glanced nervously at Paola. She didn’t seem at all worried.
“So we have come to make our statements. Let us get it over with. I have much work to do with market day tomorrow,” she said.
One of the officers we had seen this morning was seated at a desk.
“Ah, you came. Good. Just tell the truth and all will be well,” he said.
“Of course we will tell the truth because we have nothing to tell,” Paola said. “It is not my fault that some man chooses to meet his end on my property. So, where is some paper? Where is a pen? We do not have time to waste.”
A sheet of paper was produced, and the officer pointed to a chair for Paola to sit. When he tried to give me a sheet of paper, I shook my head.
“I can’t write in Italian,” I said. “I don’t speak it well, either.” I thought at this moment it might be better if they thought of me as a stranger who understood little and therefore could have no connection with what went on in San Salvatore.
“All right.” The officer picked up a pen and looked up at me. “How long have you been in San Salvatore?” “I only arrived yesterday,” I told him. “No, I have never been here before. I have never been to Italy before. I know nobody in the town. I was told that Signora Rossini had a room to rent. That is why I am staying there.”
“And why did you come to San Salvatore?” he asked, frowning at me. “We have no antiquities here. No famous church. We are not Siena or Florence.”
I tried to think of a reason for coming that would not involve my father or the war—an innocent reason. I was a student of agriculture and writing a paper on olive trees? But then I realised that someone would have told them that I was asking questions about Sofia Bartoli and my father. It was better to tell the truth. I had nothing to hide, except for a letter concealed in my dictionary.
“My father was a British airman,” I said, those words now coming easily to me as I had said them several times. “His plane was shot down near this town. I wanted to see it for myself because he died recently.”
“Ah.” That seemed to satisfy him. “I understand. And this man who was killed. You did not know him?”
“I only came here yesterday,” I said. “I think he was among the men who were kind to me when I asked about my father. They bought me a glass of wine here in the piazza. Then I went home to dinner with Signora Rossini, and after dinner I was very tired. I fell asleep early. This morning I wanted to wash but there was no water. That was when I asked the signora and she helped me lift the lid on the well and we saw the body. That is all I know.”
“Very good, Signorina,” he said. I could see that his expression was now relaxed. I was not a suspect.
“Am I free to go if I wish?” I asked.
He shook his head. “We have had to report this to the detectives in Lucca. They will send an inspector, and he will want to confirm what you have told me. A mere formality, you understand, but until he comes you must remain here.”
“And when might he come?” I asked. “I have to go back to England.”
He gave an expressive shrug. “It is Saturday tomorrow, is it not? Perhaps he will come then, or perhaps he will wait until Monday. We have to see.”
I tried to tell myself there was no harm in my waiting around for two more days. I’d be with Paola. I’d be safe. Then my hand tightened around the purse I was carrying. Had someone observed Gianni push the envelope through the bars? In which case what lengths would they go to in order to recover it from me? I should have resealed it and left it in my room, I thought. But then I decided that nobody could get into that room unless they managed to break down the heavy door.
I followed Paola out into the dazzling sunshine. “That is finished, thank la Madonna,” she said. “Now to more important matters. I think we should go to the butcher’s and buy some veal for tonight’s dinner. You like veal?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had it,” I said, not even knowing what the word meant.
“What do you eat in England?” she asked. “Always roast beef?”
“No, we eat lamb, sausages, fish. And potatoes. Always potatoes, not pasta.”
She gave me a look of intense pity. “That is why you are all skin and bones,” she said. “You must stay with me long enough for me to fatten you up. Who will want to marry a girl with no meat on her?”
“I wasn’t always skin and bones,” I said. “I have been sick this year.”
“Ah. That explains why you look like a walking statue. You stay here, my dear, and you will see what sunshine and good food can do for you.”
It was a very tempting offer. At this moment I could think of nothing better than staying with Paola, learning to cook, being mothered by her. Except that a man had been killed and it may have been because I was in San Salvatore. He had written that he knew the truth about Sofia. Did that mean that someone else in the village knew the truth and wanted it to remain hidden? I looked around the piazza. At this hour of the morning the tables outside the trattoria were empty. The only people around were housewives doing their shopping with baskets over their arms and some small children chasing the pigeons that wheeled and flapped and settled again.
On the church tower above, the bell started tolling. I thought it was for the hour but it went on ringing. Paola crossed herself. “The angelus. It is midday. Come, we must hurry before the shops shut for lunch. And that lazy butcher will not open again until at least four.”
She set off at a great pace. I almost had to run to keep up. We bought some pale little chops of what I had now worked out must be veal. Then in the delicatessen next door she chose several salamis from among the hundreds arranged on the shelf and some white cheese.
“Now we go home to eat,” she said, nodding in satisfaction. “You shall help me stuff the zucchini blossoms.”
We arrived back at her house. “First we pick and then we stuff,” she said.
“I’ll go and put my purse away,” I said. “Then I’ll help you.”
I took the key and wended my way through the market garden to my little house. The door was still locked and untouched. I heaved a sigh of relief. I let myself in and checked that the three objects were still in my shoe. I left my purse and locked the door behind me. As I glanced over at the window, I noticed the imprint of a big boot in the soft earth. Had that been there this morning? I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure I would have noticed. Was it maybe Gianni’s print from last night? But I remembered he had been quite slickly dressed—light blue shirt open at the neck and tight blac
k trousers. Certainly no workman’s or labourer’s boots. That meant that someone had been trying to see in through that window while we had been away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HUGO
December 1944
Hugo’s leg was definitely on the mend. He still couldn’t put any weight on it, but at least it didn’t throb violently all the time and the fever had not returned. In the morning he made himself get up and practice walking with the stick. The sun had been streaming in through the broken masonry, but when he came outside he stopped and gasped in surprise. Below him the world lay in a sea of white fog. Only the very tip of the church bell tower rose above it, and in the distance were the crests of other hills. This seemed like a perfect moment to try and explore, knowing he couldn’t be seen from below. The ground was frosty, and he moved cautiously, hopping around the ruined buildings, looking for anything that might be useful. He found a cooking pot, another spoon, and, to his delight, a tin of something. He couldn’t tell what, because the label had been destroyed, but that encouraged him to keep looking. He tucked his finds inside his jacket and ventured further. He spotted a boot sticking out from under a chunk of masonry. The other of the pair might be nearby. It would be a useful commodity for Sofia to trade. He used all his strength to move the piece of stone aside, then recoiled in horror when he saw that the boot was still attached to a leg. He had forgotten that the Allies had bombed a German gun position. There would certainly be other bodies buried here. This knowledge took away the childish excitement he had felt at making discoveries.
He carried his new treasures back to his lair and set about making a snare to catch a pigeon. His plan was simple enough: a stick to prop up the drawer he had salvaged from the rubble, a length of parachute cord tied to it to be jerked away when the pigeon went inside to peck at the crumbs he would leave. He cut away the parachute cord and then, having his knife handy, remembered that Sofia had expressed a desire for some of the silk to make underwear. He no longer needed the parachute now that she had brought him bedding, so he cut it up into useable pieces, smiling with anticipation at the thought of her face when she saw it.
He set up his trap and sprinkled the ground with breadcrumbs, then retreated into his hiding place. Now all he had to do was wait. The morning passed. He tried not to move or make a noise. Twice a pigeon flapped about, and once it landed on a beam but then flew off again. Finally it landed close to the trap. It walked forward, cooing throatily. For a moment he admired the iridescence of its feathers and was loath to kill it, but he forced these thoughts from his mind. Sofia needed meat. He could provide it. The pigeon waddled under the drawer and started to peck at the crumbs. He jerked at the chord. The stick flew out. The drawer landed with a resounding crash, trapping the pigeon. It had worked exactly as he had hoped.
He half crawled, half slithered over to it, lifted the drawer enough to slide his hand in, and grabbed the pigeon. It fluttered and struggled as he brought it out, but he wrung its neck and it lay still. He stared at it, realising it was the first time he had killed anything with his bare hands. As a boy at home he had known that pigs and chickens were killed on the farms around him. As a bomber pilot he had certainly killed when he dropped bombs on convoys and rail yards, but that was remote and impersonal. This was different. He was appalled at how easy it was to take a life. But that thought was displaced by the thought of Sofia’s face when she saw what he had for her. It was the first time he had been able to give her anything in return.
This thought made him remember her excitement about the parachute silk. A double gift. It made him absurdly happy. He lay back, exhausted, and tried to remember presents he had given Brenda. Had she been thrilled with them? In the early days, when they were in love, he had painted her portrait. She had liked that. But later? And he realised with a nagging sense of shame that his gifts had been routine, without much thought to them: expensive perfume, a pair of silk stockings. If they had grown apart, it was his fault as much as hers.
After the war I will make it up to her. And to little Teddy, he thought. And Sofia? The words whispered somewhere in his head. Never to see her again? Rubbish, he told himself. You can’t be in love with Sofia. She has been wonderfully kind when you needed help, but you’ve known her only a couple of weeks at the most. And you are weak and ill. It’s quite common for men to fall in love with their nurses . . .
He pushed the thought aside until she came to him that night. Sofia’s face, when he handed her his two gifts, was so alight with joy that he felt his heart melting—as if it had been frozen in ice for too long and had now returned to the heart of a young Hugo, heading out into the world amazed by beauty, hopeful for the future.
“A pigeon,” she said. “How did you manage to catch a pigeon?”
“Simple, really. I set up a trap. The pigeon came and took the bait.” He grinned. “Let us hope he has brothers and sisters.”
“I can make a good stew with this. Good broth,” she said. “My son Renzo is looking so frail lately. His sore throat and coughing do not go away. This will do him good. And you, too.”
“No,” he insisted. “Keep it for Renzo, and the grandmother, and yourself. It’s a gift.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “We’ll all share in the bounty.”
Then she fingered the pieces of parachute. “So soft. So luxurious,” she said. “I will make the best petticoat and drawers with this.” She held it up to her face, smiling at him. “It is too bad it will not be seemly to show you when I have finished the garments.” Her look was definitely flirtatious.
“Not to mention too cold,” he pointed out, and she laughed.
“That too.” Then she grew thoughtful. “Maybe I can use some of this silk to barter for things that we need, like more olive oil. I know that the Bernardinis have jars hidden in their basement. Gina Bernardini loves nice things . . .” She paused, looking up at him. “What do you think?”
“They would know that the silk came from a parachute, therefore they would know that I am here.”
“But if I said that I found the parachute up in the forest?”
“They would know that a man escaped and was in the area, and someone would tell the Germans and they would come looking for me.”
She sighed. “You are right. It is a risk I cannot take.” Then she brightened up again. “But when the Germans finally go and the Allies come, we shall still be bartering and I will still keep some silk, just in case.”
Hugo finished the polenta and olive spread she had brought for him and handed her back the cloth they had been wrapped in. She folded it, then looked up and said, “Do you think of your wife all the time, the way I think of my Guido?”
“No,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t. Not often. Not often enough.”
“You are not happy in your marriage?”
“Not really. We’re too different, I suppose. We met when we were both students in Florence. In England I’d probably never have met her. I come from a noble family and hers was, well, lower middle class, I suppose you could say. Her father worked in a bank. A bank clerk. Nothing wrong with it, but we would never have met. But we both shared a passion for art. And she was nice-looking. Good legs. She loved to have fun, to go out dancing and drinking wine. I suppose we were two foreigners drawn together more because we were in a strange land.” He paused, looking at her, wanting her to understand. “I expect at the end of our year in Florence we would eventually have parted and gone our separate ways, but we were young and inexperienced. When Brenda announced that she was expecting a child, I did the right thing—I married her. We lived in London for a while. I painted. I worked in an art gallery. The baby was born. Things were fine.”
“And then?” she asked. “Something went wrong?”
“And then my father’s health declined. He had been gassed in the Great War, you know. He called me home and said he needed me at Langley Hall because he could no longer run the estate. So I brought Brenda and the child to live in the country in a great big
house. She never liked it. Too far from the bright lights and city life and fun. And she never really got along with my father.”
“So what will happen when you go home?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll just have to see.”
“At least she likes art. That is a good thing,” Sofia said. “Tell me about your art and your studies. I would love to know more.”
“Not now. You need your sleep. Go home,” he said.
“Oh, but I love to hear about art,” she said. “We live in an area of great art, you know. Michelangelo, Leonardo, Fra Angelico, Botticelli.”
He was surprised. He wondered what farm girl in England could reel off the names of English painters.
“You know about art?”
She shrugged. “Their paintings are in our churches. I went to Florence once on a school trip before the war. I couldn’t believe that anyone could paint such lovely things. And sculpture? Have you seen Michelangelo’s David? The nuns said we weren’t to look because he was naked. But he was beautiful, was he not?”
“So you looked?” He laughed.
She gave an embarrassed smile. “I was only studying great art. That is not a sin. Do you paint naked bodies?”
He laughed again. “I’m afraid I don’t. The people in my landscapes were fully clothed.”
“I wish I could see your paintings,” she said. “If I could find you some paints and paper, you could paint the landscape here. It is very beautiful, is it not?”
“It is,” he agreed. “But paints and paper are the least of our worries.” He took her hand and she let him. “You really should go,” he said. “You will be ill if you don’t get enough sleep.”
“Nonna told me I was becoming lazy because I did not wake until seven,” she said. “She is always up at five. That is how it was in the old days. She is eighty-one and still expects to help in the fields. She has been urging me to harvest the turnips, saying she feels useless stuck indoors with nothing to do.”
