Last Voyage of the Valentina(37)

“It’s splendid!” Jack enthused, gasping as the cold water shrank his ardor. “Just what I needed, I suppose!”

Thomas rubbed the soap between his hands and washed his arms. He was aware that her eyes were upon him. They were brown, but in the sunlight they appeared almost yellowy green, the color of honey. When he looked up, she smiled at him. He was sure it was flirtatious. When he turned, he saw that Jack had ducked under the water. He knew then that she had smiled for him alone.

Once bathed, they sat in their underwear drying off. Thomas would have liked to have drawn Valentina there, with the sun in her hair and on her face, her head tilting forward, looking up at them from under her brow so that she didn’t have to squint. She seemed shy. Thomas and Jack talked for her. They asked her questions about the town. She had grown up there. “It’s the sort of town where everyone knows everyone else,” she said, and Thomas was sure that even if it were the size of London, everyone would know who she was.

Once dry, they dressed and returned up the narrow path, refreshed after their swim. Valentina fired them both and gave them the feeling of having boundless energy and enthusiasm for life.

When they entered the house, the smell of cooking filled their nostrils and roused their hunger. Immacolata led them through the rooms to a vine-covered terrace fragrant with jasmine. On the grass beyond, a few chickens pecked at the ground and a couple of goats were tethered to a tree. The table was laid. A basket of bread sat in the middle, beside a brass agliara of olive oil. Lattarullo had returned to town, promising to collect them after dinner. He had suggested they return to La Marmella the following morning with a team of men to retrieve the rest of the haul. Thomas doubted there would be much to collect; he didn’t trust Lattarullo any more than he would trust a greedy dog to guard a bone. It didn’t bother him. He was fed up patrolling the coast. The action was up north now, in Monte Cassino. How could he, in his small boat, with only a handful of men, compete with the bandits? Corruption was as ingrained into the culture as machismo. He glanced across at Valentina’s profile and decided that, whatever happened, he would contrive reasons to stay for as long as possible.

Immacolata instructed them to take their places for grace. She spoke in a low, solemn tone and wound her fingers around the cross that hung about her neck. “Padre nostro, figlio di Dio…” Once she had finished, Thomas pulled out Valentina’s chair for her. She turned her soft brown eyes to him and smiled her thanks. He wanted to hear her speak again but her mother presided at the table and it would have been impolite to have ignored her.

“My son Falco was a partisan, Signor Arbuckle,” she said. “Now there is no fighting to be done here. With four sons it is not surprising that my family almost represents every faction of this war. Thankfully, I do not have a communist. I could not tolerate that!” She filled their glasses with Marsala, a sweet fortified wine, then raised hers in a toast. “To your good health, gentlemen, and to peace. May the good Lord grant us peace.” Thomas and Jack raised their glasses and Thomas added,

“To peace and your good health, Signora Fiorelli. Thank you for this fine meal and for your kind hospitality.”

“I don’t have much, but I do see life,” she replied. “I am old now and have seen more than you will ever see, I am sure. What is your business here?”

“Nothing serious. Some armaments left behind by the retreating German army. Although there is not much of it left.”

Immacolata nodded gravely. “Bandits,” she said. “They are everywhere. But they know better than to rob me. Even the all-powerful Lupo Bianco would have trouble penetrating my small fortress. Even him.”

“I hope you are safe, signora. You have a beautiful daughter.” Thomas felt himself flush as he referred to Valentina. Suddenly her well-being was more important to him than anything else in the world. Valentina lowered her eyes. Immacolata seemed pleased with his comment and her face creased into the first smile she had deigned to give.

“God has been kind, Signor Arbuckle. But beauty can be a curse in times of war. I do what I can to protect her. While we are in the company of British officers we need not fear for our safety.” She lifted the basket of bread. “Eat. You never know when you will eat again.” Thomas helped himself to a piece of coarse bread and dipped it in olive oil. Although chewy it tasted good. Immacolata ate with gusto. She had obviously gone to great pains to cook the pasta, which she had prepared with a fish sauce. There was very little food around and yet, as at the trattoria that morning, she had managed to give them the kind of feast they might have expected before the war. As if inspired by the banquet, her conversation turned to the golden days her family enjoyed under Imperial Rome.