Page 22 of Daughter of Genoa
‘I see. And she… she is…’
‘She’s with my father and brother in America. They’re all safe, so far as I know. She’s a Protestant,’ I couldn’t resist adding. ‘My mother. She’s a good person, though.’
Vittorio laughed, a sharp, sudden laugh that turned to coughing. Silvia awoke with a snort and sat upright, her hands going to her hair. Indignant, Tiberio fled her lap and retreated to a corner of the kitchen, where he sat primly on his haunches and began to wash himself.
‘Sorry,’ Silvia said. ‘This weather… Have you finished?’
‘Yes, we have.’ Vittorio rose to his feet, gathering cloak and stole and bag. ‘Mr X will come past later. Good day, Silvia; good day, Marta.’ He nodded to each of us and went out.
Silvia leaned towards me. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I just closed my eyes for a moment and then I was gone. Was it horribly awkward? Or didn’t he notice?’
‘I’m quite sure he didn’t,’ I said, although in fact I had no idea. ‘Don’t worry at all. We were busy working.’
‘Oh, good. That is a relief. And now you shall see Mr X again, and so soon. I won’t have to play at being a duenna then.’ She bent down to pick up her knitting from where it had fallen on the floor, and settled back in her chair. ‘By the way, I don’t mind you two drinking my brandy, but if you are going to be alone together then I must insist you leave the door open.’
‘Of course,’ I said. The suggestion of impropriety made me blush, a fierce hot-cold blush, and I hoped Silvia wouldn’t look at me. She didn’t, thankfully. She seemed to be busy counting her stitches.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I know you’re a grown woman, but…’ She trailed off, and I wondered what she was about to say next.But those are the rules. But this is a respectable house. But I would tell my daughter the same.Except that she didn’t have a daughter, did she? Or was there one who’d grown up and married, or gone away to work, or simply… gone away? I thought of my own mother, who hadn’t seen me in ten years – who didn’t know whether I was alive or dead – and the thought was almost unbearable.
‘Silvia?’
‘Yes, Marta dear?’ Her attention was still on her knitting.
‘I wanted to ask…’ Now she looked at me, and I realised that I was being foolish. I couldn’t actually ask her if she had a child, or children. It wasn’t any of my business; and besides, who knew what painful feelings I might stir up. ‘Can I help with anything?’ I offered.
‘You can cut up some bread, if you absolutely must.’ Silvia nodded towards the loaf-end sitting on the counter. ‘Nice and small. I’ll fry it up and we can have it in our soup.’
‘All right. Is there anything else?’ I said it far more earnestly than I meant to, because the thought of my mother had shaken me up. ‘Anything at all.’
Silvia reached across and patted my arm. ‘You’re a kind girl,’ she said. ‘But no, the bread will do.’
13
Teglio arrived just after dinner, and asked Bernardo and Silvia if we could take over the kitchen table. ‘Of course,’ Silvia said – answering, as ever, for both of them. ‘We’ll sit and read in the parlour. Won’t we, Bernardo?’
‘Yes, love,’ Bernardo said, but he was pulling at his moustache. He didn’t look too happy to give up the warmth of the stove.
‘Come on, then.’ Silvia scooped up Tiberio in one arm and almost propelled Bernardo out of the door, leaving it pointedly open. She gave me a meaningful look over her shoulder as she departed.
‘Right,’ Teglio said, and cleared his throat. He seemed uncharacteristically flustered, and I wondered if he’d had to hear the same talk that Silvia had given me. ‘Now, these are the cards you and Father Vittorio filled out today?’ He nodded to the pile that stood on the table by his elbow.
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘Good.’ He reached into his jacket and brought out another parcel, which he handed to me. ‘Here are some I did myself last night, along with the list. Perhaps you could double-check them, make sure all the details are present and correct?’
‘Like Father Vittorio does for me.’
‘Exactly. Hang on, just let me fetch the stamp.’
By the time he returned, I’d unpacked the folded cards and set them in front of me along with the list and a pencil. Teglio pulled up his chair alongside mine and flourished the stamp with a smile.
‘I’ll stamp yours and Father Vittorio’s while you start going through mine. I won’t be nearly as efficient as you, of course, but I can give it my best try. Ready?’
‘Ready,’ I said. I opened the first card in the stack and saw, to my surprise, that it had a photograph already attached. I’d only worked on blank cards before, and now here was the face of a young woman, much younger than I was. Her hair was loosely pulled back and she watched the camera with wary, tired eyes.
‘All right there?’ Teglio asked.
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ I moved the list closer and began to check the details, forcing myself to ignore the woman’s gaze. Next came a middle-aged man with a moustache and a striped tie; then a woman with a round face and a billowy, old-fashioned hairstyle; then another, an angular, elderly lady with a look of fierce determination. And each of them was looking at the camera – looking at me. My nerve began to fail: I checked names, birth dates, distinguishing features and then went back to check them again, fearing that I’d overlook some detail that would alert the Germans. My work became slower and slower, more and more agonised. And then I opened the next card, and I stopped.
