“I don’t know,” she wailed tearfully, her chest expanding as her breath quickened. “I don’t know which to choose!”
“Then we’ll just have to buy them all,” Alba replied casually. The child stared at her with eyes as large as moons. Then she burst into tears. Maria wrapped her arms around her, but Cosima pulled away and sobbed against Alba.
“What’s the matter?” Alba asked, stroking her hair.
“No one’s ever bought me so many dresses before,” she said, swallowing hard. Alba thought of Cosima’s mother who had deserted her child for a tango dancer, and her heart buckled.
“Wait until your father sees you in them. We can put on a fashion show this evening. We’ll keep it a secret and surprise him.”
Cosima wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Oh, yes, can we?”
“He’ll think you’ve been turned into a princess.”
“Oh, he really will.”
“Now, can you do something for me?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to let me draw you.” Alba hadn’t drawn since childhood. She wasn’t even sure that she could still draw. “We’ll buy paper and pencils and you’ll sit for me. Will you do that?” The child nodded enthusiastically. “You can take me somewhere nice. We’ll prepare a picnic and you can tell me all about Costanza and Eugenia and all your other friends at school.”
When they arrived at the trattoria with armfuls of bags Toto’s jaw dropped. “The shops have probably made more today than they make in a month,” he said. Cosima smiled and puffed out her chest. Her father narrowed his eyes. “What’s that face for?” he asked her, pulling her onto his knee.
“A surprise,” she said with a giggle. He looked at Alba and then down at the bags.
“Ah, I see.”
“I lost an entire wardrobe. A girl’s got to have clothes,” Alba explained.
“She really does,” Cosima agreed, and her cherubic face glowed with happiness.
Before returning to the house for lunch, Toto and Cosima took Alba to the chapel of San Pasquale. It was in the center of town, up a narrow street that opened into a small yard. Painted white and blue, its symmetry and stoutness gave it a quaint charm. The mosaic dome soared into the fresh sea air, a serene lookout point for doves and gulls. Alba walked through the heavy wooden door where her mother had stood almost three decades before, dressed in white lace and daisies, to marry her father. She paused a moment and savored the sight of the aisle, imagining it festooned with flowers, the glittering icons and frescoes that decorated the walls, the shining gold candelabra that caught the light and twinkled. The altar stood at the foot of an elaborate altarpiece depicting scenes of the Crucifixion, its starched white cloth neatly laid with gold candlesticks and the highly crafted trappings of ceremony. After the simplicity of the town, the opulence of the chapel was remarkable. However, what drew her attention was the white marble statue of Jesus that had supposedly once wept tears of blood. She strode up to it, her espadrilles soft on the flag-stones.
It was smaller than she had imagined, with no sign of tears, blood or otherwise. She craned her neck to look behind it, searching for some explanation, for some proof of trickery.
“There’s nothing there,” said Toto, appearing beside her while Cosima sat at the back, guarding the shopping bags with her life.
“Did it really happen?” Alba asked.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that something happened. I just doubt that it was inspired by God.”
“But it hasn’t happened in years?”
“Not since Valentina’s death.” His tone was matter-of-fact.
“Immacolata says that it was because of her that the miracle dried up.” Alba ran her fingers over the cold, lifeless stone face of Christ.
“Immacolata is a deeply religious woman. She lost a husband, a son, and then a daughter. It’s not surprising that she tries to explain it all in those terms. To her, Valentina is a saint, but she was a human being. A fallible human being like the rest of us.”
“I had no idea how much she had affected Incantellaria.”
“She was beautiful and mysterious and died young. This is a small town, a superstitious town. Her story was a romantic and tragic one. There’s nothing quite like the combination of romance and tragedy to touch people. Look at Romeo and Juliet. Then your father took Valentina’s baby overseas. It’s the stuff of novels.” Alba thought of Viv getting her hands on it and immortalizing it in words.
“And twenty-six years later she comes back,” Alba added.
Toto nodded. “And the whole damn thing is opened up again.”
“Your father is very sad, isn’t he?” she said.
“He’s never gotten over her death. Neither has Immacolata. But Immacolata’s sorrow is the natural sorrow of a mother bereft of her child. With my father it’s like a torment.”
“Why?” she asked, recalling with a strange sense of déjà vu the inconsolable expression on her father’s face the evening she had given him the portrait.
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
22
T here was much excitement as Alba helped Cosima into the first of her three new dresses. Immacolata sat at the head of the table with the rest of her family, speculating about the nature of the surprise.
“They’re going to be amazed,” said Alba, tying the bow neatly at the back. “You look like an angel.” She felt the urge to mention the girl’s mother. Since she had arrived no one had uttered her name. Cosima acted as if she didn’t exist, but Alba knew the truth because she recognized herself in the child’s silence. There were questions that simmered inside that would one day boil over and cause everyone pain unless they were answered now, with honesty and sensitivity. “Now go and show them all how beautiful you look.”
Cosima skipped out into the sunlight, dancing with the light feet of a garden fairy. Her entrance was welcomed with exuberant applause and cries of “There’s more…” from Cosima as she dived back into the house to slip into the next dress.
Alba shared Cosima’s happiness. She watched the expressions of the child’s family; none was more indulgent and delighted than her father’s. Alba sighed heavily and cast her thoughts back to her own father. She didn’t often dwell on memories; the present was more agreeable. However, she recalled with some surprise the time her father had taken her into the woods behind the house at Beechfield to shoot rabbits. They had walked up the hill hand in hand, his gun slung over his shoulder, his strides long and purposeful, then lain down on their stomachs, the damp grass tickling their chins. The scent of the recently harvested cornfields reached her now from the misty past and caused her head to swim with nostalgia. Her father had shot a rabbit, skinned it, gutted it, and they had built a fire and cooked it, while the sun flooded the countryside and turned it pink. Just the two of them. She remembered it now.
Cosima skipped in again for her third change and Alba was shaken from her thoughts. She helped her wriggle into the last dress. Alba found herself picking up the clothes that the child had left in a heap on the floor and folding them neatly over the back of the chair. She noticed her uncharacteristic tidiness, the almost motherly fussiness, and was surprised at how normal it felt. At the end of the show she came out of the shadows and joined in the applause. Toto thanked her and she knew what was contained within the pauses between his words; he felt his wife’s absence ever more acutely now that she was there.
After lunch Immacolata disappeared inside for a nap. Falco offered to take Alba to Valentina’s grave. Cosima leaped off her chair, wanting to go too. She looked up at Alba forlornly. But Alba wanted to talk to Falco alone. She suggested that they take a picnic somewhere nice later on in the day, just the two of them. This appeased the child, who watched them walk off through the olive grove, then turned on her heel to play with the donkey.
“She’s adorable,” said Alba, hoping to distract him from thoughts of his dead sister.
Falco nodded. “She’s delightful. My son is a good father.
It hasn’t been easy.”
“He’s a tremendous father. He gives her everything she needs.”
“He can’t give her everything,” he said gruffly. “He must remarry and give the child a mother.”
“No one can replace Cosima’s mother,” she said a little too quickly, thinking of herself.
“No, of course not,” he replied, looking at her long and hard for a moment. “But see how she has flourished since you arrived.”
“I’ve only bought her a few dresses,” she said with a shrug.
“It’s more than that. You are young. She needs a young woman to look up to. To set an example.”
“She has Beata, her nonna,” Alba suggested, though she knew that the quiet woman’s presence around the house was not enough.
“You know you are welcome to invite your friend, Gabriele, whenever you like,” he said and Alba smiled. She knew they all hoped she’d stay.
“Thank you. I might just do that,” she replied, recalling Gabriele’s handsome face.
They walked down the hill along a dirt track that cut through the forest. The ringing of crickets resounded through the still, afternoon air that smelled pleasantly of rosemary and pine. Alba felt uncomfortable with Falco. It wasn’t that he was disagreeable, although his manner was abrupt, but there was something dark and depressing about him, as if he walked in shadows. Walking beside him, she was cast in shadow too. She felt her spirit grow heavy with doom. She found conversation with him hard. At first, he had been pleased to see her, pleased beyond words. His joy had overflowed in tears, then transformed into raucous laughter. He could cry one moment and howl with amusement the next: wholly unpredictable. Now it was as if the very sight of her reminded him too much of Valentina. She wasn’t Valentina. Her presence couldn’t bring her back. She wasn’t like her. Maybe that had been a disappointment. Perhaps he had hoped for not only a physical likeness but a characteristic one too. Judging from the stories Immacolata had told of her, Alba was a pale reflection. It was a relief they knew nothing about her.
Falco was the same age as her father, late fifties, more or less, and yet they both were old beyond their years. They both stooped in the same way, weighed down by an invisible force that leaned heavily on their shoulders. They both smiled, but their eyes contained an unfathomable disquiet.
The track left the forest and opened into a lemon grove. Up high to the left where the hill rose sharply, the crumbling old lookout point she had seen from the sea stood defiantly against the elements.
“She loved it here,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. “She loved the smell of lemons, and of course, the view of the sea is magnificent.” He led her through the grove to the end, by the cliff, where a solitary olive tree stood gnarled and twisted in the sunshine. “We buried her here.” Beneath the tree was a simple wooden cross that bore her name. He looked out over the ocean, flat and shining like glass. “She saw your father’s boat come in long before anyone else did and ran down to the harbor. If you cut directly down the rock you can get there surprisingly quickly. When Valentina wanted something, she let nothing stand in her way.”
“I’m sure she’s happy here. It’s very peaceful.”
“The lookout point was a favorite spot too. She spent many hours there, waiting for your father to return at the end of the war.”
“It’s very romantic.” Alba wanted to feel her mother’s presence there in the shade of that tree, but all she could sense was the heavy cloud that surrounded Falco. “Show me the tower?” she asked, turning to walk up the hill. Falco followed her without saying a word.
“Wow! You can see for miles,” she exclaimed exuberantly, filling her lungs with the clean, sea air.
She looked at Falco’s anguished features. “Do I remind you of her?” she asked boldly, her head on one side, frowning. He stared at her, surprised. “Do you see her every time you look at me? Is that why you’re so unsettled?”
He shook his head and shrugged, raising his palms to the sky. “Of course you look like her, you’re her daughter.”
“But does it hurt, Falco? Does my presence here bring it all back?” Her question had caught him off guard.
“I suppose it does,” he replied quietly. She suddenly felt compassion for this big man and wanted to offer words of comfort.
“She’s with God now,” she said lamely.
“Yes she is, but we are left in hell.”
The violence of his words struck her and she flinched. She blinked in confusion. There was something he wasn’t telling her. Perhaps they had fought the day she was killed. Maybe she died before he could apologize. Wasn’t that a common problem for the living?
She turned and looked around. Above them, obscured behind thick forest, were the distant towers and turrets of a palace. “Who lives there?” she asked, changing the subject.
“No one. It’s a ruin.”
“It must have been impressive once.”
“It was, but a feud splintered the family and the palazzo was left to rot.” His voice was flat.
“No hidden treasure then?”
“You couldn’t even get there if you wanted to,” he added. “The forest has taken over.”
“How sad.”
Falco shook his head. “Come. Cosima will be waiting for you.”
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she said, smiling at him. “I understand how hard all this must be for you. Loving someone and losing them, the pain never goes away, does it?” He nodded brusquely and walked back down the hill.
As Falco had said, Cosima was waiting for her in the olive grove, a basket of food in her hand. Alba’s mood lightened when she saw the small figure, still some way off, standing patiently in the sunshine. The moment the child saw her, she waved her hand excitedly and Alba waved back and hurried on, happy to leave the brooding Falco to continue in shadow alone.
Alba suggested they return to the lookout point. Not only was it exceedingly beautiful but she wanted to be near the twisted olive tree where her mother was buried. Cosima waited for Alba to collect her paper and crayons from the house. When Alba returned she took her hand. “What have you got in the basket?” Alba asked, peering inside.
“Apples, mozzarella and tomato panini, and biscuits.”
“Delicious,” she said. “A feast!”
“Don’t you eat as well in England?” Cosima asked innocently.
“Of course not. Italy is famous for its food as well as the beauty of its countryside, architecture, and language.”
“Really?” she screwed up her nose. “Language?”
“Absolutely, you should hear some of the other languages. Horrible, like clashing chords. Italian is like music played beautifully.”
“I don’t like to listen to Eugenia when she plays her recorder. It hurts my ears.”
“Then be thankful she speaks Italian when she’s not playing!”
They settled down beside the lookout point and Cosima bit into an apple. Alba opened the sketchbook and placed a crayon between her thumb and fingers. She didn’t know where to start: head, hair, or eyes. She sat and watched the child for a long moment. It wasn’t so much her features she felt the need to capture but the expression within them. Cosima’s expression was angelic and mischievous as well as slightly imperious. Though, with her mouth full of apple, her cheeks were puffed out like a squirrel’s.
“Are you any good?” the child asked in a muffled voice, chewing happily.
“I don’t know. I haven’t ever drawn before. Not properly.”
“If it’s good, can I keep it?”
“Only if it’s good. If it’s terrible it’s going to the bottom of the sea.”
“Like this apple core,” said Cosima, throwing it as far as she could. It landed on rock.
“Nice try.”
“I don’t like to stand close to the edge. I might fall off.”
“That would be a great shame.”
“Why do you speak Italian?” Cosima took a panino from the basket.
“Your mother was my great-aunt. Daddy told me.”
“Yes, she was.”
“She was killed.”
“Yes, sadly she died before I could know her. My father married again.”
“Do you like your new mother?”
“Not really. No one matches up to one’s real mother. She has always been kind to me, but I suppose I wanted my father all to myself.”
“I have my father all to myself,” Cosima said proudly, smoothing down her new pink dress.
“You’re very lucky. He’s a good man, your father. He loves you very much.”
As they talked, Alba’s hand began to sketch. She didn’t concentrate, she just let the crayon wander.
“You must miss your mother,” she said. Cosima’s face suddenly turned serious.
“I don’t think she’s coming back,” she said with a sigh, then added brightly, “It doesn’t matter though, does it?”
“You know, when I was a child no one ever talked about my mother. This made me very sad because I wasn’t allowed to remember her. The world of grown-ups can often seem confusing. At least, it was confusing to me. I wanted to be reassured that she loved me and that her dying had nothing to do with me. I didn’t want to feel that she had left me. Your mother had good reason to leave, but it wasn’t because she wanted to leave you. I imagine she knew that she couldn’t take you with her. It was better for you to remain here with your family. She must miss you very much.”
Cosima thought about it, her face solemn. This expression wasn’t good for the portrait.
Alba stopped drawing. “What is she like, your mother?”
The child’s face opened up again and Alba put her crayon to the paper once again.
Last Voyage of the Valentina Page 25
