The Italian Matchmaker(19)

He had managed to decline the professor’s invitations to accompany him into town for almost a week, but he couldn’t decline them for ever. At lunch, when Dizzy suggested a trip to Positano he decided that the professor was the lesser of two evils. He didn’t think much of the idea of spending the day with a pair of nuggy bunnies.

The professor enjoyed a long siesta, waking at four to go into town. Romina lent Luca her car and waved them off. The air was thick with the scent of pine and eucalyptus, the light twittering of birds ringing out from the branches. ‘I believe the palazzo has a tragic history,’ said Caradoc. ‘I can feel it in the rooms. They are beautiful but the atmosphere is melancholy with something I can’t quite put my finger on. I’ve felt it before in ancient Greek temples and palaces. The energy of the events that took place there imprints itself into the stone. If those events are tragic, it is as if the very walls are draped with sadness. I want to get to the bottom of it. Two minds are better than one. Are you in, boy?’

Luca couldn’t help smiling at the old man’s enthusiasm. ‘I’m in, Professor. Where do you want to start?’

‘In the centre of town. In the church.’

‘What do you hope to find there?’ Apart from a weeping statue of Christ, he thought cynically.

‘Old people,’ said the professor. ‘Old people spend a lot of time in churches. Old people know things. And old people love to talk about the past.’

Luca helped the professor out of the car, handing him his stick. ‘Give me a minute to find my legs,’ said Caradoc, giving each one a little shake. ‘I’m lucky to have them. Jolly nearly got them blown off in the war.’ He chuckled as they walked slowly along the road towards the church. There were boutiques, a pharmacy, a butcher’s, a barber shop, a bakery, all open for business after the siesta. Luca noticed the little boy he had seen a few days before, roaming aimlessly among the trees like a lost dog.

The church was cool and dim inside the enclosure of its thick stone walls. There was no sound but the echo of silent prayer. At the end, where the altar stood in a large alcove, were tables of candles flickering eerily through the gloom, illuminating the marble statue of Christ on the cross. Luca didn’t think for a minute that that statue had ever wept blood. Some clever person with red paint and a penchant for theatricals was no doubt responsible. He followed Caradoc down the aisle, not quite sure what they were looking for. The place smelt of warm wax and incense. He swept his eyes over the frescoes of the Nativity and Crucifixion, and the iconography decorated with gold leaf that glittered in the candlelight. It was a charming chapel and no doubt well attended, which wasn’t a surprise in a place such as this, where Catholicism was at the core of the community.

There were people either side of the aisle: an old lady with her rosary beads, an elderly man in a black hat kneeling in prayer, a young woman in a black veil lighting a candle, closing her eyes and making an impossible wish. Caradoc leaned on his walking stick. ‘What now?’ Luca hissed, putting his hands in his pockets. How on earth had he got himself involved in the professor’s mad quest?

‘I’m looking for the oldest person here.’ He chortled. ‘Someone as old as me. Ah, there he is.’ The man kneeling in prayer was so still he might already have been dead had it not been for the sudden twitch of his foot, like the tail of a dozing cat.

‘You can’t interrupt his prayers.’

‘Of course not. I’ll wait until he’s finished.’

‘He might take all evening.’

‘I’m in no hurry. I have one or two things I can tell the good Lord while I’m waiting,’ said Caradoc, shuffling over to take a seat near him.

As he sat down to wait, Luca noticed the woman by the candles turn and walk up the aisle towards him. It was the woman he had seen on the beach, the mother of the child playing outside. He recognised her immediately by the way her hips gently swayed with each step. ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he whispered to Caradoc, then followed her out into the piazza. She was dressed in black, her veil reaching down to her waist. He noticed her bouncing hair and the fine curve of her hips and bottom, her slender ankles and calves. Before he had thought about what to say, he found himself greeting her in Italian. She turned, startled.

‘I’m sorry if I surprised you,’ he said, trying to make out her features behind the embroidered lace. ‘I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’ve just arrived in Incantellaria from England. My parents live up at the Palazzo Montelimone.’ The mention of that place grabbed her attention. She looked less timid than curious. Good, he thought, I’ll have this all wrapped up before the old man is even half way through his prayers. ‘We’re trying to find out a little of the history of the place. Who lived there, what he was like, you know, it’s natural that one would want to know about the past. It’s such a beautiful palazzo.’