“Marina Turner,” she said. The man nodded and returned into his hut to open the gates electronically. “Drive on,” she instructed.
Rafa did as she asked and motored up the track. He dared not look at Marina; he knew without looking that she was crying. He drew up in front of the house.
“Why don’t you drive into Herba and take a look around?” she suggested. “Give me a couple of hours.” He watched her get out and take a while to gather her courage. She swept her eyes over the facade, straightened her dress, and smoothed her hair. Then she walked up the steps to the front door where she was met by a butler in uniform.
Rafa drove down the coast into Herba, the little town he knew so well from his father’s memories. He had described it in detail during those long rides across the pampa, and Rafa could see now that it hadn’t changed very much since his father was a boy, running barefoot with his brother across the cobbles. So, this is where it all began, he thought, feeling a strange sense of nostalgia wash over him.
The butler greeted Marina formally then led her over the checkerboard floor, stopping outside an imposing pair of wooden doors. He knocked briskly. A voice called from within, “Avanti.” Marina caught her breath and blinked the mist from her eyes. The butler opened the door. She lifted her chin, pulled back her shoulders, and stepped inside.
The man behind the desk put down his pen and raised his eyes. He blanched in astonishment at the sight of the woman who now stood before him. “My God,” he gasped, standing up. For a moment he believed his eyes were deceiving him.
“Dante,” she said softly. She couldn’t take another step, for her legs were numb. She remained frozen and trembling. The man walked slowly around his desk and towards her, without taking his gaze off her—afraid that she would disappear as suddenly as she had come. When he stood a few inches away, his eyes misted, too. He took her hand and seemed not to care that a tear had escaped and trickled over the lines on his skin.
“Floriana.”
34.
They remained a long while staring at the past. Dante had grown old, as had she. His hair was gray and receded, the crow’s-feet entrenched deep and long into his temples. He had weary bags under his eyes, and the shadows there betrayed a life defined by hard work and disappointment. He ran his gaze over her features in wonder, the questions falling over each other to be asked, but his voice was lost in the turmoil of his emotions. He didn’t let go of her hands but remained as she did, frozen and trembling.
At last he pulled her into his arms and embraced her so fiercely, for a moment she was unable to breathe. It was as if the last four decades had simply dissolved, leaving them as they once were, only changed on the outside.
He pressed his wet cheek to hers and closed his eyes. “You have come back,” he whispered. “My piccolina. L’Orfanella. You have come back.” When he released her, they both laughed through their tears, a little embarrassed that two mature people could behave in such a manner. “Come and sit outside where I can see you in the light. You haven’t changed at all, Floriana, except your hair, it’s lighter!”
“I dye it,” she replied, sheepishly. “Don’t you like it?”
“It’s different, and you speak Italian like an Englishwoman.”
“I am an Englishwoman.”
He took her hand and led her through the house to the terrace. “Do you remember your birthday party?”
“Of course.”
He looked down at her hand. “You’re not wearing my ring—nor Mamma’s bracelet.”
Her eyes welled again and she began to explain, “I gave them—”
He smiled and dismissed it with a wave. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Come, sit down. We have so much to talk about. Would you like tea, coffee? I don’t know what you drink these days.” He suddenly looked deflated. “Once I knew everything about you.”
“I’ll have coffee and bread. I’m suddenly rather hungry.”
He called to the butler. “Coffee, bread, and cheese for both of us.”
Dante and Marina sat side by side, looking out over the gardens. Memories rose up from the grass like butterflies and scattered on the breeze. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, staring at her incredulously. “I think my eyes deceive me. And yet, here you are, more beautiful now than when I knew you.”
“I never thought I’d see you again. I read and reread your letters, and hoped you’d come and find me. For years I waited.” She shook her head, not wanting to revisit that bleak and lonely time. “What happened to Good-Night?”