A private cruise across the lagoon seems a treat enough on her last day, when the glory of the Venetian winter weather has come out to bid goodbye, but Luisa has to concentrate hard on appreciating the stunning panorama. With only hours to go until she leaves for the airport, she is intent on completing her mission, finding her grandmother and, with it, her own history. With a day’s delay before they could see Paolo senior, she’s already extended her trip by twenty-four hours, rebooked a flight and checked into the cheapest hostel she can find, playing down the cost to Jamie and hoping it will be worth it. There’s a lot riding on Paolo senior.
Giulio meets her at the waterfront before they board and, although his face is open and optimistic, he clearly has some news he’s anxious to give.
‘I found another Jilani in the archives,’ Giulio says, though his brow creases as Luisa’s own raises with curiosity. ‘As far as I can tell, it’s Stella’s brother.’ His tone belies what comes next.
‘He died before the war ended,’ he says. ‘He’d been imprisoned by the fascists, and although he died in a hospital, it’s difficult to tell what the cause was. From the records we have, it seems he was beaten badly but refused to give out any names or information. I think he must have succumbed to his injuries.’ Giulio’s look is a mixture of sadness and pride in a fellow Venetian.
Luisa hardly knows how to feel, under a white winter sun drenching the entire city with energy and expectation. She’d had a great-uncle she’d never known, who had never been spoken of, and yet she feels something of his loss. Succumbed to his injuries. To torture, in other words. She’s horrified and sad, though more for her grandmother, who would have known him well and presumably felt his loss acutely.
‘It’s all the more reason we need to find Stella,’ she says at last, and Giulio nods his agreement.
The small motorboat Pietro has borrowed from a friend can hardly go fast enough for her, its little outboard engine whining with the effort of weaving around the larger ferries as they follow the trail of foam wash towards the Lido.
Pietro reports his grandfather is better in the mornings, as he sleeps most of the afternoon, but Luisa gets the feeling it’s also about the old man’s lucidity and there being only a certain stock of it each day. Sitting beside her, Giulio has again counselled her against very high hopes; in his research he’s clearly had to deal with a good deal of cobwebbed memories and their unreliability. Even so, Luisa senses he can’t help but share the excitement at the prospect of something – a new nugget of information or recall – to add to his rich bank of knowledge.
They pull up at one of the larger pontoons, and the nursing home is a five-minute walk from the water’s edge.
‘Grandpapa wasn’t very happy about leaving the main island,’ Pietro says to Giulio. ‘Until we convinced him that as long as he can see the water and San Marco, he’s not really left. I think these days he doesn’t actually see that far at all, but it keeps him happy enough.’
To Luisa, the home is a world away from anything similar back in England. The corridors are ornate and lofty, and the smell of advancing years – common to the few homes she has visited before – is replaced with an intoxicating smell of simmering garlic.
Paolo senior sits in the lounge, facing the bright sparkle of water and basking in the light from the large windows. He doesn’t attempt to pull up his small, frail body in greeting, but his lined face lights up at the sight of Pietro, and the two kiss, Italian-style, with real affection. His bony fingers grasp at Pietro’s hand as if afraid to let go.
Pietro explains why he’s brought guests, and the old man seems immediately to understand what’s being asked of him. His rheumy eyes dart back and forth, the cogs of his memory grinding into action. Finally, they light up, signalling his ‘eureka’ moment.
‘Of course! Of course I remember Stella!’ he exclaims with hand gestures that even Luisa can comprehend. In turn, Pietro gestures at Luisa, and she just catches the word ‘grand-daughter’ in Italian. The old man’s eyes glow bright and his larger-than-life dentures are fully on show – he holds out his hands for contact, and she trades places with Giulio to sit next to him.
‘So, you are one of Stella’s,’ he says. ‘I always did wonder if she had any children. And now I know. I’m so pleased. So relieved.’ He clenches at Luisa’s hands again tightly. It’s Giulio who assumes the lead then, carefully and succinctly forming the questions that they need answers to.
Yes, Stella left before the liberation, Paolo senior confirms, and she didn’t return until – when was it? – perhaps 1946, to see her mother and father for the last time.
‘After that I didn’t see her until 1950 – I know because I was married the same year. She had her husband with her.’
Luisa turns to Giulio and she can’t help her lips spreading wide with anticipation.
‘Do you know where they met then?’ Giulio probes. ‘Was her husband part of the Resistance too? Is there anything you can tell us?’ Can Paolo senior possibly hold the answer to the mysterious ‘C’ – the forerunner to Grandpa Gio?
‘Ha! I can do better than that,’ the old man says. The lines in his face spring upwards and he’s suddenly full of mischief. ‘Now there’s a tale to be told, even by the war’s standards.’
He gestures for Pietro to come close and whispers something in his ear. The grandson nods and disappears, returning a long five minutes later and placing something in Paolo’s lap. It’s a thick, bound book of white paper, although the title page is face down at first and Luisa can only see a blank back page, dirtied with age. She feels her heart crank into the same rhythm as that day in her mother’s attic. The odour of dust and slight damp wafts across the space as Paolo’s spindly fingers scrabble to turn it over – she hears the old man’s dry skin scrape across the brittle paper, and Pietro is visibly holding back from hurrying his grandfather.
‘Here,’ he says finally, pushing the book towards Luisa. ‘This will tell you everything. Stella gave it to me – she told me I was in there somewhere, but I always suspected I was keeping it for someone else. And finally that someone has made their way to me.’ He smiles with satisfaction, and she sees what might be a tear teetering on his reddened lower lids.
Luisa takes what is clearly a manuscript into her own hands and turns it over. In bold old-fashioned type, a single line states:
THE HIDDEN TYPEWRITER:
A Story of Resistance