T he shadows lengthened and the scent of pine thickened in the evening air. The people of Incantellaria emerged from their homes and gathered in front of the little chapel of San Pasquale. There was a sense of anticipation. Thomas stood outside the farmacia as instructed by Immacolata and waited with growing apprehension for Valentina. He noticed that many of the townspeople held small candles that flickered eerily in the fading light. A grubby hunchback weaved in and out of the crowd like a purposeful dung beetle as everyone touched his back for luck. Thomas had never witnessed such a scene before and he was intrigued. Finally the crowd seemed to part and Valentina floated toward him with her dancing walk. She wore a simple black dress imprinted with white flowers and she had put up her hair, decorating it with daisies. She smiled at him and his heart stumbled, for her expression was warm and intimate. It was as if they had already declared their feelings, as if they had been lovers for a long time.
“I’m glad you have come,” she said when she reached him. She held out her hand and he took it. Then he did something impulsive: he pressed her palm to his lips and kissed it. He gave her a long, intense stare as his mouth savored the feel of her skin and the now familiar scent of figs. She dug her chin into her chest and laughed. He had never heard her laugh. It made him laugh too, for it bubbled up from her belly and tickled her with delight.
“I’m glad I have come too,” he replied, not wanting to let go of her hand.
“Mamma is one of the parenti di Santa Benedetta,” she said.
“What is that?”
“One of the saint’s descendants. That is why she sits by the altar to witness the miracle.”
“What is meant to happen?”
“Jesus weeps blood,” she told him, her voice turning solemn and the smile dissolving into an expression of the utmost reverence.
“Really?” Thomas was incredulous. “And what if he doesn’t?”
Her eyes widened with horror. “Then we will have bad luck for the following year.”
“Until the miracle happens again?”
“Exactly. We light candles to show our respect.”
“And touch the hunchback for luck.”
“You know more than I thought,” she said, the laughter returning to her face.
“Just an educated guess.”
“Come, we want to get near the front.” She took him by the hand and led him through the crowd.
It was dark when the doors to the chapel opened. It was small and rustic, decorated with frescoes of the birth and crucifixion of Christ. He suspected that anything of any value had been stolen by the Germans, or looters, so there were only simple candlesticks on the altar and a plain white cloth. Behind, the marble statue of Christ on the cross remained intact.
A heavy silence, filled with fear, uncertainty, and expectation vibrated in the air like the muted sound of violins. Thomas didn’t believe in miracles but the spirit of this one was infectious and he began to feel his heart accelerating with those of the believers. He sensed many pairs of eyes upon him, some of them hostile, for there were those in the congregation who thought his presence might prevent the miracle from taking place. Or perhaps they didn’t like the fact that Valentina had caught the attention of an Englishman. He noticed an elderly woman glower at Valentina, then look away with a disapproving sniff. He hoped he hadn’t compromised her by coming.
Although curious, he longed for the ceremony to be over, so he could take Valentina somewhere quiet where they could be alone. Just as he was envisaging their first kiss, the heavy wooden doors reopened and a gust of wind blew in three small women draped in long black dresses and diaphanous veils. Each held a candle which lit up her wizened face to eerie effect. Immacolata walked a little in front of the other two, who shuffled in behind her like maids of honor at a grim wedding. Their heads were bowed while Immacolata’s chin was up and proud, her small eyes fixed on the altar with self-importance. Even the priest, Padre Dino, walked behind them, carrying rosary beads and mumbling prayers. A little choirboy accompanied him, gently waving a thurible, filling the air with frankincense. Everyone stood.
The procession reached the altar and the three parenti di Santa Benedetta took their places in the front pew. Padre Dino and the little boy stood to one side. No one spoke. There was no welcoming address, no song, no music, just eager silence and the invisible force of prayer. Thomas’s eyes were drawn, like everyone else’s, to the statue. He couldn’t believe that a thing of marble would actually bleed. It would surely be a trick. He’d know. They wouldn’t be able to fool him. Everyone watched. Nothing happened. The town clock chimed nine. The congregation held its breath. The heat in the chapel was now intense and Thomas began to sweat.
Then it happened. Thomas blinked a few times. Surely he was imagining it. He had willed too much along with everyone else and now he was hallucinating. He turned to Valentina who crossed herself and mumbled something inaudible. When he looked back, the blood was trickling down the impassive face of Christ, scarlet against the white marble, dropping off his chin on to the floor.
Immacolata rose to her feet and nodded solemnly. The chapel bell was rung in a doleful monotony and the priest, the little boy, and the three parenti di Santa Benedetta filed out.
The town erupted into jubilation. Musicians played and a large circle was formed in the middle of the throng. Suddenly the young women, before so modest, now danced the tarantella with the exuberance of the possessed. The crowd clapped and cheered. Thomas stood enthralled, clapping too. Valentina appeared in the midst of the revelry to great applause and wolf whistles from the men and surprisingly spiteful looks from the women. Thomas thought how ugly their jealousy made them. It deformed their normally pretty features into grotesque parodies, like reflections in distorting fairground mirrors. Valentina moved center stage until she was dancing alone. She danced with grace, her hair now loose and flying about her head as she twisted and turned to the lively beat of the music. Thomas was astounded: no longer in her mother’s shadow, she showed herself to be surprisingly gregarious. There was no inhibition in the way in which she moved her body, her skirt rising up her legs as she danced, exposing her shiny brown calves and thighs. The tops of her breasts, revealed in the low décolletage of her dress, rose like milk chocolate soufflé, and Thomas was gripped with longing. Her virginal charm fused with a bursting sexuality that Thomas found irresistible.
He watched transfixed; she looked directly at him. Her dark, laughing eyes seemed to read his mind for she danced up to him and took his hand. “Come,” she whispered into his ear and he let her lead him out of the square and down the little streets to the sea. They walked hand in hand along the beach, then further, around the rocks until they reached a small, isolated cove where the light of the moon and the gentle lapping of waves revealed an empty pebble beach where they could, at last, be alone.
Thomas didn’t waste time talking. He wound his hand around her neck, still hot and damp from her dancing, and kissed her. She responded willingly, parting her lips and closing her eyes, letting out a deep and contented sigh. The music could still be heard in the town, now far away, a distant hum like the merry buzz of bees. The war might as well have been on another planet, so dislocated were they from reality. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him so that he could feel the softness of her flesh and the easy relinquishing of her body. She didn’t pull away when he buried his rough face in her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat on his tongue and smelling the now muted scent of figs. She tipped her head back, exposing it willingly so that his lips could kiss the line of her jaw and the tender surface of her throat. He felt excitement strain his trousers. But she didn’t pull away. He ran his fingers over the velvet skin where her breasts swelled out of her dress. Then he cupped them, stroking the nub of her nipple with his thumb and she let out a low moan, like a whispering sigh of wind.
“Facciamo l’amore,” she murmured. He didn’t question whether it was wrong or right to make love, or whether he was ungallant to take her like that, on the beach, having known her only a couple of days. It was wartime. People behaved irrationally. They were in love. They might never meet again. Her innocence was something that he would take away with him. He hoped that if he claimed her now, she would wait for him. He’d return for her at the end of the war and marry her. He prayed that God would protect her until he could protect her for himself.
“Are you sure?” he asked. She didn’t reply, simply brushed his lips with hers. She wanted him. In a swift movement he lifted her into his arms and up the beach to a sheltered spot where he laid her down on the pebbles. In the phosphorescent light of the moon he made love to her.
They lay entwined until the red rays of dawn stained the sky on the horizon. Thomas told her about his life in England. The beautiful house they would one day live in and the children they would have together. He told her how he loved her. That it was possible after all to lose one’s heart in a moment, to surrender it joyously.
They walked back across the rocks. The celebrations had finished and the town was still and eerie. Only a stray cat crept along the wall searching for mice. Before he escorted her home he collected his painting case from his boat.
“Let me draw you, Valentina. I don’t ever want to forget your face.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Che carino!” she said tenderly, taking his hand. “If you want to. Follow me, I know a nice spot.”
They climbed a little path up the rocks, then down a dusty track that cut through a forest. The scent of thyme hung in the air with eucalyptus and pine, and crickets rattled among the leaves. The odd salamander darted off the track to hide in the undergrowth as they walked past, and the song of birds heralded morning. After a while the trees gave way to a field of lemon groves. From there they could see the sea, flat like molten silver, sparkling behind clusters of cypress trees.
At the top of a slight hill there stood a derelict lookout point, the bricks crumbling from centuries of sea wind and salt. It was a breathtaking position. From there they could see for miles around. Valentina pointed out her home, laughing at the thought of her mother tucked up in bed, oblivious of the adventure on which her daughter was embarking. She sat down against the lookout tower, her hair blowing in the gentle wind, and let him draw her. He sketched in oil pastels, enjoying analyzing her face, translating it as best he could onto paper. He wanted to portray her mystery, that quality that made her different from everyone else. As if she had a delicious secret. It was a great challenge and he wanted to get it right so that when they parted, he could gaze upon the drawing and remember her as she was now.
“One day we will tell our children about this morning,” he said finally, holding the paper out in front of him and narrowing his eyes. “They’ll look at this picture and see for themselves how beautiful their mother was as a young woman, when their father fell in love with her.”
She laughed softly and her face glowed with affection. “How silly you are,” she said, but he knew from the way she was gazing at him that she didn’t think him silly at all.
He held it up for her to see. Her cheeks flamed with astonishment and her face turned very serious. “You’re a maestro,” she gasped, tracing her lips with her fingers. “It’s beautiful, Signor Arbuckle.” Thomas laughed. She had never said his name before. After such intimacy “Signor Arbuckle” sounded formal and clumsy.
“Call me Tommy,” he said.
“Tommy,” she replied.
“Everyone at home calls me Tommy.”
“Tommy,” she said again. “I like it. Tommy.” She raised her dark eyes and stared at him as if for the first time. She gently pushed him back onto the grass and lay on top of him. “Ti voglio bene, Tommy,” she said. When she pulled away, her eyes shone golden like amber. She ran her hand over his forehead and through his hair, then planted a lingering kiss on the bridge of his nose. “Ti amo,” she whispered. Over and over again she whispered it, “Ti amo, ti amo,” pressing her lips against every part of his face, like an animal marking her territory, willing herself to remember it.
He did not want to take her home. He feared the agonizing moment when he would lose sight of her. When he’d have to walk away. They remained as long as they could on the hillside by the lookout tower, both afraid of the sea and the terrible divide it would impose upon them. They held each other tightly.
“How is it possible to love you so deeply, Valentina, when I have known you so little?”
“God has brought you to me,” she replied.
“I know nothing about you.”
“What do you want to know?” She chuckled sadly, tracing his face with her fingers. “I like lemons and arum lilies, the smell of the dawn and the mystery of the night. I like to dance. I wanted to be a dancer as a little girl. I’m frightened of being alone. I’m frightened of being no one. Of not mattering. The moon fascinates me; I could sit all night just staring up at it and wondering. She makes me feel safe. I hate this war, but I love it for having brought you to me. I’m afraid of loving too much. Of being hurt. Of living my life in pain and suffering for loving someone I am unable to have. I’m frightened too of death, of nothingness. Of dying, and finding that there isn’t a God. Of my soul wandering in a terrible limbo that is neither life nor death. My favorite color is purple. My favorite stone a diamond. I would like to wear a necklace of the finest diamonds just to sparkle for a night, to know what it feels like to be a lady. My favorite part of the world is the sea. My favorite man is you.”
Thomas laughed. “That’s quite a summary. I like the last part best.”
“Is there anything else you want to know?”
“You’ll wait for me, won’t you?” he said seriously. “I will come back for you, I promise.”
“If there is a God, He will know what is in my heart and bring you back to me.”
“Christ, Valentina,” he sighed in English. “What have you done to me?”
They walked back to her house in silence and he kissed her for the last time. “This is not goodbye,” he said. “It’s farewell. It won’t be long.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I trust you, Tommy.”
“I’ll write.”
“And I’ll kiss the paper you write upon.”
To prolong the moment would have been torturous, so she ran down the path and hurried into her house without a parting glance. Thomas understood and turned around. The morning suddenly looked less fresh, as if dark clouds had now obscured the sun. The countryside had lost its sparkle. The song of birds ceased to sound so melodious, and the rattling of crickets pounded against his eardrums like cymbals. Only the scent of figs lingered on his skin to remind him of her, and the picture he had drawn. With a heaviness of heart such as he had only ever felt once before in his life, when his beloved brother had been killed, he walked slowly back to the harbor. Back to his boat. Back to the war.