Last Voyage of the Valentina(102)

Immacolata took her granddaughter’s hand. “My child,” she said softly. “How could you possibly understand what it is like to live through a war? Things were very different then. There was starvation, death, barbarity, hopelessness, Godlessness, all manner of evils. Valentina was vulnerable. Her loveliness made her vulnerable. I could not protect her from soldiers. Nor could I hide her away. Sharing the bed of an important, powerful man was her only means of survival, you have to understand that. Think of her in the context of her time. Try.” Alba stared down at the face her father had drawn so blindly.

“Falco said she loved my father,” she said.

“She did, Alba. Not at first. I encouraged her. I told her that she could do a lot worse than marry a fine, handsome English officer. But she fell in love with him all on her own.”

“So, you knew all along?”

“Of course I knew. I knew Valentina better than I know myself. A mother’s love is unconditional, Alba. Valentina loved you the same. Had she watched you grow up, she would have loved you in spite of your faults. Perhaps even more so because of them. Valentina wasn’t an angel, she wasn’t a saint, she was a fallible human being like the rest of us. What made her different was her ability to change. But if any one of them got close to the real woman, it was your father because he made her a mother. That stripped her of all pretense. Her love for you was pure and unpremeditated.”

“I’m no better than she was, nonna,” said Alba. “That is why I have cut off my hair. I don’t want to be her. I don’t want to be beautiful like her. I want to be me.” Immacolata ran an unsteady hand down Alba’s young cheek, gazing upon her features with watery eyes.

“You still look beautiful, Alba, because your beauty comes from in here.” She pressed a clenched fist against her own chest. “Your mother’s beauty came from there too.”

“My poor father, he was only trying to protect me.”

“We all were. Your father was right to take you to England. As much as it hurt us, he did the right thing. It would not have been healthy to grow up under so dark a shadow. Everyone knew about the murder; they talked of nothing else. The papers were full of stories of Valentina’s affair. She was portrayed as a whore. Not one article mentioned her heart. How big it was. How full. Not one of them mentioned what she gave, just what she took. It would have been wrong for you to live with that. You grew up ignorant and free. Now you have come back old enough to cope with the truth. I have missed the first twenty-six years of your life, but I sacrificed them willingly, knowing you were safe.”

Now it was Alba’s turn to take her grandmother’s hands in hers. “It is time to let her go,” Alba said, her eyes sparkling with emotion. “It is time to set her free. I feel her spirit lingers here in this house, casting a dark and unhappy shadow over us all.”

Immacolata thought for a moment. “I can’t get rid of the shrine,” she protested.

“Yes, you can. You must. Let’s blow out the candles, open the windows and remember her with joy. I suggest we have a service in the little chapel to commemorate her. Let’s have a party. Give her a good send-off.”

Despite her tears, Immacolata grew enthusiastic. “Falco can share his memories. The good ones. Ludovico and Paolo can come and stay with their families. We can eat in the garden, a banquet.”

“Let’s give her a proper headstone and plant flowers.”

“Lilies were her favorites.”

“And violets would be nice. Wild ones. Lots of them. Let’s make it beautiful.”

Immacolata’s face blossomed. “You’re so wise, Alba. I could never have predicted that your coming would change so much.”



That evening the family stood together in the salotto. Cosima held Alba’s hand, Beata took her son’s, Falco remained alone with his thoughts. Immacolata took Valentina’s candle in trembling hands. The flame had burned constantly since the morning of her death, twenty-six years before. Even when the wax had melted right down to the wick, another had been lit with the same flame and put in its place. Immacolata had never once let the candle go out.

She mumbled a long prayer and crossed herself vigorously. She swept her eyes over her family, resting them on her eldest son. “It is time to let the past go,” she said, without taking her eyes off him. “It is time to let Valentina go.” Then she blew out the candle.

They all stood very still, staring at the smoking wick. No one spoke. Then a cool gust of wind blew open the window, lifting Valentina’s portrait off the wall, carrying it into the air for a moment then dropping it on to the floor where it lay, face down. The air was filled with the heavy, unmistakable scent of figs. The women smiled. Then the scent was gone and in its place was the common smell of sea air.