Secrets in Sicily

by Penny Feeny

  She was sitting at the table, with her face in her hands, when Nicolo strolled in. He had an air of authority, of trustworthiness. You knew this was a person who would not let you down. She loved the way his eyes lit up behind his glasses whenever he saw her, as if – even after six years – she was an undiscovered treasure. He came over to massage her shoulders and drop a kiss on her head.

  ‘You look tired. Was it a tough day?’

  ‘No, it was fine. Really. I went to see Eva about the dress. We’ve picked the fabric and the design but I can’t tell you anything about it.’

  ‘I’m guessing this is one of your superstitions?’

  ‘Yes! It’s bad luck for the groom to see the outfit in advance because then you won’t be dazzled when I appear in it.’

  ‘I’m always dazzled by you, amore.’

  ‘Ouf, you’re flattering me because you’re hungry. I was waiting for you to get in before I started cooking. Luca’s with Nonna, she’ll bring him back later.’

  ‘I’m on call,’ he said. ‘So I’d better stoke up on caffeine. It could be a long night.’

  He crossed to the kitchen counter. All his movements were deft and measured; he was meticulous. She remained at the table, watching as he filled the basket of the espresso pot and put it on the stove. He set the cup on its saucer, counted out the spoons of sugar. When the coffee was ready he took it through to the living room where she could hear him changing the TV channels with his latest toy, a remote control that let you pick what you wanted to watch without moving from your chair. To Carlotta, who’d grown up without a television, this was magic indeed.

  He hadn’t noticed the letter. Forcing herself to rise, she put it in a drawer where she kept recipes and calling cards and random telephone numbers. Mechanically, she began to prepare their meal, rinsing the spinach and dipping the escalopes into breadcrumbs. Her life had transformed that day in Villa Sciarra when she’d made her promise to Eva. Fate had granted her the chance to parent a child and she was superstitious enough not to jeopardise it. But this was a new dilemma.

  She couldn’t decide which was more damaging: the fact that her daughter might still be alive or her own lack of candour. She loved Luca as she loved his father; she was trusted by them both and couldn’t bear them to feel betrayed. Nicolo was aware of her tragic losses, of course. He knew how painful the subject was for her so they rarely mentioned it. But if she didn’t know how he would react to this information – would he be shocked? Appalled? Incredulous? – should she be marrying him in the first place? She laid down the meat and bent over the sink, to combat a wave of nausea.

  The voices in the sitting room stopped abruptly as Nicolo switched off the TV set. She heard the squeak of his soles on the tiled floor as he re-entered the kitchen and came to stand close behind her. If she leaned backwards she could topple into his arms. Explain the whole situation. It would be all right. He’d have a thousand questions but she would answer them with total honesty; their family unit would not be affected. She turned, quickly, before she could change her mind.

  ‘Listen, amore,’ she began.

  ‘What is it?’

  She pressed herself against his chest and felt a curious vibration thudding against her own. It wasn’t his heart.

  ‘Managgia la miseria!’ he exclaimed. ‘Not even time for a bite.’ He pulled his pager from his pocket and kissed her cheek regretfully. Carlotta’s news would have to wait.

  25

  Lily didn’t know the date of her birthday, although this hadn’t troubled her in the past. In the past she’d happily celebrated fourteenth April, elected for her by the nuns. The year she came to them it was Easter Day and therefore a good omen. But ever since that awful night in the Whispering Pines, when her world had fallen apart, their choice seemed more like a cruel deception. How old was she really? Might Carlotta Galetti be the only person who knew for sure? Jess insisted there was still a question mark over Carlotta.

  It was Toby who’d told her about the breakthrough in DNA testing, in 1986, the year she became nineteen. Her parents had denied their separation for ages, but by then it was obvious and Jess would join Toby for the summer holidays. Harry often stayed with Alex in London, but Lily found the city constraining. She preferred to work outdoors and enrolled on a series of horticultural courses – Alex called her a creature of the soil because she could never get the dirt out of her fingernails.

  Her visits to Cambridge were brief because Toby’s place was too intimate for comfort, a two-person dolls’ house. She’d known him forever and he seemed to make her mother happy but she couldn’t help finding the situation weird. She couldn’t understand why they dipped in and out of each other’s lives in this intermittent way. If they ever lived together permanently she hoped they’d get somewhere bigger so she wouldn’t feel such a gooseberry; on the other hand, she was convinced that as a pair they didn’t quite fit. When Alex and Jess had been together, they had glided in harmony, moving to the same rhythm, whereas Jess was too tall for Toby and they were always slightly out of step.

  It was a late summer’s day, muggy and torpid. Jess was making something called damson cheese, although cheese had nothing to do with it. It was actually a thick jam. Jess was stooping over the preserving pan in the dolls’ house kitchen, her face flushed from the rising steam, sifting out the damson stones with a slotted spoon. It was a painstaking task because there were a lot of stones. Toby suggested they got out of Jess’s hair and went for a walk. Lily glanced at her mother, who said, ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. Get some fresh air and I’ll be all done by the time you come back.’

  They crossed Midsummer Common and headed down to the river. They turned away from the town and followed the towpath through the water meadows. The boathouses were shut up, the barges moored to the bank squatted like sluggish black beetles, clouds of midges hovered between the trees, the willow leaves drooped. They talked a little about the flora and fauna they passed – Lily was much better at identifying wild flowers than Toby – but she couldn’t have guessed where the conversation was leading.

  Then Toby said, ‘How much do you know about genetics?’

  Lily shrugged. She had two hard-won A-levels in Geography and Art. Academic study wasn’t her strong point. ‘Not much.’

  ‘But you’ve been looking at plant breeding, haven’t you? And you must be aware of the characteristics children can inherit from their parents.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Fair, slender Harry was clearly Jess and Alex’s son; Lily didn’t resemble them in the least but she’d got used to that ages ago.

  ‘Have you ever heard of DNA?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘It stands for deoxyribonucleic acid,’ said Toby. ‘But I’m not going to go all technical on you. It’s a code we carry in our genes, which passes on the instructions that influence our development and makes each of us unique.’

  She stared at him. She presumed he couldn’t help sounding like a lecturer even on a Saturday afternoon stroll.

  Unperturbed, he held her gaze. ‘Everyone has individual fingerprints, right? Well, when you break down the structure of a cell to get at the DNA, that gives you another kind of fingerprint. I thought you might have read about it in the papers. It’s been used in immigration cases, to prove family membership. And it’s beginning to be used by forensics to identify criminals. A murderer, for example, will often leave behind evidence such as blood or saliva or semen. Bodily fluids. And even if he can’t be caught, then at least other suspects can be eliminated.’ He paused; she waited. ‘There may yet be further advances, when DNA can be extracted from hair or teeth or bones. The possibilities could be limitless!’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ As she spoke, she stubbed her toe on a loose stone on the path and stumbled. He kicked the stone into the river and they both stopped to watch the ripples spread.

  He said mildly, ‘I thought you might like to draw your own conclusions.’

  ‘My own conclusions?’

>   ‘There’s a lot of guesswork in my research,’ he said. ‘Opinion and hypothesis is all we can come up with most of the time. But in your case, Lily, you can kiss the guesswork goodbye. If you wanted to, you could find out who you are.’

  ‘How?’ she demanded. ‘How would I do that?’

  ‘Well, the process is a bit cumbersome so you’d need to be patient. But basically you, and any possible relative, would both provide blood samples to a lab to see if they matched.’

  ‘And if they matched, there’d be no doubt?’

  ‘No doubt at all.’

  Lily started walking again, briskly, with her head down, her mind churning. She could hardly ignore this discovery, but it was a mixed blessing. ‘When you say “possible relative” do you really mean mother?’

  Toby kept pace. ‘I suppose so, yes. That is, if you know how to get in touch with her. Do you?’

  ‘Carlotta? Yeah, Alex gave me her address in Rome last year when I was eighteen. I thought I might ask when I’d really been born.’

  (Jess had pointed out that she couldn’t change the date because it was on her adoption certificate and her passport, which were legally valid documents, but Harry suggested she could have two birthdays: one of her own and one official. If it was good enough for the Queen of England, it ought to be good enough for Lily McKenzie.)

  ‘Did you write to her?’

  ‘It seemed a weird thing to put in a letter… so, no.’

  ‘Well, it’s a tricky subject. It needs a sensitive approach. I don’t suppose it’ll be simple to ask for a blood test in writing either.’

  ‘Does Jess know you’re telling me this?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why she packed us off. She thought it would be easier for you to hear it from me. She was worried about being able to explain the science properly – not that I’ve done that – but mainly, she didn’t want to inhibit your reactions. In case you felt obliged to protect her feelings.’

  ‘Reactions, like what?’

  He gave her a rueful grin. ‘Oh, I don’t know… Like jumping for joy?’

  *

  Lily hadn’t jumped for joy, but she’d tucked the information away for future reference. Over the next eighteen months she went to libraries and consulted the back editions of newspapers, looking for stories where DNA sampling had proved indispensable, but she made no move to contact Carlotta. Then came the chance to go on the garden design tour and suddenly her attitude changed.

  The prospect of visiting Italy again drove her to a pitch of excitement. She bought language tapes and listened to them morning and night on the tape recorder, practising her pronunciation. She bought records of Italian songs to sing along to. Childhood memories, buried deep, began to surface. Vocabulary used for beach games in Roccamare wouldn’t be much use in the gardens of Lombardy, Tuscany and Lazio, but the rhythm and the cadences of the language came back to her. She would be returning to her homeland and she wanted to sound like a native.

  It had taken several drafts to compose her letter – she didn’t want it to sound either too eager or too impersonal – so it was a major setback to receive no reply. Perhaps her message had been too subtle? But really, how could Carlotta have misunderstood? Lily was coming to Rome; Carlotta had sought her out in the past so why would they not meet now? Once the student group had flown from Gatwick there was nothing more she could do, but she kept alive a glimmer of hope. Jess and Harry knew the phone numbers of the pensiones she’d be staying in and promised to ring her if any post arrived. By the time she reached Villa d’Este, at the end of their itinerary, she’d reconciled herself to the silence. She would have to take matters into her own hands.

  All the classical gardens they’d visited had been magnificent, but the fountains and springs of Villa d’Este were another experience altogether. Lily stood at the lowest point of the site, watching the water cascade from one pool to the next, shimmering the air with crystal. She stood in full sun, with a bandana tied around her head so sweat wouldn’t get in her eyes, absorbing the power and beauty of the spectacle. She should have been sketching or taking pictures with her pocket Canon or, at the very least, taking notes and working out how you could apply this drama to a garden on a smaller scale. Instead she was mesmerised. The grace and the extravagance of the statuary, the hundred lions’ heads spouting into mossy green basins, the playing of the magical organ fountain, the burble and splash of the endlessly flowing water enthralled her.

  ‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ The group’s tutor, known by his students as Call-me-Howard, arrived at her side. ‘Unique in Europe.’

  ‘I want to drink it in,’ said Lily. ‘I don’t think I’d be able to capture it in a photograph.’

  ‘You can never over-estimate the effect of water in a landscape,’ said Call-me-Howard. ‘The Japanese are masters at using it to create a calm contemplative atmosphere – and I’m sorry that Japan was out of our league, budget-wise, more’s the pity – but you know what I mean?’

  Minimalist Japanese design was very fashionable because most of the effort went into the initial composition and structure and high maintenance wasn’t required. Clients liked this. The notion that Lily might one day have ‘clients’ of her own gave her goose pimples.

  He went on, ‘Whereas the Renaissance princes, or the Cardinal in this case, wanted to show off. It’s operatic in a way, isn’t it, indulging in all that superb melodrama the Italians love so much?’

  Operatic perfectly described the display in front of them, the fountains swelling and sighing in a cycle of crescendo and diminuendo. ‘Actually,’ said Lily, rapt and enchanted by this showmanship, ‘I’m Italian myself.’

  ‘You are? Fancy that!’ He called out to the only other group member who was in earshot. ‘Louise! Did you know that our young friend here is a local?’

  Louise was a mature student, closer to Howard’s age than Lily’s. She smiled kindly and said, ‘That explains why you’ve tanned so well.’

  Lily said, ‘I’m not local exactly…’ It had slipped out because she was proud to associate with something so splendid. ‘I was born in Sicily but I grew up in England.’

  She expected they would gang up and press her for details, but the information wasn’t nearly as significant to them as to herself. Louise resumed her sketching and Call-me-Howard pulled his panama hat low over his brow. He was suffering from a hangover. They had arrived in Tivoli the previous evening and celebrated their final stop with too much Frascati. However, he did ask: ‘Is that why you wanted to stay on?’

  They were scheduled to spend the night in Rome and fly from Fiumicino the following evening. Lily had already asked if she could defer her flight a couple of days, because it seemed a shame to get as far as Rome and not see any of it. Call-me-Howard had explained that it was a group booking and couldn’t be amended.

  Now she said, ‘Yes, in a way.’

  ‘So it wasn’t because you wanted to go sightseeing?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve been trying to meet up with a family friend, but I’m having trouble making contact.’

  ‘You think you’ll have success tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t know… But couldn’t we say I’ll make my own way to the airport? And if I don’t get there for check-in you’re not to worry about me?’

  He looked at her doubtfully. His eyes were bloodshot. ‘You’re an adult, Lily McKenzie, I’m not in charge of you and there’s nothing to stop you buying another ticket home if you choose to. But I do think you should let me know your plans sooner than an hour before take-off.’

  ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘It’s not going to make any difference to the rest of you. I don’t expect you to wait for me so I won’t make you late.’

  ‘You know we’ve booked a transfer leaving from the hotel at 3.30? You won’t have long with this friend.’

  ‘I could get a taxi,’ she said recklessly. ‘Anyway, if I can’t find her there’s no reason I wouldn’t join you in good time.’

  ‘Five p.m. tomorrow at Fiumic
ino,’ he said. ‘And not a minute later.’

  ‘Understood. Thank you, Howard.’

  *

  Their Roman hotel was near the station. The group breakfasted together and ambled over to Villa Borghese for the morning. Lily went along with them for a while and then sneaked off. She descended from the Pincio to Trinità dei Monti and the Spanish Steps. She was aiming for the address she had written to, and she’d worked out how to get there on foot. She’d done a lot of walking in the past ten days; she was used to it.

  She crossed via del Corso and entered a patchwork of streets barely the width of a Cinquecento. The area was busy with tourists but the buildings were run-down and shabby, pockmarked with graffiti and fly posters and missing clumps of stucco. The summer sun was at its most relentless so she kept to the shade. She followed her map, twisting and turning until she reached a road wide enough to have a pavement. Here was a tobacconist with a revolving stand of postcards, a barber’s, a shop selling religious artefacts, rosaries and sacred hearts, and another offering a motley assortment of luggage and hats, walking sticks and umbrellas, wallets and wicker baskets. Further along was a scarred double door and a row of bell-pushes with a name beside each.

  She studied the handwritten names. Apartment number four, which should have been Carlotta’s, announced GORDONE, A. in capitals. It didn’t stop her pressing the bell, but there was no answer. Why hadn’t she thought of this? If Carlotta had moved house, it would explain why she hadn’t responded to her letter. It wasn’t because she didn’t want to meet her!

  Lily felt re-energised. It would be silly to come so far and not make an effort to track Carlotta down, even if she wasn’t expected. Hadn’t Alex also mentioned that the apartment was close to her workplace? She barely hesitated before entering the shop with luggage piled in the window. She said in her best Italian, ‘Excuse me, do you sell handbags?’ The man behind the counter tried to interest her in a satchel, but Lily shook her head. ‘Bags for women,’ she said. ‘Is there another shop around here that sells leather goods?’