Last Voyage of the Valentina

by Santa Montefiore

  “Who is he?” asked Thomas, once Lattarullo had managed to maneuver the car out of the ditch.

  “The marchese’s lackey,” he replied, then snorted and spat into the road. “That is what I think of him!” he added, grinning as if the filthy gesture had won him a small victory. “He thinks he’s important because he works for a marquis. Once the Montelimone was the most powerful family in the region, a charitable family too, but the marchese has all but destroyed their good name. You know what they say about the marchese?” He narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. “You don’t want to know!” Although Thomas and Jack were mildly curious, they were drowsy and their bellies groaned with hunger. Lattarullo snorted and spat again before driving on, mumbling to himself the string of abuse he would have liked to have inflicted on the chauffeur.

  They returned to the quay and, with the help of the rest of the crew, they unloaded the arms onto the boat. Joe Cracker, the fattest of the eight-strong team, opened his large mouth and began to sing his favorite aria from Rigoletto, hence his nickname “Rigs.” He was coarse to look at with ruddy skin and thinning ginger hair, yet he sang with the voice of a professional baritone. “He thinks he’ll get the girls like that,” said Jack, allowing Brendan to scamper up his arm and perch on his shoulder.

  “It’s his only chance,” commented another. “He’ll be singing under their balconies next.” They laughed heartily but Rigs continued to sing. He had seen their eyes mist on those lonesome nights when their survival had been nothing short of miraculous, when music had been the only escape from their fears.

  Leaving a couple of crew on deck to keep watch over the boat, the rest walked the short distance to Trattoria Fiorelli. Wooden tables spilled out onto the road where a bony donkey stood with a couple of baskets over its back, blinking wearily in the sunshine. Two old men sat at a table playing a game with counters, drinking tumblers of local gin that smelled of turps, and ragged-looking children with grubby faces ran about with sticks, their shrill cries ricocheting through the still afternoon air. The menu was displayed by the open door. Inside a couple of waiters sat listening to a wireless in the cool, ready for business. When the two officers appeared with Lattarullo, followed by four crew members, one singing loudly, they leaped to their feet and showed them to tables outside with more enthusiasm than they had mustered since the Germans left.

  Lattarullo sat with Thomas and Jack, amazed at the sight of Brendan, who in these hard times would make a tasty meal. “You’d better keep your eye on him,” he commented, finding to his shame that his mouth was beginning to water. Squirrel prosciutto would be very tasty indeed. “There is always food at Immacolata’s. When the rest of the country is suffering from starvation, Immacolata produces meat and fish in a sumptuous banquet. You will see! Jesus turned water into wine and fed the five thousand with nothing more than a few loaves of bread and some fish. Immacolata is blessed.”

  Suddenly a voice bellowed from within. “That is Immacolata Fiorelli,” hissed Lattarullo confidentially, taking off his hat and wiping his sweating forehead. “This restaurant is the engine that makes the town turn. And she’s in the driving seat. I know that, the mayor knows that, Padre Dino knows that. Even the Germans knew better than to mess with her. She’s descended from a saint, you know.”

  Thomas pulled back his shoulders. After all, he was a commanding officer in the British navy; what could possibly be so terrifying about a loud-voiced Italian woman berating her lazy staff?

  “Signora Fiorelli,” said Lattarullo with the greatest respect, jumping to his feet. “May I present to you two fine officers of the British navy.” He stepped aside and the tiny woman lifted her chin to reveal deep-set, intelligent eyes of chestnut brown. She narrowed them thoughtfully and studied their faces, as if calculating their reliability and character. Thomas and Jack rose to their feet, dwarfing her in size but noting that her personality was more formidable than the two of them put together.

  “You are very handsome,” she said to Thomas in a quiet voice, quite unlike the bellow of earlier. Her beady eyes traced him from top to toe as if she were a seamstress assessing which suit would fit him best. “I will prepare you spaghetti con zucchini and treccia di mozzarella.” She turned to Jack. “And the good people of Incantellaria must lock up their daughters,” she said, sniffing through dilated nostrils. Jack gulped and Brendan scurried back into his pocket. “For you, frittelle,” she added, nodding with satisfaction. “Once this place vibrated with life. The war has choked the life out of it. People can barely afford to eat, let alone dine in a restaurant. I pray for better times. For a swift ending to the bloodshed. For the lion to lie down with the lamb. I invite you both to dinner at my house. A small corner of this country where civilization still exists as it has for generations. Where old-fashioned standards are upheld. I will cook for you myself and we can raise our glasses to peace. Lattarullo will bring you. You can bathe in the river and forget the war.”

  “You are a generous woman,” said Thomas.

  “I am just a humble hostess and you are in my town.” Thomas didn’t think she looked at all humble; her face was etched with arrogance. “Besides, your presence here will help the community. Your spending will add much needed fuel to the economy. What little economy we have. These are hard times, signore. If you are as rich as you are handsome we will all rejoice.”

  “Do you have daughters?” Jack asked cheekily. She narrowed her eyes and looked at him down her imperious nose, although she was at least three feet shorter than him.

  “And if I do, I would be unwise to introduce her to you and your squirrel.”

  “Why Brendan?” he asked, putting his hand in his pocket to stroke the animal’s fur. “Brendan has an eye for the ladies.”

  “Because my daughter has an eye for squirrels,” she laughed, but her laughter was heavy and doleful like the melancholy sound of bells. Ah, thought Lattarullo, squirrel prosciutto, and he licked his lips and salivated like a dog.

  It wasn’t long before the restaurant was full of pretty girls, their faces painted like dolls with the little makeup they could scrounge, wearing their best dresses and hairdos. Their breasts swelled over the low décolletages of their dresses like creamy cappuccinos. They did nothing to hide their flagrant desire to hook an Englishman. These sailors were their tickets out of the poor, claustrophobic town. They eyed them flirtatiously, giggling and whispering behind brown hands, shamelessly displaying their calves and ankles by crossing their legs and raising their skirts immodestly.

  Jack’s eyes bulged and Brendan hurried up onto his shoulder for a better look. The pretty squirrel was irresistible to them and soon Jack was surrounded by perfume and brown limbs as they reached out to stroke the animal. “Ah, Brendan, my lucky charm,” he chuckled, endeavoring to chat them up in broken Italian. Not to be outdone, Rigs climbed onto a chair and opened his tremendous lungs to everyone’s delight. He gesticulated dramatically as though on the stage in Covent Garden.

  Slowly the townspeople emerged from behind their shutters, drawn to Trattoria Fiorelli by the heartrending music of Rigoletto that resounded through the still afternoon air. The girls quieted down, returning to their chairs, their heads now resting on their hands, their eyes full of melancholy. Thomas lit a cigarette and watched the scene through a veil of smoke. He thought once more of the beautiful girl he had seen on the quay and wondered why she had not come. The others were nice enough to look at—Jack was barely able to keep himself contained within his trousers—but they weren’t for him. As the crowd grew thicker his eyes searched their faces, ever hopeful that she might appear. But he was disappointed.

  An old man with no teeth began to play the concertina. Rigs sang with ever more drama, his eyes filling with tears as he lost himself within the words and the music, for they gave him the means to vent his desolation without shame. The war now seemed very far away although its imprint burned upon all their souls. They would never be free from the horrors they had witnessed. Branded for life, they would
carry the scars until their spirits outgrew their bodies and they joined those, like Freddie Arbuckle, who had gone before.

  When Rigs finished, Thomas demanded a happy song, one with which they could all sing along. Rigs dabbed his damp face with a napkin, took a large gulp of water, and with great gusto launched into La donna é mobile…and soon the trattoria was vibrating with voices, clapping hands and stamping feet.

  8

  T homas and Jack didn’t want to dine with Immacolata Fiorelli, and Brendan was more nervous than either of them. They would have preferred to have eaten again at the trattoria, where there was a dance floor. With Rigs and the toothless concertina player, there would surely be dancing. There would be women too, eager for love and excitement. Jack was furious that Thomas had accepted her invitation. “Why couldn’t you have just said ‘no’?”

  “It would have been rude,” Thomas explained weakly. “After all, she apparently runs the town while the mayor is at the beautician’s.”

  “She doesn’t even have daughters!”

  “The one she has eats squirrels.” Thomas snapped his teeth at Brendan, who stared back at him in a superior fashion.

  Rigs and the boys waved them off with glee, amused by their reluctance. Lattarullo had slept all afternoon in his office with the door locked, his hat pulled over his eyes and his feet up on the desk, and was now perkier than ever.

  They drove up the winding lanes in silence. Lattarullo tried to ignite a conversation but both men were alone with their thoughts: Jack of the women he would fuck when he got back to the trattoria, and Thomas of the lovely stranger who had taken off with his heart. Lattarullo persevered, not minding whether or not they were listening.

  Finally he parked the truck beside a twisted olive tree. There was no road down to the house, only a well-trodden path. “Immacolata Fiorelli will show you the river,” said Lattarullo, already out of breath. “Besides, she has soap!” he chortled. Thomas knew that soap was only available on the black market and that most Italian women washed with pumice, ashes, and olive oil.

  Thomas cast his eyes down to the sea that stretched calmly out on to the misty horizon before disappearing into the beyond. If it weren’t for his naval uniform and the experiences that had left their indelible mark on his soul he could almost have forgotten the world was at war. Forgotten that, out there, the sea reached Africa’s shore red with the blood of those who, like himself, had fought for freedom from tyranny, for peace. It was an enchanting view and his fingers twitched with the longing to capture it in pastels; he would have liked to set up an easel right there on the hillside, among the gray olive trees. If it wasn’t for the war he would search for that girl and set her in front of that vast sky. He would draw her and he would take his time. The sighing of the sea and the chattering of cicadas would add their own unique melody to the easy languor of the fading day and they would lie down and make love. But it was wartime and he had a job to do.

  After a while the modest farmhouse, sandy-colored with a simple gray tiled roof, came into view. Thick branches of wisteria scaled the walls, their lilac flowers falling in heavy clusters like grapes, and small birds flew in and out in a game that only they understood. Sheltered by cypress trees and half-hidden behind pots of plumbago, tall arum lilies, bushes of lavender, and nasturtiums in great heaps, the house gave the impression of peeping out shyly. As they approached, they suddenly seemed to walk into an invisible cloud of perfume. It was warm and sweet and irresistible.

  “What is that smell, sir?” Jack asked, sniffing the air with flared nostrils.

  “I don’t know, but it’s like Heaven,” Thomas replied, stopping in his tracks. He put his hands on his hips and inhaled. “It’s so strong, it’s making my head dizzy.” He turned to Lattarullo and asked him in Italian.

  Lattarullo shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t smell anything.”

  “Of course you can!” Thomas retorted.

  “Niente, Signor Arbuckle.” He pulled an ugly face and shrugged. “Bo!”

  “My dear fellow, you must have lost your sense of smell. Why, surely you can taste it?”

  The expression on the Englishman’s face was one of such incredulity that Lattarullo thought it better to agree. After all, he could detect a faint scent, though nothing unusual. The hills were full of smells; if one lived here one ceased to notice.

  “I can smell figs,” he said grudgingly. Then he pulled his ugly fish face and shrugged, this time turning the palms of his hands to the sky.

  “By God, that’s it!” enthused Thomas. “It is figs, isn’t it?” he asked Jack.

  Jack nodded and took off his hat to rub his sweating forehead. “It’s figs,” he repeated. “Straight from God’s garden.”

  Lattarullo watched them with growing curiosity and shook his head. Immacolata Fiorelli will know what to do, he thought, taking off his hat and walking up to the door.

  Immacolata Fiorelli never locked her door, even in these dangerous times of war. Being a formidable woman, she considered herself a match for any man, even one with a bayonet. Lattarullo poked his head inside and called her name. “Siamo arrivati,” he announced, then waited, turning his hat around and around in his hands like a diffident schoolboy. Thomas rolled his eyes at Jack. After a long moment Immacolata appeared, still draped in black as if in a permanent state of mourning. Around her neck hung a large silver cross, elaborately decorated with semiprecious stones.

  “Come,” she beckoned them with a wave of her hand.

  Inside, the house was cool and dark. The shutters were closed, allowing only the minimum light to enter in thin beams. The salotto was small and austere, with worn sofas, a heavy wooden table, and a simple flagstone floor. However, in spite of its austerity, it was cozy, a home used to the wear and tear of people. What immediately struck Thomas were the little shrines, crosses, and religious iconography that punctuated the bare walls and corners. In the dimness the silver and sparsely used gold leaf glittered and shone in a ghostly fashion.

  “Valentina!” Immacolata’s voice no longer bellowed, but called out in a low, gentle tone as one does to a loved one. “We have guests.”

  “La signora’s husband died fighting in Libya,” said Lattarullo in a hushed voice. “Her four sons are also fighting, though two are being held by the British and the other two, well, who knows where they are. Valentina is the youngest and most precious of all her children. You will see.”

  Thomas listened as Valentina’s soft singing could be heard outside. The strong scent of figs now preceded her and Thomas felt his head swim with the pleasure of it. He knew before he set eyes on her. He felt it. Nothing stirred except the silken breeze that slipped in through the door, a prelude to something magical. And then she was there, in a white dress that turned semitransparent with the sun behind it. With a suspended heart he took in her small waist, the gentle curve of her hips, the feminine shape of her legs and ankles, her feet in simple sandals. Her beauty was even more breathtaking than it had been when he had disembarked. He barely dared blink in case she disappeared again. But she was smiling and extending her hand. The sensation of his skin against hers sharpened his senses, and he heard himself stammer in Italian, “È un piacere.” Her smile, though slight, was full of confidence and knowing, as if she were used to men losing their tongues as well as their hearts in her presence. Immacolata’s voice broke the spell and suddenly the room was moving once again at the normal pace and Thomas was left wondering if he was the only one who had noticed the change.

  “Valentina will show you the river where you can bathe,” Immacolata said, bustling over to the chest of drawers upon which stood a framed photograph of a man, surrounded by small burning candles and a worn black Bible. Thomas presumed the man was her late husband. She pulled out a small object wrapped in brown paper and handed it to her daughter before closing the drawer. “Even in times of war one must be civilized,” she said gravely, indicating with a nod that they go down to the river. It must be t
he famous soap, thought Thomas.

  Valentina turned and walked out of the house. Thomas noticed that she had an unusual walk: her feet turning outward, she held her stomach in, pushed her bottom out, and swung her hips. It was a lively walk, unique, and Thomas thought it the most charming walk he had ever seen. He wished he were alone with her and not with Jack, who seemed as awestruck as he. Both men followed her down a steep path that was only wide enough to walk in single file.

  The air was hot and sticky and full of mosquitoes. The scent of figs lingered, yet Thomas couldn’t see one fig tree, only eucalyptus, lemons, pines, and cypresses. The hillside rang with crickets, their rhythmic, incessant chattering loud to those unfamiliar with it. The path was well trodden, the earth pale and dry and scattered with stones and small pine needles and cones. Every now and then wooden steps had been built into it to prevent slipping. Finally, Thomas saw the river through the trees. It was more of a stream than a river, but wide enough to swim in. It trickled down the hill, bubbling around rocks and smooth stones, resting for a while in a limpid pool before flowing out to sea. It was there that they were to bathe.