He had no idea how he was going to find Luigi or Lucia Barone, whether they were still together and, indeed, still alive, but over dinner and grappa, Angelo had been able to provide him with some interesting background.
He knew nothing of Lucia Girardi but remembered Barone and in less than complimentary terms. Old man Riccardo Barone ran a fruit and vegetable business before the war, but son Luigi was a natural imprenditore and when the Germans arrived he quickly saw an opportunity to service the demands of the occupying forces as well as exploit the privations of the local populace.
Luigi had boasted of his daring adventures in a partisan brigade although his primary allegiance was to money and after the town had been destroyed and the Germans driven out, he’d plied a lucrative trade providing luxury goods to the liberators, such as cigarettes, liquor and soap. He’d then started a construction business, jumping on the bandwagon to rebuild the town, exploiting the desperate need for new homes and made his money building shoddy apartment blocks. As his influence and wealth grew, he opened a restaurant and hotel and, it was rumoured, dabbled in prostitution.
But he was a small fish swimming in an increasingly murky pond and eventually he was driven out by Mario Coppola, another local villain who regarded the upstart as a threat to his own expanding empire. Coppola still operated in Montellano and Angelo had no idea where Luigi Barone was now, but he’d ask around.
***
Fabrizio greeted him at reception with a smile and a bill, which he paid using a traveller’s cheque.
“Your stay was very short, Signore Male. Maybe you come back one day and visit the abbey?”
Harry had done all he needed to do in Montellano and there was little likelihood he’d return, but he was grateful for the hospitality and didn’t want to offend.
“Perhaps, but there are many places in the world to visit first.”
“Now you are going back to Roma?”
“Yes, that’s the plan.”
Fabrizio handed over a slip of folded paper. It bore a single word: Casavento. Harry looked at the obsequious owner, who was grinning at him knowingly as if begging to be asked what it meant, but he didn’t need to, as Fabrizio couldn’t resist.
“My brother he telephone me. He say that the man you are searching for is in this town, Casavento. Or perhaps it is the lady that interests you?” he said, barely able to conceal his delight at the intrigue. Harry had obviously had too much grappa last night and now Angelo, Fabrizio, Carla and the entire family were in the know. He ignored the question.
“That’s very kind. Can you thank Angelo for me?”
“Certainly.” The grin was fixed and annoying, not least because they both knew what Harry’s next question would be.
“And, where is Casavento?”
“Is a town about eighty kilometres north of Roma. In the mountains.”
“I see. I am most grateful to you.”
“Prego.” Fabrizio’s grin dissolved and he suddenly turned serious. “Signore… be careful.”
***
He dozed on the train back to Rome. He’d got little sleep that night, notwithstanding dinner at Angelo’s followed by several shots of grappa. He’d been offered another dimension to the story of the Girardis and his thoughts were consumed with speculation and hypotheses about Isabella and the enigmatic Lucia, such that he lay awake until the early hours thinking about it. He’d worked out Lucia would be in her early thirties by now. Alfredo had never mentioned her. Isabella hadn’t either but then she’d been delirious with pain.
Her connection to Luigi Barone was tenuous even though Rosa had sounded unequivocal. Angelo could not remember her name and nor could Fabrizio or Carla, so it was entirely possible that he was off on a wild goose chase going to Casavento. He tried to manage his expectations, but he was excited. He was on a voyage of discovery and he had no idea where it would lead.
The path was clear. There had been nothing left for him in Montellano or Solano, no more memories he wanted to rekindle. He could still feel the warmth of the life-giving sun, smell the vines, hear the sounds of the birds and the bees in the countryside under an azure sky and he had seen where Alfredo and his family had been laid to rest. The terrible images that had plagued him continuously since 1944 had been replaced by images of hope.
***
Back at his hotel in Rome, Harry asked the concierge if he could make an international call to England. Arthur Rowland was in good spirits.
“Good morning, young man, or should I say buongiorno?”
“Hello, Arthur. Are you well?”
“Yes indeed. And I’m pleased to report all the funds are in and lodged in a client account to your order. The balance is twelve thousand one hundred and twenty pounds plus a few shillings and pence.”
Harry was pleasantly surprised. “Oh, well done. That was better than I thought.”
“And our fees come to one hundred and seventy-five pounds, four shillings and sixpence.” Harry had to laugh. He should have known better. “May I settle them from your account?”
“Of course, Arthur. Go ahead.”
“Thank you. Now do you have enough funds to continue your little expedition?”
“I expect so, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be out here. I’m off to a place called Casavento tomorrow.”
“Well give me a week’s notice before you need more. We can arrange a foreign telegraphic transfer pretty much anywhere in Europe these days.”
“Okay, Arthur, thanks. I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure, young man, you are paying for it after all!”
***
He decided to hire another car and because he was now feeling suitably flush, to treat himself to something more substantial than a Cinquecento, not least because he felt he needed a car with the power to tackle eighty kilometres of winding mountain roads. The brand-new red Fiat 1200 Spyder coupé fitted the bill perfectly and was sleek and stylish too, even though it was outrageously expensive.
He dropped the roof and navigated his way out of Rome heading northeast, crossing the River Tiber twice before beginning his ascent into the mountains. The map indicated Casavento would be found in a valley on the other side of a small mountain range that peaked at fifteen hundred metres. According to the guidebook, the town enjoyed an elevated position overlooking the River Galliano, its main industries being ceramics, wine growing, agriculture and tourism. Casavento attracted thousands of visitors each year to the vineyards and the mediaeval architecture typical of an ancient hilltop city.
The Spyder swallowed up countless hairpin bends with ease as the road snaked its way up the mountain before descending into a lush valley and after a journey that lasted three hours, Harry finally crossed the Roman bridge over the Galliano and entered the city walls through a triumphal arch.
The streets of Casavento were narrow, many of them cobbled and unsuited to heavy traffic. A one-way system was in force where they were not wide enough to allow two vehicles to pass and myriad pedestrian alleyways snaked off in all directions, hosting an endless array of shops selling ceramics, clothing, souvenirs and general provisions. He ticked the Spyder along at little more than walking pace, navigating around carefree tourists and shoppers and hundreds of scooters, which appeared to be the preferred method of transport. For a while he felt as if he were going around in circles as he inched his way upwards towards the epicentre of the town dominated by the Gothic cathedral of San Giovese in the Piazza di Duomo.
The piazza was pedestrianised so the road veered left down a steep hill that widened out into two-way traffic. He spotted a small square with parked cars and scooters and after some intricate manoeuvring pulled into a space in front of the Hotel Garibaldi.
The narrow six-storey building was ancient but well kept and the Italian tricolore dangled lazily above a revolving entrance door that sported etched glass and polished brass handles. He was lucky. They had one spare room and although it had no view, it was close to the fire escape, which, insisted proprietario Alfonso, would be handy in the event of an emergency. Harry was tempted to ask how often they had emergencies at the Garibaldi but was simply relieved he’d found a place to stay.
He retrieved his suitcase from the car, secured the canvas roof and locked both doors before being taken up in a rickety elevator to the fourth floor by Alfonso’s daughter Cleo. They alighted into a gloomy, carpeted corridor that featured five doors and she showed him through one at the end, predictably close to the fire escape. The room was spacious and clean and perfectly adequate for his needs. The bed was a double, had tables and lamps on either side and there was a double wardrobe and a separate sitting area with a writing table and two chairs. The bathroom was functional, the walls tiled in white and navy with dolphin motifs.
“I hope you enjoy your stay, Signore Male,” said the young girl. Harry guessed she was no more than sixteen and wondered why she wasn’t at school or college. “Are you wishing to have lunch? There are many restaurants we can recommend.”
“Thanks, Cleo. I think I’ll just go for a walk for now.”
“Prego.” She smiled and closed the door behind her.
He opened a full-length window that opened onto a Juliet balcony but the only view was of another building immediately opposite. He looked down to a narrow alley where people meandered while scooters weaved between them and then up to the adjacent rooftops where he caught a glimpse of the cathedral cupola.
He unpacked his belongings and hung up his linen suit and clean shirts. For the journey, he’d dressed simply in a white polo shirt with blue denim trousers and black sneakers and decided that, along with his lightweight jacket and panama, he was presentable enough for a stroll around the town. But where to start?
He decided just to wander, familiarise himself with the topography of the town and have a bite to eat. He kept a look out for the name “Barone”, imagining he might strike lucky and see it in a shop window, or on a restaurant sign. But he’d read that Casavento had a local population of around ten thousand, so the chances of bumping into the man were negligible. However, both Rosa and Angelo had described Luigi Barone as a businessman, an imprenditore. He would probably be in his fifties and it seemed unlikely that a man motivated by money would have retired and disappeared from view.
He strolled gently along the back alleys and passageways, peering into shop windows, gazing in wonder at the ancient buildings that locals took for granted, and becoming slowly intoxicated by the aroma of coffee, cinnamon and garlic emanating from the hundreds of caffetterie, pasticcerie and ristoranti whose tables and chairs lined the pavements. He could resist it no longer.
He picked a table at random and within an instant, the waiter was there, with a paper tablecloth, linen napkin, condiment set and menu.
“Buongiorno, signore. Il piatto del giorno è il polpo.”
He knew it meant octopus and although he was a fish and chip man, he was not averse to something slightly more exotic. But instead he ordered penne arrabbiata and a beer.
He watched the people go by, taking note of women who looked under forty – a pleasurable pastime in itself – wondering if any could be Lucia Girardi. He’d formed a picture in his mind but it was based on his limited recollection of Isabella. There had to be some family resemblance, but even if there were, Isabella had been under great strain, her features distorted by pain. Isabella had never smiled; she’d only screamed in anguish. He hoped Lucia, wherever she was, was blessed with a more peaceful existence.
The pasta was unassailable and the beer, crisp and cold. He had another, remembering the day not so long ago he would have had a couple of cigarettes for dessert. No more. Another Italian siren strutted by like a model on a Milan catwalk. There was no doubt the Italians could put the Berliners to shame when it came to style, but then he had to admit they could do the same to the British.
He had to conclude that barring the unlikely event a thirty-something woman came along wearing a name badge, he would have to make enquiries. He paid the bill and continued his exploration of the town. He reached the Piazza di Duomo, a typical Italian square with the Cattedrale di San Giovese taking up one side, the other three sides lined with restaurants. In the centre, locals and tourists congregated around an ostentatious marble fountain that featured gods on horseback slaying tigers and bears while being serenaded by nymphs playing flutes and harps.
He circumnavigated the square, reading the restaurant names one by one but none bore any resemblance to “Barone”, and why should they? He’d been told Barone once had a restaurant and a hotel in Montellano, but that was back then; there was no reason to assume he was in the same business now even though from the look of them all it appeared to be a lucrative trade.
He went into the cathedral and put some money in the donations box, then sauntered around marvelling at the exquisite stained-glass windows, the priceless artworks, the gilded dome roof and the extraordinary carvings. It never ceased to amaze him how much wealth the Catholic Church had; God was big business once upon a time and in Italy probably remained so.
But it was time to do some work. He strolled along a side street and into a souvenir shop. He waited until the young woman behind the counter had finished with a customer and approached her, removing his hat.
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes, of course, signore. Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for someone. A Signore Barone. Luigi Barone. Do you know him?”
Her face barely flickered and she hadn’t even had time to think before she replied.
“No. I’m sorry, signore. I don’t know him.”
The immediacy of the response struck him; Harry hadn’t been interrogating people for the last five years without picking up the signs, but there was nothing to be gained by pursuing it and he simply smiled and shrugged.
“Grazie mille.”
He left the shop and tried another whose window was adorned with exotic and expensive ceramics. Inside, he made a show of examining a figurine of Madonna and child. He had the look of an affluent tourist and was not surprised when one of the sales assistants approached him.
“It’s very beautiful, no?” said an imperious middle-aged man in a smart three-piece suit wearing a name badge: S. Moretti.
“Yes, it is.”
“It is made by the finest craftsmen in Italy.”
“Really? How much is it?”
“It is two hundred and twenty thousand lire.” Harry tried not to react while he did the maths but the assistant helped him before he could work out the answer. “Is about one hundred and twenty-five of your pounds.” Two weeks’ pay! Harry nodded sagely but there was only one thing on his mind.
“I wonder if you can help me?”
The imperious Signore Moretti tilted his head and smiled condescendingly.
“I am looking for a gentleman; a Signore Luigi Barone.”
The same speed of the response was telling. “I can’t help you, signore, I don’t know anyone with that name. Does he work in ceramics?” He spread a hand to indicate the contents of the shop, the words and gesture strangely revealing.
“I’m not sure. He’s a businessman.”
Signore Moretti sniffed. “Is there anything else I can show the signore?”
He was being dismissed. The conversation was over. Harry bowed slightly and looked Moretti in the eye.
“You’ve been very helpful. Grazie.”
He tried twice more, once in a delicatessen and once outside a café where he ordered a cappuccino. The woman in the deli was more credible and tried her best by asking further questions – how old was he? what did he look like? what’s his line of business? – before finally giving up. But the waiter’s response in the café was the same as the others: polite, but unhelpful and dismissive. There was a pattern to their behaviour, without doubt.
***
Alfonso was in reception when he came down for dinner dressed in his linen suit, pale blue shirt and regimental tie.
“Buonasera, signore. Have you had a good afternoon?”
“Yes thank you, Alfonso. Perhaps you can recommend a restaurant?”
“Oh there are many, many restaurants here in Casavento. All of them very good.”
“How about one of those in the Piazza di Duomo?”
Alfonso shrugged. “Sì. They are also good but maybe the price…” He rubbed two fingers together. “The tourists like them for the position, but the best ones are hidden away.” He winked at Harry and unfolded a street map. “You can go here, here and here” – he marked several crosses with a black pen – “and here. The prices are very good and the food is magnifico!”
“Thank you. I’ll try one.” He picked up the map and folded it around the crosses.
“Prego.”
“By the way. I have come here to find an old friend, but I don’t where he is.” Alfonso was still smiling, apparently eager to help. “His name is Luigi Barone.” The mouth stayed the same but Alfonso’s eyes gave him away. He blinked twice.
“You are a friend of Signore Barone?” he asked hesitantly, his scepticism evident.
Harry felt his pulse quicken and he tried to sound casual. “Well, we have a mutual friend, shall we say. I haven’t met him before but I promised myself I would look him up if ever I came to Casavento.”
Alfonso nodded in understanding but it was clear he was analysing Harry’s words, trying to gauge the correct response.
Harry pressed on. “Do you know him?”
Alfonso was looking uncomfortable now. “I know the name, but I, er, do not know the man.”
“Oh. I see. Is he important?”
“Signore Barone has many businesses in Casavento.”
Harry nodded. He could be a dog with a bone when he wanted and he’d learned over many years to be subtle and go slowly, but he felt like he was in control here.
“I understand he may have a restaurant?” He understood nothing of the sort, but it was worth a try. Alfonso was non-committal.
“As I say he has many businesses. But he is, shall we say… a private man. He may not wish for someone to call on him unexpectedly.”
“No, I understand.”
“May I?” Alfonso took the street map and unfolded it again. “You may after all like to try a restaurant in the piazza?” He marked four crosses around the perimeter. “You can try here, here, here” – he paused for effect – “and… here.”
***
The Ristorante Quadrifoglio was teeming, as were all the others in the Piazza di Duomo. He had no reservation and it was impossible to accommodate a single diner who would take up a table for two. Instead, he made a reservation for lunch the next day.
“Uno?” said the harassed waiter, trying to mask his irritation and then held up a finger, “One person?” in case the customer was mistaken. Harry nodded and the waiter tutted.
“Grazie.”
“Prego,” said the waiter without humour.
He found one of the restaurants Alfonso had first recommended in a back alley. The tables on the street were tiny and the slatted wooden seats uncomfortable, but all the diners appeared to be locals, which he took to be a good sign. He wasn’t disappointed. The waiter seemed as welcoming and attentive towards his single guest as he was to larger parties and the food and local Montepulciano was superb, the meal rounded off with complimentary grappa. Harry resisted the temptation to mention the name “Barone”. Results had been mixed and he didn’t want to spoil the evening.
***
The next morning, he had time to kill, so he visited the Museo Civico, but his mind was restless and he couldn’t concentrate on ancient Roman artefacts. There was no evidence the Quadrifoglio was connected to Barone, but even if it was, that didn’t mean he would necessarily see him there, and even less likely he would find Lucia. He was also wary of making further enquiries given his experience of the previous day, so he hoped the restaurant would be a step in the right direction.
He announced himself to the waiter at twelve-thirty, fifteen minutes early, because he could wait no longer. He was shown an outside table for two, and sat at the edge with his back to the adjoining restaurant so he could see everyone coming and going. The piazza was full of tourists and peddlers and the restaurants were already getting busy. Two waiters were serving the outside area and he strained to look through the windows but could see little inside the restaurant. He’d go to the toilet at some stage and take a look.
He opened the menu and examined the inside cover, which featured ancient photographs of the Quadrifoglio and a brief history, but it made no mention of the owner. Nor was there any clue in the signage and he began to wonder what his next move would be if, as he was beginning to realise, Barone was indeed as private a man as Alfonso had suggested.
A waiter balancing three plates on one arm passed by and cast him a glance. He deposited the plates on an adjacent table, took further instructions from the diners and turned back towards the door. Harry raised a finger but the chap was clearly in a hurry.
“Uno momento, signore,” he said, and as he passed the open doorway Harry heard him shout, “Lucia!” Harry tensed.
A young woman appeared within seconds clutching a notepad and pencil. She wore a green apron over a white dress with a floral print that flared out from her slim waist, her short reddish-brown curly hair giving her a boyish look. Harry watched her approach and felt his heart begin to race. She barked something in Italian at another waiter, pointing to an empty table, and flipped a page on her pad before looking up.
“Prego, signore.”
He looked at her dumbly, gripping the menu, unable to speak, seeing the mist come down over his eyes and sensing a distant rush of sound in his ears. He slowly got to his feet. She tilted her head back as she took in his full height and she looked perplexed, not sure what to do. He heard himself speaking.
“Lucia? Lucia… Girardi?”
She stared at him for a moment and then her bewilderment turned slowly to fright. She dropped her pad and clasped both hands over her mouth. She gasped and stepped back, colliding with a waiter carrying a tray of glasses that fell to earth with a crash. Then she was gone, fleeing inside the restaurant as if in a panic, the waiter dropping to his knees trying to rectify the damage while all the other diners turned to see the commotion.
“Mi dispiace, perdonatemi! I’m sorry, forgive me,” said the waiter.
But Harry wasn’t listening or hearing or seeing or breathing.
He had just stared into the eyes of an angel.