Page 40 of The Tuscan Child
“All right.” The officer picked up a pen and looked up at me. “How long have you been in San Salvatore?” “I only arrived yesterday,” I told him. “No, I have never been here before. I have never been to Italy before. I know nobody in the town. I was told that Signora Rossini had a room to rent. That is why I am staying there.”
“And why did you come to San Salvatore?” he asked, frowning at me. “We have no antiquities here. No famous church. We are not Siena or Florence.”
I tried to think of a reason for coming that would not involve my father or the war—an innocent reason. I was a student of agriculture and writing a paper on olive trees? But then I realised that someone would have told them that I was asking questions about Sofia Bartoli and my father. It was better to tell the truth. I had nothing to hide, except for a letter concealed in my dictionary.
“My father was a British airman,” I said, those words now coming easily to me as I had said them several times. “His plane was shot down near this town. I wanted to see it for myself because he died recently.”
“Ah.” That seemed to satisfy him. “I understand. And this man who was killed. You did not know him?”
“I only came here yesterday,” I said. “I think he was among the men who were kind to me when I asked about my father. They bought me a glass of wine here in the piazza. Then I went home to dinner with Signora Rossini, and after dinner I was very tired. I fell asleep early. This morning I wanted to wash but there was no water. That was when I asked the signora and she helped me lift the lid on the well and we saw the body. That is all I know.”
“Very good, Signorina,” he said. I could see that his expression was now relaxed. I was not a suspect.
“Am I free to go if I wish?” I asked.
He shook his head. “We have had to report this to the detectives in Lucca. They will send an inspector, and he will want to confirm what you have told me. A mere formality, you understand, but until he comes you must remain here.”
“And when might he come?” I asked. “I have to go back to England.”
He gave an expressive shrug. “It is Saturday tomorrow, is it not? Perhaps he will come then, or perhaps he will wait until Monday. We have to see.”
I tried to tell myself there was no harm in my waiting around for two more days. I’d be with Paola. I’d be safe. Then my hand tightened around the purse I was carrying. Had someone observed Gianni push the envelope through the bars? In which case what lengths would they go to in order to recover it from me?I should have resealed it and left it in my room,I thought. But then I decided that nobody could get into that room unless they managed to break down the heavy door.
I followed Paola out into the dazzling sunshine. “That is finished, thankla Madonna,” she said. “Now to more important matters. I think we should go to the butcher’s and buy some veal for tonight’s dinner. You like veal?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had it,” I said, not even knowing what the word meant.
“What do you eat in England?” she asked. “Always roast beef?”
“No, we eat lamb, sausages, fish. And potatoes. Always potatoes, not pasta.”
She gave me a look of intense pity. “That is why you are all skin and bones,” she said. “You must stay with me long enough for me to fatten you up. Who will want to marry a girl with no meat on her?”
“I wasn’t always skin and bones,” I said. “I have been sick this year.”
“Ah. That explains why you look like a walking statue. You stay here, my dear, and you will see what sunshine and good food can do for you.”
It was a very tempting offer. At this moment I could think of nothing better than staying with Paola, learning to cook, being mothered by her. Except that a man had been killed and it may have been because I was in San Salvatore. He had written that he knew the truth about Sofia. Did that mean that someone else in the village knew the truth and wanted it to remain hidden? I looked around the piazza. At this hour of the morning the tables outside the trattoria were empty. The only people around were housewives doing their shopping with baskets over their arms and some small children chasing the pigeons that wheeled and flapped and settled again.
On the church tower above, the bell started tolling. I thought it was for the hour but it went on ringing. Paola crossed herself. “Theangelus. It is midday. Come, we must hurry before the shops shut for lunch. And that lazy butcher will not open again until at least four.”
She set off at a great pace. I almost had to run to keep up. We bought some pale little chops of what I had now worked out must be veal. Then in the delicatessen next door she chose several salamis from among the hundreds arranged on the shelf and some white cheese.
“Now we go home to eat,” she said, nodding in satisfaction. “You shall help me stuff the zucchini blossoms.”
We arrived back at her house. “First we pick and then we stuff,” she said.
“I’ll go and put my purse away,” I said. “Then I’ll help you.”
I took the key and wended my way through the market garden to my little house. The door was still locked and untouched. I heaved a sigh of relief. I let myself in and checked that the three objects were still in my shoe. I left my purse and locked the door behind me. As I glanced over at the window, I noticed the imprint of a big boot in the soft earth. Had that been there this morning? I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure I would have noticed. Was it maybe Gianni’s print from last night? But I remembered he had been quite slickly dressed—light blue shirt open at the neck and tight black trousers. Certainly no workman’s or labourer’s boots. That meant that someone had been trying to see in through that window while we had been away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HUGO
December 1944
Hugo’s leg was definitely on the mend. He still couldn’t put any weight on it, but at least it didn’t throb violently all the time and the fever had not returned. In the morning he made himself get up and practice walking with the stick. The sun had been streaming in through the broken masonry, but when he came outside he stopped and gasped in surprise. Below him the world lay in a sea of white fog. Only the very tip of the church bell tower rose above it, and in the distance were the crests of other hills. This seemed like a perfect moment to try and explore, knowing he couldn’t be seen from below. The ground was frosty, and he moved cautiously, hopping around the ruined buildings, looking for anything that might be useful. He found a cooking pot, another spoon, and, to his delight, a tin of something. He couldn’t tell what, because the label had been destroyed, but that encouraged him to keep looking. He tucked his finds inside his jacket and ventured further. He spotted a boot sticking out from under a chunk of masonry. The other of the pair might be nearby. It would be a useful commodity for Sofia to trade. He used all his strength to move the piece of stone aside, then recoiled in horror when he saw that the boot was still attached to a leg. He had forgotten that the Allies had bombed a German gun position. There would certainly be other bodies buried here. This knowledge took away the childish excitement he had felt at making discoveries.
