by Irma Joubert
She gave a slight smile and sat down beside him, facing Klara and Boelie.
“Thanks,” he said gallantly, his eyes twinkling.
“My pleasure entirely,” she answered, matching his tone.
Antonio began to tell them about the Shroud of Turin—according to legend, the cloth the body of Christ was buried in.
Lettie became aware of De Wet’s arm sliding behind her back.
She sat motionless.
“. . . preserved in the cathedral of St. John the Baptist,” she heard Antonio say.
“Sounds very Catholic to me,” Boelie said.
“Is there any evidence that the shroud is authentic?” De Wet asked, resting his hand on her shoulder.
She gave a quick sidelong glance at the others. She didn’t want them to notice, especially Boelie, who could be merciless.
“Last year a group of American scientists examined the shroud . . .”
She tried to move away.
“. . . but they could find no evidence of fraud and called it a mystery,” Antonio said.
De Wet’s grip on her shoulder tightened.
“A mystery? That’s not very scientific,” De Wet said, taking part all too innocently in the conversation.
“No, definitely not,” Antonio said. “There are many varying opinions about the shroud.”
“Relax,” De Wet said very softly, close to her ear.
“Will we be able to see it?” Boelie asked.
She leaned back slightly in an effort to relax.
“No, the shroud is only on display to the public every twenty-five years,” Antonio answered.
“That’s better,” De Wet said softly.
“What’s better?” Pérsomi asked, frowning slightly.
“That they take such good care of the shroud nowadays,” De Wet answered calmly.
“Oh,” Pérsomi said, looking confused.
“Now, what are we going to be seeing in Turin besides churches?” Boelie asked, rubbing his hands together.
“Well, there’s a lot to see, but I’d like to show you the university where my brothers and I studied,” Antonio said tentatively. “But if you’d rather . . .”
“No, let’s go see your university,” De Wet said immediately. “The rest of us all went to the same university in South Africa. It would be interesting to visit yours.”
Lettie turned to him. “Wait a minute! I went to Wits, not Tukkies!” she protested.
“Philistine!” Boelie said.
Seldom had a hundred miles passed so quickly.
Lorenzo came to meet them at the station. They would be staying with him and Gina.
Lettie was shocked when she saw him. He looked even more like Marco than Antonio did. Something about his manner also reminded her of Marco—the smile that plucked at the corners of his mouth before it turned into a proper smile, the way he tilted his head when she was introduced to him.
It felt very strange.
But his eyes were completely different from Marco’s eyes.
“Aletta!” he said, opening his arms wide. “At last I meet Marco’s Aletta. Welcome, welcome!” He kissed both her cheeks.
Marco’s Aletta? That felt strange too.
Lorenzo kept up a lively conversation in fluent English while they walked to his car. Lettie walked behind him, noticing he was not as thin as Marco was, and his walk was completely different, a bit ungainly on the wooden leg. He had arranged for one of his colleagues to come to the station as well. Lettie, Klara, and Antonio drove with Lorenzo while the rest got into the other vehicle.
They drove through the city and up a hill, where castle-like houses clung to the hillside. “Lorenzo has a very grand home. His wife is also very grand,” Klara warned the two of them.
Lettie laughed softly. “Thanks for the warning. Shall I put on some lipstick?”
“Definitely,” Klara said.
On their arrival, Gina took the ladies on a tour of the house and garden. She struggled with English, so she kept switching to Italian, which Klara had to interpret. “Luncheon will soon be served,” Klara said, her eyes dancing with mirth, “then we’ll take a nap, and at four coffee will be served. But if you two would like to do something else . . .”
“Sounds right to me,” Pérsomi said at once. “I think I’ll take my nap at the pool.”
The men had disappeared and did not join them for lunch.
At around half past three Lettie went outside to find Pérsomi basking in the sun. “Careful you don’t burn,” she warned.
“The sun is my friend,” Pérsomi said. “Are the men back yet?”
“No,” Lettie replied.
She had not laid eyes on De Wet since they arrived in Turin. She found herself looking for him all the time.
She shook her head slowly.
“Why are you shaking your head like that?” Pérsomi asked with a slight smile.
“I’m in love and I don’t know what to do,” Lettie said without thinking.
Pérsomi looked at her calmly. “Sit down,” she said and moved up so that Lettie could sit beside her on the towel. “What’s bothering you?”
“Everything,” Lettie said and sank down beside Pérsomi. “Pérsomi, I’m really, well, attracted to him. But now I think, what if it . . . yes, like you said, ‘works out’? I can’t just marry a strange man!”
“Strange man? De Wet?”
“Yes, well, you know what I mean. And if it happens . . . do I give up my home and live in Christine’s? It’s unthinkable.”
Pérsomi was quiet for a long time before she spoke. “I moved into the Big House when I married Boelie—a place where as a child I felt nothing but mortified. Even more, I moved into Annabel’s home. Do you realize what that required of me?”
Lettie had never given it a thought. “But you were younger! I’m too old for all this,” she protested. “Teenagers fall in love, or students in their twenties—not women with married daughters.”
“Love doesn’t ask one’s age,” Pérsomi said seriously. Lettie waited. Pérsomi always chose her words carefully.
“I’ve given a lot of thought to what you said the other night: that you’re content with your life the way it is at present, that there’s no reason to take risks,” Pérsomi said. “You’re right, there isn’t. I understand. I was alone for a very long time as well. My life was ordered. I was happy.
“But . . . I don’t know how to say this without sounding corny, Lettie, but it’s better not to be alone. You already know the value of that happiness. You’ve had it before. Don’t let it pass you by. It’s a rare and precious thing.” Pérsomi shrugged. “That’s all,” she said, a little self-consciously. “But I wanted to say it to you.”
That night dinner was served in Lorenzo and Gina’s elegant dining room, with maidservants carrying in one course after another.
Lettie sat opposite De Wet. When she looked up, she saw the happiness in his expression, the joy of being with friends.
“You won’t believe what Antonio did in his second year,” Lorenzo began with yet another anecdote as he filled up their glasses.
Lettie became aware of a movement under the table. De Wet was playing footsie with her like a lovesick teenager. She looked straight at him, flooded with warmth and happiness.
He was taking part in the conversation, but when he caught her eye, he smiled and winked.
After dinner the ladies retired to a different room, where coffee was served. They struggled for a while to keep the conversation going, then gave it up and decided to turn in.
In an adjoining room Lettie heard the men’s raucous laughter.
I saw so little of him today, Lettie thought as she lay in bed. I miss him. I know it.
And there is a greater happiness. I know that too.
She curled up and pulled the sheet over her head.
The uncertainty remained.
After breakfast they took a bus to the university. They took a walk through the botanical gardens on the banks of the Po. T
hey paid a visit to the Castle of Valentino, the seat of the Architecture Faculty of the University of Turin.
“Did you have your lectures here?” Boelie asked, impressed.
“Yes, here in this building I sweated blood,” Antonio said, clearly proud.
“And I thought the Old Arts building at Tuks was impressive,” Pérsomi said.
But to Lettie none of the old buildings, the historical streets, the exotic plants held any interest. She had eyes only for the tall man with the silver hair and green eyes.
Lorenzo and Gina announced that they were taking their guests to a restaurant that night. “We’ll have to dress up,” Klara said. “My sister-in-law moves in high social circles.”
“Surely not evening gowns?” Pérsomi asked.
“No, but definitely the little black number with real pearls,” Klara teased.
But when the time came to get dressed, Lettie left her own black dress hanging in the cupboard and took out one of her old favorites. It felt easy on her body, familiar.
For a long time she stood with the string of Venetian beads in her hand. It matched the dress perfectly.
She bit her lower lip and fastened the beads around her neck.
The heavy handmade beads lay cool against her warm skin. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her fingers stroked the beads one by one.
Then she turned and left the room.
De Wet noticed the beads at once. His eyes met hers, and they were filled with joy.
He was in his dress suit again. Christine was right so many years ago. After all this time he was still a beautiful man.
Klara noticed the beads as well. “Lettie, they’re gorgeous! Where did you get them?” she asked, touching the fine mosaics with her fingertips.
“Venice,” Lettie said vaguely.
She looked up to see Pérsomi watching. Her friend knew where they had come from, Lettie realized at once. Pérsomi gave a slight nod of approval.
Gina was clad in a tight-fitting black dress. She had taken her hair up in a chic roll. Around her neck was a string of large, perfectly round white pearls. She was an aristocrat and she looked the part—the only daughter of the Baron and Baroness of Veneto, granddaughter of the rich Baron Veneto from before the Great War.
The restaurant had thick carpets, soft, deep chairs, and crystal chandeliers that bathed the room in soft light.
The headwaiter knew Signore and Signora Romanelli well and led them to a table in a corner.
Gina sat between De Wet and Boelie and talked nonstop to De Wet, who was charming in return.
Lorenzo talked them through the menu, suggested certain courses, and ordered wine.
After they’d had their starters, Gina accompanied the ladies to the powder room. “I’ve never been in such a grand ladies’ room before,” Pérsomi whispered to Lettie as they returned to their table.
On a small stage a gray-haired gentleman was playing soft music on a gleaming Steinway.
“Gina says he’s a superlative singer,” Klara interpreted.
“Do you mean to tell me you know that big Italian word?” Lettie asked, surprised.
“No, I’m simply going with the ambience,” Klara said, her eyes dancing with mischief.
After the main meal, the musician began to sing. He really does have a superlative voice, Lettie thought, enjoying their inside joke. His style was not operatic, but light. He did a few jazz numbers, a few others that sounded like country music, everything in Italian. “Interesting music for a top-class Italian restaurant,” she remarked to Antonio, who was sitting beside her.
“The American influence is everywhere,” he replied. “Lorenzo says he’ll take requests, if you’d like to hear a Neapolitan song.”
“No, this is lovely,” she assured him.
The dessert was so elegantly served that Boelie asked, “Where does one begin to eat this concoction?”
“Start at the top,” Klara said. “But mind it doesn’t hop out of your plate. The crust is quite hard.”
Lettie proceeded with caution, taking care not to disgrace herself in a strange country in the company of the in-laws she had only just met!
She saw De Wet get up to talk to the musician, then saw the man nod before carrying on.
“You have two beautiful daughters. I was amazed at how good their Italian is,” Lorenzo said beside her.
“It’s thanks to Antonio. He speaks Italian to them,” she replied.
“I believe Leonora is very gifted,” Lorenzo continued.
“Oh yes, she’s very musical. She gets it from the Romanellis,” Lettie said.
Before Lorenzo could reply, De Wet touched her shoulder. “Dance?” he said.
She felt a rush of happiness. “Excuse me,” she said to Lorenzo.
De Wet pulled out her chair and led her to the dance floor. They joined the other swaying couples, moving to the gentle rhythm of the melody.
They had not danced since their second night in Rome—the night the Eternal City changed color forever.
He was close to her, his body against her, his arms around her.
She was breathless. Time stood still. Eternity had frozen in a second.
The melody became familiar, though the language was not. De Wet’s melodious voice crooned in her ear. In her head she sang along. “And afterwards we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two . . .”
De Wet held her away from him and gave her an inquiring look as he sang the words quite clearly. “And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like ‘I love you.’”
She understood and spoke without thinking. “Maybe not quite so stupid.”
He stopped in the middle of the dance floor and looked down at her, his green eyes inscrutable. “I know, Lettie,” he said. “But do you know it too?”
The words entered through her ears and went straight to her heart.
“We can’t stop in the middle of the dance floor in this grand place,” she whispered anxiously. “Everyone is looking.”
His soft laugh came from deep inside. He leaned forward slightly and pulled her closer. “Let them,” his deep voice said.
His arms went around her. His feet and body began to move in time to the music again. He was still singing, and his voice added to the enchantment of the silvery evening in that strange, magnificent space.
“And though it’s just a line to you, for me it’s true . . .”
chapter
TWENTY-ONE
All the villagers knew Antonio was coming home. At the first sharp bend in the steep road they saw a bunch of brightly colored balloons tied to a rock.
Antonio was leading the way in Lorenzo’s big car. With him were Klara, Boelie, and Pérsomi. Lorenzo and Gina were joining them later for the weekend. In the meantime the maidservants would cater to all their needs in the stone villa.
Behind Antonio came De Wet and Lettie in a bright-red Dino Ferrari. “Your Italian dream was to see an opera in La Scala. Mine was to drive a Ferrari up a mountain pass,” he had admitted to her, slightly embarrassed. “I’m going to rent a Ferrari for a few days and drive up to Antonio’s village. Will you come with me?”
He was as excited as a little boy at the prospect.
“If you promise to drive carefully,” she said, playing along.
“I’m going to drive fast,” he warned her. The excitement made him feel young and adventurous. “And you’ll have to tie a scarf around your hair,” he added. “It’s a convertible.”
“I haven’t said I’d come,” Lettie protested, laughing.
“Wait until you see the car. You’ll pay me to come,” he said with confidence.
The road to the village was narrow and steep, with hairpin bends and low stone parapet walls. At the next bend Antonio stopped again and handed Klara the balloons. “We have to take them along for the village kids,” he explained. “They’ll be waiting for their balloons at the square.”
After negotiating the sharpest bend of all, Antonio stopped for ball
oons again. “This is Giuseppe’s bend, named after my father,” he explained. “It’s where he found my mother. She was just a child, a refugee from somewhere in France. He took her to his parents’ home. It’s one of the happiest stories of the village,” he said, smiling fondly.
All the people of his childhood were long gone, Antonio had said the night before: the village doctor, Father Enrico who was also their teacher, the Baron of Veneto, even Tia Sofia, old Luigi, and their only daughter. And of course the grandchild who had laid down his life for his country in the war.
That was one of the saddest stories of the village.
When they came round the last bend, the village unfolded before them.
The villagers had never been rich. The houses were cramped and built right on the streets. The church was simple, the square small and unadorned. The children were waiting. They chased after the balloon-filled car like mountain goats.
The big stone villa high on the mountainside immediately caught the eye. It had a magnificent view of the entire village.
Even higher up, across the Ponte Bartolini, the ancient bridge across the Bartolini River, lay the castle. It was in ruins, with only the thick stone walls still standing firmly where they were erected centuries before.
At dusk, so Klara said, courting couples went up to the castle to cuddle and kiss in the shadow of the walls.
Antonio drew up in front of the stone villa. They all got out and stood admiring the view. Below them lay the valley with its fields and orchards and marble quarries, where the stone carvers were still removing chunks of rock from the belly of the mountain, and the cliffs and deep ravines, shaped over centuries.
“It’s breathtaking!” Lettie said, amazed.
The road leading up to the village was visible only in places. “Just look at the winding road that brought us here,” said De Wet.
“And the mountain!” Pérsomi said breathlessly. “Tomorrow I want to climb it, all the way to the top.”
Antonio laughed. “All the way to the top isn’t an option,” he said, “but we can definitely go some way up the mountain early tomorrow morning. We can easily reach the first cave. You old-timers all look reasonably fit to me.”
