She picked it up and walked over to the window so that she could see it better in the light. This one was even more extraordinary than the first, for it depicted her mother gazing adoringly upon the baby feeding from her breast. And that baby was herself, Alba, no more than a few months old. Valentina’s expression was soft with tenderness and she radiated a fierce, protective love that seemed to extend beyond the paper and pastels and reach her now, where she sat alone by the window, twenty-six years later.
“She loved you intensely,” said Immacolata, hobbling over to sit beside her. “You symbolized a new beginning. The war was over. She wanted to start again, be someone else. You were the anchor she needed, Alba.” Alba didn’t understand, but it sounded nice.
“I’ve always wondered what kind of mother she was,” she said quietly.
“She was a good mother. God gave her a child to teach her compassion, selflessness, and pride. She put you first, above everything else, even herself. Perhaps that is why He took her back, because she had learned the lesson she came here to learn.”
“It’s a beautiful picture.”
“I’ll get Falco to make a copy. It’s a wonder what things they can do nowadays.”
“I’d so adore one. My father has the only other one. I have nothing.” Immacolata took her hand.
“You have us now, Alba, and I will share my memories with you. I know that is what Valentina would want. You are so like her. So very like her.” Her voice was reduced to a whisper.
“No, I’m not,” Alba replied sadly, recalling with a bitter taste her promiscuous, empty life. “I’m not like her at all. But I can be. I will be. I’ll change and become a good person. I’ll be everything she would want me to be.”
“Alba, my child, you are already everything she would want you to be.”
Suddenly the scent of figs blew in through the open window, even stronger than before. Immacolata took the picture and replaced it carefully behind the dancing flame so that Valentina’s face was illuminated. “Come,” she said. “Let me show you to your room.”
21
I mmacolata led Alba up a narrow stone staircase. The house was old, far older than Immacolata herself. It smelled of age, of time ingrained into the very fabric of the building. Immacolata climbed slowly and Alba had to restrain her impatience, for each step brought her closer to her mother.
Finally they crossed the landing to a bleached oak door. Immacolata reached underneath the black shawl she wore and pulled out a ring of heavy keys; they rattled metallically on a chain where her waist should have been, as if she were a medieval jailer. “Here we are,” she said softly.
The room was small, with white walls and shutters that were closed. Soft beams of amber light filtered in through the gaps in the wooden slats, giving the room an eerie mistiness. The air vibrated with life, as if the spirit of Valentina still lingered there, clinging on possessively to her lost world. Immacolata lit the candle on the pine dressing table. It illuminated the embroidered linen cloth upon which Valentina’s brush and comb, bottles of perfume, flasks of creamy lotions and stout crystal pot of face powder were placed neatly in front of a large Queen Anne mirror. Alba noticed her mother’s hair was still entwined within the bristles of the brush. Immacolata shuffled over to the wardrobe that was bleached and carved with vines of grapes. She opened the doors to reveal a row of dresses.
“Valentina had simple tastes,” said her mother proudly. “We didn’t have much. It was wartime.” She pulled out a white dress and held it up for her granddaughter to see. “She was wearing this when she first met your father.” Alba reached out and ran her fingers over the soft cotton. “Your father fell in love with her when he saw her in this. She looked like an angel. So pretty. So very pretty, so innocent. I told her to take him down to the river to bathe. It was hot. They needed little encouragement. I knew they wouldn’t have much time to get to know each other. I understood that they wanted to be alone.” She crossed herself. “God forgive me.”
“It’s so small. I always imagined she was tall.”
Immacolata shook her head. “She was Italian. Of course she wasn’t tall.” Her arthritic hands rifled through the other dresses until she came across a black one embroidered with white flowers. “Ah,” she sighed wistfully. “This she wore to the festa di Santa Benedetta. Your father accompanied her. I helped sew daisies into her hair and rub oil into her skin. She was radiant. She was in love. How could she have known how it would all end? Her future held such promise.”