T homas and Jack didn’t want to dine with Immacolata Fiorelli, and Brendan was more nervous than either of them. They would have preferred to have eaten again at the trattoria, where there was a dance floor. With Rigs and the toothless concertina player, there would surely be dancing. There would be women too, eager for love and excitement. Jack was furious that Thomas had accepted her invitation. “Why couldn’t you have just said ‘no’?”
“It would have been rude,” Thomas explained weakly. “After all, she apparently runs the town while the mayor is at the beautician’s.”
“She doesn’t even have daughters!”
“The one she has eats squirrels.” Thomas snapped his teeth at Brendan, who stared back at him in a superior fashion.
Rigs and the boys waved them off with glee, amused by their reluctance. Lattarullo had slept all afternoon in his office with the door locked, his hat pulled over his eyes and his feet up on the desk, and was now perkier than ever.
They drove up the winding lanes in silence. Lattarullo tried to ignite a conversation but both men were alone with their thoughts: Jack of the women he would fuck when he got back to the trattoria, and Thomas of the lovely stranger who had taken off with his heart. Lattarullo persevered, not minding whether or not they were listening.
Finally he parked the truck beside a twisted olive tree. There was no road down to the house, only a well-trodden path. “Immacolata Fiorelli will show you the river,” said Lattarullo, already out of breath. “Besides, she has soap!” he chortled. Thomas knew that soap was only available on the black market and that most Italian women washed with pumice, ashes, and olive oil.
Thomas cast his eyes down to the sea that stretched calmly out on to the misty horizon before disappearing into the beyond. If it weren’t for his naval uniform and the experiences that had left their indelible mark on his soul he could almost have forgotten the world was at war. Forgotten that, out there, the sea reached Africa’s shore red with the blood of those who, like himself, had fought for freedom from tyranny, for peace. It was an enchanting view and his fingers twitched with the longing to capture it in pastels; he would have liked to set up an easel right there on the hillside, among the gray olive trees. If it wasn’t for the war he would search for that girl and set her in front of that vast sky. He would draw her and he would take his time. The sighing of the sea and the chattering of cicadas would add their own unique melody to the easy languor of the fading day and they would lie down and make love. But it was wartime and he had a job to do.
After a while the modest farmhouse, sandy-colored with a simple gray tiled roof, came into view. Thick branches of wisteria scaled the walls, their lilac flowers falling in heavy clusters like grapes, and small birds flew in and out in a game that only they understood. Sheltered by cypress trees and half-hidden behind pots of plumbago, tall arum lilies, bushes of lavender, and nasturtiums in great heaps, the house gave the impression of peeping out shyly. As they approached, they suddenly seemed to walk into an invisible cloud of perfume. It was warm and sweet and irresistible.
“What is that smell, sir?” Jack asked, sniffing the air with flared nostrils.
“I don’t know, but it’s like Heaven,” Thomas replied, stopping in his tracks. He put his hands on his hips and inhaled. “It’s so strong, it’s making my head dizzy.” He turned to Lattarullo and asked him in Italian.
Lattarullo shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t smell anything.”
“Of course you can!” Thomas retorted.
“Niente, Signor Arbuckle.” He pulled an ugly face and shrugged. “Bo!”
“My dear fellow, you must have lost your sense of smell. Why, surely you can taste it?”
The expression on the Englishman’s face was one of such incredulity that Lattarullo thought it better to agree. After all, he could detect a faint scent, though nothing unusual. The hills were full of smells; if one lived here one ceased to notice.
“I can smell figs,” he said grudgingly. Then he pulled his ugly fish face and shrugged, this time turning the palms of his hands to the sky.
“By God, that’s it!” enthused Thomas. “It is figs, isn’t it?” he asked Jack.
Jack nodded and took off his hat to rub his sweating forehead. “It’s figs,” he repeated. “Straight from God’s garden.”
Lattarullo watched them with growing curiosity and shook his head. Immacolata Fiorelli will know what to do, he thought, taking off his hat and walking up to the door.
Immacolata Fiorelli never locked her door, even in these dangerous times of war. Being a formidable woman, she considered herself a match for any man, even one with a bayonet. Lattarullo poked his head inside and called her name. “Siamo arrivati,” he announced, then waited, turning his hat around and around in his hands like a diffident schoolboy. Thomas rolled his eyes at Jack. After a long moment Immacolata appeared, still draped in black as if in a permanent state of mourning. Around her neck hung a large silver cross, elaborately decorated with semiprecious stones.
“Come,” she beckoned them with a wave of her hand.
Inside, the house was cool and dark. The shutters were closed, allowing only the minimum light to enter in thin beams. The salotto was small and austere, with worn sofas, a heavy wooden table, and a simple flagstone floor. However, in spite of its austerity, it was cozy, a home used to the wear and tear of people. What immediately struck Thomas were the little shrines, crosses, and religious iconography that punctuated the bare walls and corners. In the dimness the silver and sparsely used gold leaf glittered and shone in a ghostly fashion.
“Valentina!” Immacolata’s voice no longer bellowed, but called out in a low, gentle tone as one does to a loved one. “We have guests.”
“La signora’s husband died fighting in Libya,” said Lattarullo in a hushed voice. “Her four sons are also fighting, though two are being held by the British and the other two, well, who knows where they are. Valentina is the youngest and most precious of all her children. You will see.”
Thomas listened as Valentina’s soft singing could be heard outside. The strong scent of figs now preceded her and Thomas felt his head swim with the pleasure of it. He knew before he set eyes on her. He felt it. Nothing stirred except the silken breeze that slipped in through the door, a prelude to something magical. And then she was there, in a white dress that turned semitransparent with the sun behind it. With a suspended heart he took in her small waist, the gentle curve of her hips, the feminine shape of her legs and ankles, her feet in simple sandals. Her beauty was even more breathtaking than it had been when he had disembarked. He barely dared blink in case she disappeared again. But she was smiling and extending her hand. The sensation of his skin against hers sharpened his senses, and he heard himself stammer in Italian, “È un piacere.” Her smile, though slight, was full of confidence and knowing, as if she were used to men losing their tongues as well as their hearts in her presence. Immacolata’s voice broke the spell and suddenly the room was moving once again at the normal pace and Thomas was left wondering if he was the only one who had noticed the change.
“Valentina will show you the river where you can bathe,” Immacolata said, bustling over to the chest of drawers upon which stood a framed photograph of a man, surrounded by small burning candles and a worn black Bible. Thomas presumed the man was her late husband. She pulled out a small object wrapped in brown paper and handed it to her daughter before closing the drawer. “Even in times of war one must be civilized,” she said gravely, indicating with a nod that they go down to the river. It must be the famous soap, thought Thomas.
Valentina turned and walked out of the house. Thomas noticed that she had an unusual walk: her feet turning outward, she held her stomach in, pushed her bottom out, and swung her hips. It was a lively walk, unique, and Thomas thought it the most charming walk he had ever seen. He wished he were alone with her and not with Jack, who seemed as awestruck as he. Both men followed her down a steep path that was only wide enough to walk in single file.
The air was hot and sticky and full of mosquitoes. The scent of figs lingered, yet Thomas couldn’t see one fig tree, only eucalyptus, lemons, pines, and cypresses. The hillside rang with crickets, their rhythmic, incessant chattering loud to those unfamiliar with it. The path was well trodden, the earth pale and dry and scattered with stones and small pine needles and cones. Every now and then wooden steps had been built into it to prevent slipping. Finally, Thomas saw the river through the trees. It was more of a stream than a river, but wide enough to swim in. It trickled down the hill, bubbling around rocks and smooth stones, resting for a while in a limpid pool before flowing out to sea. It was there that they were to bathe.
Valentina turned and smiled. This time her smile was wide and full of humor. “Mamma must think very highly of you,” she said. “She doesn’t give her precious soap away to just anyone.” Thomas was shocked that her mother allowed her to walk alone with two strange men. She must indeed think very highly of them. Valentina held out the little parcel. “Take it and enjoy it. Make it last.” Thomas took it, once again irritated that Jack was standing by, about to spoil the moment with a bad joke, no doubt.
“Will you join us?” Jack asked, grinning mischievously.
Valentina blushed and shook her head. “I will leave you to bathe in private,” she replied gracefully.
“Don’t go!” Thomas gasped, aware that he sounded desperate. He cleared his throat. “Wait until we’re in, then stay and talk to us. We know nothing of Incantellaria. Perhaps you can tell us a little about it.”
“I used to sit and watch my brothers,” she said, pointing to the bank that lay in a large sun trap. “They splashed so much.”
“Then sit there for us,” Thomas insisted.
“We haven’t had the company of a woman for a long time. Certainly not one so lovely to look at,” Jack added, used to charming the girls. Under normal circumstances Thomas would have stood aside and let him woo her with his irreverent wit and raffish charm. After all, it was Jack to whom the girls were always drawn, not him. But this time, he had no intention of letting him dominate.
“Mamma wouldn’t like to think of me alone in the company of bathing men.”
“We are British officers,” said Thomas, trying his best to look the part by standing tall and nodding his head formally. It was what Freddie would have done. “You are in very safe hands, signorina.”
She smiled coyly and walked over to sit on the bank, averting her face while they undressed. When she heard their splashes she turned around.
“It’s splendid!” Jack enthused, gasping as the cold water shrank his ardor. “Just what I needed, I suppose!”
Thomas rubbed the soap between his hands and washed his arms. He was aware that her eyes were upon him. They were brown, but in the sunlight they appeared almost yellowy green, the color of honey. When he looked up, she smiled at him. He was sure it was flirtatious. When he turned, he saw that Jack had ducked under the water. He knew then that she had smiled for him alone.
Once bathed, they sat in their underwear drying off. Thomas would have liked to have drawn Valentina there, with the sun in her hair and on her face, her head tilting forward, looking up at them from under her brow so that she didn’t have to squint. She seemed shy. Thomas and Jack talked for her. They asked her questions about the town. She had grown up there. “It’s the sort of town where everyone knows everyone else,” she said, and Thomas was sure that even if it were the size of London, everyone would know who she was.
Once dry, they dressed and returned up the narrow path, refreshed after their swim. Valentina fired them both and gave them the feeling of having boundless energy and enthusiasm for life.
When they entered the house, the smell of cooking filled their nostrils and roused their hunger. Immacolata led them through the rooms to a vine-covered terrace fragrant with jasmine. On the grass beyond, a few chickens pecked at the ground and a couple of goats were tethered to a tree. The table was laid. A basket of bread sat in the middle, beside a brass agliara of olive oil. Lattarullo had returned to town, promising to collect them after dinner. He had suggested they return to La Marmella the following morning with a team of men to retrieve the rest of the haul. Thomas doubted there would be much to collect; he didn’t trust Lattarullo any more than he would trust a greedy dog to guard a bone. It didn’t bother him. He was fed up patrolling the coast. The action was up north now, in Monte Cassino. How could he, in his small boat, with only a handful of men, compete with the bandits? Corruption was as ingrained into the culture as machismo. He glanced across at Valentina’s profile and decided that, whatever happened, he would contrive reasons to stay for as long as possible.
Immacolata instructed them to take their places for grace. She spoke in a low, solemn tone and wound her fingers around the cross that hung about her neck. “Padre nostro, figlio di Dio…” Once she had finished, Thomas pulled out Valentina’s chair for her. She turned her soft brown eyes to him and smiled her thanks. He wanted to hear her speak again but her mother presided at the table and it would have been impolite to have ignored her.
“My son Falco was a partisan, Signor Arbuckle,” she said. “Now there is no fighting to be done here. With four sons it is not surprising that my family almost represents every faction of this war. Thankfully, I do not have a communist. I could not tolerate that!” She filled their glasses with Marsala, a sweet fortified wine, then raised hers in a toast. “To your good health, gentlemen, and to peace. May the good Lord grant us peace.” Thomas and Jack raised their glasses and Thomas added,
“To peace and your good health, Signora Fiorelli. Thank you for this fine meal and for your kind hospitality.”
“I don’t have much, but I do see life,” she replied. “I am old now and have seen more than you will ever see, I am sure. What is your business here?”
“Nothing serious. Some armaments left behind by the retreating German army. Although there is not much of it left.”
Immacolata nodded gravely. “Bandits,” she said. “They are everywhere. But they know better than to rob me. Even the all-powerful Lupo Bianco would have trouble penetrating my small fortress. Even him.”
“I hope you are safe, signora. You have a beautiful daughter.” Thomas felt himself flush as he referred to Valentina. Suddenly her well-being was more important to him than anything else in the world. Valentina lowered her eyes. Immacolata seemed pleased with his comment and her face creased into the first smile she had deigned to give.
“God has been kind, Signor Arbuckle. But beauty can be a curse in times of war. I do what I can to protect her. While we are in the company of British officers we need not fear for our safety.” She lifted the basket of bread. “Eat. You never know when you will eat again.” Thomas helped himself to a piece of coarse bread and dipped it in olive oil. Although chewy it tasted good. Immacolata ate with gusto. She had obviously gone to great pains to cook the pasta, which she had prepared with a fish sauce. There was very little food around and yet, as at the trattoria that morning, she had managed to give them the kind of feast they might have expected before the war. As if inspired by the banquet, her conversation turned to the golden days her family enjoyed under Imperial Rome.
“They were civilized times. I try to bring a little of that civilization into my house regardless of what is going on in the rest of the country, for my daughter.” She then proceeded to tell them about her ancestor who was a count: “He fought with Caracciolo in the war against Nelson and the Bourbons, you know.” Thomas listened with half an ear; the rest of his senses were focused on the silent Valentina.
“How long will you be staying?” she asked when dinner was over and they sat feeling drowsy with wine and full bellies.
“As long as it takes to shift the arms,” Thomas replied.
“There are many more, you know. The hills are full of guns and grenades. It is your job to make sure that they don’t fall into the wrong hands, is it not?”
“Of course,” Thomas replied, frowning.
“Then you must stay. This place may look enchanting, but there is evil in every shadow. People have nothing, you see. Nothing. They will kill for a morsel of food. Life has little value nowadays.”
“We will stay as long as we are needed,” he said confidently, although he knew that there was very little he could do against the sort of evil of which she spoke.
While the setting sun singed the sky pink, they sat chatting beneath the vine. Immacolata lit candles, around which moths and mosquitoes fluttered, their tiny wings ever closer to the lethal flame. Thomas and Jack smoked, both acutely aware of Valentina. When she spoke, they listened. Even Jack, who understood little of what was said, sat back to let her soft, beautifully articulated voice run over him like a delicious trickle of syrup. Jack had to let Thomas dominate the conversation; his Italian was far more fluent. However, he did have his lucky charm and, when he felt that he was disappearing with the sun, he let Brendan scamper up his sleeve to sit on his shoulder. As he predicted, the squirrel caught her attention and to the little creature’s relief she didn’t show the slightest intention of eating him. “Ah, che bello!” she sighed, stretching out her hand. Thomas watched her slender brown fingers caress the ginger fur and couldn’t help imagining those same fingers caressing him. He didn’t catch Jack’s eye in case his friend raised a suggestive eyebrow. But Jack was also taken with her loveliness and was well aware that his lewd jokes had no place at that table.
At about ten thirty the car arrived in a cloud of dust. “That will be Lattarullo,” said Thomas. He wished he had had the opportunity to talk to Valentina, but Immacolata had dominated the conversation. Valentina hadn’t seemed to mind. Perhaps with so many brothers she was used to being in the shade.
Lattarullo appeared on the terrace, his brow glistening and his beige shirt stained with sweat. His belly had swollen in the heat like a dead pig and mosquitoes buzzed around his head. He was an unpleasant sight. He informed Thomas and Jack that the rest of the crew had danced all evening in the trattoria. “The singer has entertained the whole town!” he enthused. Judging by the sweat on his shirt the fat carabiniere had been dancing too.
Thomas felt a wave of panic. When would he see Valentina again? He thanked Immacolata for her hospitality, then turned to her daughter. Valentina’s dark eyes looked at him with intensity, as if she could read his thoughts. The corners of her mouth curled into a small, shy smile and her cheeks flushed. Thomas searched for words, any words, but none came. He lost his train of thought in her gaze. The sun had disappeared behind the sea and the light from the candles seemed to turn the brown of her eyes to gold. “Perhaps we will have the pleasure of seeing you again,” he said finally and his voice was a rasp. Valentina was about to reply when her mother interrupted.
“Why don’t you come for the festa di Santa Benedetta tomorrow night?” she suggested. “In the little chapel of San Pasquale. You will witness a miracle and perhaps God will grant you luck.” She toyed with the cross about her neck with rough hands. “Valentina will accompany you,” she added.
“Mamma has a role to play; I will be alone,” Valentina said, lowering her eyes as if embarrassed to ask. “I would very much like you to come.”
“It will be a pleasure to accompany you,” said Thomas, enchanted by her diffidence. This was one excursion he would take alone.
Once in the car Jack burst into commentary. “That Valentina is a real smasher!” he said. “Even Brendan was impressed and he’s very hard to please!”
“I’ve lost my heart, Jack,” Thomas announced gravely.
“Then you had better find it,” he replied with a chuckle. “We won’t be hanging around for long.”
“But I must see her again.”
“Then what?” Jack now pulled the same fish face as Lattarullo and raised his hands to the heavens. “Nothing will come of it, sir.”
“Perhaps not. But I have to know.”
“Now isn’t the moment to fall in love. Certainly not with an Italian. Besides, her mother gives me the creeps.”
“It’s not the mother I’m interested in.”
“They say one should always look at the mother before making a play for the daughter.”
“Valentina’s beauty will never fade, Jack. It’s made to last. Even you can see that.”
“She is extraordinarily beautiful,” he conceded. “Do what you must, but don’t come crying on my shoulder when it all ends in tears. I have far more important things to think about. If I don’t get laid tonight I’m going to bugger Brendan!”
But when they arrived back in town neither felt like dancing. Instead they wandered along the sea front. A couple of old men sat in their boats mending sails, their wrinkled, toothless faces lit up by hurricane lamps. On closer inspection it was clear that they were using stolen tapestries for their purpose. Someone sang “Torna a Sorrento” to the accompaniment of a concertina, his doleful voice echoing eerily through the streets. The sky blue shutters were all closed and Thomas couldn’t help but wonder what went on behind them, whether the occupants were asleep or peeping through the cracks. Reluctant to return to the boat, they ambled up one of the narrow alleyways. A young woman appeared. Jack’s face lit up. She was one of the girls he had admired that morning. With long curly hair and brown skin she was comely with a loose, dreamy smile.
“Come and see what Claretta can do for you. You look weary,” she purred as they approached. “Italian women are famous for our hospitality. Let me show you. Come.”
Jack turned to his friend. “I’ll be five minutes,” he said.
“You’re mad.”
“You’re the madman. At least I’ll come out with my heart intact.”
“But your cock might not be.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“I don’t want a sick number one. I can’t replace you.”
“A man needs a fuck. I’m sure I’m going blind. A blind ‘Jimmy’ is no use to you either! Besides, I’ll be helping the economy. Everyone needs to earn a living.”
Thomas watched as Jack disappeared into the house. He leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. Alone in the empty street he thought once again of Valentina. He would see her the following evening for the ceremony of Santa Benedetta. He couldn’t bring himself to think further than that. If he could sketch her then he would have something to remember her by. To take away with him. He felt sick in the stomach with longing. He had read love poems and the works of Shakespeare but never believed that such intensity of feeling really existed. Now he knew better.
A few minutes later Jack emerged with a large grin, still doing up his fly. Thomas dropped the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and scrunched it into the stones with his foot. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go back to the boat.”
In the morning they awoke to a magical sight. The MTB was adorned with flowers. Red and pink geraniums, irises, carnations, and lilies. They were carefully woven around the railings and scattered like confetti on the deck. Rigs, who had been on watch, had fallen asleep. He had seen nothing but the large audience in Covent Garden which had applauded his dream rendition of Rigoletto. Thomas should have been furious. To fall asleep on watch was a serious offense and one which could cost them all their lives. But the sight of those flowers, bright, vibrant, and innocent, softened his anger. He thought of Valentina, of the evening ahead, and he slapped the offending sailor on his back and said, “If you catch the criminals who did this, sleep with them at once.”