Last Voyage of the Valentina(35)

Finally he parked the truck beside a twisted olive tree. There was no road down to the house, only a well-trodden path. “Immacolata Fiorelli will show you the river,” said Lattarullo, already out of breath. “Besides, she has soap!” he chortled. Thomas knew that soap was only available on the black market and that most Italian women washed with pumice, ashes, and olive oil.

Thomas cast his eyes down to the sea that stretched calmly out on to the misty horizon before disappearing into the beyond. If it weren’t for his naval uniform and the experiences that had left their indelible mark on his soul he could almost have forgotten the world was at war. Forgotten that, out there, the sea reached Africa’s shore red with the blood of those who, like himself, had fought for freedom from tyranny, for peace. It was an enchanting view and his fingers twitched with the longing to capture it in pastels; he would have liked to set up an easel right there on the hillside, among the gray olive trees. If it wasn’t for the war he would search for that girl and set her in front of that vast sky. He would draw her and he would take his time. The sighing of the sea and the chattering of cicadas would add their own unique melody to the easy languor of the fading day and they would lie down and make love. But it was wartime and he had a job to do.

After a while the modest farmhouse, sandy-colored with a simple gray tiled roof, came into view. Thick branches of wisteria scaled the walls, their lilac flowers falling in heavy clusters like grapes, and small birds flew in and out in a game that only they understood. Sheltered by cypress trees and half-hidden behind pots of plumbago, tall arum lilies, bushes of lavender, and nasturtiums in great heaps, the house gave the impression of peeping out shyly. As they approached, they suddenly seemed to walk into an invisible cloud of perfume. It was warm and sweet and irresistible.

“What is that smell, sir?” Jack asked, sniffing the air with flared nostrils.

“I don’t know, but it’s like Heaven,” Thomas replied, stopping in his tracks. He put his hands on his hips and inhaled. “It’s so strong, it’s making my head dizzy.” He turned to Lattarullo and asked him in Italian.

Lattarullo shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t smell anything.”

“Of course you can!” Thomas retorted.

“Niente, Signor Arbuckle.” He pulled an ugly face and shrugged. “Bo!”

“My dear fellow, you must have lost your sense of smell. Why, surely you can taste it?”

The expression on the Englishman’s face was one of such incredulity that Lattarullo thought it better to agree. After all, he could detect a faint scent, though nothing unusual. The hills were full of smells; if one lived here one ceased to notice.

“I can smell figs,” he said grudgingly. Then he pulled his ugly fish face and shrugged, this time turning the palms of his hands to the sky.

“By God, that’s it!” enthused Thomas. “It is figs, isn’t it?” he asked Jack.

Jack nodded and took off his hat to rub his sweating forehead. “It’s figs,” he repeated. “Straight from God’s garden.”

Lattarullo watched them with growing curiosity and shook his head. Immacolata Fiorelli will know what to do, he thought, taking off his hat and walking up to the door.

Immacolata Fiorelli never locked her door, even in these dangerous times of war. Being a formidable woman, she considered herself a match for any man, even one with a bayonet. Lattarullo poked his head inside and called her name. “Siamo arrivati,” he announced, then waited, turning his hat around and around in his hands like a diffident schoolboy. Thomas rolled his eyes at Jack. After a long moment Immacolata appeared, still draped in black as if in a permanent state of mourning. Around her neck hung a large silver cross, elaborately decorated with semiprecious stones.

“Come,” she beckoned them with a wave of her hand.

Inside, the house was cool and dark. The shutters were closed, allowing only the minimum light to enter in thin beams. The salotto was small and austere, with worn sofas, a heavy wooden table, and a simple flagstone floor. However, in spite of its austerity, it was cozy, a home used to the wear and tear of people. What immediately struck Thomas were the little shrines, crosses, and religious iconography that punctuated the bare walls and corners. In the dimness the silver and sparsely used gold leaf glittered and shone in a ghostly fashion.

“Valentina!” Immacolata’s voice no longer bellowed, but called out in a low, gentle tone as one does to a loved one. “We have guests.”

“La signora’s husband died fighting in Libya,” said Lattarullo in a hushed voice. “Her four sons are also fighting, though two are being held by the British and the other two, well, who knows where they are. Valentina is the youngest and most precious of all her children. You will see.”