The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  She’d had such a lovely day that she was in danger of forgetting that Ferdinand Bauer was just a guest at the hotel – one who would be leaving very soon. It had slipped her mind – almost – that he might be related to someone who had been part of the Occupation of Vernazza during the Second World War. And she had quite forgotten her grandmother’s warning. Isabella was too busy having fun.

  They had begun their day out by walking along the wide promenade of Baia delle Favole, known as the Bay of Fables in tribute to Hans Christian Andersen, who once lived here in Sestri Levante. And yes, Isabella had always thought it a fairy-tale setting. Sestri Levante had once been an island, but was now connected to the promontory of the shore by a thin sliver of land.

  Next, she and Ferdinand followed the path leading from the old town to Punta Manara – she wanted to show him the magnificent view of the Ligurian coastline from Levanto to Portofino, the crystal light on the sea reflecting the surrounding mountains.

  ‘Wow!’ He was as impressed as she had expected him to be.

  ‘From here, you can understand why this town was known as “the city of the two seas”.’ She pointed. On the one side was the Bay of Fables, on the other, the Baia di Silenzio, the romantic Bay of Silence. Sestri Levante sat on the rocky point, the Isola, which divided the two.

  ‘I can, yes.’ He followed her gaze. From up high, the bands of blue on either side of the narrow town with green mountains and another band of blue in the sky above was an incredible sight, almost an optical illusion. Like their own view of Vernazza, Isabella never tired of it.

  They descended the path towards Baia di Silenzio, where people were gathered on the water’s edge, some of them paddling in to scoop up jellyfish in their children’s buckets so that the lifeguard could dispose of them. ‘Jellyfish?’ Ferdinand pulled a face.

  ‘Not everything can be perfect – even in paradise,’ she laughed.

  There were several cafés and bars perched right on the beach and the scent of the cooking was too much for either of them to bear. ‘Lunch?’ Isabella suggested, and they went in search of antipasti and beer in the old town.

  After lunch they bought gelato from Gelateria Ice Cream Angels, Isabella’s favourite. And now they were strolling through the narrow streets and piazzas, past old and decorative buildings, cafés, bars and shops, soaking up the atmosphere of the old town. She had already shown him the basilica and the old palazzo – now Sestri Levante’s town hall. The shops here were elegant but not over-priced; Sestri Levante was a working Italian town, and Isabella liked that.

  So far, Ferdinand had proved himself to be an entertaining companion, and she was pleased that he too seemed to like this town. But this wasn’t all about pleasure and having fun. Isabella was enjoying his company and she couldn’t deny that she was attracted to him, but she must remember that she also wanted some answers. Why had Ferdinand come to Vernazza in the first place? Was he just another tourist – or did he have a different agenda?

  ‘You do not think there is enough to see in the area of the Cinque Terre?’ he asked innocently, glancing across at her. He was wearing knee-length cotton shorts and a T-shirt, both in muddy shades of beige and khaki that suited his fair colouring. She also liked his well-worn leather sandals and the fact that he wasn’t wearing socks – the same could not be said of all male tourists from certain countries.

  ‘Yes, there is a lot to see,’ she conceded, as they wandered down another narrow road. The old town was a honeycomb of alleyways and winding streets, and Isabella knew that any minute they’d come upon the beach again. The Riviera Ligure di Levante certainly had more than its fair share of attractions, from Genoa to Lerici. There were the hiking trails, and each of the five villages of the Cinque Terre all had an individual charm. One could travel by boat to Portovenere – another of Isabella’s favourite places – or venture into Tuscany by train, to Lucca, Florence, or Pisa. Most people used one of those towns as their base – not little Vernazza with its rather pricey hotels and restaurants – or they stayed a night or two and then moved on. ‘But . . .’

  ‘But?’ As she’d predicted they had arrived back on the sandy spiaggia of the Bay of Silence. Despite its obvious appeal, it was never too crowded here; there was a grey boardwalk leading out to sea and a crescent moon of pastel-painted houses, hotels, and villas lining the bay.

  ‘Shall we sit down for a while?’ Isabella reached in her bag for the cotton sarong she’d brought with her. She sat primly on it. The afternoon sun was still hot, and she’d like to strip down to her bikini, but she felt unusually shy. She hardly knew him, she reminded herself. She shouldn’t have brought him to a beach destination at all. She should have taken him to a city, like Florence, where they would be surrounded by people.

  ‘Why not?’ He followed suit, pulling a striped beach towel from his bag and laying it out next to her sarong. He didn’t seem to share her body-revealing qualms though – he gave her his gelato to hold and promptly pulled off his T-shirt to reveal an almost hairless chest which was still pale, only slightly tinged with a golden tan. He was lean but wiry, the muscles of his arms tensing as he leaned on one elbow, seemingly perfectly at ease.

  Which was annoying in itself. Isabella gave him back his gelato and turned her attention back to her own. ‘There is a lot to see, yes . . . But a week . . .’

  ‘Or longer,’ he added. ‘Given the attractions of the place.’ He licked his ice cream.

  Isabella was conscious of a little internal shudder. ‘Is it possible, Ferdinand, that you have an ulterior motive?’ There, it was said.

  He finished his gelato and wiped his mouth with the white napkin that had been wrapped around it. ‘Such as?’ He looked from the smooth blue sea of the bay where the glassy water held barely a ripple, and back to Isabella. ‘Aren’t you going to take off your dress?’

  She frowned. ‘You have ice cream on your chin.’

  Lazily, he wiped it off.

  ‘Maybe. In a minute.’ She watched a little girl paddling by the boardwalk and wondered how to re-word her question.

  ‘You’re German,’ she said.

  ‘Very observant, Signorina.’

  ‘Funny.’ She pulled a face. ‘And more to the point, you’ve been very interested in talking to Giovanna. On two occasions.’ Maybe even more that she didn’t know about.

  ‘I told you – she’s a nice lady. Why not?’ He stretched out his legs and lay back on his beach towel. ‘Tell me – do you give the Italian Inquisition to all your guests?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Isabella finished her gelato. It was hopeless. He was exasperating. He knew quite well what she was getting at. She shook her head at him, though he couldn’t see, as even behind his sunglasses she could tell he had his eyes closed. She took the opportunity of wriggling out of her sundress while unobserved. ‘I’m going for a swim,’ she announced.

  His eyes blinked open. ‘Good idea.’

  But she didn’t wait for him. It was only a few steps to the water and she took them almost at a run. She strode into the sea.

  ‘Be careful of the—’

  She was already in. She swam out towards the boats moored in the harbour, keeping her head above water, wanting to put as much distance as possible between them. He was infuriating. He didn’t answer direct questions, he liked to tease, he didn’t take anything seriously, and he was evasive in every aspect of his behaviour. Nonna had told her to be careful of him, and she was right. Her grandmother certainly wouldn’t approve if she knew Isabella had come here with him today.

  She gasped as he appeared from nowhere, grabbed hold of her bodily and threw her to one side. ‘What—’ she spluttered. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ She was out of her depth, she realised. Water was stinging her eyes and her hair was drenched. She kept going under.

  ‘Jellyfish.’ Treading water, he held her until she’d found her balance. He pointed to the purply-blue fronds of the transparent blob trailing in the water where she had been swimming.

>   ‘Oh.’ Isabella blinked the water out of her eyes. ‘Thanks,’ she added grudgingly. In her hurry to get into the ocean she’d forgotten about the jellyfish.

  He had water on his eyelashes and his hair was flattened and wet. ‘We’re a bit far out. Let’s go in.’

  ‘All right.’ Though he did have a tendency to keep taking charge – and although Isabella quite liked this, she also wanted to remind him that this was her territory and she could take very good care of herself – jellyfish notwithstanding.

  ‘And does it matter?’ He threw this into the air between them. But he didn’t wait for an answer; he set off at a fast crawl towards the beach.

  ‘Does what matter?’ She followed him in a sedate breaststroke that wouldn’t get her hair any wetter, towards the shoreline of pink and terracotta houses with yellow shutters that lined the bay. The salt water was still in her nose and throat, and she kept having to cough.

  He pulled himself out of the water, reached out a slippery hand to help her as she almost lost her balance again. Isabella took it – briefly. He might have saved her from a jellyfish, but she’d been stung often enough to know that was no big deal. She still didn’t trust him. Why should she? And she still shouldn’t have brought him here.

  ‘Does what matter?’ she repeated as they reached their spot on the spiaggia. Her sarong was a bit thin to act as a towel, but the sun would soon dry her.

  ‘Why I’ve chosen to stay in Vernazza.’ He grabbed his towel and threw it around her shoulders. ‘Do my reasons for staying around here really matter?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Isabella considered. It wasn’t any of her business, she supposed, but . . . ‘Yes, they do.’ She bunched her knees up to her chin. Thought of her great-grandfather and how he had hidden in the convent, in fear for his life, no doubt. She knew that awful things had happened, she knew that people had been ill-treated, shot and tortured in Vernazza during the war. ‘Giovanna was there,’ she reminded him. ‘My great-grandfather was there. So, I need to know if . . .’ Her voice trailed as she recalled Nonna’s theory. But what other reason could there be – for all Ferdinand’s questions, his desire to meet with Giovanna, the obvious curiosity in The Lemon Tree Hotel that he’d shown ever since his arrival? ‘If a member of your family was there too.’

  ‘Oh, you need to know, do you?’ His glance was both searching and teasing.

  She shrugged. ‘Yes.’ At least for her own peace of mind.

  ‘In that case, I will tell you, Isabella.’

  She waited.

  ‘You’re right, of course.’ He sighed. ‘It’s true. My father Karl was stationed in Vernazza during the Second World War.’

  ‘Your father?’ Isabella blinked with surprise. She’d imagined any connection would be a generation further removed.

  ‘He was fifty-five when I was born,’ he explained. ‘And he was only a boy of eighteen when he was living here.’

  Eighteen . . . Isabella shuddered to think of what that boy had seen and done at such a tender age. ‘Is he still alive?’ she whispered. Poor Giovanna – that must have been why she was so startled when she first saw Ferdinand. He must look like his father, and Giovanna must have thought the days of the war had suddenly come around again to haunt her.

  ‘He’s coming to the end of his life.’ Ferdinand stared out to sea. It was getting late. The light was turning gold, coating the sea with the metallic sheen of early evening.

  For the first time since she’d known him, he seemed overwhelmingly sad. So, she had got through to him at last. Punctured that air he had of never taking anything seriously. Tentatively, Isabella placed a hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry.’ Because it was a terrible thing to lose a father – whatever that father might have done.

  He looked back at her, forced a smile. ‘Thank you. But he’s had a good life. He’s eighty-five.’

  A good life . . . Isabella was conscious of the irony. Ferdinand’s father had fought in a world war. He had fought in an occupied town – her town. Had it really been a good life – in any sense of the word?

  ‘And since he hasn’t got long to live,’ he went on, ‘. . . the time has come for my father to reflect on his life, as you can imagine.’

  Isabella could.

  ‘And so, he asked me to come here on his behalf. On a sort of pilgrimage, you could say.’

  Isabella digested this. A pilgrimage? She scooped up some of the soft grey-brown sand in her palm and let the rough grains trickle back through her fingertips to the ground. ‘To make amends do you mean?’

  ‘Something like that.’ He continued to stare out to sea.

  ‘And does Aunt Giovanna remember him?’

  He closed his eyes for a moment as if he couldn’t bear to think about this. ‘You’ll have to ask her that question,’ he said at last.

  Isabella let out an audible groan. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s her business, not mine.’

  Isabella sighed. Didn’t he know? He must do – he’d visited her twice already, and they’d hardly been discussing the unseasonably good weather. He was indeed infuriating. He gave her one snippet of information only to withhold the rest. ‘What did he do here – your father?’ she demanded. She wanted to know what it had been like, what her great-grandfather had gone through, what Giovanna might have seen.

  ‘Exactly? I don’t know.’

  ‘What?’ She wanted to stamp her foot. He had talked to his father about it. He was here on his behalf – on this pilgrimage he’d mentioned. How could he not know?

  ‘At least . . .’ He turned to her. ‘I know some of it, but look, Isabella, I don’t really want to talk about this. Do you mind?’

  Isabella shrugged. She wouldn’t show that she cared. But actually, yes, she did mind – she minded very much. What right did he have to come back here to Vernazza and then refuse to say why he was here or what had gone on? What right did he have not to tell her any details? Didn’t he think it concerned her? Was that it? Didn’t he think that it mattered? She could feel an unaccustomed anger building inside her and she had to let it out.

  ‘So, where do you stand on the sins of the fathers, Ferdinand?’ She got to her feet, still holding the towel around her neck and struggled to pull off her wet swimming things from under it.

  ‘Are you getting ready to go already?’ He watched her. His mouth twitched with amusement as she almost lost her balance pulling off her bikini bottoms, and she glared at him. It was not funny.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ She turned her back on him. ‘But no doubt you will not bother to answer the question.’

  ‘What question?’

  She turned towards him again. ‘Should sons be responsible for the sins of their fathers?’

  ‘No.’ He regarded her more seriously now. Which was good, because as far as Isabella was concerned, this was no laughing matter. ‘Do you?’

  She flung the towel towards him. ‘No.’

  He dodged it and laughed, damn him. ‘Well then . . .’

  Isabella waited, arms folded, though she was tempted to walk back to the train station alone. It was true that sons shouldn’t be responsible for the sins of the fathers. Neither should fathers – nor mothers come to that – be responsible for the sins of their sons and daughters. And she had no right to cross-question him about why he was here. She knew that. He was a guest. The purpose of The Lemon Tree Hotel was to nurture, to replenish, to provide tranquillity. As she had told her grandmother, the war was long gone, and they were all part of the European Union now. But it was insensitive and crass, she felt, to assume that people could so easily forgive and forget. And that wasn’t the only thing. She knew for a fact that there was a lot more to the story than he was telling her.

  ‘It’s too nice a day to argue, don’t you think?’ Lazily he grabbed his clothes and pulled them on.

  She picked up her sarong, gave it a shake to get rid of the sand. ‘As you like,’ she muttered. All right, she would let the matter drop – for now. But she would go and see Giovanna at the fir
st opportunity, she decided, and see if she could find out anything more. She had promised to drop in on her anyway. And surely her aunt would tell her what she needed to know?

  ‘Don’t be angry, Isabella.’ He had got to his feet and was looking at her with those cool blue eyes, and they were drawing her in again, she felt it. The sun was warm on the top of her head, her hair hanging in damp rat-tails to her shoulders. He bent down, she looked up, and his lips brushed hers. It was the lightest of touches, hardly a kiss at all. She stared at him. And yet she hadn’t stopped him – hopeless, hopeless girl. Her heart gave a little leap, but it was against her better judgement. Because a man like Ferdinand Bauer certainly couldn’t be trusted for so many different reasons, and as usual her grandmother had been right.

  CHAPTER 20

  Chiara

  Alonzo returned that evening, still behaving as though nothing was amiss. All the drama, all the emotion . . . And yet here they were eating dinner together in their apartment, and making bland conversation. But this was not how it was going to be. Something had changed and they must acknowledge it. Chiara pushed her plate to one side and straightened her posture. Enough, she thought. She had promised to stay with him, but her heart was not in it and she could not pretend that it was.

  Alonzo refilled his wine glass. He was drinking more these days, perhaps they all were. Running a hotel, they should be careful of such things – with a cellarful of wine, there was always another bottle easily available . . . He picked up his glass and leaned back in his seat, surveying her. ‘You’re very quiet tonight.’

  ‘Yes.’ They had both behaved badly, though in very different ways. Chiara got to her feet and began clearing the plates. She remembered the slap – the sound of it, the shock of it, and the sting of it too. She remembered the rawness, the way the bile had risen in her throat. The shame she’d felt the following day was still lingering with her. And so was Dante . . . Would she have slept with him if Alonzo had not hit her? Truthfully, she couldn’t say for sure.