by Penny Feeny
‘It’s a long drive right enough,’ said Alex. ‘And there’ll be a lot of hanging around one way and another… If they can stay here with you and Dolly, I reckon they’d prefer that.’
‘No problem,’ said Gerald, glad to be relieved of the chauffeuring.
‘They mustn’t go to the beach by themselves,’ said Jess.
‘Of course not. I’ll take them over to Turi’s and they can have a ride on his donkey. Bit of a treat.’
‘That’s very good of you, thanks.’ Jess moved her chair closer to Alex’s, for the security of his touch. He put his arm around her and she rested her head on his shoulder.
‘It will be fine,’ he said. ‘Don’t fret, Jessa-mine, this isn’t like you.’
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Sorry, darling.’ The nearest candle guttered out and in the sudden gloom she raised her head and kissed him full on the mouth, without inhibition, because Gerald wouldn’t care anyway and she wanted to quash the turmoil in her brain.
*
Although Toby’s a flight didn’t arrive until the afternoon, they planned an early start and for the first time they set the alarm clock. Gerald was still sleeping, they could hear the snores from his bedroom. Dolly, up and active as usual, looked surprised to see them both dressed and ready to go. ‘We’re fetching Toby from the airport,’ Alex explained.
Harry was spreading hunk of bread lavishly with strawberry jam. ‘Can we come?’ he asked, an automatic reflex.
‘We thought you might get bored. Gerald has offered to take you for a donkey ride instead.’
‘Okay,’ said Harry, sticking the knife in his mouth and licking the jam off it.
Alex murmured to Dolly, ‘But don’t let the man drive if he’s not up to it.’
‘You know I will keep them safe!’ she protested.
Jess felt the need to elaborate. ‘And I’m going to be taking photos of mosaics and icons and so on, to get inspiration for patterns. You wouldn’t want to be inside a musty old church on a day like this.’
‘Dolly says we can help her candy the almonds,’ said Lily.
On a tray at the far end of the table lay a pile of shelled almonds, milky white because their skins had been rubbed off. ‘Hey,’ said Jess, ‘that sounds great. Be careful though because caramel gets terribly hot. You don’t want to burn yourself. And, Harry, put that knife down!’
‘Well, you’ve got the wind up for sure,’ observed Alex as they puttered away in the car.
‘Yeah, I know. I’ve visions of Lily falling into a vat of molten sugar and Gerald driving them all into a ditch. And of us not getting home till tomorrow because of Toby’s plane landing hours late…’
‘And?’
‘And of the woman we’re going to see, if she exists and it isn’t all a wild goose chase, telling us: “Yes, my poor deceased brother’s wife now lives in Rome and yes, she is also called Carlotta. And yes, she is a manipulative piece of work who’s doubtless trying to blackmail you.”’
‘That’s my girl!’ said Alex. ‘Keep your expectations low.’
‘That wouldn’t even be the worst thing! She’s no grounds for blackmail, has she? It’s not like we stole Lily. No, what would be worse is if she demands her back.’
‘That can’t happen, Jess. We’ve done everything legally. Lily is ours and no one can take her away.’
‘But there’s a moral dimension to this, isn’t there? I mean, whether or not a child should be with their biological parent.’
‘The evidence of biology,’ he said, ‘is purely circumstantial. We’re not obliged to follow up any contact with the Galetti family. Poor Carlotta suffered a traumatic loss. It’s not surprising she’s clutching at straws.’
‘We should have ignored her. You shouldn’t have agreed to meet her.’
‘What about when she turned up at Ferragosto? It was you who talked to her then.’
‘She buttonholed me! I didn’t have much choice.’
She could see he was struggling, as she was, to keep his equilibrium. ‘It won’t matter what we hear if we can get answers. Sort the facts from the fiction. It’s the not knowing that’s the problem.’
‘I wish I could believe that.’ She wound down her window, rested her elbow on the ledge, and tried to settle into the rhythm of the journey as warm air streamed past.
An hour and a half later they reached the outskirts of Palermo. The city’s current reputation was unsavoury. Gerald told stories of men being gunned down in the streets and macabre funeral processions: black horses decked with plumes of black feathers pulling a gilded hearse, menacing phalanxes of mourners, every house along the route shuttered as a mark of respect. But Jess and Alex had visited before and they found Palermo exciting. They loved its anarchy and exuberance, the vibrant street markets, the legacy of fine palaces and fountains and rococo churches. And the setting, between soaring mountains and sparkling sea, was spectacular.
Today, however, all these glories passed them by. And after the quiet country roads the traffic mayhem was like an assault. Cars, lorries and scooters shot across each other’s paths, horns blaring, exhausts pumping fumes. Drivers slowed to a crawl to hail friends or stopped randomly as if unaware they were causing an obstruction. Obeying traffic lights was voluntary. Pedestrians took their lives in their hands. A truck careered alongside, almost scraping their bumper, forcing them to change lanes. Alex gripped the steering wheel and Jess rotated the map to work out where they were going.
‘Turn left,’ she said.
‘Here? Are you sure?’
‘And then right.’
‘But it’s a one-way street.’
‘That Fiat’s turning into it.’
Alex stamped on the brake. ‘Let me have a look.’
They had marked their destination on the map with a cross but they couldn’t take into account the one-way system. Or the no-through roads. Or the blind alleys that ended abruptly at the top of a flight of steps. Reversing was difficult, turning round even more so. Swearing got them nowhere. When they finally escaped the warren of picturesque streets that had trapped them, they abandoned the car on a piece of waste ground. Alex gave a pair of young boys a few hundred lire to keep an eye on it – though they were less worried about its fate than whether they’d be able to find it again. Progress was better on foot, though Jess could feel the sweat running down her spine, and not just from the merciless heat. Alex, with the map in his fist, had taken over the navigation. ‘Nearly there,’ he said.
The apartment block they sought was large, bland, anonymous, decorated with daubs of graffiti. It reared up from the pavement, casting a shadow across the street. They passed through an archway into a courtyard. Laundry fluttered above their heads. Set out in the sunshine were gaudily painted tins, once containing olive oil and now planted with geraniums. From the gloomier corners came a smell of mould and rotting vegetation. Each side of the courtyard had external staircases leading to the upper floors. Alex checked the address they’d been given and tried to work out the numbering, which was not, they discovered after several false ascents and descents, the least bit logical.
When they eventually identified apartment number 32 there was no reply. Jess wasn’t surprised. It seemed altogether too much to expect an actual person to exist at the end of their search. ‘We’ve no way of knowing if it’s the right address,’ she said. ‘She was a bit mad, wasn’t she, Agnese? And you admitted you didn’t understand everything she was saying. I don’t know why Dolly didn’t offer to come along to help translate. I can’t see her here, can you?’
‘Who, Agnese or Dolly?’
‘Neither! Carlotta. She’s too…’
‘Elegant? Pretty?’
‘Oh, do you think she’s pretty?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. Gorgeous. That’s why… I don’t believe she lives in an ordinary place like this.’
He rang the doorbell again and knocked loudly. ‘She once lived in cramped quarters above a bakery in a small farming tow
n.’
‘If what she says is true.’
Voices floated through the courtyard. Two women with plastic bags full of shopping entered beneath the arch. One turned to scold a child who was lagging behind. The other called up to a high window and a wicker basket was lowered to the ground on a piece of string. Jess was watching the basket being filled with a lettuce, two onions, a lemon, half a loaf of coarse bread when, behind her, she heard a door open. It wasn’t their door, no 32, but the one adjacent.
A woman in an overall and slippers peered out. ‘Sono andati via,’ she said.
‘In vacanze?’ said Alex.
The woman was distracted by the basket of food swaying and bumping on the opposite side of the building as it was hauled to the top floor. Then, as if the high spot of her day was over, she nodded and confirmed that her next-door neighbours were Carlotta, a nurse, and her husband, Guido Roselli, who worked on the railways. A very good job with many perks if you liked to travel. And yes, this was August, was it not? They were on holiday.
Jess said, ‘Ask her where they’ve gone.’
‘Vacanze in Sicilia?’ he said. ‘Al mare?’
‘Potrebbe.’ Possibly they could have gone to the seaside. It was where most people went. She had a faintly exhausted air, as if she could do with a break herself, and from the depths of her apartment Jess caught the wail of a baby.
‘Ask her if they have any children.’
But Alex went one better. He took his wallet from his pocket and a Polaroid photograph from the wallet. After muttering, ‘God, this is ridiculous, I feel like I’m a fucking PI,’ he said, ‘Questa donna, lei cognosce?’
The woman took the photograph and examined it. Then she stepped forward into the light and examined them, as if it had suddenly occurred to her that this was an unusual situation: two foreigners enquiring about her neighbour for no apparent reason. ‘Perchè?’ she said.
Alex tried to explain they were looking, for personal reasons, for a woman known as Carlotta Galetti, and they had been given this address.
The woman, now suspicious if not actively hostile, said, ‘Si chiama Carlotta Roselli.’
‘Her married name, yes,’ said Alex. ‘But before, la sua cognome era Galetti, no?’
She returned the photograph with a shake of her head. ‘Non è questa,’ she said and shut the door.
‘So that’s all we get,’ said Jess. Disappointment weighed her down, her shoulders sagged in defeat.
‘It’s not bad news,’ he said. ‘We’ve learned something.’
‘Carlotta Galetti doesn’t live here?’
‘Aye.’
‘How is that not bad news? If it means she isn’t the baker’s sister, after all?’
‘It’s early days,’ he said. ‘I’m more used to following up stories than you are. You can’t – are you listening to me, Jess? – You can’t jump to conclusions. Not yet.’
‘I didn’t even want to come in the first place. This was your idea!’
She was trembling. They shouldn’t quarrel. They never quarrelled. He took her hand and led her down the stairs. They crossed the courtyard, and retraced their steps until they came to a shabby bar at the corner of a piazza. He ordered two bottles of cheap fizzy Birra Messina. Neither of them felt like eating. ‘Let’s forget it,’ he said. ‘Why would we want to open a can of worms? All we have to do is stay out of the woman’s way. We’re going home at the end of the week. We can put it behind us.’
‘I’m not being a wimp,’ said Jess.
‘I didn’t say you were.’
‘And I understand your curiosity.’
‘Well, it’s a bit more than curiosity.’
‘I know…’ She’d always been proud of the fact that their views were so much in tune, but perhaps she’d lazily followed his lead because she’d had no reason to disagree until now. Until his instinct to uncover the facts and hers to preserve their family unit were at loggerheads.
Alex said lightly, ‘Drink up. Or we’ll be late for Toby.’
It was a relief to have something else to focus on, even if it did mean negotiating more pandemonium getting to the motorway and the airport. And waiting longer than necessary at the arrivals gate because, although Toby’s plane had landed on time, there was a delay at the baggage carousel. He emerged at last, looking endearingly familiar to them and quite different from everyone around him – Toby’s perpetual dishevelment made even Alex’s frayed jeans and limp tee shirt appear to be worn with casual grace.
‘How good of you to come!’ he said, hugging them in turn. ‘Hope it wasn’t too much of an ordeal.’
‘An ordeal?’ Jess grimaced.
‘Gerald throwing a wobbler, was he?’
‘We’ll fill you in later,’ said Alex, picking up one of Toby’s bags.
‘Nothing to do with the news, then?’
‘What news?’
‘It was all anyone was talking about on the plane. And whether to believe it. Elvis is dead.’
‘Elvis!’
‘Happened last night, though it was still afternoon for him. Found on the bog floor. Overdose of some kind, apparently. What a way to go.’
‘It passed us by,’ said Alex. ‘We’ve been a mite preoccupied.’
‘Oh, Lord,’ said Jess. ‘How awful.’ Elvis Presley had been the idol of her teenage years, until the Beatles replaced him, much to the incomprehension of her parents. His importance had long since faded so, although the details were shocking, she listened to them with detachment rather than distress. It wasn’t until afterwards, and for other reasons, that the date she learned of his death was drilled into her memory.
10
Lily dragged a chair over to the stove so she could watch the sugar melt and the caramel crackle. When Dolly judged the stage was right (by sniffing and scrutinising) she tipped in her pile of shelled almonds. Harry wanted to join in so he and Lily took turns to stand on the chair and stir the mixture. They had to change places quickly, to keep the almonds moving so they wouldn’t catch and burn. Lily was in charge when the caramel changed consistency and the almonds, instead of being a gloopy mass, took on their individual candy coats. ‘They’re ready!’ she called.
Dolly switched off the flame and because the pan was too heavy for Lily she lifted it by both handles and emptied it onto the tray on the table, spreading the nuts in a single layer with her spoon. The result was very satisfactory, Lily thought. Harry reached out to try one and Dolly slapped his hand away. ‘Fa caldo!’ she warned. ‘It’s too hot. You must wait.’
‘It won’t be long, will it?’ he said hopefully.
But Dolly flapped her apron at him and said, ‘Pazienza! Your tongue will burn.’
Since the entire process had taken little over half an hour, the rest of the day stretched vacantly ahead. They weren’t allowed to go to the beach without their parents and Gerald was yet to rouse himself – they knew better than to disturb him. Dolly’s next preserving job (Ferragosto signified the start of the harvest) was podding the dried beans but this wasn’t as much fun as candying. The children wandered outside: spotting and chasing lizards was a favourite game of Harry’s. Once, he’d managed to catch one; as he’d held his prize gloatingly between finger and thumb its tail had dropped off. He’d thrown the body away in disgust. ‘I don’t want half a lizard!’ he’d shrieked. Then Gerald had explained it was a defence mechanism and the lizard could grow another tail. Harry had been trying to repeat his capture ever since.
They were spared from boredom by the jangle of a bicycle bell. They couldn’t see over the wall but moments later, barefoot and bare-chested, wearing a pair of yellow shorts, Marcello freewheeled through the open gate and bumped down the drive. He didn’t alight. He veered past them into the orchard and wove a route through the trees. At one point he put his feet on the handlebars. On another circuit he heaved the front wheel upwards to jump over an irrigation channel, whooping as he cleared it.
‘I want to have a go,’ said Harry. At home, he had recentl
y learned to ride a bike, just as he’d recently learned to swim. But the bikes at Villa Ercole were cumbersome and he had difficulty reaching the pedals, though Lily could cope well enough. She hoisted herself into the saddle and pursued Marcello, pretending they were cowboys and Indians riding on horseback.
Dolly came to the door to see why they were making so much noise and rolled her eyes.
‘I need something to ride too!’ Harry pleaded.
Dolly held out her broomstick and laughed at the disgust on his face.
‘Have you got any other bikes at your house?’ Lily asked Marcello.
‘There’s my old one,’ he said. ‘That I’ve grown out of. Harry can borrow, if he wants.’
‘Can we go and collect it?’ Lily asked Dolly. ‘Please!’
‘How will you get there?’
‘On this bike. Harry can sit on the seat and I’ll stand on the pedals.’
Dolly considered the rusty handlebars and worn saddle. ‘Is not safe.’
‘We’re only going to Marcello’s. It isn’t far.’ Besides, lots of children rode that way in Roccamare. And plenty of teenagers crowded onto scooters. They knew three at a time was against the law but it didn’t stop them doing it.
Harry said, with simple logic, ‘And we need to go with him to fetch another bike because he can’t ride two by himself.’
‘Mamma will give us lunch,’ said Marcello.
‘Va bene. But you must be good or you know what I’ll do to you!’ She made jabbing motions with her broom as Harry clambered behind Lily and the trio set off down the track.
It was hard work pedalling with the weight of another person on board. Marcello shot ahead and Lily couldn’t keep up. The track was bumpy and stony, sending jolts up her legs and spine. It will get easier when we go downhill, she thought, but to her surprise it seemed to get harder.
When they reached the tarmac road Marcello was waiting for them. ‘If he’s too heavy for you,’ he said to Lily, ‘I’ll take him.’
