Last Voyage of the Valentina(60)
“That’s sir to you, Lieutenant Harvey,” he said to diffuse the emotion.
Jack blinked away the childhood memories that had suddenly found their way through his weakened defenses. “Yes, sir,” he responded. But both men continued to look at each other with the eyes of boys.
Now, as Thomas sailed into the tiny port on a small motorboat, he was no longer commanding the MTB. The war was over. They had been demobbed and he had been given a desk job in the Ministry of Defense. Jack, Rigs, and the boys had gone home. Brendan had survived, miraculously, not only the war but Jack’s deep pocket and Rigs’s renditions of Rigoletto. Thomas planned to return to England with Valentina and their child, as soon as they were married.
He had fantasized about this moment for the last few months. He had received word from Valentina that she had been safely delivered of a little girl. She hadn’t mentioned a name. He had celebrated quietly with Jack. A drink and a cigarette and tears he felt unashamed to shed in front of his friend. He had written back hastily. Pouring out his pride and love in bad Italian, confusing verbs and tenses in his emotion. Even his handwriting, usually so clear and neat, shot erratically up and down the page.
Now he pictured their daughter in her mother’s arms and was gripped with longing to embrace them both. In his hand he held the few letters she had sent him, worn thin and frayed like a child’s well-loved muslin. They smelled of figs—that indelible scent of hers that had managed to banish the acrid smell of death. Now he inhaled the pine and eucalyptus of Incantellaria and recalled with nostalgia the first time he had set eyes on this enchanting little town, with Jack and Brendan by his side, not knowing then how much it would settle in his heart. He was a changed man and it wasn’t just the war that had altered his state of mind. Valentina had awoken his instincts to provide and protect. Now he had a child, he had a far greater responsibility than any he had ever had before.
The boat drew up against the quay and Thomas stepped out with his small bag of belongings, still dressed in his tired blue naval uniform. He peered out from under his cap at the sleepy harbor bathed in the warm springtime sun. At first no one noticed him. He was able to pass his eyes over the row of white houses, their iron balconies adorned as before with bright red geraniums, and on the little Trattoria Fiorelli. He was drawn out of his sentimental recollections as the fishermen put down their nets and women emerged out of the shadows, drawing their children to their aprons, looking at him through narrowed, suspicious eyes. Then the old man who played the concertina recognized him. He pointed his arthritic finger and his wizened face collapsed in on itself as his mouth opened into a toothless smile. “C’è l’inglese!” he exclaimed. Thomas’s heart swelled with happiness. They remembered him.
The garbled words of the old man ricocheted down the sea front as the townspeople spread the news. “È tornato, l’inglese!” It wasn’t long before the dusty street was crowded. They clapped their hands and waved. The little boy who that first time had given the fascist salute now put his hand to his brow as Lattarullo had done and Thomas smiled at him, saluting back. This time his mother did not slap him, but patted him proudly on the head. The little boy blushed crimson and clamped his legs together, for all the excitement had brought on a desire to pee.
Then Thomas’s eyes were drawn back to the Trattoria Fiorelli. The waiters were standing outside, their mouths agape, trays in hands that had only recently held guns. The old ones, who had been there all along, smiled wistfully, remembering the singing and the little red squirrel. A stillness now surrounded the café while the crowd agitated and swelled around him like waves on the sea. It was as if the modest little building held its breath, awaiting something magical to happen. Then she appeared. Thomas’s heart soared and there it remained, in suspended animation, neither rising nor falling but motionless, afraid that, if it stirred, the spell would break and she would disappear like a rainbow into the sunshine.
The waiters stepped aside. Not once did Valentina take her eyes off the man she loved, but walked toward him with her unique, lively walk. In her arms she held her three-month-old baby, wrapped only in a thin white sheet, pressed tightly against her bosom. Her cheeks glowed with pride and her lips curled into a small smile. It was only when she came closer that he saw her eyes were glistening with tears.
Thomas took off his hat, and noticed his hands were trembling. Valentina stood before him. At the sight of the baby blinking up at him he was humbled. In the midst of all this horror and bloodshed here was a pure, innocent soul. It was as if God had shone a bright light into a very dark place. Her face was a miniature reflection of her mother’s, except for her eyes, which were pale gray like his, a stark contrast to her dark hair and olive brown skin. She waved her tiny hand about. Thomas took it and let her wrap her fingers around one of his. He smiled. Then he raised his eyes to Valentina.