Last Voyage of the Valentina(46)

Thomas laughed. “That’s quite a summary. I like the last part best.”

“Is there anything else you want to know?”

“You’ll wait for me, won’t you?” he said seriously. “I will come back for you, I promise.”

“If there is a God, He will know what is in my heart and bring you back to me.”

“Christ, Valentina,” he sighed in English. “What have you done to me?”

They walked back to her house in silence and he kissed her for the last time. “This is not goodbye,” he said. “It’s farewell. It won’t be long.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I trust you, Tommy.”

“I’ll write.”

“And I’ll kiss the paper you write upon.”

To prolong the moment would have been torturous, so she ran down the path and hurried into her house without a parting glance. Thomas understood and turned around. The morning suddenly looked less fresh, as if dark clouds had now obscured the sun. The countryside had lost its sparkle. The song of birds ceased to sound so melodious, and the rattling of crickets pounded against his eardrums like cymbals. Only the scent of figs lingered on his skin to remind him of her, and the picture he had drawn. With a heaviness of heart such as he had only ever felt once before in his life, when his beloved brother had been killed, he walked slowly back to the harbor. Back to his boat. Back to the war.





11




Beechfield Park 1971

T homas awoke to the sound of the clock in the hall. His neck was stiff and aching and he blinked about him in bewilderment. For a moment he was confused. Where was he? He expected to be on the boat but the ground beneath him was solid. Slowly the study came into focus. It was cold. It was dark, except for the lamp on his desk. God, what time was it? He looked at his watch. Three in the morning. He glanced down at the portrait in his hand. Valentina’s face gazed out at him as she had done that day on the hill. He had captured all that was unique about her, all that he couldn’t possibly ever put into words. Even the one quality that he hadn’t even known she possessed. Even that. How could he have missed it?

He noticed he had been crying. Tears had dampened his cheeks while he slept. While he dreamed. He rolled up the scroll and stood up stiffly. He’d lock up the picture in the safe and never look at it again. She was dead. What was the point of remembering it all? Of crying in one’s sleep like a child? It was all in the past and that’s where it belonged. He painstakingly took down the portrait of his father that concealed the safe Margo had had built after they got married. She thought of everything, Margo. He retrieved the key and opened it. Boxes of jewelry and papers lay in the velvet-lined cavity. For a second he held on to the portrait. Part of him didn’t want to relegate that lovely face to the back of a dark box. It was like placing her in a coffin all over again. However, he knew he had to. It was right. Without looking at it for one more time he put it at the very back of the safe. Once it was out of sight he felt better. It didn’t pull at him so. He replaced the portrait of his father, took a step back, and rubbed his chin as he gazed up at it. No one would know. Perhaps even he would forget.



When Fitz awoke, Alba was in the bathroom. He lay blinking in the dim light, and although the curtains were heavy he sensed that the day was bright and sunny. He stretched and placed his hands behind his head. Although disappointed that he hadn’t awoken with Alba’s warm body pressed against his, he realized that it was probably for the best. They hadn’t made love. They had done nothing more than sleep together, as friends. He heard her brushing her teeth, humming to herself as she did so. He felt awkward. What was he meant to do?

When Alba came out of the bathroom she was still in her nightshirt, her hair knotted and falling across her face and her long brown legs tantalizingly naked. She grinned at him lazily before climbing back into bed. “I used your toothbrush,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind.” Fitz was confused. She was back in the bed again, having shared his toothbrush, which was pretty intimate for a couple not sleeping together. He got up and used the bathroom himself.

When he emerged he wasn’t sure whether she expected him to get back into bed or to get dressed but it was a dilemma he had to solve in a split second. Alba lay with her head on the pillow smiling up at him. She was amused by his hesitation.

“Men don’t usually hover by the bed when I’m in it,” she said with a laugh. “You do like girls, don’t you, Fitz?”

Fitz climbed into bed, annoyed at her teasing. Without waiting for an invitation he took her neck in his hand and pressed his lips fervently to hers. She did not resist but kissed him back enthusiastically. She let out a low moan and wound her arms around him. It was that moan that redressed the balance and made him feel like a man again. When he traced his hand up her leg, beneath her nightshirt, he found that she was wearing no knickers.