But old Lorenzo scratched his chin and shook his head. “The carnation is a symbol of death,” he said darkly for only Thomas to hear. “If each flower symbolizes a person we will all die together.”
Thomas ignored the old man’s gruesome prediction, preferring to remain with his own. It wasn’t long before word had spread of the latest miracolo. Padre Dino arrived to witness it and categorize it along with the other minor miracles that had happened at Incantellaria. Lattarullo scratched his groin in bewilderment while il sindacco considered taking a few flowers home to his wife. Immacolata and her family came down from the hill as soon as they received the news. Valentina held Thomas’s hand as they gazed upon the vision of their future, their hearts overflowing with joy. Then Thomas’s attention was diverted by a sudden glint from the top of the hill, far off in the distance. He pondered it for a moment before realizing that it was the marchese, watching them from his terrace through his telescope. Was he watching them now, or was he simply marveling at the incredible display of carnations along with the rest of them?
That evening Thomas experienced a sharp sense of déjà vu as he sat with Valentina in the little chapel of San Pasquale. Together with the rest of her family they waited for the blood to seep from Christ’s eyes. Immacolata, draped in the traditional black that she had worn since the death of her husband, stood proud and solemn but isolated from the rest of the town. She appeared shrunken, as if the weight of so much hope caused her body to stoop. Thomas felt a wave of compassion for this woman who had lost a husband and a son and was poised to lose her only daughter and granddaughter too. She had seemed so strong before, so formidable, but suddenly, alone in the aisle of that chapel, with the other two parenti standing obediently behind her, she seemed vulnerable and alone.
Thomas did not care whether or not Christ cried blood. He was convinced that it was a cunning trick played by Padre Dino or one of his cronies. He minded for Valentina and for her mother, who all placed far too much emphasis upon it, as if it had the power to decide the future. They don’t realize, he thought to himself, that they hold the future in their own hands. The miracle has nothing to do with it. But he couldn’t tell them, of course. All he could do was hope that the blood was as thick and crimson as cherry syrup. They waited, and the more they waited the hotter the chapel became and the more intoxicating the smell of incense. The silence grew deafening, as if it were the screech of a dog whistle they couldn’t hear, penetrating their brains and causing them pain. Valentina’s hand grew damp in his. He squeezed it to reassure her but she did not squeeze back. She simply stared at the statue of Christ, willing it to shed tears with all her strength. Because she cared so much, Thomas began to care too. Surely the flowers on the beach had been a positive sign? he thought hopefully. But not even the will of the entire population of Incantellaria could force those eyes to bleed. The clock struck the hour and Immacolata collapsed to her knees.
As they filed out in disappointment, Valentina smiled up at Thomas. “Don’t worry, my love,” she said. “We’re getting married tomorrow and then we leave any bad luck behind.”
“Doesn’t the beach of carnations symbolize good luck for us?” he asked in a whisper.
“Yes, it does. But we need Christ’s blessing. I know how to get it. I’ll put it right, you’ll see.”
Thomas thought her peasant superstitions charming and innocuous. But later he would regret with all his heart how little he had known her.
17
London 1971
A lba packed her bag. She didn’t know what to take and she wasn’t exactly sure how she was going to get there. She hadn’t spoken to Fitz since he had left her houseboat over a month ago. When he hadn’t called, she had been reduced to longing that they might bump into each other on the pontoon. Not a glimpse. Nothing. Now her bedroom echoed with an inconsolable loneliness. In spite of Rupert and Tim and James and Reed of the River, Fitz’s scent lingered in the air and sometimes, when it caught her off guard, her eyes stung with tears. She missed his silly old dog too. There had been something very sweet about their friendship. Why couldn’t he have accompanied her on her adventure? If he loved her, he would have come without question. Perhaps she demanded too much. That was her nature. If he couldn’t take the pace, then it was right for him to get out of the race. Still, she missed him. Now there was only sex, and her soul ached for what it had briefly known.
Naturally Viv had taken his side. Alba had always suspected her to be a man’s woman. She now imagined that Viv fancied Fitz for herself, even though she was way past it. Initially, Alba had felt abandoned and alone. She had grown to rely on Viv. She had grown to love Fitz. They had turned into the family she felt she had never had. She looked back with nostalgia on that evening when they had lain under the stars. That evening had been perfect.