Last Voyage of the Valentina(44)

The procession reached the altar and the three parenti di Santa Benedetta took their places in the front pew. Padre Dino and the little boy stood to one side. No one spoke. There was no welcoming address, no song, no music, just eager silence and the invisible force of prayer. Thomas’s eyes were drawn, like everyone else’s, to the statue. He couldn’t believe that a thing of marble would actually bleed. It would surely be a trick. He’d know. They wouldn’t be able to fool him. Everyone watched. Nothing happened. The town clock chimed nine. The congregation held its breath. The heat in the chapel was now intense and Thomas began to sweat.

Then it happened. Thomas blinked a few times. Surely he was imagining it. He had willed too much along with everyone else and now he was hallucinating. He turned to Valentina who crossed herself and mumbled something inaudible. When he looked back, the blood was trickling down the impassive face of Christ, scarlet against the white marble, dropping off his chin on to the floor.

Immacolata rose to her feet and nodded solemnly. The chapel bell was rung in a doleful monotony and the priest, the little boy, and the three parenti di Santa Benedetta filed out.

The town erupted into jubilation. Musicians played and a large circle was formed in the middle of the throng. Suddenly the young women, before so modest, now danced the tarantella with the exuberance of the possessed. The crowd clapped and cheered. Thomas stood enthralled, clapping too. Valentina appeared in the midst of the revelry to great applause and wolf whistles from the men and surprisingly spiteful looks from the women. Thomas thought how ugly their jealousy made them. It deformed their normally pretty features into grotesque parodies, like reflections in distorting fairground mirrors. Valentina moved center stage until she was dancing alone. She danced with grace, her hair now loose and flying about her head as she twisted and turned to the lively beat of the music. Thomas was astounded: no longer in her mother’s shadow, she showed herself to be surprisingly gregarious. There was no inhibition in the way in which she moved her body, her skirt rising up her legs as she danced, exposing her shiny brown calves and thighs. The tops of her breasts, revealed in the low décolletage of her dress, rose like milk chocolate soufflé, and Thomas was gripped with longing. Her virginal charm fused with a bursting sexuality that Thomas found irresistible.

He watched transfixed; she looked directly at him. Her dark, laughing eyes seemed to read his mind for she danced up to him and took his hand. “Come,” she whispered into his ear and he let her lead him out of the square and down the little streets to the sea. They walked hand in hand along the beach, then further, around the rocks until they reached a small, isolated cove where the light of the moon and the gentle lapping of waves revealed an empty pebble beach where they could, at last, be alone.

Thomas didn’t waste time talking. He wound his hand around her neck, still hot and damp from her dancing, and kissed her. She responded willingly, parting her lips and closing her eyes, letting out a deep and contented sigh. The music could still be heard in the town, now far away, a distant hum like the merry buzz of bees. The war might as well have been on another planet, so dislocated were they from reality. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him so that he could feel the softness of her flesh and the easy relinquishing of her body. She didn’t pull away when he buried his rough face in her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat on his tongue and smelling the now muted scent of figs. She tipped her head back, exposing it willingly so that his lips could kiss the line of her jaw and the tender surface of her throat. He felt excitement strain his trousers. But she didn’t pull away. He ran his fingers over the velvet skin where her breasts swelled out of her dress. Then he cupped them, stroking the nub of her nipple with his thumb and she let out a low moan, like a whispering sigh of wind.

“Facciamo l’amore,” she murmured. He didn’t question whether it was wrong or right to make love, or whether he was ungallant to take her like that, on the beach, having known her only a couple of days. It was wartime. People behaved irrationally. They were in love. They might never meet again. Her innocence was something that he would take away with him. He hoped that if he claimed her now, she would wait for him. He’d return for her at the end of the war and marry her. He prayed that God would protect her until he could protect her for himself.

“Are you sure?” he asked. She didn’t reply, simply brushed his lips with hers. She wanted him. In a swift movement he lifted her into his arms and up the beach to a sheltered spot where he laid her down on the pebbles. In the phosphorescent light of the moon he made love to her.