He fired up the Spyder. It burbled and snarled like a tame tiger and he was pleased to be back behind the wheel with the wind in his hair. He’d checked out as agreed and his suitcase was in the boot, but thanks to Alfonso, his options remained open. His instinct had been to ignore Luigi Barone’s threat, but he had to consider others too. Whatever happened, he’d be leaving Italy soon but Casavento was Alfonso’s home and life and he had his wife and daughter Cleo to think of. It wasn’t right to make life difficult for them, especially after he’d been so hospitable and helpful.
Harry didn’t know what would come out of his meeting with Lucia, whether she would castigate him for his crime, demand explanations of her own or simply send him away with a flea in his ear. Any of those would mean his scuttling off back to Rome and from there, who knows? Whatever happened, it was unlikely he would need to return to the Garibaldi, so he may as well be prepared to depart for good.
The late summer sun continued to shine, although the trees were turning amber and the lack of rain meant the Galliano meandered calm and serene on its way to the Adriatic.
He found the church easily. It stood alone on the riverbank, its whitewashed walls gleaming in the morning sun. He pulled the Spyder off the road into a rough, dusty car park devoid of vehicles other than a single scarlet-coloured Vespa parked by the open church door. He sensed a mild attack of nerves and a vague nausea in his belly. There was so much he wanted to say to her but he couldn’t shake off the fear she would be angry and resentful. But most of all, he just wanted to see her again.
He parked the car, leaving the roof down, and stepped tentatively inside the church, the warmth on his back giving way instantly to cool, his eyes adjusting to the sepia light, the aroma of candles, incense and old oak filling his nostrils.
It echoed from the faintest sound and for a moment he thought he was alone until a slight figure appeared from behind a pillar to the right of the altar carrying a mop and bucket. He was instantly reminded of Rosa, the truculent old bird he’d met with Father Benelli, and he hoped not to have a similar conversation. He walked up the central aisle towards her, the sound of his footsteps on the ancient stone reverberating around the holy place. She laid down her bucket and stood the mop inside, staring up at a giant gold crucifix that dominated the space behind the altar.
She wore a simple, white, short-sleeved blouse over pale blue slacks that were short in the leg, exposing her ankles. A shaft of sunlight from a stained-glass window illuminated the back of her head, endowing her auburn hair with a golden aura. He saw her make the sign of the cross and then she turned to face him. He approached to within a few feet and she crossed her arms across her chest as if to say “no further”, her face set and expressionless. He was lost for words, struck again by her beauty, as struck as he had been eighteen years ago and again yesterday, when their shock encounter had momentarily paralysed them both. She bore a faint shadow above her left cheekbone, her left eye puffy and red. The bruise had been covered, painted over with some substance that had been only partially effective. Without thinking, he put a hand to his own cheek and he felt a sudden rage that made him clench a fist.
“Did your husband do that?” She ignored the question. It needed no reply but he felt responsible. “I’m sorry, it’s my fault he—”
“I am glad you survived,” she interrupted. “I always wondered what happened to you. I thought you would die too.”
She’d lifted a huge weight from him, more than she could possibly imagine, except that now he felt guilty all over again – guilty that he’d survived and her family hadn’t.
“I never knew you existed, other than in my imagination. I have dreamt about you almost every night since then, this apparition that brought me peace in my final moments.” She shifted her body and relaxed her arms, her face betraying some discomfort and he feared he’d said something disrespectful. “I dream the whole episode. Your father and Isabella and the baby. I have lived through it time and time again, wondering how much of it was real and how much a cruel fantasy.”
“I don’t know your name.”
“Oh, no. Of course not. It’s Harry Male.”
She thrust out a hand. “Hello, Harrimale,” she said, stringing the names together as if they were one, and as if any confirmation were needed, “I am Lucia, Isabella’s sister.”
He took her hand and it was small but strong, just like she was. He was entranced in the same way he’d been entranced back then when the explosions had finally stopped and the dying embers of the fire were about to expire and all that was left was the vision of hope from the angel now standing in front of him.
“Lucia, there are things I need to ask you, lots of things about you and your family and—”
“Wait.” She held up a hand to stop him. “This is not the place. There are things that cannot be talked about in the house of God. We will go somewhere else. Please.” She gestured towards the door.
“Yes, of course. I understand.”
She slid past him and he caught her fragrance, which prickled his senses. She picked up a black linen matador jacket that was hanging over a pew and set off down the aisle.
Their eyes squinted in the sunshine, her bruise glowing purple under the make-up.
“Follow me. It is a few kilometres.” She pulled a pair of black sunglasses from inside her jacket, stepped onto the Vespa and kicked it into life. He hastily climbed into the Spyder, afraid he would lose her, but she waited at the side of the road for him and then gunned the engine, leaving a cloud of pungent blue smoke billowing in her wake.
The roads were empty of traffic as he followed her along the riverside, her jacket flapping in the breeze, until after a few minutes, she turned off to the right and sped up a winding road. They passed a village sign that read Monte Galliano and she led him through a maze of narrow deserted streets then through a tiny piazza to a small car park. She dismounted, propped the Vespa on its stand and was running both hands through her windswept hair as he pulled up alongside.
“Come, Harrimale, we can talk in the piazza.”
She walked briskly away and he followed her dutifully back to a piazza that featured the ubiquitous fountain at its centre and a number of small shops and cafés, clearly the hub of the tiny metropolis. She strode across the square and up some steps to a café with wooden tables and chairs outside. She took off her jacket and sat down. Four old men in caps and heavy tweed jackets were playing cards on a nearby table, brandy glasses and espresso cups in evidence, but they didn’t look up once, neither at the beautiful young woman nor the handsome young man who cautiously sat opposite her. A waiter appeared.
“Due cappuccini,” she ordered, without reference to Harry. The waiter swivelled on the spot and disappeared inside.
“No men in red jackets today?”
“Paolo has a job to do. Just not today.”
“What is his job and why not today?”
She sighed. “I have one day off each week from the restaurant. I go to the church and do the cleaning and dusting and tidy everything and replace the candles and polish the silver and brass. You know.” He didn’t know but he nodded anyway. “And I have a place to myself. Where I can think and pray and make my peace with the world.” She shrugged.
“And Luigi is happy for you to go alone?” It sounded impertinent, but it was meant to express concern and he wanted to understand her relationship with him. “I mean, he seems very protective of you, even though... ”. He gestured to the bruise on her cheek.
She let out a puff of air. A snort of derision. “He protects me like he protects his money and his property and his business. I am a possession. He does what he likes with me.”
“But not today?”
“No. Today he is busy. Today he has a council meeting at the town hall with the sindaco, that is the mayor, and also the chief of police and the sacerdote, who is the priest of the cathedral. Then they have a long lunch at Ristorante Santi Divini and then they go to the Hotel Alba to play cards and get drunk and fuck some whores and then he comes home.”
Harry closed his open mouth, but just to open it again.
“The priest…?”
She laughed but it was mirthless. “Maybe he goes home before the whores. I don’t know.”
Harry shook his head in dismay and the waiter brought two cups of coffee.
“Prego.”
“But on other days Paolo is your chaperone?”
“No. Just yesterday. Luigi thought you might be a threat.”
“A threat to you?”
“No! Of course not – a threat to himself.”
“I’m not a threat to him, or you.”
“I know that,” she said, and he thought he saw a flicker of compassion behind the frosty exterior, a softening. “It was just a shock, you understand. I was confused.”
“So was I.”
“How did you find me?”
“I went back to Montellano. I had to. Something happened to me in Berlin; that’s where I live and work, though not any more. It made me think again about what happened, at your father’s house, in Solano. The nightmares have been with me ever since and I thought perhaps if I looked at it again, it would be different.”
“And is it?”
“Well, I didn’t expect to meet you. In the flesh. Oh, what I mean is…”
“I know what you mean.” She was smiling at him now, laughing at his discomfort, and it was alluring, more so than anything he had experienced in a long while.
“I found the place where your house used to be.”
“It was demolished after the war ended. There was nothing left and no one left to rebuild it.”
“And I met the local priest, Father Benelli, who didn’t know your family but his cleaning lady Rosa remembered you all.”
Lucia took a sip of her coffee and then nodded.
“Ah yes. Rosa Agnelli,” she scoffed. “I remember her. She probably had a few choice words to say about me.” Harry wanted to tread carefully, but he believed she wasn’t one to be embarrassed so neither should he.
“She said you had married Luigi Barone and left town.”
Lucia gave another hollow laugh. “She said I was Luigi Barone’s whore! But then being his wife is not so different.”
The old men in caps burst into a heated debate that involved various hand gestures and a fair amount of complaining until another hand was dealt and they fell silent again. Harry turned his head to the piazza and watched a bulky black motorcycle with leather-clad rider rumble slowly by, heading in the direction of the car park. He gave it only a cursory look; he had other things on his mind.
“I saw your sister’s grave. And your parents’.” She looked away abruptly, avoiding his eyes. She was strong, but not that strong. “I asked around and someone said Luigi had moved to Casavento…”
“Chased out of town.”
“… but I wanted to see if I could find you.”
“And now you have found me?” The truculence had resurfaced but he could see it was just a defence mechanism. “What now, Harrimale?”
He struggled to pose the question. He now knew what had happened; there was no doubt. The answer would be simple and as expected and she would confirm it for him and they would wish each other well and go on their way. The last piece would fall into place and it would finally all be made clear. But he didn’t want the last piece to fall into place; he didn’t want this to end with a chat over a cup of coffee.
“There was a baby,” he ventured softly.
“Yes, there was a baby. Her name was Catalina.”