Tell Me No Truths

by Gill Vickery

  As usual Jade’s sister didn’t see anything to worry about. ‘Too late, we’re here now.’

  Jade had no answer to that. They walked down the path and turned behind the screen of trees to where a large, square house glowed chalky gold in the mid-morning sun. The stone roof was crocheted with an edging of yellow lichen and grey-green moss and a rambling wisteria hung like a garland over the whole front.

  Jade felt the dream sensation again. This was the house that Nonno had described to them over and over; the house where his childhood sweetheart had lived and where he’d been happy. The house he’d been forbidden from entering ever again. Close up Jade could see that the wisteria’s pale violet blossoms and fans of delicate lime-green leaves were covering crumbling plaster and peeling paintwork. The wooden door was cracked and bleached to a silvery pewter. ‘Let’s post the letter and go,’ she said.

  ‘There isn’t a letterbox.’ Amber knocked loudly and called out, ‘Hello! Anybody there?’

  ‘Momento!’ a voice sang from inside the house.

  Jade forced herself to smile. The door opened and a pretty woman who looked startlingly like Luisa smiled back at them from under a swing of blonde hair. ‘Sì?’

  Jade and her sister, struck dumb, could only stare.

  ‘You are English?’ the woman prompted.

  Jade nodded. ‘We speak a bit of Italian,’ she blurted out.

  ‘I speak a little bit English. We manage together, no? I am Caterina Biagi. How can I help you?’

  ‘We saw your sign,’ Jade improvised. ‘Can we buy some olive oil – for our mum and dad?’

  Signora Biagi laughed. ‘I usually sell to restaurants and to the buyers from abroad but I can give you some samples for your parents.’ She opened the door wide. ‘Come in, come in!’

  They went through a flagged hall to a kitchen where the woman gestured to a table and chairs by the window. ‘I make you the cappuccino. I know that English people they like it very much.’ She bustled about, clattering cups and fetching milk and coffee while Jade avoided catching Amber’s eye and concentrated on staring out of the window at a vegetable garden. Things were getting out of control. They’d never expected to be invited in. And the way Signora Biagi looked was such a shock – she was almost Mum’s double.

  Caterina Biagi put a plate of pastries on the table. ‘You are students, travelling?’

  Jade could see Amber was too fascinated by the woman’s uncanny resemblance to Mum to think straight. ‘We’re school students,’ she said quickly, ‘on holiday with our family.’

  ‘Where are they, your parents?’

  ‘In town, going round the church,’ Jade lied.

  ‘Ah, they look at the frescoes – they are very fine and famous.’ Signora Biagi smiled sympathetically. ‘You are bored – too much of the art so you do the exploring.’ Her smile broadened. ‘It is like my girls, always the activity, the music, the clothes.’ She beamed with maternal pride. ‘They are gemelle – twins – like you. Is that not strange?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jade said, hearing Amber’s echo from the right. She was probably thinking the same thing too. No, it’s not that strange; not if what we think about you is true.

  After the mirror shop, which was all he had hoped for inside as well as out, Nico decided to have a look around the bookbindery next door because that’s what Alessandro had done during his investigations. The shop was also familiar from E. J. Holm’s description except for the woman behind the counter who was throwing suspicious looks at him.

  Nico picked up a green journal and gently fanned the pages. ‘How much is this book?’

  The woman told him. It was expensive; very expensive. Nico decided to buy it anyway. If you wanted something badly you had to be prepared to pay for it.

  ‘We make all the books here in our workshop,’ the woman said, folding the journal in gold tissue paper and slipping it into a bag. ‘This, it has the parchment, not the ordinary paper. You have to remember that when you write in it.’ She passed the bag to Nico.

  ‘And draw.’

  ‘You are artist!’ A look of comprehension spread across the woman’s face, showing that now she understood Nico’s unconventional appearance: the long billowy coat, the spiky hair, though perhaps not, her expressive eyes said, the nose ring.

  ‘You must have the correct pens and ink then you can make the good pictures. There is a shop where you can buy them in the Via del Drago d’Oro. You go there and say that Signora Gabrieli sends you, OK?’

  Nico thanked her and left. He found the shop easily enough though it was even smaller than the bookbindery. The tiny room was crammed with pens: polished wooden ones with removable nibs; silver ones and gold ones, and glass ones, twisted like old fashioned barley sugar sticks, that seemed too fragile to write with.

  Nico explained what he wanted to the assistant and held up the bag with its unicorn logo. ‘Signora Gabrieli sent me.’

  ‘Ah, Cinzia!’ The assistant introduced herself as Signora Levi and told Nico about the shop, which was very old, her good friend Cinzia’s shop, also very old, and the whole area of the Oltr’Arno, which had been home to artisans and craftsmen since the fourteenth century at least.

  Nico bought two pens, assorted nibs and a bottle of the blackest ink he’d ever seen, all at a reduced price since Nico was a student and an artist. The bag Signora Levi put them in had a curly golden dragon on the front that reminded Nico of the dragon-snakes on Mercury’s wand. It made him want to sit somewhere private so that he could read The Shattered Mirror. ‘Is there a coffee place near here?’ he asked.

  ‘But of course!’ Signora Levi directed him to a small cafe. ‘It has the wonderful pastries and the very good cappuccino which all English people love very much.’

  Nico thought English people avoided espresso because they had a strong sense of self-preservation. He sighed. No matter how authentically Italian he longed to be, he was never, ever going to like it.

  Caterina Biagi beamed as Jade put her cup down. She was the smiliest woman Jade had ever seen. Mum didn’t smile a lot. She wasn’t a miserable person, only deeply solemn, quite different from Signora Biagi who seemed to view the world as an endless source of joy. ‘It is nice to have visitors. My husband he works in town and my children they are away for the holidays.’

  Jade pointed towards a display of photographs on the wall. ‘Are they your children?’

  ‘Yes, they are my girls, Lia and Valentina, and my son Dario.’

  ‘And that one must be you and your husband?’

  ‘Yes, that is Carlo and me on our wedding day.’

  ‘Who’s the man in the other picture?’ Amber asked.

  Trust you to pick out the most good-looking guy, Jade thought. She stared more closely. Whoever he was, he was really good looking.

  ‘It’s my brother, Matteo,’ Signora Biagi said. ‘And you, you have brothers and sisters also?’

  ‘No,’ Jade said, ‘there’s just us.’

  ‘And your parents, who you must go back to or they will be worried. First, I will go and fetch you the sample of olive oil I promised.’

  She bustled out, still smiling. Jade whispered, ‘She’s so like Mum!’

  ‘She has to be one of Nonno’s people,’ Amber hissed back. ‘Why are we whispering?’

  ‘Because she might hear us and we’re not ready to talk to her about Nonno yet, are we?’

  ‘Suppose not.’ Amber wriggled in her chair. ‘Now what?’

  ‘We come back. The day after tomorrow, like we planned.’ Jade took out the letter they’d written the night before, explaining who they were and what they were doing. She wrote in Italian on the envelope, Thanks for the delicious snack. It was nice to meet you. We will come back on Wednesday. She chewed the pen for a moment then signed her name.

  She put the letter on the table where it lay, white and stark except for black
lines of writing across it. She got up. ‘C’mon, let’s go before she comes back and sees the letter.’

  At the front door, Caterina Biagi gave them a leaflet and a jar of olive oil. ‘Perhaps I will see you again,’ she said. ‘And meet your parents?’

  Not much chance of the last bit, Jade thought. She said, ‘Ci vediamo,’ which meant, we’ll see each other again, to avoid lying outright. Caterina Biagi’s smile blossomed. ‘That will be very nice.’

  Jade hoped this lovely woman would still feel as happy once she’d read the letter.

  When Nico checked in his novel he discovered that the cafe was the one Alessandro had stumbled into after he’d found Semiramide’s body. He’d walked blindly from the Bottega degli Specchi along the winding roads of the Oltr’Arno until he fetched up in the little trattoria and began trying to work out who’d done this terrible thing to him. Nico even managed to sit at the same table where Alessandro had slumped with his grappa and his cigarette, not showing that he was dying inside. It was Mum’s favourite bit of the book and she’d cried when she read it out at the reading group. Nico didn’t do crying but he had felt his guts twist as he read the passage. He took a photo of the trattoria before he left.

  E. J. Holm has to know the area well, Nico thought as he strode back over the Ponte Vecchio. Who knows, he might be passing me now. There was no way of telling: Nico didn’t know what the writer looked like; nobody did. There wasn’t even a blurry picture on the inside back flap, only the same bit of basic information repeated in each book – E. J. Holm has lived in Italy for many years – followed by a list of his novels. Some of the books mentioned the crime writing awards he’d won, none of which he’d ever turned up to collect in person.

  Nico went to the Casa Buonarotti and took a picture of it. Then he texted Amber to remind her they were supposed to be visiting the house which Michelangelo had once owned. His second text was for Mum, keeping her up to date with his imaginary adventures. He had a bit of time left and decided to go to the church of Santa Croce, to visit Michelangelo’s tomb and buy more postcards for the twins’ invented project. He winced as he set off. His feet were blistered; tomorrow he might change his heavy boots for shoes.

  Gaetano and Roberto grew close as the years went by and came to see themselves as brothers. They worked hard on the farm, went to school and church together and played in the hills together. Their favourite place was a pool in the woods which they kept secret from everyone.

  In time the two friends became four; as peasants, the boys weren’t encouraged to play with the children of professional families but nevertheless, two girls joined them: Elena was the daughter of a local landowner and Ilaria’s father was a lawyer. In summer the children roamed the countryside together and, despite far-away wars and political discontent, the days were long and golden and the four friends were happy. So it was a surprise one day when the boys found Elena sitting crying by their secret pool.

  ‘What’re you doing here?’ Gaetano demanded. ‘No one knows about it but me and Roberto.’

  ‘Ilaria and I do – we follow you sometimes,’ Elena whispered. ‘We just let you think it’s a secret. I wanted to be on my own. It’s too sad at the villa.’

  Roberto sat next to her. ‘What’s the matter?

  ‘My brother . . .’ Elena choked on her tears.

  Gaetano sat on her other side. ‘Cristiano? What about him?’

  ‘He’s been killed in Ethiopia.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Gaetano awkwardly patted Elena’s hand. Her fingers curled round his for a moment then let go.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ Roberto said. ‘But you shouldn’t cry – Cristiano was a brave soldier who died for our country and for the Duce.’

  Gaetano snorted. ‘My babbo says it’s a waste – why do we need colonies in Africa? It’s so far away.’

  ‘Mamma cries all the time,’ Elena said. ‘And Babbo is angry – he hates the Duce.’

  ‘My babbo does too,’ Gaetano said.

  ‘They’re wrong,’ Roberto insisted. ‘The Duce is a good man who only cares for his people.’

  Gaetano rolled his eyes. ‘You’re an idiot.’ He kicked a stone into the pool.

  Roberto ignored him. ‘Don’t be sad,’ he said to Elena. ‘Be proud.’ He laid his hand gently on her shoulder and she smiled at him.

  Gaetano scowled and said nothing.

  CHAPTER VII

  THE WINE MUST have mellowed James, Nico decided as he wafted a sparrow off the cafe table. Either that or he’d had a terrifically good day talking about Xtreme Measures with Kevin. James swirled his wine round his glass, leaned back and looked at Nico almost sympathetically. ‘Maybe they wouldn’t let you go round the church because of the way you’re dressed. A transparent top might’ve been too much.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been seen as respectful,’ Luisa agreed.

  Nico wasn’t sure if she was being critical; it was hard to tell with someone as serious as her.

  ‘It’s only a matter of adjusting to different customs,’ she added and Nico knew she wasn’t being judgmental after all.

  Nico plucked at his black mesh top and squinted critically at it. ‘I didn’t realise it would be a problem.’

  ‘The girls should’ve told you to button your coat up.’ Luisa shook her head at the twins.

  ‘We got split up,’ Nico lied. ‘They were at the back of the queue and I was sent out before they realised what was happening.’

  ‘It’s because Italians are more traditional than we are where religion is concerned.’

  ‘We? Don’t you see yourself as Italian at all?’ Nico’s Mum asked.

  ‘Not very – although my father was Italian my mother was English and I was born in Derby and lived there all my life. I’m a regular Englishwoman.’

  ‘Surely you feel Italian too? You speak the language so well.’

  ‘Only because my father made us all speak it at home. After he’d had his first stroke – a long time ago, before the girls were born – he said he couldn’t understand English any more.’

  No wonder the twins were fluent, Nico thought. They’d spoken Italian all their lives.

  The waiter arrived with the bill and a flick of his napkin for the sparrows. It finished off the conversation and James and Kevin started up a debate about who should pay the bill. In the end they went inside the cafe still arguing.

  ‘Where are you going this afternoon, Mum?’ Nico asked.

  ‘To a flea market in Piazza Ciompi. Do you three want to come?’

  Nico didn’t and he could tell from the girls’ expressions that they didn’t either. ‘We thought we’d do a bit more on the Michelangelo project. We wanted to try the Medici gardens where he studied sculpture, didn’t we?’

  Amber waved her pink notebook, fattening nicely with the cards and pamphlets Nico had passed on when they’d met up again before lunch. ‘Yep, and there’s loads left to research after that isn’t there, Nico?’

  ‘Uh huh. Michelangelo was a very busy artist.’

  ‘I thought you preferred early Renaissance art,’ Mum said. ‘Isn’t Michelangelo High Renaissance?’

  Nico often accused Mum of taking no notice of his opinions and now she had it was a nuisance. ‘You have to experience it all,’ he said, ‘everything’s interesting if you understand it.’ OMG – he sounded exactly like James!

  ‘You’re going to look at more art!’ Luisa said to the twins.

  ‘We might shop as well,’ Amber said.

  Nico smothered a sigh but thought maybe he’d look for black shoes; his feet were still aching in his heavy boots.

  The shops in Florence turned out to be closed for the afternoon and when the girls dithered about what to do next, Nico suggested they go to San Marco together. He was pleased when they agreed; he liked them, especially Jade, and he was curious about what they’d done that morning. They’d
been subdued when they met up at the Accademia to take more photos for their parents and he hadn’t bothered them with questions. Maybe now was a better time.

  ‘Did you find your village?’ he asked as they walked up Via Cavour.

  ‘Yes,’ Amber said.

  ‘Did you meet any relatives?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Jade said.

  Nico knew it still wasn’t the right time.

  It was peaceful inside San Marco, which Nico supposed was how monasteries – even ex-monasteries – were meant to be. On the first floor, tiny cells, with windows overlooking the courtyard below, lined each side of a long corridor running round in a square. They reminded Nico of honeybee cells, with rounded corners. And each white-walled cell had its own exquisite fresco painted by Fra Angelico. Photography wasn’t allowed and Nico kept stopping to draw.

  ‘This is boring,’ Amber complained. ‘Hurry up!’

  Nico ignored her. He wasn’t going to stop drawing because Amber was in a sulk. Vaguely he heard Jade say, ‘There’s a cafe over the road; we’ll wait there.’

  ‘OK,’ Nico said and went on drawing.

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ Amber said, sipping her drink. ‘I mean, those pictures were good but why’s he so mad on them?’

  ‘He just is.’ Jade didn’t know how to explain to her sister that the paintings were magic to Nico. How could she when she didn’t get it herself? She checked the time on her phone. How long was Nico going to spend in San Marco? She got through another drink before he joined them.

  ‘What kept you?’ she asked.

  ‘I was looking for Michelangelo’s sculpture school for your project,’ he said.

  That made Jade feel mean, which made her snappy. ‘Did you find it then?’

  ‘No, it’s not in the monastery.’ Nico wafted a leaflet. ‘The guide told me where it is and gave me this map. It’s not far. D’you want to come?’

  ‘May as well,’ Jade said, thinking it was a good job Amber was finishing her orange juice and could only grunt instead of moaning.

  On the way out they passed a line of scooters stretching down one side of the road. Jade stopped by a sleek black Yamaha T Max. ‘Shame we can’t hire one of those.’