Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  ‘Yes.’ Sergio clicked his fingers and the man with the close-set eyes stepped into the light. Sergio spoke to him, then the man handed something to Sergio and went away again. ‘These are drugs to make her sleep,’ Sergio said, handing the small package to Paul. ‘You will have to carry her here. My men will be waiting in the café to help you.’

  Paul stood up, slipping the package into his pocket.

  ‘Here,’ Sergio said, taking a torch from the ledge behind him, ‘I can see by your clothes that you came without one. Taking the torch, Paul cast a final glance at the radiant statue behind him, and left.

  Sergio walked to the mouth of the cave, watching Paul as he hunched himself against the rain and made a careful journey back down the treacherous path. When he had disappeared from view, Sergio turned to the man who had come to stand beside him. ‘You heard?’ he said. ‘It is obliging of him, no, to make things so simple for me? We will, of course, do as he asks, but you, Giovanni, are to be the one to inform the police. You will give the evidence at the trial. Tonight you must not stay at the bottega, you must let your neighbours see you at home, then you must let them see you go for a walk along the mountain path. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Go to the police early in the morning, tell them what you have seen, and then . . .’ Sergio’s eyes narrowed ‘. . . then my brother will have his wish – and I mine.’

  As he turned to Giovanni his brows were raised, as if he was waiting for his companion to answer a question, and reading his mind, Giovanni said, ‘The film is being made on the autostrada today, Marian is at Felitto, alone. You would like for me to go there?’

  Sergio smiled. ‘No, Giovanni, I will go myself.’

  A grey mist was rolling into the hills. It wasn’t yet dark, but with the storm clouds glowering overhead and becoming thicker by the minute, it soon would be. The rain had stopped only moments ago, but it threatened to be a brief interlude, and Marian was surprised that the crew hadn’t returned long before now. Unless, of course, Matthew had decided that the rain would give more atmosphere; if that was the case, they could be down on the autostrada for hours yet.

  She put another log on the fire, then curled back in the chair to continue reading her book. But after a few minutes she put it down, defeated. There was so much going round in her mind that she had read the same page at least half a dozen times, and she still didn’t know what it said.

  She looked at her watch. Madeleine should have been back by now, and come to that, where was Paul? He could hardly write out there in the woods with the weather like this. But Matthew had said he’d seen him go off in the car. Maybe he’d driven into Lucca or Viareggio for something. Her mind turned back to Matthew, and she dropped her head in her hands as she started to think about him – then Stephanie, then Olivia, then Boris, then Sergio Rambaldi and Rubin Meyer, then Madeleine and Paul . . . Round and round and round . . .

  She stood up and walked across the room, then back again. She stopped at the fire, stared down at it for several minutes, then fell back in the chair, wanting to cry and yet unable to. Maybe she should join Frank’s men in the bar, at least then she would have someone to talk to. But she didn’t really feel like talking, she didn’t feel like doing anything except curling up and pretending that when she opened her eyes, everything would be sorted out – that the mystery of Paul and Sergio would be solved, and she and Matthew would be together. She let her head loll back against the chair, then glanced at the window as the rain started again. Big fat drops, dripping from the vines that clung to the walls and forming a puddle on the ledge outside.

  She started as the wind rattled the door, then closed her eyes with a half-laugh at her edginess. Maybe she should have gone with the crew, it might be cold and wet out there, but it would have been better than sitting in a mountain village driving herself crazy.

  She got up again and peered anxiously out of the window. There was no one around, still no sign of the crew returning, nothing but the streaking rain and howling wind. She was about to move away when she saw someone coming up the lane. He wasn’t hurrying as one might expect someone to hurry in such weather; if anything, he seemed to be enjoying the elements. Her heart leapt as, for a moment, she thought it was Matthew, but then, as she recognised the tall, lean figure, her lungs turned to two pockets of ice. She jerked herself back from the window, pressing her body against the wall, her veins flooded with fear. What was he doing here? Who was he looking for? Perhaps it was Bronwen – yes that was it, he had come to see Bronwen.

  She listened for his footsteps, terror crackling over her skin like fire. Then, as his shadow darkened the window, a whimper escaped her lips and she fell to the floor. He knocked, several times, and then, just as she thought he was going away, she heard the latch lift. Her heartbeat exploded in her ears, but as the cold air blew into the room and smoke billowed from the fire, she remained paralysed, lying on the floor in the corner behind the arm of the sofa. She screwed up her eyes and prayed to God that he wouldn’t see her. She heard him walk up the stairs, his footsteps heavy on the ceiling above her. Then he came down again, and after a silence that seemed to drag on for a lifetime, she heard him walk to the door, then the door close behind him.

  Relief surged through her, relaxing the tension in her limbs, but she lay where she was, her eyes still closed, her body as yet too weak to move. Why had he come? What did he want? Oh dear God, please let Matthew come back now. But she wasn’t going to wait, she had to go down there, to the autostrada and find him. She had to get out of this village where the wind was like the mewling cry of a baby and the rain was like the drum of doom.

  Opening her eyes, Marian reached her hand over the arm of the sofa; and then, as she looked up, every muscle in her body screamed with the agony of terror.

  ‘No, oh no, no,’ she whimpered as she fell back against the wall.

  ‘But Marian, what is the matter?’ Sergio said, his exquisite face creased with concern. ‘Why are you so afraid? I am not going to hurt you. Please, let me help you up.’ But when he held his hand out towards her, she flinched and cowered further into the corner.

  ‘Please, leave me alone,’ she wailed.

  ‘I am not going to harm you,’ he repeated. ‘You must not be afraid. I only want to talk with you.’ He smiled, using only his eyes. ‘I need your help, Marian. Now please, come and sit by the fire, you are shaking so.’

  Trying to swallow the bitter bile of panic, she somehow managed to stumble to her feet, and this time when he put a hand under her arm to help her across the room, she let him.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked as he lowered her into the chair.

  ‘I want you to do something for me. It is something very important that will maybe put your name in the history of my country, maybe even in your own.’

  Her eyes rounded like saucers and he chuckled, a warm sonorous sound that seemed to drive out the chill in the room.

  ‘It is a great thing to be in history, no?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded, watching him closely and deciding it would be better to humour him.

  ‘I am glad you think so. But still you are afraid, I can see. How can I convince you that I mean you no harm?’

  Her eyes shot to the door, and he laughed.

  ‘You would like me to go, I know. But I would like for you to come with me, Marian. I would like to take you where my work is, and to show you how it is done. I want that you should record it, so that all the world will know and understand the way Sergio Rambaldi creates his magnificent art. Only you will know, only to you will I tell the story of my life, of my family, of my art. Please say you will come, please say you will do this for me.’

  ‘But, but I can’t,’ Marian stammered. ‘I – I, well, I’m not qualified, I’m not a writer.’

  ‘Ah, but you are. You write the scenes for this film, no? Bronwen, she tell me how very talented you are, that you have a great future ahead of you. That is why I ask you to do this for
me. Please, it is only to ask you to come to my workshop, to listen as I tell you about my life and my methods. I have for you already the pencils and paper you will need. If you prefer I will give you a typewriter. It is up to you, Marian, you must work how best it suits you.’

  She stared at him, unable to think of a word to say. She knew that in his mind he was doing her a great honour by choosing her to write his biography, that the life and work of Sergio Rambaldi was already a mystery and a wonder in Italy, and that to write such a book would change her life. But she didn’t want to do it, she wanted only to get as far from him as possible. Yet she could think of nothing to excuse herself from it – except to tell him that she was mortally terrified of him.

  ‘I am thinking that you are going to refuse me,’ he said. There was no menace in his voice, only sadness, and her confusion deepened as for one earth-shattering moment she thought she might have got it all wrong about him, that he might have been speaking the truth when he said he knew nothing about what had happened to Olivia. As she gazed into his eyes, it was as if he was willing her to understand, willing her to believe him.

  ‘Maybe, if you come to my workshop and see what I do, then if you no like it, if you feel that you do not wish to write the story, then you can leave. Just as you walk in, you can walk out again. I will not make you feel an obligation to me, I want that you do this from choice. All I ask is that you come with me now and allow me to show you some of my work. And as we drive to the workshop I can tell you about myself when I was a child. I can tell you about the Tarallo family . . .’

  ‘You mean Enrico?’

  ‘Sì,’ he nodded, smiling encouragingly. ‘I mean Enrico. He is like my brother. And Sylvestra, she is more dear to me than my own mother.’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew the Tarallos.’

  ‘Why should you? I no longer live with them, my work is in Florence. Enrico’s brother, Arsenio, he was with my workshop before he became ill. It is very tragic about Arsenio, it caused us much grief when he had to go away. But Sylvestra, she knows about my work, she understands, just as Rosaria, Enrico’s wife, once did. She come to the workshop often to see me. So you see there is nothing to be afraid of. I know they are your friends, too.’

  ‘Will they be there? Now, today?’

  He shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but they do not come so often now. Maybe Enrico will bring Madeleine. They are in Florence together, no?’

  ‘Yes,’ Marian said, the tension starting to ebb from her body. Only Enrico could have told Sergio that he and Madeleine were going to Florence, and if the Tarallo family often went to the workshop . . . But there was something not quite right, it was as if a doubt had become trapped somewhere in her mind as though a door had closed upon it before it had quite dispelled itself. If only Sergio would stop looking at her like that, she would be able to see things more clearly. She felt as though she was swaying, as if her head was filling with dreams and her dread of him was . . .

  ‘Come,’ he said, picking up her coat from the sofa. ‘It is cold today, you must keep warm.’

  ‘Your workshop,’ she said, as she slid her arms into the sleeves, ‘is it in Florence?’

  ‘Sì,’ he lied. ‘And we start now by calling it the bottega, which is the Italian word for workshop. I should prefer for it to be called that.’

  ‘The bottega,’ she repeated.

  ‘Sì, la bottega.’ He held up her scarf, but when she made to take it from him, he laughed softly and threw it around her neck himself, pulling it up round her ears, then tucking it into her collar.

  ‘Shall we run to the car?’ he said, as he pulled open the door and they stood facing the storm.

  The cold wind seemed to blow into her veins, as if waking her from a deep sleep. ‘The car?’ she said, confused.

  ‘Sì, we cannot walk to Florence.’

  ‘No,’ she said. Then, looking up at him, she wondered what she was doing, why she felt so apart from herself. Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind she knew she was afraid of him, yet somehow her fear no longer rang true. And Frank’s men were here in the village, once she got into his car they would follow her, so she would be safe.

  Smiling, Sergio took her hand. He closed the door behind them, and asked her if she was ready. Then they ran through the rain, splashing in the puddles and sliding in the mud as they dashed along the footpath to the plateau.

  ‘It is here,’ he said, pulling open the door of a red Volkswagen. ‘It is not my car, I borrow it from Enrico while mine is in the garage.’

  At the mention of Enrico’s name, Marian felt her confidence return, and she slid into the passenger seat.

  ‘So,’ he said, as he reversed the car into the trees, ‘where shall I begin with my story? Of course, when I was born.’ He inched the car slowly round the hairpin bend and kept his foot on the brake as they skirted the edge of an open precipice. ‘I tell you about my mother only, because I never knew my father. I do not even know his name, she never tell me, she never tell anyone.’ And as he continued with the story of his childhood, his growing-up in Galleno with Enrico and Arsenio, Marian sat back in her seat, listening to his rich, melodic tones and smiling at the pictures of the hot, dusty Italian village he conjured up for her.

  After a while, as they were nearing the foot of the mountain, he pulled into the side of the road to let a car pass. Marian wiped her hand across the steamy window and watched the blue Fiat as it flew past. ‘That was Deidre,’ she said, turning to look at him. ‘Madeleine’s agent.’

  ‘She will kill herself, driving at such a speed on an evening like this and on roads such as this,’ he remarked, as he eased the car back onto the road.

  ‘She must be looking for Madeleine,’ Marian mumbled. ‘I wonder what’s so urgent?’

  ‘I cannot say,’ he answered smoothly.

  The little blue Fiat squealed to a halt, skidding in the mud and narrowly missing Christina Hancock’s winnebago. Deidre leapt out, not even bothering to dose the door, and raced up the lane towards Felitto, heading straight for Marian’s cottage. When she knocked there was no answer, but when she tried the door it opened, and she ran inside, screaming Madeleine’s name.

  She ran up the stairs, falling and yelping with pain as she banged her shin on the hard wooden steps. ‘Maddy!’ she yelled. ‘Maddy! Where are you?’ There was no reply.

  She dashed outside again, the rain streaming over the unruly mass of her auburn hair and the wind rushing through her coat, billowing it like a balloon. ‘Have you seen Madeleine?’ she yelled as a man ran towards her.

  ‘No,’ he shouted back. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m her agent. Where’s Marian?’

  ‘Isn’t she in the cottage?’

  ‘No! There’s no one there.’

  The man stared at her as though he didn’t believe her, then suddenly he threw her to one side and ran into the cottage. Even over the howling wind she could hear him swearing, and for a moment she forgot her own panic and watched as he tore up the stairs to check the bedroom.

  ‘Get down to the bar!’ he shouted out to her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do as I say.’ In two strides he was back down the stairs and grabbing her arm, he dragged her through the herb garden, over the flagstones and into the bar.

  The warmth of the fire wrapped itself round her, but she was too dazed to notice. ‘What is it?’ she cried as the man started shouting at a sleeping figure.

  ‘Get up!’ he was yelling. ‘For Christ’s sake, she’s gone!’

  ‘What? What!’ the other man said, sitting bolt upright. ‘Who’s she?’ he said, looking at Deidre.

  ‘The cousin’s agent.’

  ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ the first man echoed, turning to Deidre.

  ‘I’m looking for Madeleine. She’s . . .’ She stopped as the door crashed open and Woody all but fell in.

  ‘Fuck me, it’s bloody cold out there,’ he cried. ‘Tell Manfredo to get th
e grog ready, the unit’s on its way back and we’re all in dire need of it. What’s going on? Why are you all staring at me?’

  ‘Where’s Matthew?’ barked the man who was standing up.

  ‘Here I am,’ Matthew answered, as he came in through the door. ‘Phew! Am I glad to get out of that.’ Then he suddenly fell back against the wall as Deidre charged past him and out into the rain.

  ‘What is it?’ he said, his eyes darkening with alarm as he turned to look at the two men.

  ‘She’s looking for Madeleine,’ one of them told him.

  ‘Madeleine? Why? And why is she in such a panic?’ But before either of them could answer, he turned and followed Deidre out of the door.

  ‘Wait!’ he shouted, as she plunged her way down the lane. ‘Deidre! Come back!’

  He ran after her, closing the gap between them in no time at all, but as he caught her she tore herself from his grasp and stumbled on to her car. ‘For God’s sake!’ he yelled. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘I can’t tell you, it’ll take too long. But I’ve got to find Madeleine.’

  The rain was coming down in torrents now, but she pressed on, battling against the wind, trying to reach her car.

  ‘You’re going to tell me,’ Matthew said, catching her and spinning her round again. ‘What is all this? Has it got something to do with Paul?’

  ‘Yes!’ she cried, as if suddenly realising it herself. ‘Yes, it’s got everything to do with him. Where is he? Have you seen him?’

  ‘No. We haven’t been here this afternoon. Maybe Marian’s seen him. Now, why don’t you calm down and come . . .’

  ‘Marian’s not there.’

  His face turned suddenly pale, and his grip on her wrists tightened so painfully that she squealed as she tried to twist herself free. ‘What do you mean, Marian’s not there?’ he growled, closing his fingers even harder so that the blood was trapped in her veins.

  ‘She’s not there!’ Deidre screamed. ‘I’ve been there. They’re looking for her, those men back at the bar.’