The Tuscan Child

by Rhys Bowen

  “Keep your hands on your head. March,” the senior soldier barked at him.

  They forced him ahead of them through the trees, one of them digging at his back with the barrel of his weapon. Hugo’s leg began to hurt him, and he stumbled a couple of times.

  “Do not play tricks or we will shoot you now,” one of them said.

  On the other side of the trees an open military vehicle was waiting. The soldiers ordered him into the back seat. “Keep hands on your head. Do not try to escape, or Heinrich will be happy to shoot you,” the one who spoke English said. He climbed into the driver’s seat, and the other soldier slid into the back beside Hugo, his weapon thrust into Hugo’s side. They drove off, bouncing over the ruts between the olive trees.

  For the first time since the shock of being caught, Hugo’s brain began to work. He scanned the fields for any sign of a cart. Had they captured Sofia and made her tell them where he was hiding? Had her son inadvertently given her away? His heart was thumping so loudly in his chest that he found it hard to breathe. If only she was safe, nothing mattered. They did not turn downward toward the road in the valley. Instead they went up through the vineyards and joined the road he had seen on the hilltop when he first arrived—the narrow dirt road lined with cypress trees that led up to the village. Hugo prayed he was not being taken up to the village to be paraded until someone confessed to helping him, or to be forced to watch the whole village slaughtered before he met his own end.

  He heaved a small sigh of relief when they turned away from the village, heading north along the ridge. He scanned the countryside to both sides. No sign of a cart and horse. No sign of anybody moving in the fields. If he encountered a sympathetic officer, a soldier of the old school, he had a chance of being treated as a fellow officer and prisoner of war—just the slightest chance of remaining alive. He tried to think of Langley Hall, his father, his wife and child. Instead all he saw was Sofia’s face—so lovely, so gentle—and his heart ached at the thought he’d never see her again.

  After a few miles they joined a wider road, this one paved and no longer tree-lined. The wind sweeping down from the north was brutal. Hugo could see a town silhouetted on the hilltop ahead. Several German military vehicles were drawn up beside the road. Hugo’s car stopped and there was a brief exchange. As they spoke Hugo noticed the men glancing up nervously. He could not turn round, but he could hear the reason for their concern—the deep thrum of approaching aircraft.

  Soon the low drone became a roar. The German soldiers who had been standing around rushed for their vehicles or fled into the fields to hide among the vineyards. The first wave passed overhead, their shadows making black crosses on the fields. Big American bombers. There was a whistling sound and a bomb came down, striking near the head of the convoy of German vehicles. A petrol tank exploded, and Hugo felt the blast sucking air from his lungs. A second bomb landed just in front of them. The driver of his vehicle swore and abruptly put the car into reverse, throwing Hugo and the soldier guarding him off balance. It was only a fraction of a second, but Hugo decided to take his chance to escape.

  As he attempted to clamber out of the vehicle, there was a deafening roar of aircraft noise overhead. One of the fighters at the rear of the formation had broken off and was coming in low over the road. A machine gun spat out bullets. His driver flew upward as he was hit, then slumped forward. The vehicle careened wildly across the road. A second bullet struck the man beside Hugo. The vehicle crashed into a burning lorry and rolled over. Hugo was thrown out. He was still conscious and trying to crawl away when the petrol tank exploded and he knew no more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  JOANNA

  June 1973

  As soon as I awoke the next morning the first thing that came into my head was that I was leaving San Salvatore today. Renzo would drive me to the station, and I’d never see him again. And it occurred to me that I might have misunderstood Cosimo’s desire to get rid of me in a hurry. Maybe it was not a fear that I knew something dangerous—maybe it was that he sensed Renzo was becoming attracted to me. It was quite a coincidence that everyone Renzo fell in love with was somehow whisked away from him. Was that Cosimo’s doing? I asked myself. Had he arranged for the local girl to attend a fashion design school she couldn’t possibly afford? And bringing him back from England when he had a stroke was understandable, but keeping him here, needing his assistance every moment, was that really necessary? Cosimo was clearly one of those people who see themselves as the centre of the universe and see others only when they can be useful.

  This thought led to another one: Renzo had mentioned that Cosimo had been in love but the girl had rejected him. Might that girl have been Sofia, and to get his revenge he tipped off the Germans about her and my father? That would definitely explain why Cosimo had smeared her reputation and why he wanted me to go so quickly.

  I was still trying to make sense of these thoughts when I went over to the farmhouse to take a bath and then joined Paola and Angelina for breakfast. The meal was a solemn one. Paola looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. “And I haven’t taught you anything about mushrooms yet,” she said. “The little wood mushrooms, so delicious. And ravioli . . . we haven’t learned to make ravioli.” She reached across and took my hand. “Promise me you will come back, cara Joanna. We will have such a good time, no?”

  “I hope so,” I said. “I hope it will be possible when this sad time with Gianni is over.”

  “Too bad you are not a lawyer here in Italy,” she said. “You would know how to speak to this police inspector so that he listens and sees the truth.”

  “Unfortunately we don’t know the truth,” I said.

  “Whatever it is, it can have nothing to do with you,” she said firmly.

  That’s where you’re wrong, I thought but didn’t say. We finished the meal. “I must go and pack,” I said. I went back to my room and folded my clothes neatly in my suitcase. Soon I’d be back in grey and rainy London, buying a pre-cooked steak and kidney pie from Sainsbury’s for my dinner and wondering what my future would hold.

  I hadn’t quite finished when I heard a tap on my door.

  “Come in,” I called, and was startled when Renzo entered, not Paola.

  “Are you ready?” he asked. “We have to hurry if we wish to see the monastery before we drive to Florence. My father insists I see a man about our grapes before this fellow leaves for his afternoon snooze.”

  “I just need to pack these last few items,” I said. “Shall I leave them until we get back?”

  “Or finish them now. Whatever you want,” he said, and sat on the bed. It would have been disturbing enough at any time to have Renzo sitting on my bed watching me as I crammed undies into a suitcase. Now, knowing what I knew, fearing what I feared, it was almost unbearable. I picked up the spare shoes, the ones with the items from Gianni in the toes, and stuffed them with undies and stockings. Renzo said nothing as I put them into my suitcase. I finished, looked around the room, and closed the suitcase.

  “There,” I said. “All done and ready to go.”

  “Bene,” he said. “Good. Now let us go on our adventure.”

  We cut across the vineyard between the rows of vines and picked up a track that went up the hill between olive groves. In the distance we heard a shout and saw a cart going up the hillside on another track, the man exhorting his horse to move faster. Renzo stared at it, frowning.

  “A cart,” he said. “Something about a cart.”

  “What about it?”

  “A flash of memory returning. Something about a cart. A man came to our door and said he had brought the cart and he wanted payment first. But my mother had already gone and he went away again.”

  “Do you think she was planning to escape with this cart?” I asked, looking up at him hopefully. “Maybe she and my father were going to escape together, or maybe she had arranged the cart to transport my father to safety.”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? There is nob
ody alive to tell us now. That is what is so frustrating, to realise that we shall never know.”

  I nodded agreement. We walked on in silence. “Did you sleep well last night?” he asked.

  “Very well.” I gave him a little smile.

  He smiled, too. “I’m sorry the earthquake interrupted us. And now there is no more time.” He paused. “I was wondering, if I managed to come to London someday, could I see you again?”

  “If Cosimo would let you out of his sight for that long,” I said without thinking.

  He frowned. “I am not a prisoner of my father, you know. It is just that with his limited mobility I have to do things he would otherwise have done. But I go to Florence on occasion. And Rome. So why not London? I am sure his wines are not well enough represented in Harrods.”

  “Why not?” I laughed. “And yes, I would like it if you came to visit me.”

  “You must leave me your address.”

  “I don’t know where I’ll be,” I said. “I’ve been sleeping on a friend’s couch since”—I was about to say, “Since I came out of hospital and my boyfriend went off to marry someone else”—“since I had to give up my last flat,” I finished. “But I’ve just inherited a little money from my father. I’m hoping it will be enough for a down payment on a small flat somewhere.”

  “In London?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you hate the city,” he said. “I can tell that you hate the city.”

  “I have to work, and it would be lonely living out in the country.”

  “I see.” He looked at me and I thought for a moment he was going to say something, but then he looked away and stomped on up the hill. “This is quite a long way,” he said. “I can’t believe my mother came up here with her basket to the woods every day. They were strong people in her generation.”

  He was right. The steep climb was making me perspire, and I was finding it harder to chat easily. I was glad when the path entered the woodland at the crest of the hill. Here it was cool and quiet, soft underfoot, and smelled sweet. The band of trees was not very broad, however, and we came out on the other side to see the rocky pinnacle rising above us. All around it was a fence with signs saying “Danger. Keep Out. Unstable Rocks” every few feet.

  I glanced at Renzo. “Is this all right?”

  “We’ll have to see, won’t we?” he said. “Come on, here is where we can get through the fence.” He led me to a section where one could squeeze through. Ahead there were steps cut into the turf. A riot of poppies bloomed along with other wild flowers. With the crag towering over us it was a brilliant spectacle, and the thought came to me that my father would have loved to have painted it.

  The first steps were quite easy. Then a second flight went almost vertically up the rock face. These steps had crumbled in places, and the rock beside the stairs had fallen away so that they hung out over a sheer drop. I swallowed hard but wasn’t going to let Renzo see that I was afraid.

  “You go first and I’ll be right behind you to catch you,” he said.

  That set off an alarm bell in my head. Had this been the plan all along? Take the English girl up to a place where no one comes and throw her off a cliff?

  “No, you go first,” I said. “I want to see which steps are stable and which aren’t.”

  “Oh, you want me to plunge to my death, do you?” He turned back to me, laughing.

  “Rather you than me,” I replied.

  “That’s hardly true love, is it?” he asked. “What about Romeo and Juliet?”

  “They were too young to know any better,” I replied.

  “All right. I’ll go first. Stay over to the right side of the steps,” he said, and started upward.

  A stiff breeze swept in from distant mountains. Far below on the left side I could see the remains of an old track leading down to a road in the valley. Tiny lorries and cars the size of Dinky Toys made their way along the road. After Renzo had gone three or four steps, I followed him, holding on tightly to the rusted iron railing on the right. We both came safely to the top and stood on a former forecourt to admire the view. On all sides of us were range after range of forested hills. Hill towns like San Salvatore perched precariously on the tops of some of them. Old fortresses rose out of woodland. It felt as if one could see to the end of the world.

  “Beautiful, is it not?” he asked, putting an arm around my shoulder.

  It should have been the most magical moment, standing close to him and sharing this view, but I couldn’t quite shake off the tension.

  “We shouldn’t stay long,” I said. “We might be seen and get into trouble.”

  “And they would fine us a few hundred lira for trespassing. So what?” He laughed. “Relax, Joanna, enjoy this while you can.”

  Again the choice of words made me glance up at him, but he was gazing out with a look of pure delight on his face.

  “You wouldn’t have been happy if you had stayed in London,” I said. “You love it here.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I do. But I also want to further my career. If I had come home as an accomplished chef, I would have opened my own restaurant. I could have turned our little town into a tourist destination.”

  “You could still do that,” I said. “You cook very well. Your food is delicious.”

  “But I do not have that certificate that says I am trained in a culinary academy, do I? One needs that piece of paper.”

  I thought of my bar exam. One needs that piece of paper. Of course.

  “Let’s explore,” I said.

  “Tread carefully,” Renzo warned. “These paving stones are uneven and some are loose. Here, take my hand.” His hand felt warm and firm in mine. I began to let the tension slip away. We made our way toward the buildings. Small trees and shrubs had sprouted up between the cracked stones, and on the pile of rubble to our left there were now bigger trees growing. A creeper with bright blue flowers covered much of the rubble. We stopped, staring around.

  “Nowhere anybody could hide out here,” Renzo said. “It would have had to be the chapel.”

  On the right what used to be four walls rose up. Curved marble steps led to a gaping hole where front doors had once been. We stepped inside. It was cool and in dark shade where we stood, but the sunlight was striking the opposite wall, where the remains of a mural were still visible. A woman with a crown on her head still smiling sweetly. Clouds. Angels. I looked down, ready to go forward, but the floor was covered in rubble. Great beams lay across roof tiles and stones.

  “I don’t think my father would have found much shelter in here, do you?” I said.

  “At least he would have been out of the wind,” Renzo said. “He could have built himself a little shelter with all these stones.”

  “Then where is it?” I asked.

  He looked around and shrugged. “There have been earthquakes since he was here. Anything would have fallen down. Come on. Let’s take a look.”

  Again he took my hand and we clambered over mounds of rubble. But there was nothing. No discarded tins or cigarette packets to indicate an Englishman might once have been here.

  I sighed. “I don’t think there is any point in staying any longer. If he hid up here he was found by the Germans. He escaped and made his way back to England. But there is also no proof that your mother ever came up here, either.”

  “We might have got it completely wrong,” Renzo said. “Perhaps he hid in the woods—built himself a little shelter of branches. Or she might even have risked hiding him in our cellar.”

  I shook my head. “Then the people of San Salvatore would have seen the Germans taking him away. And you would probably have all been executed for hiding an Englishman.”

  “True. Very well, we have come. We have seen. And now it is time to drive to Florence, I am afraid. The very least I can do is treat you to a lunch in a good restaurant before you catch your train home.”

  “Thank you.” I hesitated, still reluctant to move. Did I sense my father’s presence here? Maybe
if I had been closer to him . . .

  As I went to move forward I was jolted off my feet. My first thought was that one of the great beams had shifted beneath the rubble. But as I went down on all fours I could feel the whole floor shaking.

  “Another earthquake!” Renzo shouted. “Can you make it to the door? We don’t want stones flying off the walls and coming down on us.”

  But it was impossible to stand. The floor danced as if it was alive. Around me I heard stones thudding down from the tops of the walls. I crouched, covering my head and waiting for it to stop. Then there came a deep rumble and a thud. And miraculously the shaking stopped. I looked up and saw Renzo staggering to his feet.

  “Wow, that was a big one,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so. It was impossible to move, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “I hope the town is not damaged.” Then he added, “I hope the staircase hasn’t fallen and we find ourselves trapped up here.”

  “Cheerful thought,” I said, and he laughed.

  I stood up and tried to move toward him. Stones rolled away as I stepped on them. Then I stopped, staring. “Renzo. Over here. Look.”

  He came to where I was pointing. In the floor beside the right-hand wall there was now a gaping hole. And what’s more, steps led down from it.

  “It must have been the former crypt,” Renzo said.

  “You don’t suppose my father hid down there, do you?”

  “Then why was it all covered up again?”

  “An earthquake after he left?”

  “Possibly. Do you want to go down and see? The floor up here might be very unstable. It could cave in if there is another aftershock.”

  “Let’s just go a little way and see what’s there,” I said. “You smoke, don’t you? Do you have matches?”

  “Yes, in my pocket. I’m game if you are.”

  He picked his way over to the opening and started down the steps. They were now covered with rubble where the floor above had fallen in. Renzo kicked some of it down, clearing a path for me. I followed step by step. When we were in almost total darkness Renzo lit a match. I heard him say what was probably a swear word in Italian.