Page 38 of The Tuscan Child
“Don’t let them upset you,” she said as she closed the kitchen door behind us. “Those men are bullies. They are not from around here. The Carabinieri are only country policemen, always chosen from among the uncouth and the loutish. Many of them come from Sicily, and we know what kind of people live down there, don’t we? Gangsters.Mafiosi.Still, they are not permitted by law to investigate major crimes. With luck a senior inspector from Lucca will be sent and all will be well. But first let me pour you coffee, and you should have a good breakfast before you take your bath.”
Angelina had been standing just outside the kitchen door, watching from a distance with the baby in her arms. As we approached, the baby started to cry. Angelina rocked her back and forth. “Have those horrible men gone yet, Mamma?” she asked. “Is it true that someone was murdered? I did not like to come closer in case the shock curdled my milk and I could not feed the little one.”
“It is true,mia cara,” Paola said. “The poor man who lost his life was Gianni.”
“Oh, Gianni.” Angelina nodded thoughtfully as she put the baby to her shoulder and patted its back. “Well, I suppose that is not a complete shock, is it?”
“It is always a shock when someone dies before their time,” Paola said. “Go put the little one down and we will have our breakfast. This poor young lady is shivering as if she has been out in the snow.”
She sat me at the table as if I was a helpless child, put a cup of milky coffee in front of me, and then placed bread and jam and cheese on the table. “Eat. You will feel better.”
My stomach felt as if it had tied itself into knots, and I didn’t think I could eat anything, but with Paola hovering over and watching me, I had to at least take some sips of hot coffee and then spread some apricot jam on a slice of bread. The bread must have been baked that morning. It was still warm, and the butter and fresh apricot jam melted together so that I almost sighed with pleasure at the combination of textures and flavours. Who could have thought that bread and jam could have such an effect? I had a second slice, then some sharp cheese, and by that time I was feeling almost human again and strong enough to tackle even the most boorish Carabinieri.
Angelina came to join us, cutting herself a big hunk of bread and topping it with lashings of butter.
“Why did you say you were not shocked that Gianni was killed?” I asked her.
She shrugged. “It is said that sometimes Gianni makes deals, not quite legal ones, you know? Maybe cigarettes from a boat that comes to the coast. That sort of thing.”
“We don’t know that,” Paola said. “It is all hearsay. It is true he is not liked in town. Not trusted. And now this business with the olive press.”
“He wanted to get men together to build his own olive press, is that right?” I asked.
She nodded. “And of course Cosimo would not be happy if that came to pass. But I don’t think it would ever have happened. The other men would not have wanted to risk defying Cosimo. I think Gianni stuck his neck out for nothing.”
I tried to make sense of this, not just their Italian words but the implications of them. Gianni was involved in things that were not quite legal. And shoving someone down a well to drown would be the sort of thing that gangsters would do to teach someone a lesson. But he had also dared to cross Cosimo. I pictured that man’s face—so powerful, and his eyes so cold when he stared at me and said, “You are German, I think.” No, I would not have wanted to cross him.
But he’d had a stroke, which had clearly left him partly paralysed—certainly not able to lift that extremely heavy top from the well and shove a body down into it. But then someone as powerful as Cosimo presumably had minions who would obey his commands. And he had an adopted son who was big and muscular. I had to remember that!
“Tomorrow is Saturday,” Paola said. “Market day in San Salvatore. You shall both help me see which vegetables and fruits are ready to be picked and brought to market.”
“Don’t we have to go up to the town and make our statements at the police station?” I said.
Paola gave a dismissive gesture. “Pah. Let those men wait. We know nothing about Gianni’s activities that might have led to his untimely death. It will be good for us to have something to do, and working out in God’s nature is always soothing for the soul.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t we do that right now, before the sun is too hot, and then you can take your bath at your leisure?”
I would have liked to bathe first, having hastily pulled on yesterday’s clothes, but I wasn’t going to argue with Paola when she was being so kind to me. I followed her out to the garden. “Let us see,” she said. “These tomatoes—yes, we shall find enough ripe ones here, but we will not pick them until the last minute tomorrow. And these broad beans. They must be eaten young like this. The pole beans—they will take another couple of weeks.” She paused, bending to a feathery plant. “The asparagus? We want to keep enough for ourselves, but the plant has been generous this year. Good.”
She continued onward, moving with speed and grace for a large woman. “Ah, look, Angelina. The zucchini blossoms. Perfect.”
I saw her examine a yellow flower. “What do you do with those?” I asked. “Can you eat flowers?”
“Oh, but yes! Zucchini blossoms. We stuff them. So delicious. I will make some for us tonight, if you like. And then this plant will keep rewarding us with zucchini all season long.”
I had just seen something else I hadn’t expected to find in this well-cultivated plot. It looked like a giant thistle. “But surely one cannot eat this?” I asked, pointing at it.
Paola looked surprised. “You do not have artichokes in your country?”
“I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“Then I will fry some tonight as an antipasto. Oh, but they are good. You will enjoy.”
We walked on. We found that there were ripe cherries and even some apricots, but that the peaches would not be ready for a while. “We will pick the fruit tonight after the sun goes down, and the asparagus can be cut, too, but the tomatoes, the blossoms...those we will wait until the last minute to pick.” She gave us a satisfied smile. “Good. We will have a fine offering at the market tomorrow.” And we followed her back to the house.
I went back to my room to collect my sponge bag and towel, looking forward to a long soak in a tub. As I rummaged in my bag for clean underwear, I noticed a piece of paper sticking out from between the slats of the shutter on my window. It certainly hadn’t been in the room yesterday. I went over and pulled it free with some difficulty. It was an envelope. I sat on my bed and opened it. As I took out a letter, three objects fell on to the quilt. I examined them one by one. One was a little lapel pin in the shape of a many-pointed star. Another was a scrap of brown cloth, stiff with something like paint. And the third was a small banknote. It said “Reichsmark.” A German banknote from the time of the war.
I put them back on to the quilt and tried to read the letter. The handwriting was not easy to read, and my knowledge of written Italian was not great. I went for my dictionary and started to translate slowly and laboriously.
I want to tell you the truth about Sofia. I know. I kept silent until now, for fear of my life, but you are an outsider. I will take you to my sheep and there I will tell you, where nobody can hear us.
