Last Voyage of the Valentina(83)

She raised her eyes to the emerald hills behind, where pine trees twitched their spiky green fingers and the ruins of an old lookout tower stood proud and dignified still, after centuries of abandonment. She breathed in the aromatic scents of rosemary and thyme that were carried on the wind with the whiff of mystery and adventure.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Gabriele, slowing down the boat to motor gently into the harbor.

“You’re right. It’s completely different from the rest of the coast. It’s so green. So vibrant.”

“It’s only when you see the place that you realize its inhabitants probably thought little of the carnation miracle. It would be odd anywhere else in the world, but here, one imagines such things happen all the time.”

“It’s already home to me,” she said in a quiet voice. “I feel it here,” she added, placing a hand on her heart.

“It’s a wonder, really, that it hasn’t become a tourist trap with restaurants and bars and clubs. Of course, there are some, but it’s not exactly Saint Tropez.”

“I’m glad it isn’t Saint Tropez, because it’s going to be my secret place.” Her eyes blurred with tears. No wonder her father and the Buffalo had never brought her here; they knew they would lose her forever.

Gabriele steered the boat into the harbor. As it nestled against the walls of the quay, a little boy hurried up to secure the rope to the wharf, his round face bright with excitement. Gabriele threw him the rope, which he caught with a triumphant squeal, shouting to his friends to come and join in the fun.

“They obviously don’t get many visitors,” said Gabriele. “I think we’re going to cause a bit of a stir.”

Alba disembarked and stood, hands on hips, gazing about her with pleasure. Up close it was even more charming, like stepping back in time to a slower, quainter age. Fishermen sat in their boats, chatting to one another as they mended their nets and emptied the day’s haul into barrels. They cast wary glances in her direction from under furrowed brows. A group of young boys had now congregated around her, shuffling their feet, nudging one another, giggling behind grubby hands. Women stood gossiping outside the shops and a few people drank coffee beneath striped awnings that shaded the bars and restaurants from the sun. They all watched the young couple curiously.

Gabriele jumped onto the quay and put his hand in the small of her back. “Let’s go and get a drink. Then we’ll find somewhere for you to stay. I can’t leave you to sleep on the beach.”

“There must be a hotel, surely,” she said, gazing about her.

“A small pensione. That’s all.”

One by one the faces of the fishermen froze at the sight of the chillingly familiar beauty of the young woman who had stepped onto their shore. Like old tortoises, they craned their necks and, one by one, their chins dropped to reveal toothless mouths gasping in wonder. It didn’t take long for Alba to notice. Even Gabriele felt uneasy. A silent ripple seemed to reverberate through the town.

Suddenly an old man, as squat and fat as a toad, emerged from the dark interior of Trattoria Fiorelli and stood in the doorway, scratching his groin. His heavily lidded eyes fell on Alba and the dull wall of cataracts shone with unnatural brilliance. He let out a whispery wheeze, from deep down at the bottom of his chest, and stopped scratching. Alba, frightened now by the strange hush that had come over the town, took Gabriele’s hand.

“Valentina!” the man exclaimed, fighting for air.

Alba turned and stood staring back at him as if he had just breathed life into a ghost. Then a man of about sixty with brooding looks and a formidable physique stepped out from behind him. He came down to where Alba stood, her legs trembling. He walked with a slight limp, but this did not slow him down. His expression was dark, as if the sun had been obscured by a cloud.

When he reached her, he seemed unsure of what to say, and it was Gabriele who spoke first. “Where can we get a drink around here?” he asked. His eyes shifted from the man to the fishermen, who had all climbed out of their boats and were now forming a ring around them.

“My name is Falco Fiorelli,” said Falco in a low voice. “You…you…” He didn’t know how to say it. It sounded absurd. “A drink, of course.” He shook his head, hoping to dispel the phantom that he was now sure only played with his mind and did not, as he had hoped, stand before him.

“My name is Alba,” said Alba, her face as white as the doves that sat on the gray-tiled roofs. “Alba Arbuckle. My mother was Valentina.” Falco’s weatherbeaten cheeks glowed and he heaved an almost painful sigh of relief and joy.