Last Voyage of the Valentina(33)
“Who is he?” asked Thomas, once Lattarullo had managed to maneuver the car out of the ditch.
“The marchese’s lackey,” he replied, then snorted and spat into the road. “That is what I think of him!” he added, grinning as if the filthy gesture had won him a small victory. “He thinks he’s important because he works for a marquis. Once the Montelimone was the most powerful family in the region, a charitable family too, but the marchese has all but destroyed their good name. You know what they say about the marchese?” He narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. “You don’t want to know!” Although Thomas and Jack were mildly curious, they were drowsy and their bellies groaned with hunger. Lattarullo snorted and spat again before driving on, mumbling to himself the string of abuse he would have liked to have inflicted on the chauffeur.
They returned to the quay and, with the help of the rest of the crew, they unloaded the arms onto the boat. Joe Cracker, the fattest of the eight-strong team, opened his large mouth and began to sing his favorite aria from Rigoletto, hence his nickname “Rigs.” He was coarse to look at with ruddy skin and thinning ginger hair, yet he sang with the voice of a professional baritone. “He thinks he’ll get the girls like that,” said Jack, allowing Brendan to scamper up his arm and perch on his shoulder.
“It’s his only chance,” commented another. “He’ll be singing under their balconies next.” They laughed heartily but Rigs continued to sing. He had seen their eyes mist on those lonesome nights when their survival had been nothing short of miraculous, when music had been the only escape from their fears.
Leaving a couple of crew on deck to keep watch over the boat, the rest walked the short distance to Trattoria Fiorelli. Wooden tables spilled out onto the road where a bony donkey stood with a couple of baskets over its back, blinking wearily in the sunshine. Two old men sat at a table playing a game with counters, drinking tumblers of local gin that smelled of turps, and ragged-looking children with grubby faces ran about with sticks, their shrill cries ricocheting through the still afternoon air. The menu was displayed by the open door. Inside a couple of waiters sat listening to a wireless in the cool, ready for business. When the two officers appeared with Lattarullo, followed by four crew members, one singing loudly, they leaped to their feet and showed them to tables outside with more enthusiasm than they had mustered since the Germans left.
Lattarullo sat with Thomas and Jack, amazed at the sight of Brendan, who in these hard times would make a tasty meal. “You’d better keep your eye on him,” he commented, finding to his shame that his mouth was beginning to water. Squirrel prosciutto would be very tasty indeed. “There is always food at Immacolata’s. When the rest of the country is suffering from starvation, Immacolata produces meat and fish in a sumptuous banquet. You will see! Jesus turned water into wine and fed the five thousand with nothing more than a few loaves of bread and some fish. Immacolata is blessed.”
Suddenly a voice bellowed from within. “That is Immacolata Fiorelli,” hissed Lattarullo confidentially, taking off his hat and wiping his sweating forehead. “This restaurant is the engine that makes the town turn. And she’s in the driving seat. I know that, the mayor knows that, Padre Dino knows that. Even the Germans knew better than to mess with her. She’s descended from a saint, you know.”
Thomas pulled back his shoulders. After all, he was a commanding officer in the British navy; what could possibly be so terrifying about a loud-voiced Italian woman berating her lazy staff?
“Signora Fiorelli,” said Lattarullo with the greatest respect, jumping to his feet. “May I present to you two fine officers of the British navy.” He stepped aside and the tiny woman lifted her chin to reveal deep-set, intelligent eyes of chestnut brown. She narrowed them thoughtfully and studied their faces, as if calculating their reliability and character. Thomas and Jack rose to their feet, dwarfing her in size but noting that her personality was more formidable than the two of them put together.
“You are very handsome,” she said to Thomas in a quiet voice, quite unlike the bellow of earlier. Her beady eyes traced him from top to toe as if she were a seamstress assessing which suit would fit him best. “I will prepare you spaghetti con zucchini and treccia di mozzarella.” She turned to Jack. “And the good people of Incantellaria must lock up their daughters,” she said, sniffing through dilated nostrils. Jack gulped and Brendan scurried back into his pocket. “For you, frittelle,” she added, nodding with satisfaction. “Once this place vibrated with life. The war has choked the life out of it. People can barely afford to eat, let alone dine in a restaurant. I pray for better times. For a swift ending to the bloodshed. For the lion to lie down with the lamb. I invite you both to dinner at my house. A small corner of this country where civilization still exists as it has for generations. Where old-fashioned standards are upheld. I will cook for you myself and we can raise our glasses to peace. Lattarullo will bring you. You can bathe in the river and forget the war.”