Last Voyage of the Valentina(87)

“What is the festa di Santa Benedetta?” Alba asked, watching Immacolata replace the dress carefully in the cupboard.

“You are descended from Santa Benedetta, a simple peasant girl who witnessed a miracle. The marble statue of Christ that stands in the little chapel of San Pasquale shed tears of blood. It was a miracle, God’s way of showing the people of Incantellaria that His power was total. Every year the statue wept. Sometimes the blood was a mere drop; then the fishermen would harvest few fish, or the water turned sour, or the grape vendemmia poor. If the blood was shed in abundance, the year that ensued was golden. Incantellaria produced juicy grapes and barrels of olives. The lemons grew heavy and succulent; the flowers blossomed more radiant than ever. They were good years. Then there was the year he shed not a drop, not a single drop. We waited, we watched, but he had written what was to come and He punished us by taking our most precious Valentina.” She crossed herself again. “He has not bled for twenty-six years.”

Alba was slightly spooked by her grandmother’s devoutness. Alba rarely mentioned God, except when she swore, so Immacolata’s simple peasant beliefs seemed absurd to her. Her eyes shifted to the end of the bed where a wicker Moses basket stood on a stand. She sat on the bed and peered inside to the white sheet and woolen crocheted blanket.

“This was mine?” she asked in wonder, picking up the blanket and bringing it to her nose so that she could smell it.

Immacolata nodded. “I kept everything,” she said. “I needed something to hold on to after she was gone.” The two women looked at each other. “You have made me very happy. My little Alba.” She stroked her granddaughter’s cheek with her thumb. “Let me show you where you can have a bath. You can borrow Valentina’s nightdress tonight, then tomorrow we will buy you some clothes to wear, va bene?” Alba nodded. “Come. We will eat.”

As they walked onto the terrace, the shrill sound of a child rang out to the accompaniment of a chorus of crickets. “Ah, Cosima,” said Immacolata, and her expression softened like snow caught in a ray of sunshine. A little girl skipped out from behind a cluster of bushes, followed by a small red dog. She saw her great-grandmother and hurried up to her, breathless with giggles, her dark, honey-colored curls bouncing about a round, rosy face, her pale blue and white dress flapping around her knees. “Nonnina! Nonnina!” Instinctively she stopped before falling into the old woman’s arms, knowing that her enthusiasm would unbalance her. Immacolata placed her hand on the child’s head and bent to kiss it. She turned to Alba.

“God took my Valentina, but He blessed me with Cosima.” The little girl stared at Alba, her brown eyes wide and curious. “Cosima, this is Alba. She is your…” Immacolata paused, unable to work out the relationship. “Cousin. Alba is your cousin.”

Alba had never liked children. They never seemed to like her much either. But the vulnerable expression in Cosima’s eyes, a blatant desire to be loved, like a puppy or a young calf, took her by surprise. She had a mischievous face with pretty curled lips. Her upper lip was plumper than the lower one and her nose was slightly upturned. Like Alba, she had charm. Unlike Alba, she was unaware of it. Cosima, noticing that she was being stared at, smiled shyly and blushed.

“Who’s this?” Alba asked, bending down and patting the dog.

“Cucciolo,” the child replied, drawing close to her grandmother. “He’s a dragon.”

“He looks very frightening,” said Alba, playing along with the joke. Cosima giggled and looked up at her from under thick black eyelashes.

“Don’t be frightened, he won’t hurt you. He’s a friendly dragon.”

“I’m so pleased. I was rather nervous. After all, I’ve never seen a real dragon before.”

“He frightens the hens, and Bruno.”

“Who’s Bruno?”

“The donkey.”

“You have lots of animals.”

“I love animals,” she said, her little face beaming with pleasure. When she walked toward the tethered donkey, Alba noticed she bounced on the balls of her feet. The exuberant gait of a child without cares.

It wasn’t long before Falco appeared with Beata and their son, Toto, whose wife had run off with the Argentinean tango dancer. He was a handsome young man, five years older than Alba, with brown curly hair and a wide, open face like his daughter. On seeing her father, Cosima threw her arms around his waist. “Alba is frightened of the dragon!” she squealed, nestling her face excitedly into Toto’s stomach so that her giggles were muffled against his shirt. He wrapped her in his arms and lifted her off the ground.