The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  After coffee they said their goodbyes and returned to the hotel. Ferdinand was unusually quiet. ‘Did you find out what you wanted to know?’ she asked him.

  He gave her a sharp glance. ‘You could say that.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Good.’ But it was all rather intriguing.

  Back inside The Lemon Tree Hotel, she watched him lope up the stairs to his room, pausing as usual to stare at the painting of the Archangel Gabriel in the niche. What was the fascination? Had Giovanna mentioned that her father had painted it? But why would she? Isabella was confused. She couldn’t help but feel that something was going on – and that much to her annoyance, she wasn’t party to it.

  CHAPTER 10

  Chiara

  After leaving Giovanna’s, Chiara took the steep path through the prickly pears and the chestnut trees down towards the clutter of rooftops that made up the village. At every twist and turn of the steps, she caught a tantalising snatch of the clear blue ocean. She loved The Lemon Tree Hotel with all her heart, but sometimes it was good to take some time off, to get away from the place, to taste a different air. Seeing Dante again, talking to him . . . It had made her think again how untravelled she was, how little experience she had of the world. And now – was it too late?

  She stepped from the caruggi, the honeycomb of narrow, stepped interior passages that climbed up and around and eventually led to the castle, down into the warmth, noise and bustle of Via Roma – the main street – which was divided in two by a row of blowsy oleanders in pots. She felt the full warmth of the afternoon sun on her head and sniffed appreciatively as she passed the panificio . . . rosemary focaccia, you couldn’t beat it, though of course, Elene’s was the best. The little shops were all busy – the gelateria, the boutiques, the art gallery; Chiara knew all the owners and exchanged a cheery greeting with them as she passed by. A delivery man wheeling polystyrene trays of anchovies in ice boxes down the street called buon giorno and promised her that he was on his way to The Lemon Tree straight after this delivery. Chiara sniffed the freshness of the fish, smiled, and told him that she hoped so.

  She went on through the narrow alleyway between tall and shadowy pink buildings whose paint was peeling to reveal the original underbelly of stone beneath. These houses were ravaged by wind, rain and storms in autumn and winter. Spray from the biggest waves sometimes reached the top of the castle tower and, Madonna santa, that was something to see. It meant there was always much re-building to do. But then, the Cinque Terre had always been about building – in what seemed like impossible conditions. Look at how her ancestors and the other inhabitants of the town had once terraced all the high slopes to create their vineyards and olive groves. Those dry-stone walls, the muretti, were an early masterpiece of engineering; it was said that if you laid them end to end they’d be longer than the Great Wall of China.

  ‘Hey, Roberto!’ She waved to their old family friend who was squatting in a corner of Piazza Marconi, busy re-varnishing his boat. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Good, good. And you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, very good. And your mother? How is she?’

  ‘Well enough to shout at me this morning for waking her up, God bless her.’ He mopped his brow and grinned ruefully. ‘Going for a swim?’

  ‘I certainly am.’ The square was lined with boats, the rainbow parasols of bars and restaurants, shiny-leafed magnolia trees, and a row of tamarisks at the waterfront casting their feathery shadows. It drew the tourists, but the piazza was also a meeting-place for the locals – it always had been. She stood on the stone steps facing the sea. Some local kids were playing football on the harbour beach of gritty brown sand – they were usually here: swimming, running, kicking a ball; it was their playground all year round, just as it had been when Chiara was a child.

  She looked out towards the end of the pier where the local young men dived into the waves to impress the tourists. There were steps into the water too, but she could see that the rocks were crowded with onlookers today so although she was a strong swimmer, she decided to keep a low profile and stay where she was. She took a route around the children on the spiaggia, stepped along the narrow harbour wall, slipped off her sundress, and picked her way over the dark rocks towards the inky blue sea.

  She was also here, she silently admitted to herself, to avoid Dante. It was all very well talking with him and telling him that her life was fine and dandy, grazie mille. But of course, it was not, and the longer he stayed, the harder she might find it to hide that fact. So here she was again . . . She negotiated a slippery rock. Running away by staying exactly where she was – among her friends and family, safe within her comfort zone. Perhaps it was the story of her life – hey?

  She stepped into the water. It was cool and inviting on her sun-warmed skin; another few steps and it had crept up to her thighs. Heaven. She swept forward into the surge of a wave, in a smooth breaststroke. Beside her, the multi-coloured boats bobbed and rocked with the tide. She kept near the buoys and swam her usual route out towards the harbour mouth and the open sea beyond – which glittered in the sunlight as if it had been scattered with gold dust. Ah. They had built the swimming pool at the hotel more than twenty years ago – it had meant creating a terrace near the entrance, below the olive grove – and it was wonderful to have it. Even so, she preferred to leave the pool for the use of their guests, and besides, there was nothing quite like swimming in the sea.

  She turned and floated for a few moments on her back, her body too now rocking gently with the waves, as she filtered out the voices and laughter from the shore and breathed in the fresh salty air. Squinting into the sun, she could see some labourers high up on the steep hillside terraces carrying red and green baskets of grapes on their shoulders to stack on to the little monorail train that swept up the mountainside for this purpose alone. Vino d’uva. Once, it had been important to differentiate their own pure local wine from what was available in the bigger supermarkets springing up in Liguria – who knew what might be in that? Now, the wine of Cinque Terre tasting so fresh and clean on the palate was justifiably celebrated. At The Lemon Tree Hotel they prided themselves that even their house wine came from this region.

  She swam towards the shore and the terrace of houses above the church – dusty pink and bright tangerine, green shutters flung open to the day. The afternoon sun slanted across the decorated portal, the old stone walls and pale peach and grey bell tower of Santa Margherita di Antiochia, situated on the waterfront and forever iconic of Vernazza. This was the view that drew people to their village and, although it was familiar, every time she saw it, Chiara seemed to fall in love with it once more.

  At last, she swam in and picked her way back through the rocks – she could probably do this blindfolded, she sometimes thought – to her bag in which she had packed a thin beach towel that doubled as a sarong.

  ‘Ciao, Chiara.’

  ‘Dante.’ She stood there in her swimsuit, dripping and at a loss.

  He realised immediately. ‘Is this your bag?’ It was on the rock beside him.

  She nodded.

  ‘Here.’ He handed it to her, saw the towel. ‘Let me.’ He wrapped it around her shoulders.

  ‘Grazie.’ Chiara shivered. She wasn’t cold, only embarrassed, she realised. Here she was – fifty-nine years of age, and yet vain enough to take a lot of trouble to look her best for their meeting last night. And now she was almost fully exposed – her not-so-young body on show to her childhood sweetheart. How absurd it all was. She shivered again and laughed at the same time.

  ‘I am so sorry.’ Dante seemed to understand her mixed emotions, though his eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘I did not mean to . . .’ He gestured with his hands. ‘You know.’

  ‘I know.’ And why shouldn’t he be down here in the harbour? He had once, after all, been almost a local. More to the point, why should she be here? He would have expected her to be at the hotel working, which was where she should go, right now.

  Instead, she sat down
on the rock. Perhaps he was trying to avoid her? It was not a comfortable feeling.

  ‘May I?’ He gestured to the rock beside her.

  ‘Yes.’ It struck her that this older version of Dante Rossi was much politer than the boy she’d known.

  He sat down beside her, thankfully not too close, but close enough. ‘I was walking along the beach when I spotted you in the sea.’ He spread his hands. ‘Swimming.’

  ‘Sì . . .’ Again, Chiara laughed, and this time he laughed with her.

  ‘I was going to sneak away before you came out of the water,’ he confided. ‘I didn’t want to spoil your . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Me-time.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘Sneak away, or spoil your me-time?’

  ‘Both.’ She sat with her knees bunched up to her chin, the towel wrapped around her to preserve her dignity.

  ‘Remember when they used to play waterpolo here?’ he asked her.

  ‘I do.’ Once, the waterpolo team of Vernazza had been among the best. And Chiara remembered everything.

  ‘Hmm. Good times, eh, Chiara?’ How could he sound so casual?

  ‘How long are you staying in Vernazza, Dante?’ She hadn’t meant to ask this so abruptly, though it had been on her mind ever since his arrival. She had even checked the hotel register, but it was an open booking. Isabella wouldn’t do this at the height of the season, but now that things were slowing down, it was possible . . . She frowned. Though Dante must have used his charm on her granddaughter, she guessed.

  ‘Two or three days,’ he said. ‘There are a few people I want to visit. Friends and family.’

  ‘Yes, of course, you must miss them.’

  ‘I miss Italy.’

  She couldn’t mistake the regret in his voice, the passion. ‘And yet you have made a life in England,’ she reminded him. ‘You are successful with your pistachio gelato, your melon and your prickly pear, is that not so?’

  ‘No prickly pear in England.’ He glanced up at the steep mountainside next to them where the plant was growing in abundance. ‘I do not know how that flavour would go down in Dorset.’

  Chiara chuckled.

  ‘And it is good to have some sun.’ He held his face up to the cloudless sky, his eyes crinkling in the light.

  He looked vulnerable like that. She glanced quickly away. Two or three days, she thought. That wasn’t so long. She wasn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved. ‘It is grey in England, yes?’

  ‘Very grey.’ He spoke solemnly. ‘Though England, she has her charms.’

  ‘Such as?’ With a corner of the towel, she rubbed at the damp tendrils of hair on her shoulders.

  ‘The landscape,’ he said. ‘Cornwall is very beautiful, with granite rocks and sea as blue as the Mediterranean on a good day.’

  ‘Is that so?’ She gazed out to sea. The colour shifted from navy to turquoise to pale green where it was shallow by the rocks at the end of the harbour.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Almost as blue anyway,’ he amended.

  ‘And Dorset?’

  ‘There’s real history there,’ he said. ‘Green fields and hedges, villages with thatched cottages and little streams running through by the roadside. Sloping hills and farmland with dry-stone walls. Beaches that seem to go on for ever. And stunning sandstone cliffs. It’s a Jurassic coast – very, very old.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful.’ She’d love to go there. And London. How she’d adore to see Buckingham Palace and the changing of the guard. ‘And the food?’

  ‘It could be a lot worse.’ He gave a small shrug. ‘There are Italian restaurants everywhere now – some more authentic than others as you might guess. Indian too, Chinese, you name it.’

  Chiara nodded. ‘Though Italian is the best,’ she said.

  He shot her a glance. ‘Oh, naturally.’

  She wondered if he was teasing – it wasn’t always easy to tell. ‘Did you eat at the hotel last night?’ After their drink, she’d got something from the kitchen and taken it to their rooms so as not to run into him if he was still around.

  ‘Yes, and it was very good. There are very few restaurants in England up to the standard of your hotel’s.’

  Chiara was not surprised at this. ‘You know that my daughter Elene is our chef?’ She looked out to sea once again. A little motor boat was just chugging through the harbour mouth. The thought of Elene made her realise that she must get back.

  ‘You must be very proud of her.’ He stretched out his legs. He was wearing jeans and summer sandals on bare feet. The olive skin of his bare arms was certainly paler than it had been when warmed by the Mediterranean sun in the old days. He still looked strong though, she decided. At sixty-one, he remained a fine figure of a man; his shoulders not quite so broad perhaps, but he held himself very upright. He looked – distinguished, she realised. The boy she’d known had been lovely, but never distinguished. She smiled. ‘Oh, yes, I am very proud of her.’

  ‘What are you thinking, Chiara?’ He smiled back at her, and once again the atmosphere was easier between them.

  She improvised. ‘Have you never been back here before, Dante?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘But you didn’t come—’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  They stared at one another while she struggled to understand. Did she have the right to question him? She was still curious, still smarting perhaps even after all this time from the manner in which he had left. It was not as if she had sent him away.

  ‘In the early years when I could afford it, I paid for my mother to come and visit me in England,’ he told her gently. ‘As you know, I was the only child. I felt guilty. I thought perhaps she might want to come and live in Dorset too.’

  ‘And did she?’ From her one and only interaction with Signora Rossi, Chiara would be surprised.

  ‘No, she most certainly did not.’ They both laughed. ‘I couldn’t blame her. Her life was the Cinque Terre, Corniglia, her friends. She couldn’t speak the language. Who would she have talked to all day?’

  Chiara smiled. ‘You speak English fluently, I am sure?’

  He laughed, for she had said this in English, to tease.

  ‘After all these years, I do, yes.’

  And I am also sure that the Englishwomen love your Italian accent. But she did not say this out loud.

  ‘I came back to Corniglia only once,’ he said. ‘For Mamma’s funeral.’

  ‘Oh, Dante.’ Chiara put her hand on his arm. After her swim his skin felt almost hot under hers. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He turned towards her. ‘Your parents too?’

  ‘Sì. Many years ago now.’

  He took her hand in his. It seemed natural. How could there be any wrong in it? ‘At our age, we must accept losses,’ he said.

  Dangerous territory, she reminded herself. ‘I should get back.’ She rose to her feet.

  ‘Dressed like that?’ Again, she saw the mischief in his eyes.

  ‘Allora . . .’ Normally she would shower in the small cave that had been cut out of the rock face and fitted with a cold-water shower and change using the sarong. But once again, she felt at a disadvantage.

  He took pity on her and held up both hands. ‘Go ahead. I will look away.’

  ‘Very well.’ She hurried to the shower and changed behind a rock just to be sure. But Dante’s gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon.

  ‘May I walk you back to the hotel?’ he asked when she returned.

  Chiara hesitated.

  ‘No funny stuff, I promise.’ Those velvet brown eyes twinkled.

  It made her realise how silly she was being. He was an old friend, nothing more. He was part of a different world, a different life now. And the feelings she was experiencing . . . she could put them down to a general dissatisfaction with her marriage, the rose-coloured memory of past love. ‘Why not?’

  So, they walked back through the village; past the restaurants in the piazza where cutlery and glasses gleamed
expectantly on empty tables, and past the Bar Capitano where the local men played scopa, shuffling their cards while stray cats lounged by the water fountain soaking up the late afternoon sun. They passed her favourite gelateria on the upper pier alley before weaving a pathway through the blue and yellow boats parked on the main street, just as they always had been, Chiara thought with some satisfaction. It was good to know that some things had not changed. She and Dante passed comment on which shops had appeared, which had changed hands, which restaurants were good, and which catered for the more dubious tastes and deep pockets of tourists. And with the idle chat, Chiara began to relax more than ever.

  They took the steps to the right past the jewellery shop and the trattoria, and then tackled the steeper steps towards La Torre, winding their way through the houses built on the higher terraces, gradually leaving the splashes of blue sea that continued to come into their line of vision behind. A few more twists and turns and they reached the acid-yellow tablecloths and grey parasols of La Torre bar. ‘Is this place any good?’ he asked as they paused for breath.

  ‘It certainly is. They do a very decent spaghetti della pesto with green beans,’ she said. ‘Not to mention one of the best views in the whole of the Cinque Terre.’

  They looked out past the succulents and grasses clinging to the hillside and towards the smooth royal-blue of the sea. In the distance, the colourful houses of Monterosso al Mare perched by the shore. Closer to home, the village of Vernazza jutted from the mainland like a fat, crooked finger filled with a jumble of misshapen buildings, rooftops, alleyways, and palm trees. Beyond the knuckle was the L-shaped jetty, the rows of boats in the harbour where she had swum and above this the rugged and serrated cliff rose high towards the skyline. The castle’s tower stood at the fingertip and the tall skinny buildings in burnt terracotta, earth-green and misty blue, with lines of washing on skeletal balconies bordered both sides of Via Roma right up to the station.

  ‘You’re right about the view,’ he said. ‘I have missed that too. And I will certainly bear the spaghetti in mind.’