Page 28 of The Tuscan Child
“Buonasera,”they replied, a gentle rebuke that the day had now officially passed into evening.
I continued to where a wall ran around the parapet, and next to the wall a big cross had been erected. I read the inscription: “To Our Brave Sons Lost in the War of 1939–45.” Beyond was a glorious view: range after range of forested hills, some crowned with villages such as this one. Directly below the wall the land plunged away into a deep valley where I could see a road. But there was no way down from the village to join it. Clearly this was a place built for defence in the old days!
I stood there taking photos of the view. When I looked back the old couple had gone, making me wonder if I had only imagined them. In truth this whole town had a tinge of unreality for me, like being in a beautiful but unsettling dream. Was it only yesterday that I had been in rainy London? Was it only a year ago that I had moved in with Adrian? And my father had let me know in no uncertain terms how much he disapproved...And then...I closed my eyes as if trying to shut out the painful memories.How much can happen in so short a time,I thought. How quickly life can change. Well, maybe it was time that it changed again. I was in a beautiful place, staying with a kind woman, and I was going to enjoy myself, whatever the outcome was.
Having made that decision, I started to walk back through the town. In just half an hour or so, things had changed. The world was coming to life. Small boys were playing football in the street while a little girl sat on a step watching them. The greengrocer was carrying in crates of vegetables, ready to shut up shop for the night. A group of women stood talking together, waving their hands expressively as only Italians do. From open front doors came enticing aromas and the sounds of radios or televisions playing. And when I arrived back in the piazza, it was now bathed in deep shadow and pleasantly cool. I saw that the men had returned to their table outside the trattoria and were arguing so loudly and violently that I was afraid a fight might break out at any moment.
I shrank back into the shadows of the side street, not wanting them to know I was there at such a crucial time. Then one of them threw up his hands in a gesture of futility, another laughed, and the moment was diffused. Wine was poured from a carafe on the table, and it appeared that everyone was contented again. All the way through the town I had rehearsed my lines for my upcoming speech. I had actually written some of them on the train, to be memorised in case my fledgling Italian deserted me in a moment of stress.
It took me a few seconds of deep breathing to pluck up the courage to walk across the piazza to them. They looked up at the sound of my approaching footsteps.
“Ah, the signorina,” one said. “Did you find Paola? Do you stay in her animal house?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said. “It’s very nice and she is kind.”
“Paola is a good woman,” one of the men agreed. “She will feed you well. You need feeding up. No flesh on your bones.”
I didn’t quite understand this but saw them examining me critically. Not plump enough to be an Italian girl.
“I have come to find out about my father,” I said. “He was a British airman. His plane crashed near this town in the war, but he survived. I wondered if any of you knew about him or met him.”
They were all middle-aged, or even elderly. Some of them must have been in the village at that time. But I was met with blank looks.
Then an older, wizened man said, “There was a plane that crashed down in Paolo’s fields, remember? The Germans came and asked us about it, but we knew nothing.”
“I remember that Marco was angry because the plane burned two good olive trees,” another man agreed. “But of that plane there were no survivors, I am sure. It was burned completely.”
It occurred to me that they were not talking about my father’s plane. Perhaps his plane had not crashed exactly in this area, and he had been making his way south to escape from German-held territory when he came to San Salvatore. Clearly none of these men knew anything of a British pilot in their town. I decided to change the subject. “Do any of you remember a woman called Sofia Bartoli?”
That produced an immediate reaction. I was met with hostile stares. One of the men turned and spat on the ground.
“Did this woman do something bad?” I asked.
“She ran off with a German,” one of the men said finally. “Just before the Allies were driving the filthy Germans north. She was seen going off with him in the middle of the night, escaping in an army vehicle.”
“Going willingly with him?” I asked. “Are you sure of that?”
“Of course. It was the one who had been staying in her house. A good-looking man. An officer. My wife was told by Sofia’s grandmother that she knew she was sweet on a man. Well, you can tell, can’t you, when a woman has feelings for a man.”
“She obviously thought she’d have a better life in Germany than staying here, working day after day in the fields,” a man at the end of the table muttered. “Especially if her husband was already dead.” There were more mutters of agreement.
“She left behind a child?” I asked. “A baby boy?”
There were nods around the table. “Yes, Renzo. Her son. She abandoned him.”
“And Renzo still lives in this town?”
One of them looked up. “Here he comes now, with his father.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JOANNA
June 1973
Two men were walking together into the piazza. One was a big bull of a middle-aged man, powerfully built with the grey curly hair and profile of the Roman Caesars. Yet in spite of his powerful appearance, he walked with a stick. The other was tall, muscular, and remarkably good-looking. He had the same strong chin, dark eyes, and mass of unruly, dark curls. He was wearing a white shirt, opened several buttons down to reveal a tanned chest, and dark, form-fitting trousers. The effect was of a Romantic poet, although rather more healthy-looking. A fleeting thought crossed my mind that it would be highly unfair if the most attractive man I had ever seen turned out to be my brother—until I reminded myself that I had sworn off men.
I kept staring at him, trying to see any hint of my father in him. But he was nothing like my slim and fair-haired father.
