Last Voyage of the Valentina(62)
Lattarullo sat outside, as if he were a guard dog, ready to bite anyone who dared try to enter. It wouldn’t be long before the Trattoria Fiorelli vibrated with the music of celebration, he mused. The whole town would be invited and there would be dancing. Valentina loved to dance. The small area within the café wouldn’t be large enough to accommodate everyone so they would spill out onto the street and dance there, beneath the full moon. Immacolata would choose an auspicious day for the wedding, beside the sea that had brought them together.
Valentina placed Alba in her Moses basket and Thomas carried her out to the cart which awaited them in the shade of an acacia tree, attached to a large, docile horse. Lattarullo offered to drive them himself, proudly announcing that he was in possession of the town car, but Thomas declined politely. He didn’t want to share Valentina with anyone else, least of all Lattarullo, who smelled strongly of his own unique brand of sweat. “You can fetch me after dinner,” he said to the grubby carabiniere, who nodded in bewilderment.
They waved at him as the horse plodded off. There was no hurry. There was nothing pressing to get back to. They had all day if they so wished. The slow clip-clop of the horse’s hooves bounced into the still, warm air and roused the sleepy town from its shameless ogling. Even the children suspended their games to watch the cart move off and disappear up the shady alleyway toward the hill. Lattarullo stuck out his bottom lip and dabbed his forehead with a damp hanky. He couldn’t understand why they had refused the car. He hoped no one had heard the Englishman decline his offer. Che figura di merda! It was a matter of pride, of apparenza.
Valentina took Thomas’s hand and pressed it to her cheek, kissing it affectionately. “At last, we are alone.”
After a long while the soft rattling sound of a motor reverberated out of the tranquil silence of the afternoon. Thomas immediately thought of Lattarullo and his heart sank. But then he realized that the car was coming down the hill toward them, not from the town they had just left. Valentina steered the horse to the side of the road and the cart ground to a halt. The rattling increased in volume until the marchese’s shiny white Lagonda appeared sedately around the bend. The metal of the radiator shone brilliantly in the sunshine and the two round headlights twinkled like a pair of large frog’s eyes. It was impossible not to be impressed by the fine craftsmanship of such an elegant vehicle. The memory of the near crash the year before was now distant and misty in the glare of Thomas’s appreciation. The motor ticked over with such efficiency it sounded more like a song than a mechanical rattle: tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick. It slowed down. In the front seat, his face cast in the shade of his hat, sat the skeletal Alberto. The canvas roof of the car was down so that he could be seen clearly in all his glory. His gray uniform was as clean as the car itself and his white-gloved hands gripped the steering wheel as if it were the reins of a magnificent and powerful beast. His nose was so high in the air his chin had almost disappeared. He did not smile, nor did he wave, though it was clear from the sudden pallor that washed the color from his already grim face that he recognized Thomas, and he almost lost control of the car. L’inglese was back.
15
T homas was not ready to meet the rest of Valentina’s family. He wanted to take her to the ancient lookout point where they had made love. So they steered the horse down the dusty track to the field of lemon groves. Having dozed half the way, allowing his hooves to plod automatically up the all too familiar hill, the beast now awoke and looked about him with uncharacteristic vigor. The smells of the cypress trees, rosemary, and thyme, seemed to enliven his senses too, and he suddenly began to walk with a spring in his step, snorting into the fragrant air with gusto. Thomas was unable to restrain his ardor. He kissed Valentina’s neck and her chest where the low cut of her dress exposed the springy tops of her breasts and glowed a rich honey brown. He ran his fingers through her long wavy hair and inhaled the warm scent of figs. She laughed her soft, bubbly laugh and pretended to push him away in case someone chanced to see them.
“The only person who could possibly see us is the old marchese,” he said as he buried his face in the neat curve where her shoulder met her neck. He envisaged momentarily the effeminate marchese, with his greased-back hair and watery eyes, peering through his telescope, but dismissed the thought at once. He had left the decaying palazzo the year before feeling decidedly uneasy; the image of the old man’s face was enough to bring back that unease. Valentina stiffened and grew serious.
“I don’t want to be seen by anyone, Tommy,” she said, then cast her eyes behind her to check that their daughter was still asleep in the shade. “You will take me away from here, won’t you?” Her eyes suddenly filled with fear.