The town erupted into jubilation. Musicians played and a large circle was formed in the middle of the throng. Suddenly the young women, before so modest, now danced the tarantella with the exuberance of the possessed. The crowd clapped and cheered. Thomas stood enthralled, clapping too. Valentina appeared in the midst of the revelry to great applause and wolf whistles from the men and surprisingly spiteful looks from the women. Thomas thought how ugly their jealousy made them. It deformed their normally pretty features into grotesque parodies, like reflections in distorting fairground mirrors. Valentina moved center stage until she was dancing alone. She danced with grace, her hair now loose and flying about her head as she twisted and turned to the lively beat of the music. Thomas was astounded: no longer in her mother’s shadow, she showed herself to be surprisingly gregarious. There was no inhibition in the way in which she moved her body, her skirt rising up her legs as she danced, exposing her shiny brown calves and thighs. The tops of her breasts, revealed in the low décolletage of her dress, rose like milk chocolate soufflé, and Thomas was gripped with longing. Her virginal charm fused with a bursting sexuality that Thomas found irresistible.
He watched transfixed; she looked directly at him. Her dark, laughing eyes seemed to read his mind for she danced up to him and took his hand. “Come,” she whispered into his ear and he let her lead him out of the square and down the little streets to the sea. They walked hand in hand along the beach, then further, around the rocks until they reached a small, isolated cove where the light of the moon and the gentle lapping of waves revealed an empty pebble beach where they could, at last, be alone.
Thomas didn’t waste time talking. He wound his hand around her neck, still hot and damp from her dancing, and kissed her. She responded willingly, parting her lips and closing her eyes, letting out a deep and contented sigh. The music could still be heard in the town, now far away, a distant hum like the merry buzz of bees. The war might as well have been on another planet, so dislocated were they from reality. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him so that he could feel the softness of her flesh and the easy relinquishing of her body. She didn’t pull away when he buried his rough face in her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat on his tongue and smelling the now muted scent of figs. She tipped her head back, exposing it willingly so that his lips could kiss the line of her jaw and the tender surface of her throat. He felt excitement strain his trousers. But she didn’t pull away. He ran his fingers over the velvet skin where her breasts swelled out of her dress. Then he cupped them, stroking the nub of her nipple with his thumb and she let out a low moan, like a whispering sigh of wind.
“Facciamo l’amore,” she murmured. He didn’t question whether it was wrong or right to make love, or whether he was ungallant to take her like that, on the beach, having known her only a couple of days. It was wartime. People behaved irrationally. They were in love. They might never meet again. Her innocence was something that he would take away with him. He hoped that if he claimed her now, she would wait for him. He’d return for her at the end of the war and marry her. He prayed that God would protect her until he could protect her for himself.
“Are you sure?” he asked. She didn’t reply, simply brushed his lips with hers. She wanted him. In a swift movement he lifted her into his arms and up the beach to a sheltered spot where he laid her down on the pebbles. In the phosphorescent light of the moon he made love to her.
They lay entwined until the red rays of dawn stained the sky on the horizon. Thomas told her about his life in England. The beautiful house they would one day live in and the children they would have together. He told her how he loved her. That it was possible after all to lose one’s heart in a moment, to surrender it joyously.
They walked back across the rocks. The celebrations had finished and the town was still and eerie. Only a stray cat crept along the wall searching for mice. Before he escorted her home he collected his painting case from his boat.
“Let me draw you, Valentina. I don’t ever want to forget your face.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Che carino!” she said tenderly, taking his hand. “If you want to. Follow me, I know a nice spot.”
They climbed a little path up the rocks, then down a dusty track that cut through a forest. The scent of thyme hung in the air with eucalyptus and pine, and crickets rattled among the leaves. The odd salamander darted off the track to hide in the undergrowth as they walked past, and the song of birds heralded morning. After a while the trees gave way to a field of lemon groves. From there they could see the sea, flat like molten silver, sparkling behind clusters of cypress trees.
At the top of a slight hill there stood a derelict lookout point, the bricks crumbling from centuries of sea wind and salt. It was a breathtaking position. From there they could see for miles around. Valentina pointed out her home, laughing at the thought of her mother tucked up in bed, oblivious of the adventure on which her daughter was embarking. She sat down against the lookout tower, her hair blowing in the gentle wind, and let him draw her. He sketched in oil pastels, enjoying analyzing her face, translating it as best he could onto paper. He wanted to portray her mystery, that quality that made her different from everyone else. As if she had a delicious secret. It was a great challenge and he wanted to get it right so that when they parted, he could gaze upon the drawing and remember her as she was now.
“One day we will tell our children about this morning,” he said finally, holding the paper out in front of him and narrowing his eyes. “They’ll look at this picture and see for themselves how beautiful their mother was as a young woman, when their father fell in love with her.”
She laughed softly and her face glowed with affection. “How silly you are,” she said, but he knew from the way she was gazing at him that she didn’t think him silly at all.
He held it up for her to see. Her cheeks flamed with astonishment and her face turned very serious. “You’re a maestro,” she gasped, tracing her lips with her fingers. “It’s beautiful, Signor Arbuckle.” Thomas laughed. She had never said his name before. After such intimacy “Signor Arbuckle” sounded formal and clumsy.
“Call me Tommy,” he said.
“Tommy,” she replied.
“Everyone at home calls me Tommy.”
“Tommy,” she said again. “I like it. Tommy.” She raised her dark eyes and stared at him as if for the first time. She gently pushed him back onto the grass and lay on top of him. “Ti voglio bene, Tommy,” she said. When she pulled away, her eyes shone golden like amber. She ran her hand over his forehead and through his hair, then planted a lingering kiss on the bridge of his nose. “Ti amo,” she whispered. Over and over again she whispered it, “Ti amo, ti amo,” pressing her lips against every part of his face, like an animal marking her territory, willing herself to remember it.
He did not want to take her home. He feared the agonizing moment when he would lose sight of her. When he’d have to walk away. They remained as long as they could on the hillside by the lookout tower, both afraid of the sea and the terrible divide it would impose upon them. They held each other tightly.
“How is it possible to love you so deeply, Valentina, when I have known you so little?”
“God has brought you to me,” she replied.
“I know nothing about you.”
“What do you want to know?” She chuckled sadly, tracing his face with her fingers. “I like lemons and arum lilies, the smell of the dawn and the mystery of the night. I like to dance. I wanted to be a dancer as a little girl. I’m frightened of being alone. I’m frightened of being no one. Of not mattering. The moon fascinates me; I could sit all night just staring up at it and wondering. She makes me feel safe. I hate this war, but I love it for having brought you to me. I’m afraid of loving too much. Of being hurt. Of living my life in pain and suffering for loving someone I am unable to have. I’m frightened too of death, of nothingness. Of dying, and finding that there isn’t a God. Of my soul wandering in a terrible l
imbo that is neither life nor death. My favorite color is purple. My favorite stone a diamond. I would like to wear a necklace of the finest diamonds just to sparkle for a night, to know what it feels like to be a lady. My favorite part of the world is the sea. My favorite man is you.”
Thomas laughed. “That’s quite a summary. I like the last part best.”
“Is there anything else you want to know?”
“You’ll wait for me, won’t you?” he said seriously. “I will come back for you, I promise.”
“If there is a God, He will know what is in my heart and bring you back to me.”
“Christ, Valentina,” he sighed in English. “What have you done to me?”
They walked back to her house in silence and he kissed her for the last time. “This is not goodbye,” he said. “It’s farewell. It won’t be long.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I trust you, Tommy.”
“I’ll write.”
“And I’ll kiss the paper you write upon.”
To prolong the moment would have been torturous, so she ran down the path and hurried into her house without a parting glance. Thomas understood and turned around. The morning suddenly looked less fresh, as if dark clouds had now obscured the sun. The countryside had lost its sparkle. The song of birds ceased to sound so melodious, and the rattling of crickets pounded against his eardrums like cymbals. Only the scent of figs lingered on his skin to remind him of her, and the picture he had drawn. With a heaviness of heart such as he had only ever felt once before in his life, when his beloved brother had been killed, he walked slowly back to the harbor. Back to his boat. Back to the war.
11
Beechfield Park 1971
T homas awoke to the sound of the clock in the hall. His neck was stiff and aching and he blinked about him in bewilderment. For a moment he was confused. Where was he? He expected to be on the boat but the ground beneath him was solid. Slowly the study came into focus. It was cold. It was dark, except for the lamp on his desk. God, what time was it? He looked at his watch. Three in the morning. He glanced down at the portrait in his hand. Valentina’s face gazed out at him as she had done that day on the hill. He had captured all that was unique about her, all that he couldn’t possibly ever put into words. Even the one quality that he hadn’t even known she possessed. Even that. How could he have missed it?
He noticed he had been crying. Tears had dampened his cheeks while he slept. While he dreamed. He rolled up the scroll and stood up stiffly. He’d lock up the picture in the safe and never look at it again. She was dead. What was the point of remembering it all? Of crying in one’s sleep like a child? It was all in the past and that’s where it belonged. He painstakingly took down the portrait of his father that concealed the safe Margo had had built after they got married. She thought of everything, Margo. He retrieved the key and opened it. Boxes of jewelry and papers lay in the velvet-lined cavity. For a second he held on to the portrait. Part of him didn’t want to relegate that lovely face to the back of a dark box. It was like placing her in a coffin all over again. However, he knew he had to. It was right. Without looking at it for one more time he put it at the very back of the safe. Once it was out of sight he felt better. It didn’t pull at him so. He replaced the portrait of his father, took a step back, and rubbed his chin as he gazed up at it. No one would know. Perhaps even he would forget.
When Fitz awoke, Alba was in the bathroom. He lay blinking in the dim light, and although the curtains were heavy he sensed that the day was bright and sunny. He stretched and placed his hands behind his head. Although disappointed that he hadn’t awoken with Alba’s warm body pressed against his, he realized that it was probably for the best. They hadn’t made love. They had done nothing more than sleep together, as friends. He heard her brushing her teeth, humming to herself as she did so. He felt awkward. What was he meant to do?
When Alba came out of the bathroom she was still in her nightshirt, her hair knotted and falling across her face and her long brown legs tantalizingly naked. She grinned at him lazily before climbing back into bed. “I used your toothbrush,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind.” Fitz was confused. She was back in the bed again, having shared his toothbrush, which was pretty intimate for a couple not sleeping together. He got up and used the bathroom himself.
When he emerged he wasn’t sure whether she expected him to get back into bed or to get dressed but it was a dilemma he had to solve in a split second. Alba lay with her head on the pillow smiling up at him. She was amused by his hesitation.
“Men don’t usually hover by the bed when I’m in it,” she said with a laugh. “You do like girls, don’t you, Fitz?”
Fitz climbed into bed, annoyed at her teasing. Without waiting for an invitation he took her neck in his hand and pressed his lips fervently to hers. She did not resist but kissed him back enthusiastically. She let out a low moan and wound her arms around him. It was that moan that redressed the balance and made him feel like a man again. When he traced his hand up her leg, beneath her nightshirt, he found that she was wearing no knickers.
“Have you been naked all night?” he asked, stroking her bottom.
“I never wear pants,” she replied. “They just get in the way.”
“Never?” God, I’m so conventional, he thought to himself.
“Never, Grandpa!” She giggled into his neck.
“I can assure you I make love like a boy lover!” he laughed.
“Don’t assure me, boy lover, show me.”
Fitz tried not to think of the many men who had slept with Alba. He tried to imagine her pure and untarnished. This was hard, for Alba had indeed enjoyed the attentions of many men, too many to count. She had learned along the way from the sheer enjoyment of sex. Her innovation was born out of enthusiasm and a natural earthiness about which she was completely unabashed. As much as Fitz tried to take the lead and will her to be innocent, she wriggled and moaned like the femme du monde that she was.
“Darling, kiss me a little higher, yes…there…with your tongue…softer…softer…slower, much much slower. There. Yes!”
She was quite happy to tell him what she wanted and sighed with pleasure when he got it right. He couldn’t deny that she was wonderful in bed. Technically, she was tremendous. But afterward, as they lay spent and panting, their heartbeats racing in chests damp with sweat, Fitz couldn’t help but feel that something was missing. Oh, it was all there, the skill, the know-how, the technique. But technique was of little value to him without feeling. It was passion that made lovemaking special. Fitz loved Alba but she clearly did not love him.
After a while, Alba tiptoed down the corridor to her room, half hoping to bump into the Buffalo, simply for the pleasure of seeing her face. Fitz was left feeling empty. Dissatisfied. As if he had eaten his way through a delicious doughnut to find the center entirely without jam. He had given Alba his soul and she had simply lent him her body with a playful laugh. He thought of Viv and what she would say if he told her. “You silly fool!” she would snap. “I told you not to lose your heart. Alba will chew it all up and spit it out when she’s done.” That is how she had treated every man before him. But he was different. Even her father had admitted that: “Why would Alba go for someone like you?” Why indeed? Because he was a runner.
He dressed smartly, anticipating church and the reverend who was invited back for Sunday lunch. Fitz wondered how things would go when they returned to London. Was she simply enjoying the role-play? Or did he mean more to her than that? “I’m behaving like a woman!” he snapped at his reflection as he tried to tidy his hair. He resigned himself to the fact that, however much he brushed, combed, or wet his hair, it remained a mass of unruly curls. The reverend would have to accept him as he was.
On his way back from letting Sprout out of the car to run around the gardens, he heard voices from the dining room. He entered, and Margo greeted him warmly. “Did you sleep well, Fitz? I hope the bed was comfortable. Were you warm enough?”
; “It was most comfortable and certainly warm. Very warm indeed,” he replied, glad that Alba wasn’t there to catch his eye and make him smile.
“Good. Now there’s tea and coffee over there,” she said pointing to the sideboard. “Eggs and bacon, toast. If you’d like a boiled egg, Cook will do it for you. Just ask.”
“No, fried eggs are perfect. What a feast.” He sniffed the salty bacon and his mouth watered.
“Cook is a little wonder. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s been with us for years. She was Lavender and Hubert’s cook when Thomas was little, wasn’t she, Thomas?” Thomas, who was sitting at the large round table reading the newspapers and sipping coffee, trying to ignore the frivolous chitchat of his wife and daughters, raised his bloodshot eyes and nodded. Fitz noticed at once how tired and ill he looked. His face was gray, as if all the blood had drained into his red socks.
“Morning, Fitz,” he said. “I trust you slept well.”
“Yes, thank you,” Fitz replied, sensing that he did not wish to engage in conversation. He turned to Margo, leaving Thomas to disappear once again behind his paper.
After a while, during which Caroline talked incessantly about the man she was in love with, Alba walked in. She was dressed in the shortest skirt possible, patterned tights, and suede boots to her knees. Fitz immediately thought how gorgeous she looked, then remembered that she never wore pants and felt an erection stir in his trousers. There was no way he could leave the table now. As well as the outrageous outfit, she wore an expression of triumph. It didn’t take long to work out why. He shifted his eyes to her stepmother. Margo stood with her jaw slack, uncharacteristically dumb. Alba strode over to Fitz and took his face in her hands, planting on his mouth a passionate and lingering kiss. Now he was as mute as Margo. Only Thomas was untouched by her, reading the paper oblivious of the change in the air.
Last Voyage of the Valentina Page 13
