Last Voyage of the Valentina

by Santa Montefiore

  It was quite dark and eerily silent. Alba was afraid to speak in case the sound woke demons lurking in the shadows. After a while, each room resembled the last: empty, bare, and forlorn. Just when they were on the point of turning back, Fitz opened a pair of double doors, the height of the room, into a salon that had an altogether different feel. Where the others had felt cold and damp, like a corpse, this one vibrated with the warmth of the living. It was smaller than the rest, square in shape, with a fireplace where the remains of the last fire still lay in the grate. It appeared to have been used, and recently. A large leather armchair, nibbled by mice, stood in front of it. There was nothing else in the room, just the distinct feeling that they weren’t alone.

  Fitz looked about suspiciously. “Someone lives here,” he said. Alba put her finger to her lips.

  “Shhhh,” she hissed. “He might not like us trespassing!”

  “I thought they said no one lived here.”

  “So did I!”

  Alba strained her ears for a sound, but none came, just the heavy thud of her own heartbeat. She looked over to French doors into the garden and pulled one open. It scraped along the floor. Fitz followed her outside. It was apparent that a terrace had once stood there, though the balustrade had collapsed, leaving only a small part of it. Alba scraped her foot on the ground to expose a floor of small red tiles. Then something black in the undergrowth caught her eye. She strode over to the ruined balustrade and burrowed beneath with her hand, finding something hard and metal.

  “What have you got there?” Fitz whispered.

  “Looks like a telescope.” She brushed it clean, then endeavored to look through it.

  “See anything interesting?”

  “Just black,” she replied, tossing it back into the undergrowth.

  Suddenly they felt the presence of someone behind them. They turned with a start to see a scrap of a man stepping out through the French doors.

  Alba spoke. “I hope we’re not intruding. We went for a walk and got lost,” she explained, smiling charmingly.

  When the man raised his bloodshot eyes to Alba he gasped as if something had knocked the wind out of him. He stood and stared at her without so much as a blink.

  “Madonna!” he exclaimed, his voice as soft as ribbon. Then he smiled, revealing a large gap where his front teeth had been. “I knew I walked among the dead!” He extended his hand. Alba reluctantly took it. It was clammy. “I’m Nero Bonomi. Who are you?”

  “We’re from England,” she replied. “My friend doesn’t speak Italian.”

  “But you, my dear, speak it like a native,” he said in English. “With your short hair you look like a rather beautiful boy. You look like someone else too, from a long time ago. You gave me a fright, actually.” He ran his bony fingers through his blond hair. “I was once a beautiful boy. What would Ovidio say if he could see me now?”

  “Do you live here?” she asked. “In this ruin?”

  “It was a ruin when Ovidio lived here too. Or should I say Marchese Ovidio di Montelimone. He was very grand. When he died, he left it to me. Not that it was worth having. Only the memories, which are of no value to anyone else, I suppose.”

  Alba noticed that the skin on his face was thick and reddened. He looked as if he were sunburnt, but on closer inspection it was clear that he was slowly drinking himself to death. A miasma of alcohol surrounded him. She could smell it. She noticed too that he wore his linen trousers very high on the waist, belted tightly, and that they were too short, revealing white socks on thin ankles. He wasn’t old, but he had the fragility of an elderly man.

  “What was this marchese like?” Fitz asked. Nero sat down on the balustrade and flopped one leg over the other. He didn’t seem to mind that they were trespassing, wandering through his house. He seemed happy for the company. He rested his chin on his hand with a sigh. “He was a great aesthete. He loved beautiful things.”

  “Are you related?” Alba knew instinctively that he wasn’t.

  “No. I loved him. He loved boys, you see. I had no culture, yet he loved me. I was a simple urchin from Naples. He found me on the street and educated me. But look what I have done to my inheritance. I am good for nothing now.” He fumbled around in his pocket for a cigarette. “If you were a boy, I could easily lose my heart to you.” He laughed, but Alba didn’t think it amusing. He flicked the lighter and inhaled. “Nothing was simple with Ovidio. He was a man of contradictions. Rich, yet he lived in a house that was decaying all about him. He loved men and yet he gave the largest slice of his heart to a woman. He went crazy for her. I nearly lost him because of her.” Alba looked at Fitz and Fitz looked at Alba. Neither spoke. But they knew. Nero continued. “She was more beautiful than you could possibly imagine.”

  “She was my mother,” said Alba. Nero stared at her through the wafting smoke that rose up in front of his eyes. “Valentina was my mother.”

  Suddenly Nero’s shoulders slumped and tears welled in his eyes. He bit his lip and his hands began to shake. “Of course. That is why you are here. That is why I half-recognize you.”

  “Was Valentina the marchese’s lover?” Fitz asked.

  He nodded. His head looked far too big for his emaciated body. “She was an amazing woman. Even I admired her. It was impossible not to. She had a bewitching way about her. An allure, quite magical. I was a boy from the streets and yet I met my match with her. Forgive me.”

  “Come on,” said Fitz trying to comfort him. “What’s there to forgive?”

  Nero stood up. “I let this place go. A few years ago there was a fire in one wing. It was my fault, I was drinking with friends…I’ve let it crumble about me. There’s no money left. I haven’t done any of the things he asked me to do. But come. There is one thing that I have kept just the way he left it.”

  They followed him along a snake path that wound its way down the hill beneath an avenue of cypress trees. At the end, overlooking the sea, stood a small house made out of gray stone. Unlike the palazzo, this had not been destroyed by the forest. Only a few intrepid branches of ivy scaled the walls and wound their way around the pillars. It was a perfect little folly, like something out of a fairy tale, where goblins might have lived. Fitz and Alba’s curiosity mounted. They stepped in behind Nero, peering around him in astonishment for, unlike the palazzo, this secret hideaway hadn’t been disturbed; it was frozen in time.

  There was only one room. It was a harmoniously proportioned square with a domed ceiling, exquisitely painted in a fresco of a cloudy blue sky filled with naked cherubs. The walls below were a warm terra-cotta, the floor covered with rugs, worn by the constant tread of feet, but not threadbare. A large four-poster bed dominated the room. The silks that draped it had discolored to a pale green, but the quilt, made in the same fabric, retained its original rich color. An elaborately embroidered velvet coverlet lay upon it, fraying at the edges. There was a chaise longue, an upholstered chair, a walnut-inlaid writing table where a glass ink bottle and pen were poised on the leather blotter, with paper and envelopes bearing the name Marchese Ovidio di Montelimone. Velvet curtains hung from poles; the shutters were closed; a bookshelf carried the weight of rows of leather-bound books.

  On closer inspection Alba saw that all the books were either of history or erotica. She ran her fingers over the bindings, wiping away the dust to reveal shiny titles embossed in gold.

  “Ovidio loved sex,” said Nero, draping himself over the chaise longue. “This was his sanctuary. The place he came to get away from the decaying palazzo and the echoes of its glorious past that he had allowed to slip through his fingers.” He gazed up at the ceiling and took a drag of his cigarette, now so short it was in danger of burning his yellowed fingers. “Ah, the hours of pleasure I enjoyed in this charming little grotto.” He sighed theatrically and let his eyes fall lazily on Alba, who was now looking at the paintings. They were all mythological scenes of naked young men or boys. They were beautifully framed, forming a collage on the walls. An alcove in the wa
ll housed a statue on a black and gilt pedestal. It was a marble replica of Donatello’s David. “Isn’t that exquisite? He’s like a panther, isn’t he? It was the languor of his pose that delighted Ovidio. He had it made especially for this grotto. He would run his hands over it. He liked to touch. He was a sensualist. As I said, he loved beautiful things.”

  “Like my mother,” said Alba, imagining her mother sitting at the delicate little dressing table, brushing her hair in front of the Queen Anne mirror. There were rows of bottles and perfume flasks here too, silver brushes and a pot of face powder. Had those belonged to her mother too?

  “Like Valentina,” repeated Nero and his eyes filled once again with tears.

  Alba wandered around the room, past a marble fireplace that still vibrated with the heat it had provided for the marchese and his lovers, past a tallboy of drawers, all empty. Then she flopped onto the bed. She felt uneasy. She didn’t want to look at Nero; she knew instinctively that he was about to divulge something terrible. She turned and caught her breath. Her eyes alighted on a picture of a beautiful young woman lying naked on grass. Her breasts were young and full, her hips round and soft, her pubic hair a shock of dark against the whiteness of her thighs. Alba recoiled. The long dark hair, laughing eyes, and mysterious smile that played about her lips were unmistakable. Indeed, inscribed at the bottom were the words Valentina, reclining nude, Thomas Arbuckle, 1945.

  “Oh my God!”

  “What is it?” Fitz hurried over.

  “It’s Valentina.”

  “What?”

  “The last portrait my father drew of my mother. The one he searched for after her death but never found. She gave it to the marchese.”

  Now Alba realized why her father had been so desperate to find it. It was the most intimate of them all. A picture that should have been for their eyes only. Yet she had given it away. Alba took it down off the wall and brushed the dust off the frame. Fitz sat on the bed beside her. Neither noticed that Nero’s shoulders had begun to shake. “How dare he!” she exclaimed in fury. “How dare she!” She remembered her father’s gray, tormented face when she had given him the first portrait. How little she had understood him. “It breaks my heart to think of Daddy searching for this, while all along it was here with this pig. Wherever he is, I spit on his grave.”

  Nero turned, his face an open wound. “Now you know why this house is cursed. Why it’s in ruins. Why it will turn to dust. Why Ovidio was murdered.” His voice was a desperate howl, an animal in pain.

  Fitz and Alba stared at him in amazement. “The marchese was murdered too?” said Fitz.

  “My Ovidio was murdered.” He sank to the floor and curled up into a ball.

  “Why was he murdered?” Alba asked in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “Because he killed Valentina,” he wailed. “Because he killed her.”

  28

  F itz and Alba found Lattarullo drinking limoncello in the trattoria with the retired mayor. When they approached, Lattarullo’s face turned serious for they were both pale, as if they had just walked with the dead. The mayor excused himself so that they could be alone. He knew what they had come to talk about. It was better that they discussed such matters with the carabiniere. After all, he had known the girl’s father and been the first at the murder scene. He had hoped that they wouldn’t rummage around in the past. Best left alone and forgotten.

  “Take a seat,” said Lattarullo, forcing a smile.

  “We need to talk,” said Alba. She took Fitz’s hand. “We’ve just been up to the palazzo.”

  Lattarullo’s shoulders dropped. “You talked to Nero,” he said. “He’s a drunk. He’s got no money. Squandered it all on drink and gambling. He’s as ruined as the house.”

  “The marchese killed Valentina. Why?” Alba’s voice was formidable.

  The carabiniere sat back in his chair and bit the inside of his cheek. “You’ve solved a case that the best detectives couldn’t solve.”

  “They didn’t even try,” she snapped.

  “They had Lupo Bianco, what did they care about a domestic matter?”

  “Why did he kill her? He loved her.”

  “Because he didn’t want your father to have her.”

  “He was jealous?”

  “If he couldn’t have her, no one else should. She drove him crazy. That’s what Valentina did. She drove men crazy. The marchese was already crazier than the rest.”

  “I know she had a German lover. I saw his letters.”

  “Yes, she had a German protector. She had many. She drove them all crazy. Even the ones she didn’t want.”

  “It’s so pointless.” Alba sighed heavily.

  “And such a waste.” Lattarullo turned and ordered three limoncellos.

  It was only later that evening, when Alba sat with Fitz and Falco on the terrace, that the full truth was finally revealed. Immacolata and Beata had retired to their rooms; Toto was in the town with friends. Cosima was tucked up in bed, hugging her rag doll and the happy memories of the day. The setting sun glowed golden in a pale, watery sky, dyeing the clouds floating upon it pink like cotton candy. It was a magnificent scene. Alba was aware of her imminent departure and her heart filled with unbearable sorrow.

  When she showed her uncle the portrait he rubbed his chin. “Madonna!” he gasped, peering closer. “Where did you find it?”

  “At the palazzo,” Alba replied defiantly.

  His rough face turned solemn. “So you went?”

  “You know me, Falco. I don’t give up.”

  “Nero showed us the grotto,” said Fitz. “It was there that Alba discovered the portrait.”

  “And the truth,” she added. “That the marchese killed my mother.”

  Falco poured a glass of water and took a gulp. “So, the picture was there all along,” he muttered.

  “It was not hers to give away,” grumbled Alba. “It belonged to my father.”

  “You must take it to him,” said Falco.

  “I can’t,” she sighed, recalling the effect of the first one.

  “I think you are wrong, Alba. I think you should tell him.”

  “Falco’s right. I think it’s time he knew the truth,” Fitz interjected wisely.

  Alba sighed heavily in resignation. “I can’t believe the bastard killed my mother out of jealousy. It’s so bloody futile.”

  Falco raised his eyebrow. “Who told you that?”

  “Lattarullo,” said Alba.

  Her uncle thought for a moment and then said gravely, “That’s not the full story.”

  Alba’s heart lurched. “There’s more?”

  “The marchese killed Valentina because of you.”

  Alba was appalled. “Because of me?”

  “He thought you were his.”

  She clutched her throat, finding it hard to breathe. “How do you know that I’m not? Am I?” She was horrified, suddenly doubting her own parentage.

  “Valentina knew. The marchese knew too, in his heart.”

  “He killed her for revenge,” said Fitz, shaking his head. “What a coward.”

  “Because he had lost her and because he was going to lose you as well. The marchese had no heir. He was old and sad. Valentina and you were his future, his life. Without you he had nothing. He wanted to rob Tommy of his future as Valentina was robbing him of his.”

  “Nero said that he was murdered.” Alba’s eyes met Falco’s. He did not look away, his eyes as hard as hematite.

  “Let’s just say that here in the south families have their ways of taking revenge.”

  “You, Falco?” Her voice was a whisper.

  “I slashed his throat like he slashed Valentina’s and I watched him die, choking in his own blood,” he said. The simple act of unburdening his secret expelled the dark shadows from his eyes. “It was a matter of honor.”

  A few days later, Alba broke the news to Cosima. She deliberately took her into town to buy new dresses at the shop owned by the dwarfs, hoping that
the excitement of a few purchases would make up for the disappointment that would follow. Cosima tried them on, twirled around like a dancer, took time to make up her mind as she had the first time Alba had taken her. Because she felt guilty and because she wanted the child to remember her with affection, Alba bought her all five with tights and cardigans to match and a pale blue coat for when it got very cold. Cosima was overwhelmed, but this time she didn’t cry. She thanked her cousin, pressing her small face up to Alba’s to kiss her on her cheek. Alba had to bite back her tears. She hadn’t even left and yet the seams of her heart were already tearing.

  She led Cosima up the path through the rocks to the lookout point where she had first drawn her. It felt like another lifetime. In the space of only a few months, she had lived so many.

  “Shall I give a fashion show tonight?”

  “Definitely. They should see your new autumn collection,” Alba replied, making her voice jolly.

  “You bought me so many,” Cosima said, placing enormous emphasis on the “so.” “Five. They’re so pretty. I love pretty things.”

  “That’s because you’re pretty too. And not only pretty, Cosima, you’re sweet like honey.”

  “We should have brought a picnic. I’m hungry.”

  “It’s all that shopping. Wears you out. Wait till you come to London and then we’ll really hit the shops. When you’re a little bit bigger perhaps.” Cosima nodded, unable to comprehend the idea of London. “Darling, I have something important to tell you.” She coughed. Cosima lifted her clear gaze and smiled expectantly. “I’m going to be leaving soon.” She blinked back tears as her voice cracked.

  Cosima blanched. “Leaving?” she repeated.

  “Yes, Fitz has asked me to marry him.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To England.”

  “Can’t I come with you?”

  Alba drew her into her arms and kissed the top of her head. “I’m afraid not. What would your papa do without you? And nonna? Not to mention nonnina. They’d all be very sad without you.”

  “But I’ll be sad without you,” she said.