The Italian Matchmaker(38)

A hush descended over the congregation, a buzz of anticipation straining the silence while they waited, barely daring to breathe. The little boy sat at the foot of the altar, running the smooth feather across his lips. Suddenly the doors reopened and three women dressed in black walked in like a coven of witches, their faces illuminated by the candles they held. One walked a little in front of the others, her chin raised, her eyes fixed upon the altar. Behind them walked the priest, reciting prayers in a deep monotone, and a little choirboy in red, waving a thurible of frankincense.

As they filed past, Luca noticed the eyes of the woman who walked in front. They were disarmingly light against the rich brown of her skin and hair. She shifted her gaze for a second and looked at him, her expression unchanging. Only the apples of her cheeks flushed to betray her surprise. Luca nodded, copying those around him who knew the ritual by heart. She continued to walk slowly, settling her gaze on the statue that held so much hope and expectation.

The three women took their places in the front pew. The priest and the little choirboy stood before the altar. There were no hymns, no music, only the inaudible prayers of the hopeful congregants who never tired of the ceremony, returning every year, their optimism refreshed.

Ma squinted but could only see a very blurred statue. ‘Has he bled yet?’ she hissed into Caradoc’s ear.

The old man shook his head. ‘My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on; Judge not the play before the play is done.’

‘Oh my, how the good Lord takes His time,’ she grumbled.

‘And tests our faith,’ Caradoc replied.

They all waited for twenty minutes, after which the congregation gave a collective sigh. The miracle hadn’t happened. Christ’s eyes remained dry. The bell began to toll, shoulders were shrugged, a few old people wept, the children began to giggle and shuffle from one foot to the other.

Suddenly, there was a loud sob, the hurried tapping of shoes on stone, and the flurry of material as Cosima ran down the aisle and out of the church. Everyone stared, a murmur rising from the pews. Luca watched the little boy follow his mother, his face taut with anxiety, his hands gripping the feather. As he passed, he held Luca’s eyes for a long moment, as if trying to communicate something. Luca could almost hear a cry for help.

‘Oh dear,’ said Ma in a voice of doom. ‘She’s taken it very badly.’

‘The widow,’ said Caradoc. ‘Luca’s got his eye on her.’

‘That heart will be impossible to win.’

‘Nothing a man likes more than a challenge.’

‘Nothing a man hates more than losing,’ Ma added pessimisticaly. ‘Now what do we do?’

‘Go home, I suppose,’ said Caradoc.

‘I wonder what’s for supper.’

The procession of women walked slowly back up the aisle and out of the church, the priest and the choirboy close behind. The bell tolled dolefully but the musicians were ready to pick up their instruments and play in the square. Rosa wasn’t going to let Cosima spoil the party, though she knew Alba would run after her as she always did. She wondered whether the handsome Englishman would stay to dance and whether she’d manage to speak to him with Eugenio present.

Luca felt flat with anticlimax. He was about to ask the professor whether he wanted to stay or return to the palazzo for dinner, when a cold gust of wind swept up the aisle, and there was the little boy with the feather standing in the doorway, red-faced and out of breath, searching the sea of faces. When he saw Luca, he began to scream at the top of his voice: ‘Help! Mamma is in the water. Help! Please!’

Luca was right beside him, hurrying out of the church. ‘Take me to her!’ he commanded.

They ran through the square, ignoring the surprised look on the faces of the priest and the three parenti di Santa Benedetta. The little boy ran nimbly down the cobbles to the quay, from where Luca could just make out a figure wading out to sea in the moonlight. He threw off his shoes and jacket and ran after her, striding through the water as fast as he could. ‘Cosima!’ he shouted. At first she ignored him, as if in a trance. When he shouted louder, she accelerated her pace until her head disappeared beneath the waves. Luca began to swim, trying to locate where she had gone down. Then he saw an arm rise above the water as her instinct struggled to hold on to life. With a monumental effort he managed to grab it. There was a brief struggle and then she went limp.

Luca pulled her up and manoeuvred her on to her back so that he could hold her in the crook of his arm, her head resting on his shoulder. He swam back towards the shore until he could feel the stones beneath his feet. Then he took her in his arms and carried her out of the water. No one had followed him in spite of the child’s pleas. Hastily, he placed Cosima on the stones and put his ear to her breast to check her heart. It was still beating, but she was not breathing. He tried to resuscitate her, pounding her chest and pumping oxygen into her lungs. Her lips were cold and salty, her body lifeless. He’d never forgive himself if the boy lost his mother because he was unable to save her.