“We need Christ’s blessing. I know how to get it. I’ll put it right, you’ll see.”
Italy 1945
That night Thomas was restless with excitement. He was unable to sleep in the trattoria, for the air was hot and sticky, in spite of the breeze that swept in off the sea. He pulled on a pair of slacks and a shirt and walked up and down the beach, hands in pockets, contemplating his future. The town was silent. Only the odd cat crept silkily across the shadows in search of mice, belly to the ground. The blue boats dragged up onto the beach took on an inky color in the semi-darkness. The moon was full, the sky deep and glittering with stars that reflected off the gentle waves like gemstones. He recalled his wartime adventures, now an age ago, and felt a moment of guilt that his family were excluded from his wedding. But he would take Valentina and Alba home and surprise everyone. He was sure they would love them as he did.
With a smile he thought of Valentina. He would show her off in town. Take her to church on Sunday, as was tradition, with little Alba in her arms, and everyone would admire her beauty and her poise. They would watch her glide down the aisle in that unique way she walked, as if she had all the time in the world. He would invite Jack for the weekend and they’d share a cigar and a glass of whiskey after dinner in the study. They’d laugh about the war. About the adventures they had. And they’d reminisce about the day Fate took them to the shores of Incantellaria. They would remember Rigs’s rendition of Rigoletto, the wanton women of the night, and Valentina, as she had been then, standing in the doorway of Immacolata’s house in her white dress, semitransparent in the sunlight. Jack would envy him and admire him. Oh Jack, he thought as he wandered up the beach, oh that you were here to share this with me.
Thomas had left the wedding plans and preparation to Immacolata and Valentina. He knew the little chapel of San Pasquale would be adorned with flowers, Valentina’s favorite arum lilies. He knew her dress would be exquisitely made by the ancient but incomparable Signora Ciprezzo, whose fingernails were long and yellowed like old cheese. There would be dancing afterward at the trattoria. He imagined the whole town would be invited. Lorenzo would play the concertina, the children would sip wine, and laughter would resound, the war forgotten, a bright and optimistic future attainable to everyone. Immacolata, Beata, and Valentina had been cooking for days. Marinating, baking, icing, garnishing. There seemed no end to the preparations. So much so that Thomas had barely seen his fiancée. She had left him with Alba while she disappeared into town on an errand or for a dress fitting, skipping happily off down the rocks, waving to him as she went, shouting out instructions for Alba, who was fastidious and indulged.
He looked forward to nights alone with his wife, when he could taste again the salty pleasure of her skin. When he could kiss her mouth knowing that he could take his time, that he wouldn’t be interrupted. He looked forward to making love to her. To holding her in his arms as his wife. He looked forward to their belonging to each other by law, as God would be their witness.
If Freddie were alive today, what would be make of her? Knowing Freddie, he would mistrust her beauty and her smile. He hadn’t been a romantic, Freddie. He had been a realist. He would have married a woman he had known all his life. A cheerful, earthy woman who would have made a good wife and mother. He hadn’t believed in the kind of love that Thomas and Valentina shared. He had thought it a dangerous thing, that ferocious, all-consuming love. Now, when Thomas thought of Freddie, he didn’t wince with pain. He had grown to accept his brother’s death and although no one could replace him, Thomas’s love for Valentina had filled his heart where before it was desolate. But he believed Freddie would have come to love her in the end. It was impossible not to. Freddie would have patted his brother on the back and conceded that he was truly blessed, beyond the expectations of an ordinary man.
It was three in the morning. He didn’t want to be tired on his wedding day. In Italy wedding celebrations went on for days, so he needed to muster all his strength. He wandered back up the beach toward the row of buildings that looked out across the sea. Soon it would be dawn and the blue shutters would be thrown open to allow the sun to tumble in. The pots of geraniums that adorned the balconies would be watered and dead-headed, and the cats would return from their night’s hunting to sleep there in the warmth. As he walked back to the trattoria he heard the distant though unmistakable music of the concertina. Lorenzo’s low, doleful voice rose into the sultry air as he sang words of sorrow and bereavement. His words of death were lost in the echo and Thomas was none the wiser.