Italy, May 1945
T homas felt a rush of emotion as the boat sped into the little harbor of Incantellaria. He looked up to the top of the hill where the old lookout tower was silhouetted against the sky. He remembered Valentina as she had been. Her hair blowing in the wind, her eyes full of sadness, her cheeks enflamed with their lovemaking. She had appeared like that in his dreams too. Beguiling, mysterious, like a beam of light that was impossible to hold.
Once they had parted he had fought in the taking of the island of Elba, before being transferred to the Adriatic. On August 15, 1944, he had commanded his torpedo boat in the invasion of southern France, the lesser-known sequel to the more famous Normandy landings—D-day. Immediately after the death of his brother, Thomas hadn’t cared whether he lived or died. He had engaged in combat with a recklessness seen only in those valiant men whose lives mean little to them. Then he had met Valentina and suddenly life was precious once more. Every skirmish had filled him with terror. Every time he had boarded enemy cargo ships, he had crossed himself and thanked God for preserving him another day, for each day inevitably brought him closer to her. His will to live was so strong that his courage was now greater than it had been before, for it was no longer flawed with recklessness.
Afterward, Thomas was sent to the Gulf of Genoa where he patrolled the coast. He wrote to Valentina whenever he could. His written Italian wasn’t good, but he was able to communicate the longing in his heart in spite of his poor grammar and limited vocabulary. He told her how he gazed at the portrait he had drawn of her, up on the hill, beside the crumbling old watchtower, where the love they made had fused them together in an unbreakable bond. He wrote of their future. He would marry her in the pretty chapel of San Pasquale and take her back to England, where he would ensure that she lived like a queen with everything she could ever want. He received nothing from her. Only perfumed letters and food parcels from Shirley. Then one evening in September, after having successfully sunk an enemy merchant ship, he returned to base at Leghorn to find a letter waiting for him. The writing was curled and childish and foreign. The postmark was Italian.
He studied the envelope for a long moment, his heart suspended. He desperately hoped it was from Valentina. Who else would write from Italy? Then his optimism faded. What if the letter was one of rejection? How would his fragile heart bear such a heavy loss? He fingered the letter, his face contorted into a worried frown. Then he sat down, took a deep breath, and opened it.
It was only one side long, written on paper as diaphanous as butterfly wings, and dated August 1944. My dearest Tommy. My heart longs for you too. Every day I stand and wait at the watchtower on the hill, hoping for the sight of your boat motoring in to our little harbor. Every day I am disappointed. I have news for you. I wanted to wait until I saw you, but I fear for you in this war. I fear that you will die not knowing. So I will tell you in this letter and hope that you receive it. I am pregnant. My heart is filled with joy for I am carrying the child we made together out of love. Mamma says he will be blessed for he was conceived at the festa di Santa Benedetta when our Lord demonstrated His love for us by shedding tears of blood. I pray for your safe deliverance from this war and that God will bring you back to me so that you may know your son or daughter. I wait for you, my love. Your devoted Valentina.
Thomas read the letter several times, barely able to believe that a child of his was about to be born into the world. He pictured Valentina with her belly round and her eyes bright with the light of impending maternity. Then he was gripped with a shudder of alarm: she was vulnerable in that small cove. He stood up and strode across the room in agitation, envisaging all the terrible things that might happen to her without his protection. He yearned to go to her and yet he could not. His job was up in the north and the war was still raging like a forest fire. The Allies had contained it and the prospects were good, yet their fortunes could change in a moment.
Then he thought of all the innocence that war had destroyed, the horrors seen by eyes too young to understand, and his heart flooded with fear. His child was to be born into all this terror. Was it right to bring an innocent into so cruel a world?
“What are you looking so down about?” asked Jack, taking the seat beside him.
“I’ve had a letter from Valentina,” he replied, shaking his head in amazement.
“What’s happened?”
“She’s carrying my child, Jack.”
Jack gasped. “Christ!” Then after a long moment of contemplation he added seriously, “What the hell are you going to do?”
“Marry her,” he replied without hesitation.
Jack looked at him askance. “That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it? You don’t even know her!”
“I know all I need to know about her. She likes lemons, the sea, and the color purple.” He smiled with tenderness as he recalled her childish soliloquy. “Christ, I’ve been hit between the eyes, first by love and now this!”
“I can’t see Lavender and Hubert taking to her!”
“Better than Shirley!”
“I don’t know. Your father’s an arch snob and he’s wary of foreigners, especially Italians…”
“They’ll have no choice.”
“Now Freddie’s gone, you’re the heir.”
Thomas shrugged. “To what? A house? It’s not as if my father has an earldom to pass down, is it!”
“But he takes Beechfield Park very seriously. It’s no joke running an estate like that.”
“She’ll learn. I’ll teach her.”
“Bloody hell. You a father!” Jack shook his head in wonder. Then he looked at him with intensity, no longer as his subordinate but as his childhood friend. He spoke in a low voice, his eyes misty with emotion. “The war’s changed you, Tommy. You and I were once so similar. We flouted the rules at Eton, disrupted the classes, swanned around like we owned the place. Oxford wasn’t much different, fewer rules to break, that’s all. Then this bloody war. We’ve become men, haven’t we? We never thought we would. Hubert would be damn proud of you, if he knew. When all this is over, I’m going to tell him.”
Thomas sighed heavily and took the cigarette that Jack offered him. “But you were the one who got all the girls. I just got the crumbs from the rich man’s table!”
“But you got the one that mattered, Tommy.”
“This time, I did.”
“And you deserve her,” Jack said, though he felt apprehensive. Valentina spoke no English, had been brought up in a small, provincial harbor town with a population of no more than a few hundred people. How did Tommy think she was going to cope in a house the size of the marchese’s palazzo? To find herself among the cool, snobby British who, when it came to class, were more formidable than ten Immacolatas. The fantasy was all very romantic, but the reality would throw up all sorts of problems that he hadn’t considered. However, now wasn’t the time to discuss them. He had got the girl pregnant and he was a man of honor. He would do the right thing. “You’re more like Freddie than I imagined, Tommy,” Jack said finally, his eyes suddenly betraying the strain of war that humor usually covered up. Thomas was too moved to speak: a thick lump of anguish had lodged itself inside his throat. He straightened up and cleared his throat.
“That’s sir to you, Lieutenant Harvey,” he said to diffuse the emotion.
Jack blinked away the childhood memories that had suddenly found their way through his weakened defenses. “Yes, sir,” he responded. But both men continued to look at each other with the eyes of boys.
Now, as Thomas sailed into the tiny port on a small motorboat, he was no longer commanding the MTB. The war was over. They had been demobbed and he had been given a desk job in the Ministry of Defense. Jack, Rigs, and the boys had gone home. Brendan had survived, miraculously, not only the war but Jack’s deep pocket and Rigs’s renditions of Rigoletto. Thomas planned to return to England with Valentina and their child, as soon as they were married.
He had fantasized about this moment for the last few months. He had received word from Valentina that she had been safely delivered of a little girl. She hadn’t mentioned a name. He had celebrated quietly with Jack. A drink and a cigarette and tears he felt unashamed to shed in front of his friend. He had written back hastily. Pouring out his pride and love in bad Italian, confusing verbs and tenses in his emotion. Even his handwriting, usually so clear and neat, shot erratically up and down the page.
Now he pictured their daughter in her mother’s arms and was gripped with longing to embrace them both. In his hand he held the few letters she had sent him, worn thin and frayed like a child’s well-loved muslin. They smelled of figs—that indelible scent of hers that had managed to banish the acrid smell of death. Now he inhaled the pine and eucalyptus of Incantellaria and recalled with nostalgia the first time he had set eyes on this enchanting little town, with Jack and Brendan by his side, not knowing then how much it would settle in his heart. He was a changed man and it wasn’t just the war that had altered his state of mind. Valentina had awoken his instincts to provide and protect. Now he had a child, he had a far greater responsibility than any he had ever had before.
The boat drew up against the quay and Thomas stepped out with his small bag of belongings, still dressed in his tired blue naval uniform. He peered out from under his cap at the sleepy harbor bathed in the warm springtime sun. At first no one noticed him. He was able to pass his eyes over the row of white houses, their iron balconies adorned as before with bright red geraniums, and on the little Trattoria Fiorelli. He was drawn out of his sentimental recollections as the fishermen put down their nets and women emerged out of the shadows, drawing their children to their aprons, looking at him through narrowed, suspicious eyes. Then the old man who played the concertina recognized him. He pointed his arthritic finger and his wizened face collapsed in on itself as his mouth opened into a toothless smile. “C’è l’inglese!” he exclaimed. Thomas’s heart swelled with happiness. They remembered him.
The garbled words of the old man ricocheted down the sea front as the townspeople spread the news. “È tornato, l’inglese!” It wasn’t long before the dusty street was crowded. They clapped their hands and waved. The little boy who that first time had given the fascist salute now put his hand to his brow as Lattarullo had done and Thomas smiled at him, saluting back. This time his mother did not slap him, but patted him proudly on the head. The little boy blushed crimson and clamped his legs together, for all the excitement had brought on a desire to pee.
Then Thomas’s eyes were drawn back to the Trattoria Fiorelli. The waiters were standing outside, their mouths agape, trays in hands that had only recently held guns. The old ones, who had been there all along, smiled wistfully, remembering the singing and the little red squirrel. A stillness now surrounded the café while the crowd agitated and swelled around him like waves on the sea. It was as if the modest little building held its breath, awaiting something magical to happen. Then she appeared. Thomas’s heart soared and there it remained, in suspended animation, neither rising nor falling but motionless, afraid that, if it stirred, the spell would break and she would disappear like a rainbow into the sunshine.
The waiters stepped aside. Not once did Valentina take her eyes off the man she loved, but walked toward him with her unique, lively walk. In her arms she held her three-month-old baby, wrapped only in a thin white sheet, pressed tightly against her bosom. Her cheeks glowed with pride and her lips curled into a small smile. It was only when she came closer that he saw her eyes were glistening with tears.
Thomas took off his hat, and noticed his hands were trembling. Valentina stood before him. At the sight of the baby blinking up at him he was humbled. In the midst of all this horror and bloodshed here was a pure, innocent soul. It was as if God had shone a bright light into a very dark place. Her face was a miniature reflection of her mother’s, except for her eyes, which were pale gray like his, a stark contrast to her dark hair and olive brown skin. She waved her tiny hand about. Thomas took it and let her wrap her fingers around one of his. He smiled. Then he raised his eyes to Valentina.
The townspeople continued to watch transfixed as Thomas bent his head and planted a kiss on Valentina’s forehead. He rested his lips for a long moment, inhaling her unique scent and tasting the salt on her skin.
Suddenly a loud voice boomed out above the clapping and cheering of the townspeople. “Move on. This is not a show! It is a private moment. Come on, everyone, enough. Move on. Move on.” Lattarullo’s voice was unmistakable. Slowly the people began, reluctantly, to disperse. They had all watched Valentina’s growing belly and witnessed her longing and often her despair. As they returned to their afternoon naps, the fishermen to their sails and nets, the children to their games, Lattarullo appeared, hot and sweating and scratching his groin.
“Signor Arbuckle,” he said as Thomas reluctantly withdrew his lips from Valentina’s forehead. “Many doubted you would ever return. I am happy to say that I was not one of those. No, I never once doubted you. That is not solely to compliment your character but the signorina’s beauty. Helen of Troy was not as fair, and look what effect she had on men! I would have been astounded, not to mention a good deal poorer, had you not returned for la signorina Fiorelli.” Thomas imagined them all sitting in the café placing their bets on whether or not he would come back for her.
They walked to the Trattoria Fiorelli. Inside the café, like a small and solemn bat, sat Immacolata. She was dressed in black, from the shawl on her head to the shoes on her feet, and was fanning herself with a wide black fan, embroidered with flowers.
When she saw Thomas she put the fan on the table and walked over to him with her hands outstretched, like a blind woman begging for alms. “I knew God would spare you for Valentina,” she said and her small eyes brimmed with tears. “Today is blessed.” He let her slap his cheeks affectionately, although when he withdrew they smarted and grew pink. “Sit down, Tommasino. You must be tired. Have a drink and tell me everything. Three of my four sons have returned to my bosom. God saw fit to take my Ernesto. May his soul rest in peace. Now you have made my happiness complete.”
Thomas sat down. It was impossible not to do as Immacolata said. She was a formidable woman used to being obeyed. Besides, Thomas was in no position to disobey. She was a deeply religious woman and he had impregnated her daughter out of wedlock. He shuddered to think what she would say about that. To his surprise, she had welcomed him warmly. However, her first question revealed her true intention.
“So,” she said, watching the waiter pour two glasses of wine. “You have returned to marry my daughter?”
Thomas looked shamefaced. “I was going to ask your permission formally,” he replied.
Immacolata’s face contorted with sympathy. “When it is God’s will, you don’t have to ask permission of anybody.” Her voice was soft, the voice of a young girl.
He took Valentina’s hand in his. “I knew we were destined to marry from the first moment I laid eyes on her.”
“I know,” she said, nodding gravely. “My daughter is very beautiful and she has given you a daughter. Alba.”
“Alba? That’s a lovely name,” he said, not wishing to dwell on the reactions of his parents. Perhaps she could have Lavender as a second name.
“Alba Immacolata,” Valentina added. Perhaps not, thought Thomas. He was relieved Jack was not there to witness their conversation.
“This child is very special to me,” said Immacolata, gripping her bosom. “She holds a very special place in my heart.”
“She looks like her mother,” said Thomas.
“But her eyes are her father’s. There is no doubt to whom she belongs.” Immacolata ran her fingers over the baby’s face. “See, her eyes are the palest blue-gray. Like the sea when it is shallow and calm. You must hold her,” she added, nodding at her daughter. Valentina held the baby out to him. He had never held such a small baby before and wasn’t exactly sure how to do it. To his surprise it wasn’t so difficult and little Alba did not cry. “You see,” said Immacolata. “She knows you are her father.”
Thomas stared into the features of his child, scarcely able to believe that she carried his genes and those of his entire family, including Freddie. She looked nothing like him. Certainly nothing like an Arbuckle, except for the eyes which were indeed just like his. She was so vulnerable. So defenseless. But what made him love her was the fact that she so resembled her mother. She was a part of Valentina and therefore more precious than anything else in the world.
“You will marry in the chapel of San Pasquale,” continued Immacolata. “I will invite Padre Dino to lunch tomorrow so you can meet him. You are not Catholic?” Thomas shook his head. “That is not a problem. When it is God’s will, nothing is a problem. You are joined together by love and that is all that matters. You will stay here at the trattoria until the marriage. I have a comfortable room upstairs.” Thomas shifted his gaze from little Alba to Valentina and her soft, mossy brown eyes smiled back at him tenderly. In that moment of silent communication they said all they needed to say.
Lattarullo sat outside, as if he were a guard dog, ready to bite anyone who dared try to enter. It wouldn’t be long before the Trattoria Fiorelli vibrated with the music of celebration, he mused. The whole town would be invited and there would be dancing. Valentina loved to dance. The small area within the café wouldn’t be large enough to accommodate everyone so they would spill out onto the street and dance there, beneath the full moon. Immacolata would choose an auspicious day for the wedding, beside the sea that had brought them together.
Valentina placed Alba in her Moses basket and Thomas carried her out to the cart which awaited them in the shade of an acacia tree, attached to a large, docile horse. Lattarullo offered to drive them himself, proudly announcing that he was in possession of the town car, but Thomas declined politely. He didn’t want to share Valentina with anyone else, least of all Lattarullo, who smelled strongly of his own unique brand of sweat. “You can fetch me after dinner,” he said to the grubby carabiniere, who nodded in bewilderment.
They waved at him as the horse plodded off. There was no hurry. There was nothing pressing to get back to. They had all day if they so wished. The slow clip-clop of the horse’s hooves bounced into the still, warm air and roused the sleepy town from its shameless ogling. Even the children suspended their games to watch the cart move off and disappear up the shady alleyway toward the hill. Lattarullo stuck out his bottom lip and dabbed his forehead with a damp hanky. He couldn’t understand why they had refused the car. He hoped no one had heard the Englishman decline his offer. Che figura di merda! It was a matter of pride, of apparenza.
Valentina took Thomas’s hand and pressed it to her cheek, kissing it affectionately. “At last, we are alone.”
After a long while the soft rattling sound of a motor reverberated out of the tranquil silence of the afternoon. Thomas immediately thought of Lattarullo and his heart sank. But then he realized that the car was coming down the hill toward them, not from the town they had just left. Valentina steered the horse to the side of the road and the cart ground to a halt. The rattling increased in volume until the marchese’s shiny white Lagonda appeared sedately around the bend. The metal of the radiator shone brilliantly in the sunshine and the two round headlights twinkled like a pair of large frog’s eyes. It was impossible not to be impressed by the fine craftsmanship of such an elegant vehicle. The memory of the near crash the year before was now distant and misty in the glare of Thomas’s appreciation. The motor ticked over with such efficiency it sounded more like a song than a mechanical rattle: tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick. It slowed down. In the front seat, his face cast in the shade of his hat, sat the skeletal Alberto. The canvas roof of the car was down so that he could be seen clearly in all his glory. His gray uniform was as clean as the car itself and his white-gloved hands gripped the steering wheel as if it were the reins of a magnificent and powerful beast. His nose was so high in the air his chin had almost disappeared. He did not smile, nor did he wave, though it was clear from the sudden pallor that washed the color from his already grim face that he recognized Thomas, and he almost lost control of the car. L’inglese was back.