Last Voyage of the Valentina(66)
Valentina kissed her fiancé demurely on the cheek, but Thomas knew from the glint in her eyes that she longed to take him to her bed. “Until tomorrow, my love,” she whispered, then disappeared into the shadows. He thought he heard Lattarullo arrive in the car he seemed to share with the rest of the town and wandered over to the window. Behind him, Falco smoked alone on the terrace, with only the night animals and crickets for company. He looked troubled as he sat hunched over the table, the last of the wax maintaining the flame in one of the hurricane lamps. Beata had returned to their house, a short walk through the olive grove and well lit by the moon. Thomas wondered why Falco had not accompanied his wife and son.
There was no sign of Lattarullo. He must have heard the roar of the sea in the distance, or the echo of bombs dropped months ago that still rang in his ears and in his dreams. He withdrew from the window. Not wanting to join Falco, he took a seat in the dark and lit a cigarette. He watched the flickering candles illuminate Immacolata’s shrines to her husband and son, causing the gold leaf on the icons to glitter. It wasn’t long before he heard voices coming from the terrace. They were muffled but staccato. There was obviously a heated discussion going on. He recognized Valentina’s voice. Hidden in the shadows he looked out on to the terrace where she stood in front of her brother, her hands raised in protest, her voice an angry hiss. They spoke so fast and so low that Thomas was unable to understand a single word. He strained his ears until they ached, but still he was unable to make sense of it. Suddenly Falco leaped to his feet, leaned across the table, and fired a sentence at her in fury, his hands on the table like two large lion’s paws. She retaliated like a fiend, her chin up, her face proud, her eyes lively and bright. Once again Thomas recalled her dance in the street the night of the festa. She had had the same light in her eyes then too.
The normally demure Valentina possessed a passion that she rarely revealed. She looked even more beautiful enraged and Thomas’s blood grew hot in his veins at the sight of her blazing eyes and haughty smile, enhanced now by the eerie flicker of the dying candle. He caught his breath as he felt the dizzy sensation of falling in love again. He wondered whether they were fighting over him. Perhaps Falco was angry with her for falling in love with a foreigner. Thomas was wise enough to remain hidden, and anyway, it wouldn’t be long before she was far from Incantellaria and her surly, resentful brother.
Finally the rattle of Lattarullo’s car alerted him to the carabiniere’s arrival. He leaped to his feet and hurried quietly out of the door. He did not want Falco and Valentina to know that he had witnessed their argument.
In the car Lattarullo took great pleasure in telling him all about his own wedding day. “Though sadly,” he said without sounding sad, “my wife left me. A personal tragedy of no consequence to anyone but myself.” Thomas wasn’t listening. “The war taught me that there are things of far greater importance and significance than women.”
Once back at the trattoria, Thomas undressed for bed. Immacolata had placed a large jug of water beside a wash bowl. He picked up the small bar of soap and remembered the bath he had enjoyed in the stream with Jack. He imagined Valentina as he had first seen her, dressed in that virginal white dress that clung so nicely to her slender young body. He remembered the way the sun had shone behind her, casting her legs in silhouette.
He lay awake, staring up at the ceiling, mulling over the scene he had just witnessed and its implications. Outside the breeze danced among the cypress trees, whispering playfully at his window with softly salted breath. Tormented by anxiety, he felt hot and uncomfortable and deeply protective of Valentina and their child. No one is going to prevent my taking them both to England, he thought angrily. Even if I have to sneak off in the middle of the night like a criminal.
16
P adre Dino had the deep, gritty voice of a bear. It echoed up from his round and cavernous belly. His face was almost entirely covered with bushy gray hair that fell from his chin and cheeks down to his chest, ending in knotted clumps that resembled tiny paws. When he spoke his beard twitched as if it were a mangy animal and not something he had grown out of choice. It didn’t look clean, and Thomas had the distinct feeling that if he were unfortunate enough to get too close he would be struck by an extremely unpleasant odor. Surprisingly, above the beard the padre’s eyes were long and sweeping and a rather beautiful shade of green: pale, iridescent, like a mossy pool bathed in sunshine.
The priest had arrived on a bicycle. It was a wonder his long black robe didn’t get caught in the spokes and cause a terrible accident. He shuffled onto the terrace huffing and puffing after the exertion of pedaling up the hill. However, when Immacolata offered him wine he brightened and what little one could see of his cheeks flushed the color of plums. “Blessed be the Virgin and all the saints,” he said, tracing the sign of the cross in the air in front of him. Thomas caught Valentina’s eyes but her expression was one of solemn reverence.