Last Voyage of the Valentina(45)

They lay entwined until the red rays of dawn stained the sky on the horizon. Thomas told her about his life in England. The beautiful house they would one day live in and the children they would have together. He told her how he loved her. That it was possible after all to lose one’s heart in a moment, to surrender it joyously.

They walked back across the rocks. The celebrations had finished and the town was still and eerie. Only a stray cat crept along the wall searching for mice. Before he escorted her home he collected his painting case from his boat.

“Let me draw you, Valentina. I don’t ever want to forget your face.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Che carino!” she said tenderly, taking his hand. “If you want to. Follow me, I know a nice spot.”

They climbed a little path up the rocks, then down a dusty track that cut through a forest. The scent of thyme hung in the air with eucalyptus and pine, and crickets rattled among the leaves. The odd salamander darted off the track to hide in the undergrowth as they walked past, and the song of birds heralded morning. After a while the trees gave way to a field of lemon groves. From there they could see the sea, flat like molten silver, sparkling behind clusters of cypress trees.

At the top of a slight hill there stood a derelict lookout point, the bricks crumbling from centuries of sea wind and salt. It was a breathtaking position. From there they could see for miles around. Valentina pointed out her home, laughing at the thought of her mother tucked up in bed, oblivious of the adventure on which her daughter was embarking. She sat down against the lookout tower, her hair blowing in the gentle wind, and let him draw her. He sketched in oil pastels, enjoying analyzing her face, translating it as best he could onto paper. He wanted to portray her mystery, that quality that made her different from everyone else. As if she had a delicious secret. It was a great challenge and he wanted to get it right so that when they parted, he could gaze upon the drawing and remember her as she was now.

“One day we will tell our children about this morning,” he said finally, holding the paper out in front of him and narrowing his eyes. “They’ll look at this picture and see for themselves how beautiful their mother was as a young woman, when their father fell in love with her.”

She laughed softly and her face glowed with affection. “How silly you are,” she said, but he knew from the way she was gazing at him that she didn’t think him silly at all.

He held it up for her to see. Her cheeks flamed with astonishment and her face turned very serious. “You’re a maestro,” she gasped, tracing her lips with her fingers. “It’s beautiful, Signor Arbuckle.” Thomas laughed. She had never said his name before. After such intimacy “Signor Arbuckle” sounded formal and clumsy.

“Call me Tommy,” he said.

“Tommy,” she replied.

“Everyone at home calls me Tommy.”

“Tommy,” she said again. “I like it. Tommy.” She raised her dark eyes and stared at him as if for the first time. She gently pushed him back onto the grass and lay on top of him. “Ti voglio bene, Tommy,” she said. When she pulled away, her eyes shone golden like amber. She ran her hand over his forehead and through his hair, then planted a lingering kiss on the bridge of his nose. “Ti amo,” she whispered. Over and over again she whispered it, “Ti amo, ti amo,” pressing her lips against every part of his face, like an animal marking her territory, willing herself to remember it.

He did not want to take her home. He feared the agonizing moment when he would lose sight of her. When he’d have to walk away. They remained as long as they could on the hillside by the lookout tower, both afraid of the sea and the terrible divide it would impose upon them. They held each other tightly.

“How is it possible to love you so deeply, Valentina, when I have known you so little?”

“God has brought you to me,” she replied.

“I know nothing about you.”

“What do you want to know?” She chuckled sadly, tracing his face with her fingers. “I like lemons and arum lilies, the smell of the dawn and the mystery of the night. I like to dance. I wanted to be a dancer as a little girl. I’m frightened of being alone. I’m frightened of being no one. Of not mattering. The moon fascinates me; I could sit all night just staring up at it and wondering. She makes me feel safe. I hate this war, but I love it for having brought you to me. I’m afraid of loving too much. Of being hurt. Of living my life in pain and suffering for loving someone I am unable to have. I’m frightened too of death, of nothingness. Of dying, and finding that there isn’t a God. Of my soul wandering in a terrible limbo that is neither life nor death. My favorite color is purple. My favorite stone a diamond. I would like to wear a necklace of the finest diamonds just to sparkle for a night, to know what it feels like to be a lady. My favorite part of the world is the sea. My favorite man is you.”