Last Voyage of the Valentina(90)

“Okay, Cosima, one to ten. Which ones do you like?” she said, folding her arms and assuming a serious face. At first Cosima didn’t know what to do with herself. She had never been offered more than one at a time. Feverish with excitement, she tore off her own dress and stood in her white pants, holding three at once, not sure which to try on first. Helped by Maria and her daughters, the child paraded the dresses like a princess, striding up and down the aisle, twirling around so that they billowed out like pretty flowers. None warranted a zero. Overcome with the pressure of the decision, Cosima was unable to decide.

“I don’t know,” she wailed tearfully, her chest expanding as her breath quickened. “I don’t know which to choose!”

“Then we’ll just have to buy them all,” Alba replied casually. The child stared at her with eyes as large as moons. Then she burst into tears. Maria wrapped her arms around her, but Cosima pulled away and sobbed against Alba.

“What’s the matter?” Alba asked, stroking her hair.

“No one’s ever bought me so many dresses before,” she said, swallowing hard. Alba thought of Cosima’s mother who had deserted her child for a tango dancer, and her heart buckled.

“Wait until your father sees you in them. We can put on a fashion show this evening. We’ll keep it a secret and surprise him.”

Cosima wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Oh, yes, can we?”

“He’ll think you’ve been turned into a princess.”

“Oh, he really will.”

“Now, can you do something for me?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to let me draw you.” Alba hadn’t drawn since childhood. She wasn’t even sure that she could still draw. “We’ll buy paper and pencils and you’ll sit for me. Will you do that?” The child nodded enthusiastically. “You can take me somewhere nice. We’ll prepare a picnic and you can tell me all about Costanza and Eugenia and all your other friends at school.”



When they arrived at the trattoria with armfuls of bags Toto’s jaw dropped. “The shops have probably made more today than they make in a month,” he said. Cosima smiled and puffed out her chest. Her father narrowed his eyes. “What’s that face for?” he asked her, pulling her onto his knee.

“A surprise,” she said with a giggle. He looked at Alba and then down at the bags.

“Ah, I see.”

“I lost an entire wardrobe. A girl’s got to have clothes,” Alba explained.

“She really does,” Cosima agreed, and her cherubic face glowed with happiness.

Before returning to the house for lunch, Toto and Cosima took Alba to the chapel of San Pasquale. It was in the center of town, up a narrow street that opened into a small yard. Painted white and blue, its symmetry and stoutness gave it a quaint charm. The mosaic dome soared into the fresh sea air, a serene lookout point for doves and gulls. Alba walked through the heavy wooden door where her mother had stood almost three decades before, dressed in white lace and daisies, to marry her father. She paused a moment and savored the sight of the aisle, imagining it festooned with flowers, the glittering icons and frescoes that decorated the walls, the shining gold candelabra that caught the light and twinkled. The altar stood at the foot of an elaborate altarpiece depicting scenes of the Crucifixion, its starched white cloth neatly laid with gold candlesticks and the highly crafted trappings of ceremony. After the simplicity of the town, the opulence of the chapel was remarkable. However, what drew her attention was the white marble statue of Jesus that had supposedly once wept tears of blood. She strode up to it, her espadrilles soft on the flag-stones.

It was smaller than she had imagined, with no sign of tears, blood or otherwise. She craned her neck to look behind it, searching for some explanation, for some proof of trickery.

“There’s nothing there,” said Toto, appearing beside her while Cosima sat at the back, guarding the shopping bags with her life.

“Did it really happen?” Alba asked.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that something happened. I just doubt that it was inspired by God.”

“But it hasn’t happened in years?”

“Not since Valentina’s death.” His tone was matter-of-fact.

“Immacolata says that it was because of her that the miracle dried up.” Alba ran her fingers over the cold, lifeless stone face of Christ.

“Immacolata is a deeply religious woman. She lost a husband, a son, and then a daughter. It’s not surprising that she tries to explain it all in those terms. To her, Valentina is a saint, but she was a human being. A fallible human being like the rest of us.”