Last Voyage of the Valentina(42)

“And you,” the marchese said, turning to Jack. “I see you still have your little furry friend.” Jack’s mouth fell open in surprise. Slowly Brendan crept out of his pocket like a naughty schoolboy discovered in the pantry. “If you travel inland, which I don’t presume you will, you had better hide him. There is great hunger. People are selling their own daughters for food.”

“Brendan has survived worse than hungry Italians, marchese,” said Jack, unusually respectful. The marchese had an aura of quiet importance.

“I imagine that you two were friends before the war,” he said.

“We were at Cambridge together,” Thomas replied.

“Ah, Cambridge. Then you are my rival!” He laughed, looking directly at Thomas. But the laugh didn’t reach his eyes.

The marchese did not want to talk about the war. He didn’t ask why Thomas and Jack were in Incantellaria; with his telescope and apparent omniscience he must have known. He talked about his childhood in the palace, rarely making visits to the town, certainly never mixing with the other children there. It was as if they lived behind a pane of glass, he said. They could watch what went on but never be part of it.

“How long will you be our guests?” he asked suddenly. Thomas thought that now would be an appropriate moment to shrug like Lattarullo and pull a fish face, but he replied that they’d probably be summoned back to base in the morning. “War is a dreadful business,” the marchese continued, getting to his feet. “Now they’re stuck in Monte Cassino. Do you really think the Allies will win? They’ll trip up. What a waste of magnificent young men. People never learn from history, do they? We blunder on, making the same mistakes our fathers and grandfathers made. We think we’ll make the world a better place and yet, little by little, we destroy it. Come, let me show you my telescope.”

They walked through the moldy French doors out onto the terrace, squinting in the sunlight. Thomas felt the fresh air like a wave of cool water that revitalized his senses. He looked about him. Once a manicured garden must have extended down the slope to an ornamental lake that now lay stagnant like a shallow wadi. He could imagine women in beautiful dresses wandering around the willow trees in pairs, chatting beneath their parasols, gazing at their pretty reflections in the water. It must have been breathtaking then, before time and abandon had robbed it of its glory. But now no one cared. It lay dying before him, like the house. Like the coughing old marchese in his airless room, clinging to the last of the family traditions.

The marchese walked over to the instrument that stood pointing down into the harbor. He looked through it, turned a dial here, pressed a button there, and then stepped aside for Thomas. “What do you make of that?” he said, his face lighting up with pleasure. “Ingenious, isn’t it?” Thomas could see the village clearly. The streets were quiet. He focused on his boat. Trusty old Marilyn. The boys were just hanging around, mobbing about, discipline all but gone. He wouldn’t be able to keep them here for much longer. His heart lurched at the thought of leaving. He had only just met Valentina. He now scanned the quayside for her, but she was not there.

“Ingenious,” he repeated flatly. He would trade places now with the marchese, just to be near her. Jack took a turn.

“Do you stargaze?” he asked. The marchese was thrilled to be asked and embarked on a lengthy description of the constellations, shooting stars, and planets, his Italian accent becoming more pronounced as he no longer concentrated on how he sounded.

Thomas stood with his hands on the balustrade, gazing down at the sea that glittered in the afternoon sun. He was relieved when Lattarullo appeared, his belly bursting over his trousers from the bread and cheese. Alberto seemed even more skeletal; he looked as if he hadn’t eaten for centuries.

“We had better be going,” said Thomas, still bewildered as to the purpose of their invitation.

“It has been a pleasure,” said the marchese with a smile, shaking his hand.

As they were on the point of leaving, a young boy wandered up a well-trodden snake path that wound its way to the terrace from some unseen place behind overgrown cypress trees and shrubbery. He was immensely pretty with a wide face, white-blond curls, and dark brown eyes as shiny as pearls. He looked surprised to see them but recognized Lattarullo, whom he greeted politely.

“This is Nero,” said the marchese. “Isn’t he beautiful?” Thomas and Jack exchanged glances but kept their expressions impassive. “He runs errands for me. I try to help the community. I am fortunate. I am a rich man. I have no sons and daughters upon whom to lavish my wealth. These are hard times. The war is not only fought on the battlefield, but every day in every town, village, and city of Italy. It is a war of survival. Nero will not starve, will you, my dear!” He ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately. When Nero grinned, they saw he was missing his two front teeth.