The Mermaid Garden

by Santa Montefiore

  “There is one person who can help,” she said, lifting her chin. “One person, if you’ll let me ask.”

  33.

  The kitchen fell silent. Rafa, Clementine, and Grey stared at Marina in amazement. “Who?” Grey asked. He thought they had explored every avenue.

  Marina looked embarrassed. “An old friend.”

  Grey frowned. “What do you mean, an old friend?”

  “It’s complicated. He’s someone I knew a long time ago.”

  “Well, where is he?”

  She hesitated, knitting her fingers. “Italy.” The word was released into the air for them to gaze on in astonishment. No one was more astonished than Marina.

  “Italy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who on earth do you know in Italy, let alone someone capable of bailing you out?” Grey gazed at her across the table. “Darling, this is a big surprise. Why didn’t you tell me about him before?”

  The corners of her mouth twitched with emotion, and she took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “You have to trust me, darling, and not ask any more questions. Please. It’s a long story. I wouldn’t have even considered him if I wasn’t desperate. But I am desperate.” In the silence that ensued she felt something pull in the deepest depth of her heart. She realized she had been desperate for a very, very long time, and only now, as she teetered at the frontier where past and present collide, did she recognize the real motive behind her plan—and it wasn’t the Polzanze. The little shoebox hidden away at the top of her cupboard surfaced again, and her eyes welled with tears.

  Grey was appalled by her plan. “I won’t have you crossing Europe to beg for money from a man I have never met.”

  “This is different, darling—and I won’t be begging.”

  Grey pulled out a chair and sat down. He didn’t like the idea of his wife keeping secrets from him, especially when it came to money. He looked at her steadily. Then he saw something in her eyes that changed his mind—the same longing he had seen when he had comforted her after her nightmares, the same craving that drove her to pace the beach and stare for hours across the water. He knew then that the root of her unrest lay in Italy, and for that reason, she had to go.

  “All right,” he conceded gently, taking her hand. “But I can’t go with you.” She understood that he wasn’t comfortable asking a stranger for help. “This is your business, Marina.”

  “I’ll go on my own. I’ll be fine.”

  He smiled at her fondly. She didn’t realize how fragile she looked. “Darling, I don’t think it’s wise to travel alone. Why don’t you take Clemmie with you, or Jake?”

  “No, really, I’ll be fine,” she insisted.

  “I’ll go with you,” Rafa suggested. Marina and Grey looked at him. They had almost forgotten he was there. “I speak the language, for a start.” He shrugged. “And I’m a good chauffeur.”

  “That’s very generous of you to offer, Rafa,” said Grey. He turned to his wife. “I think that’s a sensible idea. I’d be much happier if I knew you had someone with you.”

  “Then that’s settled,” said Marina. She smiled weakly, as deflated as a tire that has run many thousands of miles and can run no more. “It’s our last chance.”

  Grey nodded. “If it’s unsuccessful, we will agree to sell to Charles Rueben. We can set up again somewhere else.” But Marina wasn’t listening. She was already in Italy, walking back down the avenues of her past.

  Later, when Clementine and Rafa walked Biscuit along the cliff top, they discussed the extraordinary episode in the kitchen. “What was all that about?” Clementine asked.

  “I have no idea. It’s bizarre.”

  “Who’s she going to see in Italy? An old lover, perhaps?”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “You must text me. I’ll be longing to know.”

  “He must be a very special old lover if she’s hoping he’ll write her such a vast check.”

  “Who has that sort of money to toss away?” She was aware that he was looking at her strangely. “Why can’t she just call him up? If he’s such a good friend, why doesn’t she just telephone him and ask for a loan?”

  “Clementine, there’s something I need to tell you,” he said suddenly. She turned to find his face had grown pale, right down to his lips.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No.”

  Clementine didn’t want his confession. If he was Baffles, she’d rather not know. He could go on robbing in secret, and their friendship could continue undisturbed. She liked the way things were. If he confessed, he’d ruin everything.

  “I was in the stable block—” he began.

  “I know. Jake found you.”

  “I said I was looking for Biscuit.”

  “But you weren’t?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sure Jake just misjudged you. Don’t worry about him. He’s a little jealous of you, as you’ve probably worked out.”

  “Jake didn’t misjudge me. I was looking for something else.”

  “I don’t want to know,” she blurted, putting her hands over her ears.

  “Don’t tell me. If you have a secret, keep it to yourself, please.”

  He looked at her in astonishment. “But I want to tell you. I want to come clean.”

  “Why? What good will that do? You’ll confess something terrible, and then we won’t be friends anymore.”

  “No, it’s not like that.” He took her hands and pulled them away from her ears.

  “Yes, it is. You didn’t come here to teach old ladies to paint, did you?”

  “No … but—”

  “You targeted us for a reason?”

  “Yes.”

  Clementine felt a surge of emotion rise up her chest, and she tore her hands away. “So, don’t tell me the reason. I can’t bear it. I trusted you.” In her confusion she began to run up the beach.

  “Clementine, wait! It’s not what you think. My intentions are good.”

  She stopped and turned, the wind whipping her hair from behind and tossing it across her cheeks. “You just don’t get it, do you?” You don’t get that I love you, she called silently. Then out loud she added, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  He watched her go. He could have run after her and told her everything—he was now pretty sure that he was in the right place—but Grey knew nothing of Marina’s past, and Rafa hadn’t anticipated that. How would they feel if he suddenly turned their reality upside down and told them who he really was? He sat on the sand and put his head in his hands. Part of him wanted to pack his bags and return to Argentina, putting the whole messy business behind him. But part of him knew he had to go to Italy with Marina. If he had any hope of winning Clementine, he had to know the whole truth.

  Clementine sobbed into her pillow. She knew she should have waited to hear what he had to say. Her performance had been as bad as the worst soap opera, where the characters always walk out on one another before waiting to hear their explanations. But she couldn’t bear to watch him topple off his pedestal. She couldn’t risk the chance that she had fallen in love with a mirage, a cleverly constructed image. She didn’t want to be like Sylvia, with her cynical view of love. So now what? How could they ever go back to the way they were? She might as well have listened, because now everything had changed between them, and she didn’t even have the satisfaction of knowing what or who he really was.

  Marina and Rafa left for the airport early the following morning before dawn, while the Polzanze slept on. They took a train to Heathrow via London, and flew to Rome. There were so many questions Rafa longed to ask, but he knew better than to intrude in what Marina believed to be her own secret adventure. She wasn’t aware that it was Rafa’s, too.

  Marina was nervous. She bit her nails, fidgeted, and failed to read the magazine that remained open on the same page for the duration of the entire flight. She was unusually quiet, replying to his comments in monosyllables. The croissant on her tray remai
ned untouched. At Rome airport she asked him to organize the hiring of a car, which he did in fluent Italian while she paced up and down like a greyhound preparing for a race. Finally, with a map and two cups of takeaway coffee, they drove through the Tuscan countryside towards an obscure little town called Herba.

  Rafa concentrated on the road while Marina stared outside at the inky green cypress trees, towering umbrella pines, and Italian farmhouses with their red-tiled roofs and sandy-colored walls. A warm breeze blew through the open windows, carrying with it the scents of wild thyme, rosemary, and pine. She rested her elbow on the window frame and clenched her finger between her teeth. She felt as if she were driving towards an enormous door with only one chance to open it. If she failed, it would close forever on the very thing she had waited most of her life to find. Now she was in Italy the Polzanze seemed very far away and somehow less important. Her focus had changed, the mask was slipping—perhaps the Polzanze had been nothing but a screen all along, hiding the only thing that mattered—the only thing that had ever mattered. She wiped away a tear and tried to focus on her plan.

  It was early evening when the car drew up at the gates of La Magdalena. The light had grown soft, the shadows long. The yellow palace at the end of the drive peered out of the avenue curiously. A security guard leaned into the window.

  “Marina Turner,” she said. The man nodded and returned into his hut to open the gates electronically. “Drive on,” she instructed.

  Rafa did as she asked and motored up the track. He dared not look at Marina; he knew without looking that she was crying. He drew up in front of the house.

  “Why don’t you drive into Herba and take a look around?” she suggested. “Give me a couple of hours.” He watched her get out and take a while to gather her courage. She swept her eyes over the facade, straightened her dress, and smoothed her hair. Then she walked up the steps to the front door where she was met by a butler in uniform.

  Rafa drove down the coast into Herba, the little town he knew so well from his father’s memories. He had described it in detail during those long rides across the pampa, and Rafa could see now that it hadn’t changed very much since his father was a boy, running barefoot with his brother across the cobbles. So, this is where it all began, he thought, feeling a strange sense of nostalgia wash over him.

  The butler greeted Marina formally then led her over the checkerboard floor, stopping outside an imposing pair of wooden doors. He knocked briskly. A voice called from within, “Avanti.” Marina caught her breath and blinked the mist from her eyes. The butler opened the door. She lifted her chin, pulled back her shoulders, and stepped inside.

  The man behind the desk put down his pen and raised his eyes. He blanched in astonishment at the sight of the woman who now stood before him. “My God,” he gasped, standing up. For a moment he believed his eyes were deceiving him.

  “Dante,” she said softly. She couldn’t take another step, for her legs were numb. She remained frozen and trembling. The man walked slowly around his desk and towards her, without taking his gaze off her—afraid that she would disappear as suddenly as she had come. When he stood a few inches away, his eyes misted, too. He took her hand and seemed not to care that a tear had escaped and trickled over the lines on his skin.

  “Floriana.”

  34.

  They remained a long while staring at the past. Dante had grown old, as had she. His hair was gray and receded, the crow’s-feet entrenched deep and long into his temples. He had weary bags under his eyes, and the shadows there betrayed a life defined by hard work and disappointment. He ran his gaze over her features in wonder, the questions falling over each other to be asked, but his voice was lost in the turmoil of his emotions. He didn’t let go of her hands but remained as she did, frozen and trembling.

  At last he pulled her into his arms and embraced her so fiercely, for a moment she was unable to breathe. It was as if the last four decades had simply dissolved, leaving them as they once were, only changed on the outside.

  He pressed his wet cheek to hers and closed his eyes. “You have come back,” he whispered. “My piccolina. L’Orfanella. You have come back.” When he released her, they both laughed through their tears, a little embarrassed that two mature people could behave in such a manner. “Come and sit outside where I can see you in the light. You haven’t changed at all, Floriana, except your hair, it’s lighter!”

  “I dye it,” she replied, sheepishly. “Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s different, and you speak Italian like an Englishwoman.”

  “I am an Englishwoman.”

  He took her hand and led her through the house to the terrace. “Do you remember your birthday party?”

  “Of course.”

  He looked down at her hand. “You’re not wearing my ring—nor Mamma’s bracelet.”

  Her eyes welled again and she began to explain, “I gave them—”

  He smiled and dismissed it with a wave. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Come, sit down. We have so much to talk about. Would you like tea, coffee? I don’t know what you drink these days.” He suddenly looked deflated. “Once I knew everything about you.”

  “I’ll have coffee and bread. I’m suddenly rather hungry.”

  He called to the butler. “Coffee, bread, and cheese for both of us.”

  Dante and Marina sat side by side, looking out over the gardens. Memories rose up from the grass like butterflies and scattered on the breeze. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, staring at her incredulously. “I think my eyes deceive me. And yet, here you are, more beautiful now than when I knew you.”

  “I never thought I’d see you again. I read and reread your letters, and hoped you’d come and find me. For years I waited.” She shook her head, not wanting to revisit that bleak and lonely time. “What happened to Good-Night?”

  “He pined for you, Floriana. He just lay in the road and stared ahead.”

  She pressed her hand against her heart, horrified. “He pined for me?”

  “Yes. We carried him inside eventually, but he wouldn’t eat. Floriana, I didn’t know what had happened to you. I looked everywhere, but no one knew anything about it, except Elio.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That you had run off with another man, just like your mother.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Of course not. Tell me now, where did you go?”

  The butler brought coffee in a silver pot and a tray of homebaked bread, cheese, and quince. Marina waited for him to pour the coffee and leave them alone before she replied to Dante’s question. She had never spoken about this before—even remembering had been too painful. But now, as she brought those memories to light, she realized that time had diminished their power.

  “The evening before I was due to meet you at the wall, a stranger came to the apartment. My father told me he knew that I was pregnant with your child. He held in his hand a brown envelope. He said it was a gift from Beppe Bonfanti.”

  “He blackmailed my father?”

  “I’m afraid he must have.”

  “So my father knew?” Dante lost his gaze in the gardens. “My father knew all along?”

  “I don’t know how my father found out because the only two people who knew the truth were Father Ascanio and Signora Bruno, neither of whom would have betrayed me.”

  “So, then what happened?”

  She faltered a moment, for Dante’s face seemed to have fallen with the weight of his sorrow. “The man told me he had come to take me here, to you, and I believed him. What alternative did I have? He claimed your father was going to take care of me—of us.”

  “Where did he take you?”

  “We drove up here, and there was Good-Night in the road, his tail wagging at the sight of me. But then the car passed the gates, and Good-Night ran after the car.” Her chin began to wobble. Dante took her hand and stroked the skin with his thumb, silently imploring her to go on. “Good-Night couldn�
�t keep up. He ran and ran, but soon he was a little dot until he had disappeared altogether. That was the last I ever saw of him.”

  “And why he remained in the middle of the road, expecting you to come back.”

  “I missed him so much, Dante. I almost missed him more than you.”

  She sipped her coffee, and Dante cut them both a slice of bread. They ate in silence as Marina remembered Good-Night and Dante remembered his demise. “He took me to the convent, Dante.”

  “Santa Maria degli Angeli?”

  “Yes, the very same.”

  “But I pounded on the door. For the love of God, I pounded on that door day and night.”

  “You knew I was there?”

  “I hoped you were there. It was the only place I had to look. Father Ascanio promised he would arrange for you to go to the convent, so when Elio said you had run away, I prayed that you had gone there. You had nowhere else to go. But they turned me away, claiming they had never heard of you. Of course, I didn’t believe you had run away. I thought perhaps something had frightened you or that you had lost faith in me.”

  He looked so dejected, her heart buckled. “No, Dante …”

  “But I never suspected my father knew. He never let on. To his dying day, he never let on …” His voice trailed off.

  “Yes, I read that he had died.”

  “You did?”

  “Six months ago. I keep all press cuttings about your family—and now with the Internet it’s a lot easier.”

  “Oh, Floriana,” he groaned.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I’m not sorry at all. I never liked him.” He cut a wedge of cheese. “Let’s not talk about him. Go on. The puzzle is taking shape.”

  At this point Marina found it hard to speak. It was as if a weight had descended onto her chest. “I gave birth to a son.”