The Tuscan Child

by Rhys Bowen

  “You see?” I smiled at him triumphantly. “Your mother and my father were innocent. They loved each other, and they were betrayed.”

  “Yes,” he said softly. “I have to believe you.”

  “Are we ever going to get those tomatoes for tonight’s meal?” came Paola’s big voice across the rows of vegetables.

  Renzo grinned to me. “The slave driver calls. Come and help prepare the meal.”

  I followed him along the narrow path, now more confused than ever. Had Cosimo betrayed Renzo’s mother and then felt guilty enough that he had adopted him? Perhaps Renzo knew no more than I did.

  Renzo fell back to wait for me. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “My mother always went up the hill with her basket. It is possible that your father was hidden somewhere in the woods or even in the old monastery. We should go and look tomorrow before you leave us.”

  “I was wondering about the old monastery myself,” I said. “But it just looks like piles of ruined stone. Could someone really have sought shelter up there?”

  “I went up a couple of times when I was a boy,” Renzo said. “It’s all fenced off and nobody is supposed to go there because the hillside is in danger of collapsing. But of course when we were boys we had to do it on a dare. There truly wasn’t much to see. The walls of the old chapel still stood, but there was no roof. And the floor was piled high with rubble. The rooms of the monastery were completely flattened. If your father hid out up there, then he would have had a miserable time.”

  “He’d been to a British boarding school,” I said. “He was probably used to a miserable time.”

  This made Renzo throw back his head and laugh. “You English and your boarding schools,” he said. “Was your school also like that?”

  “I didn’t board at the school I told you about, but it was certainly not a good experience for me. I couldn’t wait to leave.”

  “So you, too, have had your share of miserable times?”

  “Yes, you could say that.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder. “Perhaps it is time to put the past behind you and to look forward to the future. You will be a rich and famous lawyer. You will travel and marry an equally rich man and have the perfect two children and live happily in one of those big, draughty English houses.”

  I looked up at him, horribly conscious of his hand, warm and comforting on my shoulder. “I’m not sure that’s what I want at all,” I said.

  “So what do you want?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll know when I find it.”

  Renzo released me and stood aside for me to enter the house first.

  “Allora. Now we get to work,” Paola said. “With so many courses to prepare I need much assistance. First we make the toppings for the crostini.”

  “What is a crostini?” I asked.

  “Like bruschetta, but instead of being baked, the slices of bread are grilled,” Renzo said. “More chewy and less brittle.” He turned to Paola. “And what toppings have you in mind?”

  “The fresh asparagus, naturally . . .”

  “Wrapped in prosciutto crudo, naturally?” he said. “And fennel? I see you have fennel growing in your garden. Should I dig up a bulb and slice it thinly with some pecorino?”

  “That would be a wonderful idea,” she said. “And I have a good tapenade here.”

  “And will you allow me to make the risotto?” he asked. “It was one of my specialties when I was sous-chef at the restaurant in Soho.”

  “With pleasure,” Paola said. “But you must show the young lady how you prepare it. She wants to learn how to cook our Italian food, you know.”

  He looked at me with interest. “You want to learn to cook? Lawyers don’t need such skills. They can employ a cook, surely.”

  “Not this lawyer,” I said. “At the moment I am still a poor articled clerk, earning almost no money until I pass my exam. And even if I get a good job, I think that coming home to cook a good meal would be very relaxing.”

  “You are right,” he said. “When I am cooking I think of nothing else. It is as if all the troubles of the world are shut out and it is just me and the food.”

  Paola frowned and Renzo translated for her.

  “You should speak Italian to the young lady,” she said. “How else is she going to improve? And already she understands quite well.”

  “All right. In future, only Italian, Joanna, capisci?” he said, giving me a challenging look.

  I was given the herbs to chop up for the sauce to go on the aubergine—oregano, Italian parsley—and then lots of garlic to crush. I was concentrating hard when Renzo came up behind me. “No, that is not how you hold the knife,” he said. His fingers came over mine. “Straight. Up and down. Swift motion like this. See?”

  “Renzo, you will distract the young lady from her task if you flirt with her like that,” Paola said.

  “What does this word mean?” I asked. When Renzo translated I felt myself blushing.

  “Flirting? Who was flirting?” he demanded. “I only wish to correct the way she cuts parsley. If she wants to cook well she must develop good skills.”

  “You say what you like,” Paola said, chuckling. “I say what I observe. See, her cheeks have become quite pink.”

  “But she did not push me away, so she must have liked it,” he replied. “Now let me see you cut, Jo.”

  I realised he was using the abbreviation of my name that only a few people had used in my life. Scarlet was one and Adrian was another. But coming from Renzo it sounded right. I started cutting, making smooth and even chopping motions. He watched, nodding. “You learn quickly.”

  “It’s a shame she is not going to stay longer. You and I could teach her much,” Paola said. “Instead she goes back to London and to her diet of roast beef and sausages.”

  “Yes, it is a shame,” Renzo said.

  I had to agree with them. I went back to chopping my herbs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  JOANNA

  June 1973

  By eight o’clock the meal was ready.

  “I think outside, don’t you?” Paola said. “Since it is such a beautiful evening.”

  So a table was laid with a white cloth out in the garden under the cherry tree. This time there were no simple ceramic beakers, but silverware and crystal. I took my place looking out away from the farmhouse. The sun was setting over the western hills, and bats flitted through the pink twilight. The air was scented with honeysuckle and jasmine. It was almost like being in a dream.

  Angelina came to join us, bringing olive oil and a plate of olives. It turned out that Renzo had brought wine from his father’s vineyards. We started with a crisp white as Paola brought out the tray of crostini. I had to try one of each topping as I had done my first night in San Salvatore in the piazza. The asparagus wrapped in slivers of uncured ham and drizzled with truffle oil; the thin slices of fennel, which was another new flavour for me; the sharp sheep’s cheese served with fig jam. All of these tasted like little miracles and frankly would have been enough for a grand evening meal on their own.

  But then we had Renzo’s risotto—creamy rice with mushrooms cooked in a rich broth. When Renzo saw my nod of appreciation he said, “In London I used to make this with seafood. You should try it. The fish broth and the mussels and shrimp are just perfect. It is too bad I can’t make a trip to the coast and bring back the right ingredients to cook for you.”

  “I can’t imagine it would be much better than this,” I said. “I grew up being forced to eat rice pudding at school, and I’ve shied away from rice ever since.”

  He laughed. “The English unfortunately don’t know what interesting things can be done with simple ingredients. Give them cabbage or Brussels sprouts and they boil them to death.”

  “Maybe you can come back to England one day, open your own restaurant, and educate everyone,” I said.

  I watched the joy drain from his face. “Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t see that day happening. My father’s health
does not improve, and frankly he needs me here. Family comes first, does it not?”

  I thought about this—a strange notion to me. I certainly had not put my father first in any of my decisions. Maybe I had failed him. I didn’t like to think about it, but I pictured his body lying cold in the grass. And now it was too late to say I was sorry.

  “But we can fix these gloomy thoughts,” Renzo said, “with another good wine. This is the pride of our vineyard. In England the only Italian wine you know is the rough Chianti that comes in a straw bottle. But this is from our premium grapes, perfectly aged in oak barrels. You will taste the difference.”

  The white wine was already having its effect, and I hesitated as I took a sip of the red. I don’t have far to walk home, I told myself. The first taste was smooth and rich, like drinking red velvet. “Oh,” I said, and Renzo smiled.

  “Now you will go home and be a wine snob and say to your friends, ‘This is not like that cheap Chianti that they produce, the wine in the straw bottle,’” he said.

  “I doubt that I could afford to buy this in England,” I said. “Wine is very expensive.”

  “You are right, you couldn’t buy this in England,” he said. “We only produce a few cases of this wine, and it goes straight to our preferred customers in Rome and Milan. Film stars, racing car drivers, and millionaires.”

  “Then I am indeed honoured.” My gaze met his and I felt a shiver go down my spine. I tried to make light of it. “But don’t top up my glass or I may not find my way home.”

  “Don’t worry, Renzo will escort you,” Paola said.

  That did bring me back to reality. Renzo walking me back to the little house, past the well into which Gianni had been stuffed head first—and the high probability that Renzo knew something about this. Had he been sent to get me drunk? To gain entrance to my room and find the envelope that Gianni had pushed through my window?

  “What’s the matter?” Renzo asked me, as if reading my thoughts.

  “Just that I am sad I will be leaving all this beauty tomorrow.”

  “And I am sad that you are going,” he said. “Perhaps you can return in less worrying times.”

  “I doubt that,” I said. “The inspector might invent new charges against me if I come back.”

  He laughed, but I sensed that I wasn’t too far from the truth.

  I got up to help Paola clear away the dishes, but she waved for me to stay seated. “Why else do I have a daughter?” she said. “You are the guest. Sit. Talk with Renzo.”

  As they disappeared into the house, I grinned. “I’m afraid Paola is trying to do some matchmaking.”

  “She has a good heart,” he replied. “And her judgment is not bad, either.”

  I chuckled nervously because I was highly conscious of his presence across the table from me, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his unruly black curls, and his eyes that sparkled as if they were on fire. It must have been the wine, but I wanted him to take me in his arms and kiss me.

  That ridiculous thought was banished by Paola coming back with the big dish of aubergine Parmesan. I didn’t think I had any room for another mouthful, but once I took my first bite I had to finish my plate. So rich, so creamy. And the aubergine tasted like a really good meat.

  We finished the meal with the little dishes of panna cotta—smooth and white and slipping easily down the throat, and to accompany it a glass of limoncello, the local liqueur. A soft, velvety darkness had fallen over the land. The night air was full of the sound of crickets and frogs. Renzo stood up. “I should probably be getting home,” he said. “My father will wonder where I am.” He looked at me. “May I escort you to your room first?”

  “Oh no,” I said, laughing. “I must help Paola and Angelina with the washing up. We must have made a lot of dishes dirty.”

  “Of course you do not need to do this,” Paola said. “Let the young man escort you if he volunteers. I know if a handsome man offered to escort me to my room I would not say no. Unfortunately such offers do not come anymore.” And she laughed.

  I had no choice. Renzo offered me his arm. I took it, giving him a nervous smile. “Honestly, Renzo, I can find my way to my room unaided,” I said. “And I’m sure Cosimo will be pacing the floor waiting for you to come home.”

  “Let him pace,” Renzo said. “Did it not occur to you that I might want to spend some time alone with you?”

  I looked up at him then. He was giving me a little half-smile. “I don’t know what it is about you,” he said. “I find myself strangely drawn to you. Maybe you remind me of the girl I once knew in London, the one I might have married if things had been different.” He turned to face me. “Do I not detect that you are also a little attracted to me?”

  “Maybe a little,” I said, trying not to ignore the warning alarm going off in my head. Cosimo’s son, remember.

  “Then perhaps it is in our shared history,” Renzo said. “Maybe it is the story of my mother and your father finally being completed. It is fate. Destiny. There is nothing we can do about it.”

  “Do you think so?” I asked.

  “How do I know?” he said, smiling at me. “I just know that at this moment I want to kiss you. Is that all right with you?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He took me in his arms and his lips moved toward mine. I could feel my heart racing, the small frisson of danger mingling with my desire for him. I don’t know where it might have led, but suddenly the ground beneath our feet was moving. It only lasted for a few seconds, but Renzo held me tight until the rocking stopped.

  “Was that another earthquake?” I asked.

  “Just an aftershock,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

  “Isn’t there a song that goes something like, ‘I felt the earth move under my feet’?” I laughed, a little shakily.

  “Now you know it really happens,” he said.

  “Joanna? Renzo? Is all well with you? It was only a small earthquake,” Paola called from the open door.

  “All is well,” Renzo responded, releasing me. “I think I’d better go,” he said, “before the earth moves under our feet again.” He touched my cheek. “I will see you in the morning. Sleep well.”

  And then he went. I let myself into the little room, locked my door, undressed, and lay on my bed staring at the ceiling. Was it possible, just possible, that Renzo really did have feelings for me?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  HUGO

  December 1944

  As soon as Sofia had departed, Hugo got to work lugging pieces of masonry, as big and heavy as he could carry, to pile on top of the old door. He was still working when the sun came up. He admired his achievement—the area now matched the rest of the rubble on the floor. No one would ever suspect that an entrance to the crypt lay beneath. The beautiful boy was safe.

  Then he attacked the next phase: hiding any trace of his occupation of the chapel. He had already been wearing all the extra clothes to keep out the cold, so set about dismantling his shelter, hurling the pieces of wood around the chapel. He took the blanket, sheepskin, bowl, and spoon and scattered them around the rubble, then tossed a few rocks on to them for good measure. When he was done he looked around in satisfaction. Nobody would ever know that he had been here.

  All he had to do now was wait. He didn’t think it was likely that Sofia would be able to bring the cart to him that very day. He also didn’t think she’d risk being out at night. It would be too suspicious, and how could she see to drive the wagon in the dark without lanterns? But tomorrow, at first light—that would be logical if she was going to market with a load of turnips. He ate the last crumbs of bread, drank some water, and fantasised about reaching a town to the south, an Allied camp, hot food, a real bed, safety for him and for Sofia and her son. When darkness fell he went and recovered the sheepskin to sit on and dozed sitting up. The night seemed eternal. When the glow of dawn came in the east, he got up, then wondered if he should make his way down the steps to wait for Sofia in the forest
. He decided against this in case she came by the other side of the rock, up the track to the precipice, and he somehow had to clamber down to meet her. He wasn’t sure he was up to that feat and decided to go around and scout out the best way down, just in case.

  As he came out of the chapel and stood blinking in the bright daylight, he saw a movement among the trees. His heart leapt and he waved. The next thing he knew, two German soldiers emerged, their guns pointed at him. One of them came nimbly up the steps.

  “You are the Englishman?” he asked.

  Hugo thought of lying. His Italian was now quite fluent, and he had even picked up Sofia’s Tuscan dialect. But they would want to see his papers. They would search him and find his logbook and identity tags.

  “Yes,” he said. “English pilot. Officer.”

  “Give me your weapon, then put up your hands.”

  He had no alternative but to obey. He handed over the revolver. The German did not ask for his knife. “You come with us now. Schnell. Run.”

  “I have a broken leg,” he said, lifting his trouser to reveal his splint. “Leg kaputt. Can’t walk fast.”

  There was a rapid conversation between the two men. Even with his scant knowledge of German, picked up on a couple of skiing holidays, Hugo sensed that one of them wanted to shoot him on the spot. The other disagreed, and Hugo thought he understood that their colonel would want to question him first.

  The German standing in front of him motioned for him to move with his weapon. Hugo went down the steps as slowly as he dared, hanging on to the railing and lowering himself from step to step. He had the knife in his pocket. There was a slight chance he might be able to use it. At the foot of the steps, the two men conversed again in low voices, and he could tell they didn’t agree about something. But the one who had remained at the foot of the steps prevailed.