CHAPTER TWELVE
JOANNA
June 1973
On the side of the piazza, a narrow alley dipped down between a greengrocer’s with a wonderful display of fruit and vegetables outside and what looked like a wine shop on the other side. Then it entered a tunnel. I hesitated, wondering if this was some kind of local joke and God knows what I’d find at the other end of that tunnel, or even if it actually led anywhere. Was it a route to a dungeon? A cellar?
But I could still feel their eyes on me, and I was not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing my fear. I stepped forward bravely. The floor was made of large cobblestones, the walls hewn out of the stone of the hillside. And after the tunnel turned a corner, I saw that one side had openings to the view while the other had what looked like wine cellars. I came through the tunnel without incident and followed the path that dipped steeply into the valley. The village came to an abrupt halt after only a couple of rows of houses, and I took the track that led down the hill. It consisted of two rows of rutted dirt made by the wheels of successive carts and tractors. Between the dirt rows poppies poked their heads above the grass. After the houses came to an end, I walked between leafy vines on one side and on the other kitchen gardens with runner beans covered in their red flowers climbing on beanpoles above tomatoes and other vegetables I didn’t recognise. I went a way down the hill, and there on the left ahead of me was one of the old farmhouses I had admired on my journey here. It was built of faded pink stone, its terra cotta roof glowing a rich, warm red against a startlingly blue sky. Over its doorway an old and gnarled grapevine created a shady porch, and beside it was a huge clay jar with rosemary spilling over the top. The front door was open. I went up to it and looked for a bell. I knocked tentatively but got no response.
“Hello! Buongiorno,” I called. No answer.
From the back of the house I could hear women’s voices. I advanced slowly along the tiled passage, which opened up on to a big sunny kitchen from which wonderful smells were emanating—baking bread and herbs that I couldn’t quite identify. A row of copper pots hung on hooks. Beside them were braids of garlic and drying herbs. In the centre was a scrubbed wooden table on which various vegetables and herbs had been chopped, and on the right-hand wall was an enormous and ancient open brick oven that could have baked a dozen loaves at once. And at the more modern gas stove beside it a woman was standing with her back to me. My first glimpse of her made me gasp and stand rooted to the spot. It felt as if I had been transported back in time. This was my mother, the same stout build, the same hair twisted up into a bun, stirring something magical on the stove as I came home from school.
Any minute now she’d turn to see me, give me a big smile, and open her arms to embrace me. Instead a dog rose up from under the pine table and came toward me, growling. The woman turned and uttered a little cry of alarm at being startled.
“Quiet, Bruno,” the woman said. “Lie down.” The dog obeyed, still eyeing me suspiciously.
“Scusi, Signora,” I said quickly. “I knocked but you didn’t hear.” Actually, I think I said that I struck the door, not having the word for “to knock” in my scant vocabulary.
“No matter,” she said. “You are here now. How can I help you?”
“I need a room for the night,” I said. “The men told me you had a place?” I had practised these phrases on the walk down, and they came out quite smoothly.
She nodded, beaming now. “Yes. Of course. My little house in the garden. Once it was for animals. Now it is for people. Good, eh?”
I returned her smile. It was difficult to tell how old she was—probably in her forties, but her face was remarkably unlined and her hair only showed the faintest streaks of grey. She was wearing a large blue and yellow apron over a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows.
She wiped her hands on the apron and came toward me. “I am Paola Rossini,” she said. “Welcome.”
I shook the outstretched hand. “Pleased to meet you, Signora Rossini. I am Joanna Langley,” I said.
“From England?”
“Yes.”
She nodded approval. “You look like an English girl. Always tall and elegant. You are a student of Italian?”
“No, I’m here on a visit. I’m looking into places my father visited when he was in Italy.”
“Really? And he came to San Salvatore once?”
“I think so,” I said, not wanting to broach this matter now.
At that moment there was a loud and piercing cry and I remembered that we were not alone in the room. There had been a conversation going on as I walked down the hall. On a chair in the corner, a young woman sat. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, and she was watching me with curiosity. On her lap was a tiny new baby.
“My daughter, Angelina,” Signora Rossini said proudly. “And now my granddaughter, Marcella. She is just three weeks old. She was born early, and for a while we were worried we might lose her, but with good care and her mother’s good milk she is now doing well, eh, Angelina?”
The girl in the corner nodded, smiling shyly at me. “Angelina’s husband is a steward on a ship,” Signora Rossini said. “He is away at sea and has not seen his baby daughter yet. So she comes to her old mother and knows she will be well taken care of.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off that tiny, perfect human being, nor could I stop my brain from going to places I did not want it to visit. Three months from now . . . Stop! I commanded myself.
“My congratulations on your daughter,” I said, this being one of the phrases we had learned in the Italian course.
Angelina beamed. “You are married?” she asked. “You have children?”
I tried to keep on smiling. “Not yet,” I said. “I am studying to be a lawyer.”
“Oh, studying to be a lawyer.” They looked at each other and nodded, impressed.
Paola sniffed and realised she had left what she had been cooking on the stove. “Un momento,” she said and rushed back to it, giving it a hearty stir.
“What are you cooking?” I asked. “It smells wonderful.”
She turned back to me, shrugging modestly. “It is nothing special. Just a simple lunch that we Tuscans like to eat. We call it pappa al pomodoro. You are welcome to join us. There is plenty.”
“I would love to, if you are sure it’s all right.”
“Of course.” She turned back to her daughter. “Put the baby down for her sleep, Angelina, and give this another stir while I show the young English lady to her room. I am sure she would like to wash before her meal.”
Angelina got up and placed the tiny bundle in a cradle by the wall. The baby let out a complaining wail.
“Let her cry,” Paola said. “It is good for the lungs.” She turned back to me. “Come. I will show you.”
I picked up the bag I had put down on the floor and followed her out of the back door. Bruno the dog trotted beside me, having decided if his mistress liked me then I must be all right. A flagstone path led down the hill through a garden that was a riot of flowers and vegetables. Roses grew between beanpoles and tomatoes. There were bushes of lavender and rosemary that smelled heavenly as I brushed against them. Amid the plants were various ancient fruit trees, cherries and apricots looking almost ready to pick and apples still small green buds. The path ended in an old stone outbuilding with bars at the window. Not exactly prepossessing. Paola went around to the side, took a large key, and opened the door.
“Pass, please,” she said, standing back for me to go in first. The room was simple in the extreme: an iron bedstead, a white chest of drawers, a row of hooks on the wall for clothes, and a little table under the window. The floor was made of the same red tiles as the kitchen and passage. There were fresh white net curtains at the window, and the bed was made up with white linens topped with a homemade quilt.
“Va bene?” she asked. “It’s all right?”
“Si.” I nodded enthusiastically. “And to wash?”
“Ah,” she said, and opened an ancient door into a tiny bathroom. “You have your own water. It’s from the well outside, so it’s not a good idea to drink this. But there is a heater for the shower. See, it turns on like this. One must make sure the handle is lifted so.” And she demonstrated. “Be careful. It can make the water very hot.”
I noted the rather alarming-looking contraption on the wall and decided to heed the warning. The bathroom had a sink, a toilet, and a very small shower. But again it was spotlessly clean. If cows had once been housed here, there was no lingering odour. In fact, the bathroom window was open and the scent of honeysuckle wafted in from the ancient wall outside. I felt instantly that this was a place where I could feel at home.
“Thank you. It’s good,” I said. “How much money will it cost?”
She named a price. I did a rapid calculation from thousands of lira into pounds and pence. It was very reasonable.
“And you will eat breakfast with us in the big house,” she said. “Also if you want to have an evening meal with us, then it will just be a little more. You tell me in the morning, and I will make something special for our dinner.”
“Thank you. I would certainly like to join you for dinner if that is all right.” Suddenly I felt rather overwhelmed, as if this kindness was all too much after several months of feeling so alone.
“So I will leave you to settle in,” she said. “And I will prepare the meal. Come up when you are ready.”
She left the door open, letting in a scented breeze. I was tempted to try out the scary-looking shower after my night on the train, but I didn’t want to keep Paola waiting too long. I unpacked a few items, washed my face and hands, put on a fresh blouse, and brushed my hair. Then I closed the door and went back up the path. The table was now laid with brightly painted ceramic dishes and bowls. In the middle was a big platter with tomatoes, a slab of white cheese, a couple of sticks of salami, a bowl of olives, and a big loaf of crusty bread. Paola motioned for me to sit, then served me a bowl of the soup. It was almost too thick to be called a soup, and it smelled of garlic and herbs that I didn’t recognise. I took a tentative sip and felt the explosion of taste in my mouth. How could anyone take simple tomatoes and onions and make them taste like this?
“It is delicious,” I said, hoping that “delizioso” was a word. “Very good.”
Paola hovered behind me, then pulled out a chair at the head of the table. Angelina came to join us. She had picked up the baby again, and to my shock she opened her blouse and put the baby to a large round breast before picking up her own spoon.
“So everybody gets to eat,” Paola said with satisfaction.
“How do you make this soup?” I asked.
She laughed. “So simple. It is what we call part of our cucina povera—simple food for the peasants. And a good way to use up yesterday’s stale bread. It is simply stale bread soaked in broth, and then we cook the garlic, tomatoes, some carrot, and celery and add these to it, then serve with olive oil. That’s all.”
I ate until I had scraped my bowl clean with today’s still-warm bread. Paola picked up a jug and asked if she could pour into my glass. I nodded agreement and was startled to find it was red wine she was pouring, not water as I had expected.
“Not too much wine for me,” I said. “I am not used to drinking in the middle of the day.”
“But this is an ordinary wine. No strength at all. We give it to our children. Makes them strong. And if you wish, you can mix it with some water.” She handed me a carafe of water, and I poured in a little.
I was now told to help myself to the items on the board. I tried some of the salami and cheese, and the tomatoes were sweeter than any I had tasted before.
“What is the name of this cheese?” I asked. “It is very different from any cheese I have tasted.”
“Ah, that is because it is cheese from the sheep and not from the cow, such as you have in your country. It is the cheese that my husband and I used to make once. Pecorino, we call it. It is good, no? Sharp and full of flavour.”
“It is.” I nodded.
“Have more. And try this prosciutto.” She put more food on my plate, and while I ate, Paola questioned me. Where did I live? What about my parents?
I told her I lived in London and my parents were both dead. She nodded sadly. “It is tragic to lose a loved one. A wound one never recovers from, I fear. My own dear Gianfranco died last year.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said. “Was he ill?”
She shook her head angrily. “No. His truck went off the road and rolled over on the way to the market. It was bad weather. Much rain and wind. But Gianfranco was a good driver. Sometimes I wonder—”
“Mamma, you must not say these things,” Angelina interrupted. I looked at her enquiringly. “My mother thinks that maybe there are men who did not like my father. He was too honest. He would not pay protection money, and he would not sell his land.”
“It’s true. I do wonder, often. All I know is my husband was taken from me. Too young. Too young.”
“So now you have to run the farm on your own?” I asked.
“It was too much for a woman alone,” she said. “We used to have sheep and goats for the cheese, but they are gone now. I had to sell them, and you have their little house. My vineyard is rented out to others. I keep a few olive trees for the oil, and I grow vegetables in my garden, as you can see. I take them up to the market once a week, and I make preserves with the fruit. It is enough to get by.”
We ate for a while in silence. I felt the wine in my head, and the heat of the afternoon was making me sleepy. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a little sleep,” I said. “I was up all night on the train.”
“Of course.” Paola got up, too.
“And maybe later you could show me how to cook some of your recipes?” I said.
“It will be a pleasure. You like to cook?”
“I’d like to learn,” I said. “My mother was a good cook, but I have never learned to cook anything more than a fried egg.”
“She never taught you?” Paola asked.
“No. She died when I was eleven.”
Paola came up to me, her arms open, and took me into an embrace. I smelled garlic and sweat and a faint rosewater type of perfume, but the mixture was not unpleasant. “No young girl should have to grow up without a mother,” she said.
I fought back tears.
The combination of wine and tiredness meant that I slept for over an hour. I awoke with my head groggy and had to splash water on my face to make myself feel vaguely normal. When I came back to the kitchen, I saw Paola was working at the big table. She greeted me with a smile. “Ah, the little one who wants to cook. You came at the right moment. See, I am making pici. It is a pasta of this region, made with only flour and water. No eggs. Do you want to join me?”
“Oh yes, thank you. I’d love to,” I said. I washed my hands in the sink, then she showed me her process. “You see, we start with a mound of two types of flour. I like to use semolina as well as the flour we call tipo 00. Very fine, no? And then we make a little well in the middle, and we start to pour in the water, little by little, gently, and we mix. And we start to knead.”
I tried to follow along with my pile of flour. It wasn’t as easy as she made it look. Flour stuck to my fingers. It became a sticky mess.
“More flour, I think,” Paola said kindly, taking over until I had a smooth dough in front of me. “Now comes the real work. We knead and we knead. At least ten minutes.”
Again I followed along. It was an effort, but it felt good to have my hands working, to be creating something. I found myself relaxing—smiling. I looked around the kitchen as I worked. Bunches of herbs were drying in a corner, tied to a rack, and along one wall were large terra cotta jars full of olive oil and other things I couldn’t identify from where I was standing.
“Now we must let it rest,” Paola said. “Come, we will have a coffee and biscotti while we wait.”
She poured two cups of thick black coffee and pushed a plate of hard biscuits in front of me. I sat with her and nibbled at them. “Good, no?” she said. “And the biscotti are better when you dip them in the Vin Santo. I will show you later.”
“It’s very good just like this,” I said, although I wasn’t used to such strong coffee, which hit me with a jolt to the system.
“And now we finish the pici.” Paola got up and took the cloth from the top of our dough. “Let me show you how we roll it.”
She broke off a piece and put it onto the floured table. Then she rolled it with her hands the way we used to make snakes with modelling clay when I was a little girl. Back and forth she rolled until it was a uniformly thin, long strand. Then she handed me a piece. My strand was not as uniform and even, but I certainly enjoyed the process.
“We will have it tonight with a rabbit ragu,” Paola said as we worked. “Those rabbits have become a pest to my vegetables, so I invite the boys from the village to come and shoot them for me. They like to shoot, and I like to eat rabbit. I give them one to take home to their mother, and everyone is happy.”
I had to concentrate really hard to understand this, not having learned the word for “rabbit,” but once she mentioned eating her vegetables in her garden, I managed to guess what she meant. “How do you make a rabbit ragu?”
“Also not hard. You start with pancetta and onions and sage and rosemary, and tomatoes and garlic of course, and it cooks gently for a long while. I made it early this morning.”
I decided the time was right to mention my father. “Signora Rossini, I told you I came here because my father had been in this place during the war.” I paused. “He was a British airman. His plane was shot down. Do you remember any of that? A British airman? A plane that crashed nearby?”
She gave me an apologetic smile. “I was not here in the war,” she said. “My mother sent me to my aunt up in the hills, on account of the Germans. I was a young girl and the Germans . . . they thought it was their right to take any young girl they fancied. Just as they thought it was their right to kill whenever they wanted. They were animals. I cannot tell you how much we suffered.”
I nodded with understanding. Then I asked, “Do you remember a woman called Sofia Bartoli from this village?”
“Sofia Bartoli? Oh yes, of course I remember her. I remember when her husband Guido brought her home right before the war. She was not from here, you know, so the people of this town did not look upon her favourably. They do not like outsiders. And she was an orphan, I remember, with no family. I was only a little girl, but I thought she was very pretty, and kind, too. I heard she lost her husband in the North African conflict.”
“And do you know what happened to her?”
“When I returned to the village when the war was over, she was gone. Nobody said much about it, but it wasn’t good. She went away, leaving her baby son.”