The Tuscan Child

by Rhys Bowen

  “Your mother clearly loved you,” I said. “Do you really believe that she would just abandon you if she didn’t have to?”

  He stopped, staring out ahead of us to the laughter and song in the piazza. “It is what I have been told. What everyone believes,” he said. “Now I’m just not sure.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  JOANNA

  June 1973

  We had reached the alleyway where Renzo’s old house stood. Renzo sensed me looking at it. “Do you think we should take a look at my house and see if there was possibly anywhere that someone could have been hidden?”

  “But won’t the occupants all be at the feast in the piazza?”

  He gave me a conspiratorial grin. “Exactly. What better time to look around?”

  “But we can’t go in without permission. And won’t the door be locked?”

  “I doubt it,” he said. “Nobody in San Salvatore locks their doors. Any stranger would have to enter the town along this street and would be noticed. And nobody here would rob a neighbour. It is against our code. Come on. Let us give it a try. If we are caught I will say that I am showing the young lady from England where I used to live. No harm in that, is there?”

  We hurried down the alleyway and Renzo tried the handle on the front door. It was made of carved wood and looked very old. The door swung open easily.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?” Renzo called. His voice echoed up a stairwell. There was no answer. He gave me an affirming nod. “Let’s go.”

  First he walked me around the ground floor. A formal living room at the front looked on to the alleyway. It was full of heavy, dark furniture and felt oppressive to me. At the back was a dining room that had a wonderful view over the vineyards that sloped down to a small valley and the olive groves that climbed the hill beyond. I went over to the window and looked out. Yes, he had been right. The window opened to the sheer drop of the town wall—not a place where one could climb in. Next to this was a very old-fashioned kitchen with a big cast-iron stove and copper pots hanging in a row. And on the other side of the kitchen was a room that now contained easy chairs and a TV set. So San Salvatore had entered the modern age!

  “This used to be my mother’s bedroom,” he said. “At least during the time I remember. We slept down here because it was warmer and we did not have enough fuel to heat the upstairs. My little bedroom was behind it.” And he showed me a tiny box room that looked out on to the alley. He had moved me along quickly, presumably because he was beginning to feel uneasy about snooping in someone’s home, but I had glanced out of the window of the room that used to be his bedroom. This window also opened onto the wall, but the top of the wall was built out a little here so that one could step down on to it. Not much use, however, as it was still a sheer drop.

  We went up and peeked into three bedrooms. Renzo pointed to a square on the ceiling he said led to the attic. Might it have been possible that someone could remain hidden up there? But Sofia would have had to come up with good excuses as to why she kept needing to go up and down. And if she brought my father food, wouldn’t the old grandmother have noticed that?

  We came down and Renzo opened a small door that led to a flight of dark stairs descending into blackness. I hesitated. “I don’t think I want to go down there,” I said. “It looks awful. Is there a light?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think I ever went down.”

  A cold draft of dampness and mould wafted up toward us. Renzo looked at me and nodded. “I have to agree it seems most unpleasant. And the same would apply here as to the attic—my nonna would have seen my mother taking down food. I think we had better get back before we are caught.”

  He had just finished these words when there was a sound like a truck running into the side of the house, followed by a rumble. Everything started to shake. I heard things falling and crashing. For a moment it felt as if the walls were coming down on us. I grabbed on to Renzo. “What’s happening?”

  “Only an earthquake,” he said.

  The shaking ceased and I realised that he had his arms around me.

  “Only an earthquake?” I demanded. “Only?”

  He laughed, releasing me. “They are rather common in this part of Italy,” he said. “There. It’s over. We are fine. Let’s go back to the others.”

  We arrived back in the piazza to find chaos. Jugs of wine had spilled on to white tablecloths. Babies were crying. Old women were praying and moaning. Others were rapidly clearing up the mess.

  “It is over,” the man with white hair who had entertained me the other night said to the crowd. “Forgotten. Let us enjoy ourselves again.”

  “The mayor,” Renzo said to me. “The most important man in this town. He is well respected here. He led us through the wartime and was sensible enough to appear to get along with the Germans. I think it saved us from more grief.”

  I looked at the old man with interest. One who got along with the Germans? Might he have betrayed his own people to save his skin? I took this one stage further. Might he have betrayed Sofia, knowing that she was hiding a British airman?

  I had no more time for these thoughts as Paola came toward me. “Where have you been? I was so worried. And then the earthquake . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Renzo took me to show me the house where he lived with his mother during the war.”

  Paola turned to stare at Renzo. “I see,” she said. “Oh well. No harm done.”

  At that moment Renzo’s name was called—or rather bellowed—across the piazza. Cosimo was gesturing to him. “Where have you been, boy?” he shouted. “Wandering off and leaving your old father to fend for himself?”

  “Father, you are among a hundred people. Any one of them could have helped you,” Renzo said.

  “And during the earthquake? If I’d had to move swiftly to escape? What then?”

  “I think the open piazza is probably the safest place in town,” Renzo said.

  “Oh, so now you choose to be flippant and disrespectful to your father, do you?” Cosimo came toward him, glaring at him. “Is it this German girl’s influence? I knew she was trouble the moment she came into our town.”

  “She’s not German, Father. She is English. And I was not trying to be disrespectful. I was merely stating the truth. And anyway, the earthquake has passed and you are quite unharmed, so all is well. We can get back to our celebration, okay?”

  He took the older man by the arm and glanced back at me with the hint of a grin. As they walked away I heard Cosimo say, “The sooner she is away from this place, the better.”

  I went to rejoin Paola’s group. The women were still talking about the earthquake, recalling quakes of times past, villages that had been destroyed, people who had been buried alive. They spoke fast and in their strong dialect, so most of it went over my head, but I nodded agreement as if I understood. I wondered how long the feast usually went on, but the matter was settled for me by Angelina’s baby, who started crying.

  “Mamma, I think I should take her home,” Angelina said. “It’s getting cold out here and I think it might rain.”

  “All right.” Paola got to her feet. “We will come with you. I will make sure you are home safely and then I think I should pay a visit to Francesca. She did not come, I think. Of course I can understand why she stays away at this time of grief. But I will bring her some of our vegetables and maybe some biscotti to cheer her up, poor soul.”

  “Who is Francesca?” I asked.

  “Gianni’s widow. I think the poor thing has suffered much during her marriage. She may be glad to be rid of him, but then how will she live now? Who will tend to the sheep and make the cheese, eh? It is too much for one woman, and I don’t think she can afford to pay a man to do the work, even if she can find one around here who is not working for Cosimo.”

  We took our leave of the people at our table. I had never been hugged and kissed by strangers before. It was a weird sensation, but not unpleasant, to feel that I was part of a big, warm grou
p.

  We walked together down the path and left Angelina at the farmhouse nursing her baby.

  “I will now go to Francesca,” Paola said. “You should take a little sleep. We have had a long day.”

  “Oh no,” I said. “I am not tired. Would you like me to come with you?”

  A big smile crossed her face. “Oh yes. I should like that very much. I always like company, and seeing a young, fresh face like yours will cheer up Francesca in her hour of grief.”

  In truth my volunteering to come with her was not entirely selfless. I wanted to have a chance to speak with Gianni’s widow. Maybe he had told her some of the things he’d wanted to share with me. Paola put together a big basket of food: fruit and vegetables from the garden, baked goods, and some of the leftover ragu.

  “She won’t feel like cooking, the poor soul,” she said.

  We set off along the track away from the village, then we turned off up the hill to our right. It was a steep climb. I had offered to carry the basket and now regretted it. I realised how unfit I still was. If I stayed here for long I’d make sure I took plenty of good walks, I decided. Then it struck me that I didn’t want to leave, regardless of the unpleasantness with the police. In spite of getting nowhere in my search for the truth, I liked being here. I liked being with Paola and feeling that I was part of a family.

  Gianni’s house was at the edge of the woodland that crowned the hills. It was a humble sort of place, built of old stone, with a slate roof, and looking as if it might fall down at any moment. Chickens wandered around outside the house. A dog was chained in the yard. It rose up, growling as we approached.

  “Francesca,” Paola yelled in her big voice. “It is I, Paola Rossini, come to pay you a visit.”

  The front door opened and a thin woman in black came out. She looked as if she had been crying constantly for some time. But she managed a weak sort of smile. “Paola. It is good of you to come.”

  “I was concerned when I didn’t see you at the feast day.”

  “How could I come and be joyful when one of the people eating and drinking there had killed my husband?” she demanded.

  “You don’t know that, Francesca. It could well have been an outsider.”

  “What sort of outsider? Which outsider would know about your well? They say he was jammed in there with his head down and left to drown. What kind of monster does that?”

  “Maybe Gianni had made enemies,” Paola said. “He was not always wise in the company that he kept.”

  “Gianni was always looking for a deal, that is true,” she agreed. “But he stayed away from criminals, from Mafia and gangs. There were rumours about him that just weren’t true. He liked to talk big, you know. Liked people to think that he lived with danger and intrigue. But it just wasn’t true. He was quite a timid man. But it does no good talking about it, does it? I don’t suppose they will ever get to the bottom of the murder. And where does it leave me? With no man to look after the sheep, to lift the heavy pots that make the cheese. I’ll have to sell up, if anyone will buy. Make do with my chickens and our few olive trees.” As she finished this tirade she seemed to notice me for the first time, standing back in the shadow of a cherry tree. “And who is this?” she asked.

  “This is the young English lady who is staying with me,” Paola said. “She was kind enough to carry the basket for me up the hill.”

  I felt those dark eyes analysing me critically. “The one who . . . ?” she began.

  “That’s right,” Paola said. “The one who found your husband’s body with me.”

  “It must have been a shock for her,” Francesca said.

  “A shock for both of us,” Paola said. “I thought my heart would never start beating again. The poor man. What an end.”

  “As you say, what an end. A most brutal and vicious man must have done this. And for what? Because Gianni wasn’t always wise in what he said?” She stopped, her hands toying with the apron she wore over her dress. “You’d better come in and have a glass of wine with me.”

  “Of course,” Paola said. She motioned me to follow and we stepped into the darkness of the house. It was cramped and spartan inside but spotlessly clean. We sat at a wooden bench in the corner. Francesca took an earthenware jug from a shelf and poured us glasses of red wine. Then she put a plate of olives and some coarse bread out on the table. “Your health, Signorina,” she said, still examining me as if I was a creature from Mars. Perhaps I am the first foreigner she has met, I thought, but then I reminded myself that she had seen plenty of Germans during the war. That might have made her suspicious of all foreigners.

  The two women talked. They spoke so rapidly and in their Tuscan dialect that much of what they said was lost on me. I found my attention wandering. I stared past them out of the window. There was a good view of San Salvatore from here. I picked out Sofia’s former house with the peeling yellow paint. Then I stared a little more intently. The windows at the back certainly opened onto the parapet. But from here it looked as if a stairway went down the outside of the wall just to the right of her house. So there was a way to bring up someone she wished to hide. I couldn’t wait to tell Renzo.

  Finally, and to my relief, Paola got up. “I should be getting back to my daughter and the grandchild,” she said.

  “Will you be attending the dancing in the piazza tonight?” Francesca asked, looking at me as well as Paola.

  Paola chuckled. “I think my dancing days are over. But if the young lady wishes to go, I have no objection.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it would be right for me to attend alone and to dance with strangers,” I said. “The police inspector already thinks I have a bad character because I had a glass of wine with the men of the town without a chaperone.”

  “Why was an inspector from the police talking to you?” Francesca asked. “Why did he concern himself about your character?”

  I realised instantly that I had opened up an embarrassing topic. I could hardly say that he was trying to pin her husband’s murder on me because he thought Gianni had tried to force himself on me and I had killed him in self-defence. I tried to come up with a reasonable thing to say. “He was being unpleasant to everyone,” I said. “He tried to make me confess to your husband’s murder because I was the one who found the body.”

  “How ridiculous,” she said. “These police are idiots. Why should you have any reason to kill a man you had never met?”

  “He was among those men at the table, I suppose,” I said. “I did exchange a few words with him. I said I was interested in seeing the countryside, and he offered to show me his sheep and how he makes cheese.”

  “I see.” She was still frowning. “And why did you come to San Salvatore, Signorina?”

  “My father was a British airman whose plane was shot down near here. I wondered if anybody knew anything about him.”

  “In the war?”

  “Yes. I don’t know any details. That’s why I came to find out.”

  She waved a hand, dismissing this. “We were only children during the war. We learned to survive and hide away.”

  “Yes. It seems nobody ever knew anything about a British pilot who survived a plane crash.”

  “And was taken away by the Germans?”

  “Why do you say that?” I felt my pulse quicken. “Do you know that to be true?”

  “I think Gianni mentioned it once. They came for him, I’m pretty sure of that.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “I have no idea. I was up at my uncle’s farm at the time. But what you said just jogged my memory about something Gianni said. He was only a boy himself at the time, but he ran errands and he saw a lot of things that other people didn’t. He always did like spying on other people, and look where it got him.”

  She put a hand up to her mouth and sobbed. Paola came around to comfort her. “Don’t worry, Francesca. You have friends here. We will make sure you are all right,” she said. “We’ll take our leave now. But you are welcome at my house any
time.”

  “You are a good woman, Paola. May the saints watch over you.”

  We left her standing at the doorway and watching us as we walked back down the hill.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  HUGO

  December 1944

  For a long moment they lay huddled in complete darkness until the movement around them ceased.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered to her.

  “I think so. Just very afraid. You saved us. What was happening? It felt as if the whole building was falling down to hell.”

  “The bomb must have disturbed the foundations.”

  Their voices seemed to echo in the darkness.

  “Is it safe now, do you think?” she whispered. “Have they gone?”

  “Yes, they have gone.” He stroked her hair and she snuggled against him.

  “How will I get home if I cannot find my lantern?” she said.

  “We’ll find it. Don’t worry.” He eased them upright, reached for his lighter, clicked it, and held out the small flame, looking around. The lantern had fallen on its side and rolled a few feet away from them. He retrieved it and relit the candle.

  “Why did they drop a bomb on us?” she asked as he set the candle upright and held his lighter flame against it. “How could they do such a thing?”

  “The pilot might have seen the light of your lantern and thought this was still an enemy position, I suppose,” Hugo said.

  “My little lantern? A pilot thought that was a danger?” She smiled.

  “You’d be surprised how small a light can be seen from up in a plane,” he said. Then he added, “Sometimes an airman just wants to turn around and go home, so he drops the last bomb where he thinks it can do no harm, in the woods or fields.”

  “Did you ever do that?”

  “I am a pilot. My job is to fly the plane, not drop the bombs,” he said. “And I flew only light bombers with very few bombs. We tried to make them count.”