Page 11 of Daughter of Genoa
‘Ha! Well. Oh, now, would you look out some books for our friend here? She’s a great reader and desperately needs something light and amusing. No Walter Scott, I beg you.’ He nodded to me, kissed Silvia’s hand and was gone.
Silvia and I looked at each other. ‘He’s quite something, Mr X,’ I said. ‘Very… gallant.’ And I searched Silvia’s face for any sign that she knew who he was, too – but she gave nothing away.
‘Oh, he’s a terrible flirt when he turns on the charm,’ she said comfortably, picking up Teglio’s cup and saucer and taking them to the sink. ‘But it’s a great weapon. It lets him do what he does.’ She turned on the tap and started washing the cup, humming to herself.
I was dying to know what exactly it was that he did, but I forced myself not to ask. I didn’t quite trust anyone yet; not Bernardo, not Vittorio, not even motherly, pragmatic Silvia. Teglio’s sudden appearance had only unsettled me more. I couldn’t forget that photograph in my brother’s scrapbook: Teglio slender and upright, Balbo a broad, swaggering figure with his chest riddled with medals. I didn’t understand how the Massimo Teglio I knew by reputation – the daredevil playboy who flew with Fascists – could possibly be reconciled with the serious man I’d met that day, the man who dealt in forged ration cards and secret signals. The man who knew what it was to be alone and afraid.
Until I understood, I knew that I couldn’t trust him either. It didn’t matter how much I wanted to help; how much his work intrigued me. I could only wait, and watch, and keep my counsel.
8
The next day, everyone was anxious and muted. Silvia didn’t even argue when I offered to help with preparing lunch; I didn’t linger once the plates were washed and stacked, but went straight back to my room and lay down on the bed, listening to the sounds of the street outside and the shop below. Even Tiberio seemed unsettled, and slipped away to hide under the couch in the parlour. For the first time since my arrival, I felt that my hosts were as unsure of me as I was of them; Teglio’s visit seemed to have thrown everything into disorder. By the time he finally returned, just before dinner and carrying a tantalisingly book-shaped parcel, I had run through every potential disaster scenario and had all but decided that I would have to go back out on the street and take my chances with the Germans.
‘I need to speak to signora Ricci in private,’ Teglio said, without niceties. ‘I’m sorry to throw you out of your own kitchen, Silvia, but needs must.’
‘Of course,’ Silvia said. ‘I completely understand.’
‘And I appreciate your understanding.’ He waited until Silvia had gone out, and then he turned to me and said: ‘I hope you’ll forgive me taking up your time, signora Ricci. I’m using that name as a courtesy, of course. Your real name is Anna Pastorino, though you were born Anna Levi.’
He was looking me straight in the eye. I couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. ‘Sit, please,’ he said, and indicated the chair at right angles to his. I sank into it.
‘How?’ I eventually managed to ask. ‘How did you…’
‘Oh, I checked you out. It wasn’t difficult. There are very few half-Scottish, half-Italian daughters of Machiavelli scholars in Genoa.’
I looked down, my face burning. I hadn’t just talked about books. I’d stupidly given away my whole family history, and I hadn’t even realised I was doing it. ‘I thought you operated on a need-to-know basis,’ I said.
‘I do, yes. And if somebody wants to work with my organisation – which I was given to understand that you do, very much – then I need to know who they are and what might have driven them to it.’
‘Father Vittorio spoke to you,’ I said.
‘Yes, and Silvia, too. That’s part of the reason I came: I wanted to get a look at you myself, find out if you were trustworthy. It’s quite all right,’ he added, a little more gently. ‘You knew who you were talking to. And on that, I very much appreciated your keeping up the pretence. That gave me a degree of confidence even before I discovered more about you.’
‘And what did you discover?’ My heart was in my throat.
‘Well, let’s see.’ He sat back, considering me. ‘You were born here in Genoa, in March 1914, to Jacopo Levi and his wife, Miriam MacPherson—’
‘MacPhail. My mother’s name is MacPhail.’
‘Indeed. Miriam MacPhail, who loves Stevenson and Scott. You have one younger brother, Filippo, whose great passion is aeroplanes. And yes, I do remember him,’ Teglio said. ‘I don’t think that anyone has ever asked me so many questions. You, meanwhile, studied at the Liceo Regina Margherita and then went on to train as a bookkeeper. I wonder why you did that? An intelligent young lady with two such academic parents. Surely they would have encouraged you to pursue any career you pleased.’
‘Of course. But I needed to find a practical job, something steady, something that would help. You know why,’ I added.
He held up his hands as if to say:touché. ‘Yes. I do know, of course. And it’s quite in keeping with everything I’ve heard about your character.’
‘Tell me,’ I said.
‘I heard about the daughter of a staunchly antifascist family. A serious, responsible soul who put her husband and parents first, at grave cost to herself – the kind of cost she could never have anticipated.’
‘Then you know what happened to Stefano.’ I couldn’t look at Teglio now, couldn’t bear his sympathy.
‘Yes, I do, and I know how his family treated you when he was gone. I’m very sorry. You told me that you were alone in the world, and I’m afraid to say I doubted you. I rather had to doubt anything you told me, as a matter of protocol. I know the truth now.’
I couldn’t speak. I could only nod, and hope he understood.
‘I found all that out,’ Teglio went on. ‘And in the process, I also discovered that your capacity for discretion was far greater than it may appear. Because you hadn’t been a mere assistant to some piddling local shopkeeper, as you had told Silvia and Father Vittorio and they, in turn, told me. You had, in fact, spent four years as confidential secretary to one of Genoa’s more prominent businessmen. A man who did you a very poor turn indeed. I should think he was intolerable even at the best of times.’
‘I hated him,’ I said. ‘I still do.’
