The Lemon Tree Hotel

by Rosanna Ley

  ‘OK.’ Her grandmother was right. At last the season was slowing down. Even the Signoras Veroni had left yesterday in a flurry of kisses and promises that they would be back next year. It was a lovely morning; early autumn sunshine was flooding through the open front door – the day beckoned.

  However, Isabella loitered around reception for another twenty minutes, hoping that Ferdinand might appear. She saw an American couple who had arrived yesterday, who were ‘fitting in’ the Cinque Terre between Venice and Florence (Isabella heard this more times than she could remember, and hated it more than she could say), come to the desk and ask her grandmother about restaurants nearby. And she witnessed the latest tantrum of an English teenager – who must go to private school since she wasn’t yet back there – who wanted to go and lie on the beach rather than hike to Corniglia. She said good morning to the sweet-faced older woman from Verona who was here on a nostalgic visit since this was the place where her late husband had proposed; and she sorted all their travel leaflets into piles that were marginally neater than they had been before.

  Should she call his room? No. She had kissed him, but a girl had some pride. After their hike to the sanctuary the previous morning she’d spent the day half on a cloud. But clouds were insubstantial, and she might fall right through. Would anything come of it? She supposed it was impossible – obviously it was just a holiday romance. Which was fine. She shook her dark hair and adjusted a picture on the wall that was already straight. There was nothing wrong with a holiday romance. Only . . .

  Yesterday evening, she had seen him dining alone in the courtyard. The lamp above his head was shining on his fair hair, lighting it into pale gold. Emanuele had put on some moody jazz music; the buzz of low conversation and light laughter among the guests punctured the night, and the fragrance of her mother’s pesto sauce was almost heady in the citrus-scented air. She’d wanted to go over to his table, say something casual and amusing, perhaps even join him for a nightcap. But . . . She faltered. She’d told him that morning that with Nonna being in Pisa she’d be busy all day. She’d thought she wanted the space to reflect. Now, reflection done, she felt restless. Now, space was the last thing she wanted, and she was uncharacteristically nervous too.

  She had watched him push his plate away, and from where she stood she could almost hear his sigh of satisfaction. He pulled a sketch pad out of the bag at his feet and glanced around – Isabella stepped back into the shadows, not wanting him to see her observing him – and then he began to make some adjustments to a drawing, working fast with a pencil. So, he wasn’t only in Vernazza on behalf of his father, and he wasn’t only taking a holiday in a beautiful place – he was also working on some other project while he was staying at The Lemon Tree Hotel. He glanced across at the cloisters as if for inspiration, and Isabella had slunk away unobserved.

  Now, their maid Perla passed Isabella in the lobby as she hovered.

  ‘Have you done rooms Five and Six, Perla?’ Isabella ignored her grandmother’s pointedly raised eyebrow.

  ‘Six is still in there. I’ve done Five though. He was up bright and early this morning.’ Perla bustled off.

  ‘I saw the Signor Bauer leaving before eight o’clock,’ Nonna’s dry voice broke into her thoughts.

  ‘Oh.’ Isabella blushed. No point in staying here any longer then. No doubt he had gone out for the day – and why shouldn’t he, why should he hang around waiting for her to have some free time to spend with him, when she kept telling him how busy she was?

  ‘Take care, Bella.’ Her grandmother’s dark eyes were gentle. ‘Don’t get hurt.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Isabella forced a bright expression. Soon, he would be gone. Soon, her life would return to normal. And no doubt that would be a good thing. The trouble was though, that every hour she didn’t see him was an hour where something seemed to be missing from her life. Mamma mia – had she really got it so bad?

  Isabella pushed this thought away as she walked to the station and caught the train to the next village of the Cinque Terre. She loved the way the train hurled itself through the long, dark tunnels with the sudden explosions of bright sunshine that characterised the journeys between the five villages, and she sat back to enjoy. The train line cutting through the mountainous coastline must have been an engineering marvel for its day back in the late nineteenth century when it was first built, linking the villages to each other and to the outside world – though a far cry from the crowded tourist train it had now become.

  Monterosso was very different from Vernazza, although geographically so close; there was an openness about the place – the largest village of the five – that was sometimes a relief when one was feeling a little hemmed in. It wasn’t as stunning perhaps as the jewel that was Vernazza . . . Isabella stepped down on to the platform, lined with bougainvillea, palms, and oleander framing the glassy-blue sea beyond. But she liked the long sandy beach, the old town dominated by the ruined castle, and the narrow medieval caruggi – streets lined with multi-coloured terraced houses, divided by ancient stone arches and decorated with friezes in shades that remained vivid, despite the years of weathering.

  From the station she emerged on to the promenade. This was tourist Monterosso al Mare with shops and stalls on her left selling bags, sarongs and beach gear, a central avenue of benches under oleander and tamarisk trees and on the right, the shoreline dotted with bright blue and orange parasols. People strolled along the promenade, leaned on the railings looking out to sea, sat on the benches with their coffee or gelato. Isabella began to relax. A lazy place and a lazy day – this was exactly the tonic she needed.

  She headed for the old town past the panoramic ‘window’ through which one could see Punta Mesco, the promontory of the mountain and the old sandstone mines – stone once used to pave the streets of old Monterosso. She turned the corner and took the steps down to the lower promenade of Salita dei Cappuccini. The village was busy – the entire Cinque Terre remained busy although they were now well into October – but Monterosso seemed to thrive on it. Music trailed from the open doorways of cafés, the bougainvillea remained in full bloom, and there was a fragrance of baking dough and roasted tomatoes in the air that was making her stomach growl.

  She had a few other errands to run before going to the cobbler, so she crossed the main piazza and took a narrow street under the arches that led to the black-and-white striped church of San Giovanni Battista where artists’ easels were lined up under the loggia, and there were a couple of specialist shops that would sell what she needed.

  Her purchases made, Isabella headed up the hill past the bar on the corner to the cobble-stepped street where old lanterns hung from peeling pink walls and plants spilled from overhanging balconies. This was where Passano’s Cobblers was situated – very aptly in the heart of the old town, because the Signor Passano was not just a cobbler, but a maestro calzolaio, a master shoemaker, like his father and grandfather before him.

  The stone walls of the little shop made it seem more like a cave, Isabella thought, as she ducked inside. They were lined with dusty shelves on which sat neat rows of leather shoes, boots, wooden forms and moulds. Some shoes were shiny and new, some crusty and old – just like their owners presumably. The work counter was pockmarked with the stamp of tools, the well-oiled machines were no doubt the same ones that had been in operation for decades, and the overpowering scent – of leather, rubber, and glue – filled the air.

  ‘Can you do anything with these, Signore?’ she asked the cobbler. She liked Signor Passano. He looked about ninety, and still ran his business in the traditions of his forefathers. He was someone who would never be affected by the tourists who visited his town. He would never change, and neither would the way he worked.

  ‘Let me see now.’ He wiped his hands on his hessian apron, took the sandals from Isabella, and examined them, head on one side. ‘I can re-stitch here.’ He clicked his tongue – at the poor quality of the original construction presumably. ‘Glue here.’ He frowne
d. ‘Can you leave them?’ He held the straps of the sandals hooked over his little finger as if they weren’t quite worthy.

  ‘Sì, Signore.’ Isabella nodded. He’d make a good job of them, she knew.

  ‘Collect them the day after tomorrow.’ He placed the sandals unceremoniously on the lowest shelf next to a huge basket of nails.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She could always ask one of the staff to pick them up. ‘Thank you so much, Signore.’

  Isabella left the shop and walked back down the hill, past the old loggia. She stood for a moment on the corner opposite a dark pink house with green shutters. She blinked. Stared. Did a double take. But no, she was right the first time. Giovanna – of all people – was making her way slowly up the main street. She had a stick in one hand. With the other hand, she clung to the arm of Ferdinand Bauer.

  Isabella was so shocked that she just stood there staring and didn’t even notice the Ape swinging down the hill towards her until it practically careered into her amidst a torrent of hand gesticulations and swearing on the part of the driver. She jumped back into the shadow of the stone doorway, waving the driver away. She didn’t want them to spot her, but there was no chance of that; they were walking with their heads together, thick as thieves. She frowned. What was going on?

  When they had safely passed by the Conad supermarket on the opposite corner and were temporarily out of sight, Isabella darted down to Piazza Agostino Poggi. And there they were. She hung back, watching their retreating figures. They were making slow progress up the narrow street that was little more than an alleyway, looking neither left nor right. They were clearly on a mission. Then they disappeared again around the next corner, and Isabella hurried through the throng of tourists, past the rails of dresses and sheaves of scarves hanging outside the little boutiques on the street, in order to catch sight of them again.

  They hadn’t gone far. This time, Isabella stood in a café doorway to watch them. Giovanna was old, but still active. Isabella wasn’t exactly surprised that she still visited the other Cinque Terre villages – she had plenty of friends dotted around here and there – though Isabella had imagined that these days people mostly came to her. But why Ferdinand? Had Giovanna asked him to accompany her for some reason? She had to know.

  The road stretched ahead, lined with cafés and shops, bicycles propped against walls, tourists strolling through the caruggi streets. Just as they were once more moving out of sight into the maze of the old town, Isabella made a decision. She felt a bit silly, and she was no amateur sleuth, but she would follow them. How else could she find out what they were up to?

  It wasn’t easy. If they’d been walking fast, she could have followed their lead, but because they were going so slowly, she had to keep stopping; feigning interest in a scarf here, a leather bag there, a lunch menu somewhere else, while at the same time checking they didn’t disappear out of sight. And she had to ensure that if one of them were to suddenly turn around, she could easily duck into a doorway, swerve down a side street or even hide behind a tourist. Isabella had never done anything like this before. In different circumstances it might even have been fun.

  She waited by another café as they went further up the street. The scent of coffee was tempting, but she couldn’t stop now. They were a bizarre looking pair. In those different circumstances, Isabella would have smiled and enjoyed watching them – one so lean, tall and masculine, the other small, bent, elderly. But where were they going? Was Ferdinand simply taking Giovanna to lunch? It didn’t seem so – they’d passed plenty of good restaurants already, and why make her walk so far? It was crazy to be jealous of an elderly lady who she loved to distraction, but nevertheless Isabella felt the chill of it shiver down her spine. Why were they excluding her from this strange friendship? What exactly were they doing? And why hadn’t she been invited to be a part of it?

  They turned right at the top of the street. Isabella knew that the other main street ran parallel to this one for a while, and that they eventually met in a V-shape at the end of the road. She could see the door on the far side of the nearest building, so she took a chance and nipped through the grey and white café. The industrial-style lights were bright. She felt a surge of adrenalin. She had to hurry. She mustn’t lose them.

  She emerged from the café, and whoops, here was a problem. They were standing by the plane trees, almost right in front of her, deep in conversation. Isabella dropped back. Nothing to do but wait. After a few moments, they walked on, through the archways to where the road widened slightly. Isabella stayed close to the shops on the left-hand side of the road.

  They turned off, and Isabella hurried towards the side street. But there they were again, this time standing by the oratory. She hovered by the fountain. Giovanna said something, he nodded, and they went inside. Wonderful. She could hardly follow them inside a church. Isabella retreated. She would just have to wait. The oratory was a simple building with a colourful and pretty rose window. But surely this wasn’t their final destination? She sighed. She’d have to wait inside a shop that gave her a view of the oratory entrance – she couldn’t risk them coming out and heading straight for her as they walked back into town. But this was easier said than done.

  She was in luck, however. They emerged from the oratory five minutes later, Giovanna still hanging on to Ferdinand’s arm, blinking like a mole in the sunlight. Isabella dodged back out of sight behind a plane tree. And, instead of retracing their steps to the main street, they turned right. Where now?

  Her question was answered almost immediately. Giovanna pointed to an orange wrought-iron gate on the left. Ferdinand opened it, and Giovanna walked through, Ferdinand right behind her.

  Isabella approached the oratory and stared towards the orange gate, still keeping her distance so that she wouldn’t be seen. Clearly they were visiting someone. The courtyard garden of the building was full of greenery, so she couldn’t see them on the path or at the front door. But whose house could it be? There was only one way to find out – and she’d have to act quickly just in case they came out again and saw her. There was nowhere to hide.

  Ahead, she could see some steps that might provide a clue . . . At least the lemon trees and vines trailing over the high stone walls gave her some cover as she scurried past, not daring to hesitate by the orange gate, in case they might see her. She ran under an ancient stone archway and past a building – the butternut yellow Cinema Moderno. She’d never been to this part of town before, but she knew she had to get around the corner and up the steps before she was spotted. Perhaps she should simply double back and return into town? But by now Isabella was consumed with curiosity.

  At the top of the steps she had a clearer view of the house behind the lemon trees. They must have gone inside – there was no sign of them on the path or on the street below. The house was painted peach, and had a wide balcony. She held her breath. It was a warm day. With a bit of luck . . . She dipped behind the wall at the top. Peered back. Yes. She almost cheered. She could see the balcony of the house. And a door was opening . . .

  A woman passed by, glancing at her rather strangely. Isabella smoothed her hair from her face and stayed crouched behind the wall as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  The woman reached the bottom of the steps and took a right turn away from the house. Slowly, slowly, Isabella peered around again. If any of them happened to look up . . . If any of them happened to see her – how on earth would she explain her behaviour? Ferdinand would think she was mad as a coot. She stifled a hysterical giggle.

  Three people were sitting around the table on the balcony, and they appeared to be having a serious conversation. Giovanna, Ferdinand, and Siena Gianelli. Siena? The retired nurse? Isabella knew that she was a close friend of Giovanna’s and a frequent visitor to her cottage. She also knew that Siena lived here in Monterosso – though she hadn’t known where. But why had Giovanna and Ferdinand come to see a nurse? Was Giovanna ill? Isabella held on to the wall to maintain her balance. I
t made no sense. If Giovanna was ill, then why wouldn’t Siena have come to her? Or why hadn’t they simply called out a doctor? And what did Ferdinand have to do with it all? Or was he the one who was ill . . .?

  Isabella frowned. What should she do? Her fingers closed around her mobile in her bag. She could call her grandmother. Nonna would know how to handle this. But Nonna seemed to have enough problems of her own right now. And she remembered her grandmother’s words about Ferdinand earlier that morning. No, not Nonna then.

  Isabella couldn’t stand here hiding behind a wall all day. She had work to do, she must relieve Nonna from her post on reception, she must get back to the hotel. And really – was it any of her business, what was going on here between the three of them? Perhaps not. With one last curious glance towards the three figures on the balcony, she descended the steps in the other direction and headed for the station.

  But it was her business, was it not? Giovanna was her business. And Ferdinand too, if his kisses were to be believed. So . . . Isabella increased her pace. She would find out what this was all about if it killed her. So far, instead of providing answers for Isabella, all Ferdinand was doing was posing more questions. She now had even less clue what was going on. He had asked her if she trusted him, and she had given him an honest answer. No. He had kissed her, and she had responded. Yes. But if he still wouldn’t tell her what this was all about, then where could they go from here?

  CHAPTER 32

  Chiara

  That same afternoon, Chiara took her cheque book out of the desk drawer and made out a cheque to Beatrice Gavino. She decided to add a short note:

  Dear Signora Gavino,

  Forgive me, but I was unable to persuade my husband to change his mind. Perhaps it is for the best? You may, after all, be able to find a more conscientious landlord.