The Tuscan Child

by Rhys Bowen

  “The first communicants,” Paola whispered. “Don’t they look like little angels? I can’t wait until Marcella is old enough to make her first Communion.”

  At the end of the procession came the altar boys, then several priests, all in rich brocade vestments. The Mass began. Everyone in the church sang the hymns and chanted the responses. A great wave of sound enveloped the church. I thought how different it was from the sparsely attended and anaemic services at home. There were prayers, there was a sermon. Then came the solemn part of the Mass. Incense was lit and the herby smoke waved over the congregation. The priest chanted in a low voice. Bells were rung. Then one by one the children came up to receive their first Communion. After they had done so, the rest of the congregation followed, one by one, up to the altar steps. It seemed to go on forever. I was feeling sick with hunger. At least these people are getting a wafer to eat, I thought.

  Just when I began to hope it was over, the children were invited back to the altar steps to be introduced to the congregation. Then Father Filippo was assisted to the steps to give his blessing to the children and then to the congregation. Another hymn was sung lustily. The priests, altar boys, and first communicants processed out, and at last we were allowed to follow. I was delighted to see that coffee and sweet rolls had been placed on the tables beside the church. I waited my turn patiently as Paola chatted with other women, introducing me.

  “Will Father Filippo stay or will he go back to his residence?” I asked.

  “He will stay, at least for the procession,” she said. “See, a chair is being brought for him now.”

  An idea had come to me during the long moments when the sermon was being given in language that I didn’t understand. Father Filippo had been the parish priest during the war, and priests heard confessions. Maybe Sofia had told him about the British airman. I had to work out how I could manage to have a word with him.

  But as soon as we had downed a cup of coffee and eaten a roll, the town band arrived. They were dressed in medieval costume and marched proudly into the piazza, preceded by flag-bearers waving giant banners. There was a collective “Ah” from the crowd. People hastily finished eating and straightened their attire, eager to join the procession. The band finished the march it was playing and stood ready, with just the row of drummers keeping up the beat. Dum diddy dum diddy dum dum dum. The sound echoed back from the high buildings. The first Communion children left their families and were ushered into two lines, boys and girls side by side, which clearly wasn’t to the liking of some of the little boys. They stood waiting patiently behind the band.

  Now the air was full of expectation. The buglers put their instruments to their lips. A great burst of sound came out, and from the church emerged the altar boys in their red and white cassocks, two of them swinging brass balls on long chains from which the scent of incense wafted. Behind them Father Filippo was carried in a kind of sedan chair, then came four men carrying a large brocade canopy over the priest, who now held up an ornate gold object. I couldn’t decide what it was, but Paola crossed herself, so it had to be some kind of religious relic.

  They took their places behind the altar boys. Then the trumpets blasted again, the band struck up, and the procession started to move forward. I noticed a strange thing. There were few men among the waiting crowd. Then I saw why—a group of men came marching up holding ancient battleaxes and crosses. They were dressed in white robes and wore pointed hoods that hid their faces. The effect was quite alarming. I realised that the only similar thing I had seen was the clothing of the Ku Klux Klan. I glanced at Paola.

  “The Society of Saint George,” she said. “A devotional society of the men of this town. It is an honour to be invited to join.”

  I noticed then that their white tunics had a star on the breast. A many-pointed star.

  As the procession moved solemnly away to the slow beat of the drum, the townspeople came to follow. We took our places with the rest of the women. Our route took us at a snail’s pace through the town. As we walked I had time to think. The many-pointed star was like the tiny replica that Gianni had given me. Was he saying that someone who was an important man in town had somehow been implicated in bloodshed? I glanced back at those hooded men. Which of them had something to hide?

  Down through the village we processed until we came to the road that was lined with cypress trees, then on to a track through the fields and past several farmhouses before looping back again to the town. The weather that had started out brisk and bright was now clouding over. The wind had picked up, making the task of carrying the canopy challenging. The priest was finding it hard to keep his vestments in place.

  “Let us pray that it doesn’t rain,” Paola said. “After two weeks of nothing but sunshine, surely God doesn’t want to rain on us today.”

  We came up through vineyards and back to the road, then back to the piazza again. The canopy was carried to the steps of the church. The priest said prayers and gave a blessing. The band struck up a tune that was obviously a hymn as everyone started singing. I found myself watching the rapt expressions as the people sang. These were simple folk who really and truly believed. I felt a twinge of envy that I had never experienced such a feeling of belonging.

  The hymn came to an end. The people dispersed. I noticed that Father Filippo had been left sitting on his chair, and I seized the moment. I went over to him. “Father, I am an Englishwoman,” I said. “I came here to find out about my father, who was a British airman, shot down in the war. He wrote a letter to Sofia Bartoli, but nobody in this town knows anything about him. I wondered if you knew anything more you could tell me.”

  He smiled up at me. “The war. Such a tragic time. So much suffering. So much useless loss of life.”

  “Do you remember Sofia Bartoli?”

  He was still smiling. “Sofia? Such a sweet young girl. How sad she was when her man—what was he called, now? Let me think . . . Giovanni? No, it was Guido. That’s right—when Guido did not return and she realised he was dead.”

  “But my father,” I said. “The British airman. Did she never mention him to you? Did you know about him?”

  He frowned, trying to concentrate. “You are not from around here?” he asked.

  “No, Father. From England.”

  “England. A long way away. A heathen land where they do not have the true faith.”

  I realised then that his mind had gone. He remembered Sofia, but if she had told him about my father, then that memory had long been lost.

  I tried to think what I might ask him that could jog his memory, but at that moment some of the men came up to him. “Come, Father. We will take you to your place at the table. I am sure you are hungry.”

  Father Filippo smiled. “Food is the one pleasure left to an old man,” he said as they helped him to his feet. He glanced back at me. “It was such a long time ago,” he said. “Old memories can only open old wounds. Sometimes I give thanks that my memories have faded.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  HUGO

  December 1944

  Christmas was almost upon them. Sofia reported that Cosimo had shot a wild boar in the forest. “We have to keep it a secret,” she said, “because we are not allowed to own weapons, and if the Germans found the boar, they would take it from us. They love their meat. But our men will cut it up in the forest and deliver a portion to each family in San Salvatore so we can each have some meat for the holiday. And guess what I will do? I will make a wild boar ragu. The tin you gave me contained tomatoes! I am so excited. And I’ll make a chestnut cake. A real holiday feast.”

  After she had gone Hugo pictured her face, her joy. She finds happiness in such small things, he thought. He found himself comparing her to Brenda, who never seemed excited by anything these days. He knew she found life at Langley Hall boring. She found their county set boring. But it wasn’t as if they were in the middle of the Sahara. There was a fast train to London from Godalming, and she certainly went up to town enough, shopp
ing and even going to clubs. She drank a lot, any kind of cocktail, and he was pretty sure she had used cocaine. He saw her as a trapped animal in a beautiful cage.

  He shut her image from his mind and thought instead about Sofia. He wanted to give her a Christmas present. He had not managed to catch another pigeon. In fact, he rarely saw birds now that the temperature had dropped and there was a frost at night. He found it hard to keep warm, even when wearing his own and Guido’s clothing at once and lying on the sheepskin. He tried to move more during the day, and spent hours hopping around, poking about the rubble. The bombing had been thorough. Not much had survived, apart from the walls of the chapel. He found odd pages of books, now so damaged by rain that they were barely legible. He found an almost complete missal with a battered leather cover. He was going to leave it but then changed his mind. It didn’t seem right to leave something so old and sacred to be destroyed by the weather. He picked it up and tucked it inside his bomber jacket. He wondered what other valuable and rare objects had been left behind by the monks when the Germans had turned them out. Sofia had said that the Germans had taken the paintings from the chapel. He hoped the monks had been able to take their chalices and other precious objects, because there certainly wasn’t anything precious to be found lying amid the rubble. Just more bodies, probably, he thought.

  He was making his way back when he saw it—the sun sparkled on something that looked like a coin. He bent with difficulty and picked it up. It was a holy medal—a woman stretching out her hands with tiny words written around her. La Madonna, he thought, and realised he had his Christmas present for Sofia. He returned to his sanctuary and sat polishing the medal on his shirt until it looked almost new. Then he thumbed through the pages of the missal. The end sheets were marbled. He tore one out carefully and drew a little Christmas scene for Sofia: the holy family, the shepherds and their sheep, the ox, and the ass. Then he added a hillside with San Salvatore in the background. He was quite pleased with the result. He folded the drawing and placed the medal inside it. Then he tucked it inside the leather cover of the missal.

  “I regret that I shall not be able to come on Christmas Day,” Sofia said the next time she visited him. “It will be impossible. We go to Midnight Mass on the holy eve, and then we celebrate with neighbours for much of the night. Then the whole village is out and about during the next day. Much celebrating, although God knows we have little to celebrate at the moment. I will have to wait until all fall asleep on Christmas night, full of wine and food and happiness. I am sorry to leave you alone at such a special time, and I will come as soon as I can. I will bring you some of the wild boar ragu, although I do not think the pasta will taste as good when it is no longer hot. But I have brought you enough now to keep the hunger away.” She unfolded the cloth and he saw that she had brought him a big slice of polenta, some olive tapenade, a small piece of sheep’s cheese, and a dried apple. “These will keep,” she said. “And for now here is some soup.”

  He ate it, touched by her concerned face as he swallowed each mouthful. “Have you ever tried to paint or draw, Sofia?” he asked suddenly.

  “Me? When I was a child. One of the nuns liked my drawing of a donkey and pinned it up on the wall. But that was the extent of my artistic career.” She laughed.

  He had an absurd desire to sweep her away to England, to install her in his studio at Langley and teach her to paint, but he stopped himself from voicing this ridiculous notion. Why offer someone something she can never have? Why give false hope? To get through this time of darkness, came the answer.

  “When the war is over I shall return to San Salvatore,” he said, “and I will bring my easel and my paints and I shall let you paint whatever you want. Then I shall hang it on my wall at home.”

  She giggled. “It will be another donkey. That is all I know how to draw.”

  “But it could be a blue donkey. A polka-dot donkey. A flying donkey. Lots and lots of flying donkeys.”

  “You are absurd, Ugo.” She laughed and slapped his hand playfully. Then a spasm of guilt crossed her face. “Sorry. I should not have done that.”

  “Don’t apologise. I like it when you laugh. It makes me feel that I am still alive—that there is still hope.”

  “Me too,” she said. “When I think that I will see you soon, I, too, feel that I am still alive.”

  Instinctively he took her hand. “You are the only reason I am alive, Sofia,” he said. “You are the only reason I want to stay alive.”

  “No, don’t say that. Your wife. Your son. Your family. They are your reasons.”

  He shook his head. “No. If I do not return they will cry a little, say what a brave fellow I was to give my life for my country, and then go about their lives as if nothing had happened. I don’t think there is anyone at home who would truly weep for me.”

  “I would,” she said. “If you died, I would truly weep for you.”

  And he noticed she had not pulled her hand away. In fact, she was clasping his hand as fervently as he clasped hers.

  He awoke to the sound of bells. It was quite dark, and he had no idea of the hour, but the bells continued to echo across the frosty countryside. The Germans, he thought. The Germans have returned to the village. But then he thought, No. The bells are ringing for Midnight Mass. It’s Christmas Day. And he lay back, smiling to himself, recalling memories from the distant past: Hugo at five or six awaking in the cold, grey dawn to find the stocking at the foot of his bed bulging with presents. And Nanny poking her head around the door. “So did Father Christmas come, then?”

  “Yes.” He could hardly say the word, he was so excited. “Look at all the things he brought me.”

  “Well, aren’t you the lucky boy? And I rather think there might be something else downstairs. We’d better get you washed and dressed.”

  And there was: a fat, cream-coloured pony. Happy times, he thought. When Mother was still alive and Father had not yet gone off to war and I had been promised a brother or sister. Only something had gone wrong and mother and child had died in childbirth. Suddenly it was just Father and Nanny. And the next year he was sent away to school and Father went off to war, and he had never really felt safe again.

  He lay listening until the last chimes of the bells died away in the still night air.

  “Happy Christmas,” he said out loud, and then fell asleep.

  When he awoke again he was aware of distant noises—the sound of drums and then trumpets. It immediately brought to mind an invading army, Roman or medieval. But Sofia had told him that everyone would be out and about with much celebrating. Maybe the village band and a procession was part of the “much celebrating.”

  He washed himself at the rain barrel and wished he had a comb in his pocket to sort out his hair. He wet it and ran his fingers through it to smooth out the curl. The day was exceptionally clear and bright. And still—so still that his breath seemed like the only sound in the world. The drums and trumpets had ceased, and he pictured everyone in the village sitting around long communal tables, passing great bowls of food, talking and laughing as if they had not a care in the world.

  They will be feasting until late in the night, he thought. Sofia might not come at all. He had to accept that and hope she wouldn’t take the risk when people were going home from their celebrations.

  Darkness fell. He settled himself in his bed and lay back, longing for a cigarette, a glass of Scotch, a pork pie, a sausage roll, a chocolate bar—all of the little things he had taken for granted all his life.

  He thought he heard angels singing and opened his eyes in disbelief. “And there were shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night,” he muttered, the words of the gospel coming back to him. He looked up to see an angel coming toward him, singing in a high, clear, sweet voice. She held up a lantern that illuminated her face.

  “Mille cherubini in coro ti sorridono dal ciel,” she sang. A thousand cherubim serenade you from the sky. Then she dropped to the floor beside hi
m.

  “Oh, you are awake. I am so glad. See, I bring you good things for Christmas. Come out and enjoy your feast.”

  He dragged himself from his bed and perched on the bench beside her. She was unwrapping dishes from the thick cloth.

  “Wild boar ragu and pasta,” she said. “And ewes’ milk with honey and pepper. And chestnut cake. And a little flask of grappa. Eat, eat.”

  He gave a chuckle at her insistence. The typical Italian mother, he thought, even though she is so young. He needed no urging. The food was still warm. He ate, using the last of his polenta to wipe the plates clean. The grappa was raw and stung his throat as it went down, but it spread a warmth through his body.

  “You like it?” she asked shyly.

  “Magnificent. A true banquet,” he said, and she gave a delighted laugh.

  “We had such a good time today in the village. First a beautiful Midnight Mass. Everyone singing, and Father Filippo gave us words of such comfort. Then we joined with other families to celebrate. There was enough to eat and everyone was happy. Just like old times.” Then her face became solemn again. “Cosimo gave me a gift—a bottle of limoncello he had been saving in his cellar. I didn’t want to accept it, but we were in company and I did not want him to lose face in front of other people. So I made him open it right away and drink a toast to our missing loved ones, those who had not returned home yet.”

  Her face became wistful. Then she smiled again. “And I have brought a small gift for you, because at Christmas one should give gifts.”

  She handed him a tiny angel carved from wood. “It was part of our Christmas scene,” she said.

  “You should have left it where it belongs, Sofia,” he said as she put it into his hand.

  “But there are other angels, and I wanted an angel to be looking after you. The crib is very old. Many generations, and each one added to it, until now.” She curled his fingers around it. “Keep it and know that all the time I pray that your guardian angel looks after you.”