Thomas glanced at Falco, recalling his furious argument with his sister the night before. In the presence of Padre Dino he was taciturn and acquiescent, though his face was still twisted into a scowl. Beata stood with Toto; Thomas imagined he would enjoy his thoughts on the old man’s beard. Children were quick to see the grotesque and to laugh at it. Making fun of people was what they loved best, before their parents taught them it was rude to point and stare. Paolo and Ludovico were uncharacteristically serious. Padre Dino’s arrival had changed them all. Thomas suddenly felt guilty for his irreverent thoughts. After all, the man was going to conduct their marriage ceremony.
“I remember you from the festa di Santa Benedetta,” said Padre Dino to Thomas, extending his hand.
“It was an extraordinary event,” Thomas replied, trying to respond in the right tone. “I was honored to take part.”
“It was nothing less than a miracle,” said Padre Dino, “and through miracles we are reminded of God’s omnipotence. In times of human conflict it is important to remember that God is more powerful than we are, however efficient our weapons, however strong our armies. God showed Himself in the blood of Christ’s tears and will do so again when we celebrate, as we do every year, this sacred and most holy of miracles.”
“It’s coming around again?” Thomas asked, turning to Valentina. Padre Dino answered for her, as he would continue to do in all matters that concerned the Lord.
“Next Tuesday. Perhaps God will see fit to bless your wedding and your future together,” he said solemnly. Then for a moment his forehead darkened. “You have brought a child into the world.”
“All children are blessings, Padre Dino,” interjected Immacolata, lifting her chin. Because of Immacolata’s lineage, her direct link to Santa Benedetta who first witnessed the miracle 254 years before, Padre Dino held her in the highest esteem.
“All children are indeed blessings. However,” he frowned again and he looked directly at Thomas. “God must bless your union so that your child becomes the product of holy matrimony and not of unholy carelessness. But God forgives, does He not? In times of war it is sometimes impossible to follow God’s path in that respect.” Then he laughed and the air vibrated around him. “God’s path is not always easy to follow. If it were we would all go directly to Heaven and I would not have a job to do.”
“Tommasino is a young man of honor, I knew that from the first moment I saw him. I did not think so of his friend.”
“The one with the squirrel?” said Valentina with a laugh. Padre Dino looked perplexed.
“The one with the squirrel,” said Immacolata. “Let us eat and drink to celebrate their future and thank the Lord that she did not fall in love with him.”
After Padre Dino had said an unnecessarily long grace, Thomas sat down beside his fiancée, opposite the priest. He turned his thoughts to Jack and hoped that he had remembered to send his letter to his parents, informing them of his return to Italy and of his plans to bring his bride and child back to Beechfield Park as soon as they were married. It did not perturb him in the slightest that his parents might disapprove of his choice. The fact that he had survived the war was surely enough to excuse him any unsuitable choice of bride.
Thomas took Valentina’s hand. At first she tried to wiggle it away, torn between respect for the priest and her newfound longing to collude with Thomas. After a while she gave in and let Thomas hold it tightly under the table where no one could see.
Suddenly a low rumble came up from the padre’s belly. Padre Dino continued, unperturbed. But Immacolata’s face softened as she tried to contain her amusement. Again came the whine. It began low, rose in the middle, then fell again before dissolving into bubbles. The priest shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. Immacolata offered him more wine. Normally he would have declined. The day was hot, the sun scorching, the languor of the afternoon already penetrating his mind and melting his concentration. But he held out his glass while Immacolata poured. When the moaning increased not only in frequency but in volume too, the poor priest downed the glass in one. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow and nose and glistened in the light. His voice rose and his beard began to twitch restlessly, the little paws clawing at his cassock as he moved his head from side to side. His conversation departed from God’s mighty strength and purpose to more earthly things like prosciutto and plums. Again and again the whine rose up from his belly until finally Toto’s innocent little voice stated what they had all been longing to say. “Padre Dino?” he asked with a naughty smile.
“Yes, my child?” replied the priest through clenched teeth.
“Have you swallowed a dog?”
Thomas was surprised when Falco roared with laughter.
Padre Dino excused himself and disappeared inside, where he remained for a long time.
Immacolata gave deep sigh. “Poor Padre Dino,” she said. “He works too hard.”
“And eats too much,” said Ludovico.
“It’s not a good idea to eat dog,” added Paolo. “Indigestible!” The brothers began to laugh. Falco knocked back his glass of wine with a loud gulp, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I pity the poor soul who uses the bathroom after him,” he said, and his brothers erupted into laughter again.
“Enough!” said Immacolata and her tone was more reminiscent of the strident old woman Thomas had met in the Trattoria Fiorelli the year before. “He is a man of God. Have respect!” But nothing could stop the boys’ laughter now that they had started.
After lunch Padre Dino departed rapidly on his bicycle, though Immacolata tactfully offered him a seat in the shade where he could spend the afternoon in quiet contemplation, overlooking the sea. He disappeared unsteadily down the dusty track and Thomas and Valentina hoped that he would arrive in town safely so that he’d be fit to wed them the coming week, following the festa di Santa Benedetta.
Later, while Valentina fed Alba, Thomas took out his paper and pastels and drew them. The afternoon heat was no longer so intense and the light was soft and mellow as the day slowly died away and evening drew in. A whisper of a breeze swept up from the sea, carrying with it fresh smells from the hills and the promise of a future far away on another shore. Alba, clothed in a thin white dress, lay against her mother’s belly, sucking milk from her swollen breast. Valentina held her close and every now and then inclined her head to watch her beloved child. Her expression was gentle and full of love for the tiny being she had brought into the world. Her eyes brimmed with pride, and the sadness that Thomas had depicted in his last picture was no longer there. With her spirit bursting with optimism her beauty was all the more unearthly and she ever more remote; the pedestal upon which he had placed her was so high her head disappeared into cloud.
Thomas talked about their future. He described the house where she would live and the village over which she would preside. “They’ll love you at Beechfield,” he said, imagining the looks of admiration and envy when he introduced her to his friends and family. “I don’t think the people of Beechfield have ever seen a real Italian. They’ll think they’re all as beautiful as you. But they’ll be wrong. You’re unique.”
“Oh, I long to be far away from here,” she replied with a sigh. “It’s grown too small for me. I’m barely able to stretch my legs anymore.”
“You won’t miss your family?” he asked, drawing the line of her jaw that was surprisingly strong and angular for such a gentle face.
“I won’t miss Falco!” she laughed gaily. “Silly Falco. I wonder what will become of him. I don’t think he’s finding it easy to adjust to life after war. I think he was happier fighting his own people and hiding in bushes than eating with his family in peacetime.”
“He’s troubled. Perhaps you should try to understand him,” he suggested diplomatically, coloring in the shadow her chin cast upon her neck.
“Why should I?” she replied petulantly. “He doesn’t try to understand me.” Her expression suddenly darkened. Thomas imagined it h
ad something to do with her argument with Falco the night before.
“He fought bravely. He fought for all the right things. There’s no shame in fighting against one’s own countrymen if it’s in aid of peace.”
“He thinks he’s better than everyone else. He thinks he has a right to interfere in my life. Well, he knows nothing about me anymore. The war changes people and it changed me too. Just because I wasn’t on the front line doesn’t mean that it passed me by. I have struggled to survive in my own way. I’m not proud of myself. But I survived and looked after Mamma as best I could. No, he knows nothing of what I’ve been through.” Her forehead crinkled as she knitted her eyebrows. “He’s been away hiding in bushes. How can he expect to waltz back in and take our father’s place as head of the family? He wasn’t around when we needed him.”
Thomas didn’t really understand what she was talking about. He felt as if he had arrived in the middle of a conversation, having missed the most important part. “Don’t worry,” he said, concentrating now on Alba’s pretty head. “Soon you’ll be far away and no one will tell you what to do anymore.”
“Not even you?” she said with a smile.
“I wouldn’t dare!” He laughed and was pleased that her face was no longer dark and anxious.
Once he had finished the picture, he held it up for her to see. Beneath the portrait he had written Valentina and Alba 1945. Thomas Arbuckle. Now my love is twofold. Her expression unfolded like a sunflower that has just seen the sun, and she put her fingertips to her lips in wonder. “It’s beautiful,” she gasped. “You’re so talented, Tommy.”
“No, you’re the inspiration, Valentina. You and Alba. I don’t believe I ever drew Jack so well, or Brendan!”
“It’s perfect. I’ll keep it forever. The pastels won’t fade, will they?”
“I hope not.”
“I want Alba to see it one day. It’s important for her to know how much she is loved.”
She placed Alba against her shoulder and gently patted her back. Thomas bent down to kiss her and she raised her chin to give him her lips. He rested his mouth on hers for a long moment, wishing that they could spend the rest of the evening in bed, wrapped in each other. He withdrew with a sigh.
“We’ll be married soon,” she said, reading his thoughts. “Then we’ll have the rest of our lives to lie together.”
“God willing,” Thomas added, not wanting to tempt the fates.
“God will bless us. You will see. He will cry tears of blood at the festa di Santa Benedetta and then we will begin the rest of our life far away from here.” She cast her eyes around her home. “I won’t miss it,” she said. “But perhaps it will miss me.”
Only once were they able to lie naked together, in the lemon grove at dawn, while the town slept below them. There, in the pale light of the rising sun, Thomas drew her a third time, the last time. And that portrait was so intimate he knew he would never show a soul. When he gave it to her she blushed, but he could tell from the sparkle in her eyes that she liked it. “This is my Valentina,” he said proudly. “My secret Valentina.” And Valentina rolled it up so that it should remain so.
Thomas spent every moment he could with Valentina and their daughter. However, there were empty hours that he had to fill on his own while Valentina made her wedding dress with her mother and Signora Ciprezzo. During those long, hot hours he would sit outside the trattoria and watch the children playing on the quayside, the fishermen mending their nets or sailing out to sea to cast them. They’d arrive back with barrelfuls of fish which they would sell in the local shop or farther inland, where there was still a great deal of hunger. The children would gather around and watch as they unloaded, and once or twice a small fish would slither out by mistake and they’d grab it and rush off to play before the fishermen noticed and stopped them. He would share a drink with Lattarullo or il sindacco, who’d cross his legs to reveal polished black shoes and perfectly pressed trousers.
When he was alone, Thomas watched the tide come in and go out in a gentle dance across the pebbles. He imagined the same shore thousands of years ago. For the first time he was aware of the constant changeability of human nature and of his own mortality. One day, he thought, I will be nothing more than sand on a beach and yet the years will roll on, the tides will continue to come in and out, and there will be other people to watch them.
Finally the day of the festa di Santa Benedetta dawned. It was an exquisite morning. The sky was bluer than Thomas had ever seen it and seemed to be full of tiny particles of fairy dust that glittered in the sun. He stood, marveling at such magnificence, sure that if there was a God, He was here. The air was fresh and sugar-scented and a heady smell of carnations was carried up from the sea on the breeze. When he looked down to the seafront, he saw a most extraordinary sight. The tide was far out, leaving the pebble beach wide and open and covered, by some strange miracle, in a sparkling gown of pink carnations. The flowers glittered and shimmered as the wind caught the petals, causing them to flutter like tiny wings. Boats that had been moored just offshore were now stranded in the midst of this delightful, fragrant pasture of flowers.
Thomas dressed hastily and with the rest of the town stood transfixed in the face of such unearthly splendor. No one spoke, they were all afraid to, in case the verbal acknowledgment of the magic might cause it to disappear. How the flowers had got there no one knew. When the tide swept in, the flowers would be washed away, leaving everyone wondering whether it had really happened or whether they had all been involved in some sort of hallucination.
Thomas put his hands behind his head and smiled a broad smile. If you’re watching this, Freddie, I hope it’s filling you with as much joy as it’s filling me, he thought happily. Today is the festa di Santa Benedetta . Surely this is a sign from God. Tomorrow we marry. After the bloodiness of war we can now build a lasting peace. Our future is written in flowers.
But old Lorenzo scratched his chin and shook his head. “The carnation is a symbol of death,” he said darkly for only Thomas to hear. “If each flower symbolizes a person we will all die together.”
Thomas ignored the old man’s gruesome prediction, preferring to remain with his own. It wasn’t long before word had spread of the latest miracolo. Padre Dino arrived to witness it and categorize it along with the other minor miracles that had happened at Incantellaria. Lattarullo scratched his groin in bewilderment while il sindacco considered taking a few flowers home to his wife. Immacolata and her family came down from the hill as soon as they received the news. Valentina held Thomas’s hand as they gazed upon the vision of their future, their hearts overflowing with joy. Then Thomas’s attention was diverted by a sudden glint from the top of the hill, far off in the distance. He pondered it for a moment before realizing that it was the marchese, watching them from his terrace through his telescope. Was he watching them now, or was he simply marveling at the incredible display of carnations along with the rest of them?
That evening Thomas experienced a sharp sense of déjà vu as he sat with Valentina in the little chapel of San Pasquale. Together with the rest of her family they waited for the blood to seep from Christ’s eyes. Immacolata, draped in the traditional black that she had worn since the death of her husband, stood proud and solemn but isolated from the rest of the town. She appeared shrunken, as if the weight of so much hope caused her body to stoop. Thomas felt a wave of compassion for this woman who had lost a husband and a son and was poised to lose her only daughter and granddaughter too. She had seemed so strong before, so formidable, but suddenly, alone in the aisle of that chapel, with the other two parenti standing obediently behind her, she seemed vulnerable and alone.
Thomas did not care whether or not Christ cried blood. He was convinced that it was a cunning trick played by Padre Dino or one of his cronies. He minded for Valentina and for her mother, who all placed far too much emphasis upon it, as if it had the power to decide the future. They don’t realize, he thought to himself, that they hold the future in
their own hands. The miracle has nothing to do with it. But he couldn’t tell them, of course. All he could do was hope that the blood was as thick and crimson as cherry syrup. They waited, and the more they waited the hotter the chapel became and the more intoxicating the smell of incense. The silence grew deafening, as if it were the screech of a dog whistle they couldn’t hear, penetrating their brains and causing them pain. Valentina’s hand grew damp in his. He squeezed it to reassure her but she did not squeeze back. She simply stared at the statue of Christ, willing it to shed tears with all her strength. Because she cared so much, Thomas began to care too. Surely the flowers on the beach had been a positive sign? he thought hopefully. But not even the will of the entire population of Incantellaria could force those eyes to bleed. The clock struck the hour and Immacolata collapsed to her knees.
As they filed out in disappointment, Valentina smiled up at Thomas. “Don’t worry, my love,” she said. “We’re getting married tomorrow and then we leave any bad luck behind.”
“Doesn’t the beach of carnations symbolize good luck for us?” he asked in a whisper.
“Yes, it does. But we need Christ’s blessing. I know how to get it. I’ll put it right, you’ll see.”
Thomas thought her peasant superstitions charming and innocuous. But later he would regret with all his heart how little he had known her.
17
London 1971
A lba packed her bag. She didn’t know what to take and she wasn’t exactly sure how she was going to get there. She hadn’t spoken to Fitz since he had left her houseboat over a month ago. When he hadn’t called, she had been reduced to longing that they might bump into each other on the pontoon. Not a glimpse. Nothing. Now her bedroom echoed with an inconsolable loneliness. In spite of Rupert and Tim and James and Reed of the River, Fitz’s scent lingered in the air and sometimes, when it caught her off guard, her eyes stung with tears. She missed his silly old dog too. There had been something very sweet about their friendship. Why couldn’t he have accompanied her on her adventure? If he loved her, he would have come without question. Perhaps she demanded too much. That was her nature. If he couldn’t take the pace, then it was right for him to get out of the race. Still, she missed him. Now there was only sex, and her soul ached for what it had briefly known.
Last Voyage of the Valentina Page 19
