Page 28 of Daughter of Genoa
‘But then you met Bernardo.’
‘And now I have to look afterhim.’ But she was smiling as she said it. ‘He was a widower, as it happened. That was before the war, of course – I mean the Great War. It all seems idyllic now, although I’m quite sure it wasn’t. Being a widower was rather a romantic thing. Not for him, of course.’
‘Right,’ I said, thinking of Stefano.
‘But you can’t imagine the fuss people made when he showed up to our church. A widower, and a fairly young one – and from the valleys, too! A sort of committee was formed to find him a wife. But luckily, Bernardo chose me all on his own. And he’d taken his time to mourn. He’d even moved down here especially to… well, make a new start of it, I suppose. That’s a luxury you wouldn’t have these days.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You simply have to get on with it. You don’t really have time to mourn at all.’
Silvia looked at me for a moment. Then she reached across and patted my arm.
‘I think perhaps I’ll sit up for a little while after all. Would you like a brandy? I’m having one. Not that awful stuff I keep for visitors,’ she went on, with a grimace. ‘I’ll get the good bottle out. And then when Mr X next comes – and we must believe he will, Marta, until we’re told otherwise – you and he can drink a glass together. How about that?’
*
The next morning, I sat at my usual place with a pile of forms in front of me. My head ached and I was nauseated: whether from the late night or the brandy or sheer nerves, I don’t know. Bernardo had eaten breakfast and gone down to start work, and Silvia was sitting by the stove with a book. (‘No point trying to knit anything today. I shall only have to unpick it all again tomorrow.’) And both of us were trying not to look at the clock, although the shop was already open; although the bells of the Immacolata had long since tolled nine o’clock. Vittorio was late.
Vittorio was never late.
‘It will be terrible out there, you know,’ Silvia said. ‘No trams running – not from where he is, anyway. And God knows how many people out on the street.’
‘He might not even get to us at all,’ I said. ‘He might be helping people.’
She nodded a little too vigorously, then winced. ‘I dare say. What is a priestforif he isn’t helping people? So we mustn’t be alarmed if we don’t see him today. It doesn’t mean anything bad. It just means that he’s doing his job.’
‘Of course.’ I was squeezing my hands together, I realised, pushing my right thumb into my left palm as if I could stop the pain somehow. I tried to take a breath to calm myself, but it caught in my chest.
And then there was a shout of joy from downstairs, and footsteps coming steadily up towards the kitchen. I just had time to take it in before Bernardo appeared in the doorway, beaming, his arm around Vittorio’s shoulders. ‘Here he is,’ he proclaimed. ‘Safe and sound!’ And he dealt Vittorio such a slap on the back that he almost knocked him over.
‘Leave the poor man in peace,’ Silvia reproached him. ‘Come on, Father, sit down. Are you all right? Have you eaten? You must eat something – I insist.’ She was already bustling around, pulling out a chair, putting things in place: a cup, a plate, a napkin. ‘Sit down, Father,’ she repeated – but Vittorio didn’t sit. He simply stood there, looking. Looking at me. I stood without thinking.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Bernardo,’ Silvia said, waving a tea towel at him. ‘Stop clogging up the doorway and get back to work. Go on, go! Father Vittorio will come down and see you later. Now, where is that cat?’ And she hurried out into the corridor, leaving the door open behind her.
For a moment I feared that Vittorio would walk out after her; that he would refuse to be alone with me. But instead he smiled a weary smile and said: ‘I’m sorry. I must have given you all a dreadful fright. As a matter of fact, I can’t stay very long – I don’t have the list with me anyway. Mr X handed it to me yesterday, but I’m afraid it was a casualty of the bombing.’
‘But is Mr X all right?’ I asked. ‘Is he safe? Tell me he’s safe, Father Vittorio, please.’
‘He is, but it was a close thing.’
‘Oh, God!’ I blurted out, and then clapped a hand over my mouth.
‘We had actually met at the Curia for the handover,’ Vittorio went on, unruffled by the blasphemy. ‘He gave me the list and I locked it away in a drawer to keep it safe. We went through a few more things we had to discuss, and then the alarm went up and I ran for the shelter. I didn’t think for a moment that the palace would actually be hit, not directly; I just put my own safety first. I assumed that Mr X would do the same and go with me.’
‘But he didn’t?’
‘No.’ He paused, just long enough to let the unspoken filter through. Teglio hadn’t gone to the shelter because being underground, trapped in a small space with people who may well recognise him, was riskier than staying where he was. ‘When I realised he wasn’t there, I was horrified. And when the impact came…’ Vittorio swallowed. He was pale, and I could see that he was reliving it. ‘I thought the cathedral itself had been hit – that the bell tower would come crashing down on our heads. And when it didn’t… well, I was quite certain that Mr X was dead. If he was anywhere above ground, he had to be. I – and those who were with me – decided that once it was safe, we’d form a search party and try to look for his body. We wanted to be the ones to find him, to give him a decent burial – we’d dress him in a cassock, we decided, make him pass for a priest. And as we were in the middle of all these deliberations, he walked up to us, covered in plaster dust from head to foot. He must have run down just in time. It was a miracle – I thought I was having a vision. I asked if he was all right – stupid question, I know – and he said…’ Vittorio gave a nervous, abrupt laugh. ‘I can scarcely believe he had the presence of mind to come up with it. He said: “You know, I’m the last man on earth to see the archbishop’s frescoes.”’
Now I laughed too, relief finally flooding in. Teglio was alive and safe. I wanted to laugh and I wanted to cry and I needed to sit down. So I did, without ceremony, and buried my face in my handkerchief.
There was the squeak and creak of a chair as Vittorio sat down next to me. ‘There’s no harm done,’ he said in English. ‘Don’t take on so.’
I couldn’t speak. I could only nod, keeping my handkerchief firmly clamped in place as my eyes grew treacherously hot. I felt so alone in that moment, even with him right there beside me. All I wanted was to be held. I knew, though, that Vittorio would never hold me.
‘Marta,’ he said softly. And before I could think, I put my hand flat on the table, palm up, towards him. There was a hesitation – I thought I had done something wrong – and then he took it and twined his fingers through mine. I cried then, sobbing out my pain and my fear as he held tight to my hand, rubbing his thumb along the side of my own in a firm, soothing rhythm.
Once my tears died down, Vittorio let go, gently pushing my hand away as if he were returning it to me. ‘I’ll get you some water,’ he said. ‘Where does Silvia keep the glasses?’
‘Top left cupboard.’
