Last Voyage of the Valentina(103)

“She has gone to the light,” Immacolata announced. “She is at peace.”



That night when Alba went to bed she noticed at once that the air in the room no longer held the weight of Valentina’s troubled spirit, or her perfume. The window was open and the cool night air entered with the distant roar of the sea. It felt empty, like any other room, as if the memories themselves had gone. She felt elated. She sat on the bed and rummaged about in the drawer for a piece of paper and a pen, then began a letter to her father.

She was just signing her name at the bottom of the page when the door to her room opened with a creak. Cosima was standing in her white nightdress, clasping an old rag doll in her hands. “Are you all right?” Alba asked, noticing the child’s anxious face.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” The small ceremony they held for Valentina had frightened her, Alba thought. She helped the child into bed and then began to undress.

“I used to sneak in here and look at Valentina’s clothes,” said Cosima, cheering up at the prospect of not having to sleep alone.

“You did?” Alba was amazed. She didn’t imagine the child would know very much about Valentina.

“I wasn’t supposed to. Nonnina said it was sacred. But I liked to touch her dresses; they are so pretty, aren’t they?”

“They really are. She must have looked beautiful in them.”

“I like the box of letters too, but they are written in English so I can’t understand them.” Alba looked at her cousin in amazement.

“What letters?” Her heart quickened at the thought of discovering her father’s letters to her mother.

“There, in the cupboard.”

Alba frowned. She had been through the cupboards pretty thoroughly. “I’ve looked in the cupboard.”

Cosima was pleased to divulge a secret. She opened the cupboard door, swept the shoes aside and removed one of the planks of wood that made up the floor. Alba dropped to her knees and watched, incredulous, as Cosima pulled out a small cardboard box. Eagerly the two girls threw themselves on the bed to open it.

“You are naughty, Cosima,” Alba exclaimed, kissing her. “But I do love you for it.”

Cosima blushed with pleasure. “Nonnina would be very cross!” she giggled.

“That is why we’re not telling her.”

Alba felt the same rush of excitement she had felt on first finding the portrait under her bed. She took the paper in her hand. It was stiff and white and when she opened it the address on the top of the page was engraved in black print. It was not an English address. Neither was the writing, neat and precise, in English. Alba felt the blood drain from her face.

“Well?” Cosima insisted.

“It’s in German, Cosima,” she said steadily.

“Valentina liked German uniforms,” said Cosima brightly.

“How do you know that?”

She shrugged. “Daddy said so.”

Alba looked down at the letter. She was intelligent enough to work out that it was a love letter. Judging by the date, it was written just before her father arrived in Incantellaria for the first time. She turned over the page. It was signed in ewige liebe—with everlasting love. The name engraved at the head of the page was Oberst Heinz Wiermann.

Valentina hadn’t had one lover, she had had two. Perhaps more. When the Allies invaded, the Germans moved north. They lost their power. Colonel Heinz Wiermann was of no use to her anymore.

Alba put the letters back. She couldn’t bear to look at them. “I don’t think we should read her private correspondence. Besides, I don’t speak German.” Cosima was disappointed. “I’m tired. Let’s go to bed. Have you any more surprises?” she asked.

“No,” said Cosima. “I painted my face with her makeup once. That’s all.”

Alba slipped into her nightdress and climbed into bed beside her cousin. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but she suspected that she had only scratched at the surface of a far bigger mystery. Had her mother been an innocent bystander in a Mafia hit over tuna prices? Nothing would be strange in a place where statues bled and carnations were magically swept up on the beach.

But if Valentina hadn’t been an innocent bystander, then who had killed her, and why?





25




London 1971

E arly summer was Fitz’s favorite season. The leaves on the trees were still fresh and new; the blossom had gone but the white petals of the blackthorn sparkled in the morning sunlight. The flower beds burst forth with color but were not yet overgrown. It was warm but not too warm and the birdsong rang out across the park. The air vibrated with life after the dead cold of winter. It filled him up and infected his step so that he sprang rather than walked. But with Alba gone, he didn’t spring. He strolled through Hyde Park and even the flowers and sprouting trees failed to move him. Winter lingered in his bones and in his heart.