Page 54 of The Tuscan Child
When he awoke again he was aware of distant noises—the sound of drums and then trumpets. It immediately brought to mind an invading army, Roman or medieval. But Sofia had told him that everyone would be out and about with much celebrating. Maybe the village band and a procession was part of the “much celebrating.”
He washed himself at the rain barrel and wished he had a comb in his pocket to sort out his hair. He wet it and ran his fingers through it to smooth out the curl. The day was exceptionally clear and bright. And still—so still that his breath seemed like the only sound in the world. The drums and trumpets had ceased, and he pictured everyone in the village sitting around long communal tables, passing great bowls of food, talking and laughing as if they had not a care in the world.
They will be feasting until late in the night,he thought.Sofia might not come at all.He had to accept that and hope she wouldn’t take the risk when people were going home from their celebrations.
Darkness fell. He settled himself in his bed and lay back, longing for a cigarette, a glass of Scotch, a pork pie, a sausage roll, a chocolate bar—all of the little things he had taken for granted all his life.
He thought he heard angels singing and opened his eyes in disbelief. “And there were shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night,” he muttered, the words of the gospel coming back to him. He looked up to see an angel coming toward him, singing in a high, clear, sweet voice. She held up a lantern that illuminated her face.
“Mille cherubini in coro ti sorridono dal ciel,”she sang. A thousand cherubim serenade you from the sky. Then she dropped to the floor beside him.
“Oh, you are awake. I am so glad. See, I bring you good things for Christmas. Come out and enjoy your feast.”
He dragged himself from his bed and perched on the bench beside her. She was unwrapping dishes from the thick cloth.
“Wild boar ragu and pasta,” she said. “And ewes’ milk with honey and pepper. And chestnut cake. And a little flask of grappa. Eat, eat.”
He gave a chuckle at her insistence.The typical Italian mother,he thought,even though she is so young.He needed no urging. The food was still warm. He ate, using the last of his polenta to wipe the plates clean. The grappa was raw and stung his throat as it went down, but it spread a warmth through his body.
“You like it?” she asked shyly.
“Magnificent. A true banquet,” he said, and she gave a delighted laugh.
“We had such a good time today in the village. First a beautiful Midnight Mass. Everyone singing, and Father Filippo gave us words of such comfort. Then we joined with other families to celebrate. There was enough to eat and everyone was happy. Just like old times.” Then her face became solemn again. “Cosimo gave me a gift—a bottle of limoncello he had been saving in his cellar. I didn’t want to accept it, but we were in company and I did not want him to lose face in front of other people. So I made him open it right away and drink a toast to our missing loved ones, those who had not returned home yet.”
Her face became wistful. Then she smiled again. “And I have brought a small gift for you, because at Christmas one should give gifts.”
She handed him a tiny angel carved from wood. “It was part of our Christmas scene,” she said.
“You should have left it where it belongs, Sofia,” he said as she put it into his hand.
“But there are other angels, and I wanted an angel to be looking after you. The crib is very old. Many generations, and each one added to it, until now.” She curled his fingers around it. “Keep it and know that all the time I pray that your guardian angel looks after you.”
Hugo felt tears welling up and blinked them away.
“I have a gift for you, too,” he said.
“A gift? For me?”
“Of course. It’s Christmas. One has to give gifts. You said so.”
“Is it another pigeon? Another tin?”
“Nothing as useful, I’m afraid. Here.” He handed her the missal.
“It’s an old book.” She looked at it in wonder.
“I found it among the rubble,” he said. “It seems to be almost intact. Open it.”
She did and found the folded paper.
“Carefully,” he instructed.
She unfolded it and gave a little gasp of excitement. “It is a Miraculous Medal, just like the one I put into Guido’s pocket when he went off to war. How did you know?”
“I found it among the rubble,” he said. “I cleaned it up a bit. I remembered you said you had no medal forla Madonna. And I drew a picture for you.” He realised as he said it that he sounded like a hopeful little boy.
Sofia spread out the folded sheet and held it up to the lantern light. “It’s the nativity,” she exclaimed. “The Virgin and Saint Joseph and the infant Jesus. And shepherds and sheep. Oh, and it’s my home. Look at the church tower. It’s amazing. You are a true artist, Ugo. I will treasure this forever.”
