Within a minute or two, the mess had been cleared up, diners had returned their attention to their plates and the Quadrifoglio was back to normal.
Harry looked blankly at the menu in front of him, reading the words but seeing nothing, unable to focus his attention on anything other than the image that still burned in his consciousness. There was no doubt. The young girl was now a woman, the long hair shorter and curlier and redder in colour but he had known her for as long as he could remember. Lucia Girardi had knelt before him as he lay dying in the ruins of her home next to her dead father and her dead sister and she’d taken from him the body of baby Catalina. Another scene in his interminable nightmare had been rewritten and represented as an episode of reality.
But once the shock faded and realisation began to dawn, he became confused and disturbed by her reaction. He wanted to go after her and hold her and express his deep sorrow at her loss and tell her that he’d never forgotten what happened and never would. Seeing her again had been an almighty shock to him and it could be no different for her, but he couldn’t let it rest there. He couldn’t simply go back to Berlin or Coventry, or wherever his new life might take him and forget about it. He needed to know more about the Girardi family, a family to which he felt more connected than his own. They’d shared the most intimate and traumatic moments of their lives and he needed her help to finally come to terms with it, to make sense of it. He wondered whether she needed the same.
He glanced at the door, but there was no sign of her. He needed to go inside and look for her. He’d apologise for frightening her and they’d have a chat and a coffee and he’d explain what happened in the farmhouse, what happened to him during and after and she’d explain where she’d been and what happened to her and they’d lay all their ghosts to rest and everything would be fine. He pushed himself to his feet.
“Signore Male.” A rotund middle-aged man in a white, open-necked shirt was standing by his table, blocking his way. A substantial gut hung over the belt around his black trousers and shiny black hair was slicked back over a high forehead. His upper lip was dominated by a fulsome black moustache and around his neck dangled a gold chain and medallion, nestling amongst a forest of chest hair. “Please, be seated.” The man snapped his fingers in the air and a waiter appeared with a bottle of grappa and two glasses. Harry slowly resumed his seat and the man pulled up a chair alongside. His shirt sleeves were turned back, revealing dark suntanned forearms covered in a carpet of black hair. He held out a hand and Harry’s attention was drawn to a vulgar gold ring on his small finger, a diamond-studded Rolex on his wrist.
“I am Luigi Barone.”
Harry shook a big hand that was soft, fleshy and warm. Barone poured two shots of grappa.
“I seem to have caused a fuss. I apologise.”
He was handed a glass. They chinked, knocking it back in one, and Harry relished the burning sensation and the instant hit of alcohol. He noticed Barone looking at him as if he were carefully considering his next statement or more likely sizing up his customer. Either way, if it was intended as a form of intimidation, it was working.
“I hope I haven’t upset the young lady.”
“My wife” – he paused for effect – “is how you say, highly strung. Maybe it’s the time of the month, eh?” He grinned and poured two more shots and Harry was relieved that Barone, despite his intimidating manner, seemed to be loosening up. “Are you married?”
“No. I haven’t found the right girl yet.” He put on a weak grin in an attempt to complement Barone’s benign expression but it didn’t last long.
“What is the purpose of your visit to Casavento, Signore Male?” It was more than curiosity – inquisitorial, not conversational.
Harry was a useless liar; he’d seen too many in his time to know that the average liar gets lost in a maze of deceit and eventually reaches a dead end. But there was no way he could or would explain the whole truth, certainly not to Luigi Barone.
“I was in Italy during the war, in Montellano, and I came back to take another look. I have memories, good and bad and I had friends who fell and I wanted to pay my respects. I was told Casavento was an interesting place to visit.” It was all true. Even the last sentence.
Barone shrugged. “And how can I help you?” The emphasis was on the “I”.
Harry decided to continue the dumb tourist act for a while. “Well, I came in for a spot of lunch. Your restaurant was recommended.”
Barone nodded. “I see. Then why have you been making enquiries about me?”
He should have known better. The guy was no pushover. He was a “businessman”, a euphemism for something else in this part of the world and whenever his name had been mentioned, there had been some reaction, however infinitesimal, that should have warned him to be careful. Fabrizio had warned him to be careful. And he’d just been careless. “Or maybe your interest is my wife?”
Harry tried to draw a line. “I knew her father, that’s all. He died during the war.”
Barone sat back and rested his hands on his ample girth. A man like him would have only two objectives: seek an opportunity to exploit or eliminate the possibility of any threat. Harry couldn’t see how he fitted into either but the guy was looking for an angle and having presumably finished his assessment, sat forward and leaned in closer. Harry caught a whiff of Old Spice.
“I think my wife does not want to remember things like that. It is distressing for her.”
“It was not my intention to cause distress.”
“I am a private man, Signore Male. I don’t like surprises and my wife does not like surprises.” He’d lowered his voice, affording a sinister gravitas to an otherwise innocuous comment.
“I don’t wish to cause offence and I am sorry if I upset your wife.”
Barone sighed. “Your apology is accepted.”
“Perhaps I can talk to her and apologise to her directly?”
He knew it was provocative, but he wanted to know whether Barone was just playing at being the hard man or was genuinely concerned about Lucia’s welfare. But most of all, he also wanted to speak to her, very much. The answer was direct and unequivocal.
“I suggest you return to England, Signore Male.”
“I will. Soon.”
Barone put a chubby hand on Harry’s arm and squeezed it. “I suggest perhaps tomorrow.”
He guessed the conversation had been terminated and lunch would be out of the question. He stood up and offered a hand but Barone turned and walked back into his restaurant. The message was clear.
He sauntered across the piazza, considering his options. He was no longer hungry but he wanted some coffee and he wanted time to think. He sat down in a café on the opposite side of the piazza and ordered a panino and Americano. He could see the Quadrifoglio seventy metres across the square, his view obscured intermittently by people wandering back and forth and he watched and waited, hoping to catch another glimpse of Lucia. He knew it was dangerous, but he had no choice. A hole was burning inside him as intense and painful as any he had felt before. He had come looking for answers to questions that had tormented and almost consumed him; he’d come to seek admonishment, or at least justification and, above all, closure. But instead he’d opened up a new chapter that prompted more questions than ever.
Lucia had looked shocked and terrified, that was for sure. What could she be afraid of? He had no memory of anything after her apparition apart from a sublime peace and finally the comfort of darkness. He’d passed out; he’d died, so he thought. Maybe he’d attacked her in his delirium? Maybe she thought he’d killed the baby? Maybe she saw what he’d done to Isabella? The thought gave him a chill and not just at his own recollection of the horror, but at what she may have witnessed: her sister’s body ripped open, her blood and insides spread over the bed. Or maybe it was just the explosions and the bombs and the destruction and the death of her loved ones? She was only a child, for God’s sake! And if she had ever been able to forget, then his reappearance would have brought it all back. What was she supposed to think? How was she supposed to react?
He desperately wanted to talk to her and he tried to convince himself that it would be helpful to her too when, deep down, he knew it was he who needed it most. But the questions kept coming. How did she get out of the farmhouse? What did she do with Catalina’s body? Did she know her father and sister were buried in the churchyard? And what was she doing with a second-grade middle-aged mafioso like Barone? Maybe she was so unhappy with her life this had tipped her over the edge? Maybe she wanted to get away from the oaf? Stop it, you fool!
He rubbed his forehead. The need to meet her again was driving him insane, and the more he thought about it, the more certain he was he couldn’t let go. There was nothing more important to him, not even life itself, life which would have no meaning unless the truth was clear. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. He would no longer run and hide and hope everything would be all right in the end. You don’t have the luxury of retreat!
But there was a complication and he was called Luigi Barone. He had been warned off and although he believed the guy could be dangerous, he could not be sure how dangerous. In any event, he wasn’t sure Lucia would want to see him again. Both were risks, but risks he was prepared to take. If he wasn’t going to bow to Barone’s implied threat and leave Casavento, he would still have to move out of the Hotel Garibaldi. If Barone were Mister Big in the town, then he would know if Harry was still there and that would make life difficult. He had lots to think about and not much time to do it in.
An image caught his eye. Lucia! The white floral dress was unmistakeable, but she wore a bright yellow headscarf and black sunglasses and carried a black handbag. She walked briskly out of the restaurant and turned right, heading away from the cathedral. Without further thought, Harry fumbled for his wallet and threw some money on the table.
He took a parallel route on his side of the piazza, looking up to catch a glimpse of her between the crowds while dodging pedestrians and scooters. He saw her reach the edge of the square and turn left. She was walking with purpose, breaking into a trot from time to time, crossing the road between the traffic. She was in a hurry, either to get somewhere or get away from something. He increased his pace, wary that in the maze of streets and narrow alleyways it would be very easy to lose her, all the while wondering what on earth he was doing pursuing the wife of a local hood.
She turned right, out of sight, and he sprinted to the corner to close the distance. He didn’t want to catch up with her just yet; he wanted to pick the right moment, whenever that might be. Not so long ago, his lungs would have protested the exertion but he covered the ground with ease and although he felt a twinge in his leg, his chest was clear. He followed her down a narrow cobbled street, only fifty yards distant, but he was reluctant to run to catch her up. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her again; she might scream and cry for help, or worse, outrun him. She reached a T-junction at the bottom and he could tell she was going to turn right. He took a chance and turned right down a parallel alley, hoping he could take a left further along and intercept her.
He broke into a run and took the second left. He arrived ten feet in front of her. She stopped abruptly.
“Lucia, please.” Now he really was short of breath. He held up a hand and clutched the other to his side. “I just want to talk to you.” She stayed silent, rooted to the spot, clutching her bag to her middle, the body language of self-defence, but he could see she was breathing deeply too.
“I can’t.”
“Please, there are things I need to ask you.”
“I can’t.”
“It’s okay. Please. I mean you no harm. I promise.” He sounded pathetic and weepy but that was how he felt.
“Is there a man behind me?”
He frowned and looked over her shoulder. A guy stood at the junction of two streets fifty metres away, neither coming nor going, just loitering and observing.
“Er, yes,” he said, confused and concerned at the same time.
“Wine-coloured jacket, yellow shirt.”
He checked. “Yes.”
She walked up and thrust her face at him aggressively, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.
“I can’t talk to you now,” she hissed, pointing a finger at his chest. “He will know and he will tell my husband. And my husband will kill you.”
“Why?”
“Because he can,” she whispered through bared teeth then stabbed a finger in Harry’s direction three times. “Chiesa di San Pietro. Tomorrow. Twelve o’clock,” she said, gesticulating theatrically in the air with one hand. “Now, when I push you, walk away. The way you have come.” She shoved him hard in the chest and carried on up the street, swinging her bag. He watched her go, and then, understanding he had a role to play, hung his head and trudged up the alley, hands in pockets, dejected.
***
He went back to the same restaurant for dinner but he couldn’t concentrate on anything or anyone else. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, how she looked and how she’d behaved towards him and whether her aggression was real or born out of fear. If she’d thought he was harassing her, all she’d had to do was whistle for the goon in the red jacket, but she hadn’t, which suggested he wasn’t there for her protection, he was following her to see where she went. The theatricals were for his benefit, there to create the illusion she was disturbed by the Englishman’s presence and evidently rejecting his unwanted advances.
He kept telling himself that if she didn’t want to see him or talk to him, then she would never have given him a time and a place to meet. Luigi Barone had made it clear his wife was off-limits and he should leave town tomorrow. The accompanying threat was clear; Barone had probably threatened her too and he felt an urge to protect her, but there was nothing he could do for now. He thought about Barone’s instructions and his instinct was to ignore them, not be pushed around by an ugly Italian and he fought the craving to go past the Quadrifoglio in case he caught a glimpse of her but decided it was too dangerous for them both. He would wait and meet Lucia tomorrow, as planned.
It was after ten when he pushed open the revolving door of the Garibaldi and found Alfonso on duty at reception.
“Buonasera. How was your meal?”
“Very good, thank you, Alfonso.” he said, but had no desire to chat and kept walking. “Buonanotte.”
“Buonanotte, signore. I understand you are leaving tomorrow?” Harry stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone because he hadn’t made his mind up, yet it seemed the decision had not only been made for him, it had been communicated to others. He turned slowly to face Alfonso and then approached the desk. The proprietario projected an air of inscrutability, but Harry saw something others would miss. It was in the eyes and the posture and the positioning of the head.
“Word gets around.” Alfonso gave an imperceptible nod. “I’m not sure. There’s something I would like to do tomorrow.”
“I see.”
“Would that inconvenience you?”
Alfonso shrugged. “May I suggest the signore check out tomorrow and, er, if maybe he changes his mind and wants to stay one more night I am certain I can find him another room?”
“I don’t want to cause you any difficulty… or embarrassment.”
“No no, it will be my pleasure.” The smile was warm and genuine, Harry judged. The chap had been put under pressure but he’d worked around it despite having no obvious incentive.
“I’m very grateful to you.”
“I trust you found the gentleman you were looking for, signore?”
“Yes indeed. He gave me some… helpful advice.”
“Then you are even wiser than before.” He laughed and Harry nodded in agreement. He trusted Alfonso for some reason and it broke all his rules. Trust was never taken for granted; it had to be earned and that took time. He’d known the chap for less than two days, not time enough, but he needed to know something else and the mere fact of his asking could put them all at risk. He trusted Alfonso.
“Where would I find the Chiesa di San Pietro?”
“Ah, sì, signore. The church is easy to find. If you drive down to the river and turn to the right, it is maybe five kilometres away.”
“Thank you.”
“Prego. Buonanotte.”