CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JOANNA
June 1973
Two men were walking together into the piazza. One was a big bull of a middle-aged man, powerfully built with the grey curly hair and profile of the Roman Caesars. Yet in spite of his powerful appearance, he walked with a stick. The other was tall, muscular, and remarkably good-looking. He had the same strong chin, dark eyes, and mass of unruly, dark curls. He was wearing a white shirt, opened several buttons down to reveal a tanned chest, and dark, form-fitting trousers. The effect was of a Romantic poet, although rather more healthy-looking. A fleeting thought crossed my mind that it would be highly unfair if the most attractive man I had ever seen turned out to be my brother—until I reminded myself that I had sworn off men.
I kept staring at him, trying to see any hint of my father in him. But he was nothing like my slim and fair-haired father.
I was wondering what to say to them when one of the men called out, “This young English lady is asking about Sofia Bartoli’s son.”
The younger man, who I presumed was Renzo, gave me a cold stare. “I have the misfortune to be that woman’s son,” he said in remarkably good English. “But I remember nothing of her. What do you wish to know?”
“You speak English?” I was surprised and impressed.
The man nodded. “I spent a year working in London. In a restaurant.”
“Were you a waiter?” I was hoping to break down the obvious hostility that I could feel.
“I was studying to be a chef,” he said. “But then my father had a stroke. I had to return home to help him run his lands and his businesses.” He turned to give a deferential nod to the older man.
One of the men had risen and pulled out a chair for him. “Here, Cosimo. Take my seat,” he said.
“Not necessary,” the older man said. “We go inside to eat. Our table awaits us.” So that was Cosimo, the richest man in the town, the one who owned all the olive groves except for Paola’s.
He touched Renzo’s arm and let out a rapid fire of words in Italian.
Renzo turned back to me. “My father wishes to know what your interest is in Sofia Bartoli.”
I hesitated. “I believe that my father once knew her.”
Again the older man said something in rapid Italian and the men grinned. Renzo looked quite uncomfortable as he said, “My father thinks that maybe quite a few men knew her.”
The older man was continuing to stare at me. “You are German, I think,” he said in accented English.
“No, I’m English.”
“I think German,” he repeated. “I think you are Sofia Bartoli’s child with that German scum and now you have come to reclaim her land and her olive grove.”
“Absolutely not,” I said angrily. “My father was a British pilot. His plane was shot down. He was badly injured.”
I was still watching Renzo, wondering if he could have been the beautiful boy who was hidden away where only Sofia and my father could find him. But my father had written “our beautiful boy,” not “your.” That implied the child was theirs, not hers. Perhaps he had developed a real attachment to the little boy. “Tell me,” I said, “were you ever hidden away during the war?”
“Hidden? How do you mean?”
“Hidden away where nobody could find you, to keep you safe?”
“From the Germans?” He frowned, then shook his head. “I have no such memory. In fact, that cannot be. I remember we had a German officer staying in our house. He was kind to me, I do not have a bad memory of him. He gave me sweets.”
“How old are you?” I asked, realising that I was probably sounding very rude.
“You ask many questions for a woman and a stranger to this place,” Renzo said. “I don’t see what this has to do with you, but I am thirty-two. And in case you wish to know, I am not married. Are you?”
I felt myself blushing now. “I’m not married, either.” So he was too old to be my father’s child. I knew that my father had crashed and been wounded toward the end of the war, and this man had been born in 1940 or ’41.
“And did you ever have a little brother?” I asked.
“This was not possible.” He gave me a scathing look. “My real father was sent to Africa before I was born, and he never returned. If it had not been for Cosimo, I would have been a destitute orphan. I owe everything to him.” He put a hand on Cosimo’s arm. “Now, if you will excuse me, my father wishes to have a drink at his favourite table.”
And they walked together into the trattoria. Once they were inside, the man sitting closest to me said in a low voice, “That man is Cosimo. It is not good to cross him. He is powerful. He owns much land around here, and the olive press, too.”
A younger man got up and motioned for me to sit at the table. “Come. Join us for a drink,” he said. “Sit. Get her a glass, Massimo. And try some of our local olives. They are the best.”
I hesitated, wondering how to refuse and whether it was possible that I would learn anything more from them. The man insisted, and I sat. A glass was put in front of me and filled with dark red wine. A bowl of olives was pushed down the table along with a loaf of coarse bread and a jug of olive oil. The man who had invited me, a skinny individual with slicked-back hair and a slightly racy look, tore off some bread for me and poured a little of the oil on to my plate.
“This is oil from our olive trees,” he said. “Good Tuscan oil. Extra virgin, eh? Good to be extra virgin.”
The way he said the word “virgin” combined with the way he looked at me made me uneasy, but then he laughed and I decided he was only teasing.
“You see the colour of our olive oil?” a broad-shouldered man sitting opposite me asked. “Bright green. The green of springtime. That is the colour of Tuscan olive oil. The best. Of course it has to come from my trees.”
“Your trees?” one of the men at the far end of the table demanded. “You sold most of your trees to Cosimo. Now it comes from his trees.”
“Not true. I kept the best trees for myself.”
“I heard he made you an offer too good to refuse. Or he had something on you.”
“Not true. You lie!”
Voices were raised again and I thought they might well break into a fist fight. But then an older man said, “The signorina will think she has arrived among wild animals. Behave. Now eat, Signorina. Eat. Drink. Enjoy yourself.”
They all watched as I dipped the bread in the oil and then ate with an expression of satisfaction.
“Good, no?” they asked. “The best olives in the region.”
“And could be even better,” the young, racy one said, giving a look I couldn’t quite interpret.
One of the men put a finger to his lips. “It’s not wise to say such things, Gianni. Especially when someone might be able to overhear us. Watch your mouth or you will be sorry.”
The distinguished old man with a shock of white hair took over the conversation. “So tell us, Signorina. Your father, the British pilot, he is still alive? He sent you here to find Sofia Bartoli?”
“No, Signor,” I said. “He died a month ago. I came here because I found her name mentioned among his belongings. He never spoke of her to me or my mother, but I was curious. Now I see I was wrong to delve into the past. My father would not be happy to learn of her actions. But at least I have seen this beautiful region, and I am glad I came.”
“You will now go back to England?” the older man asked.
“I may stay for a few days. I am happy in the little room at Signora Rossini’s house. I will take walks and enjoy your beautiful countryside.”
This was generally approved of. “You must let me show you my sheep,” the amorous one said. “I keep them up at the top of the mountain where the grass is the best. And I make my pecorino cheese up there. I will show you how I make my cheese, too.”
“You want to watch that one, Signorina,” the distinguished one said. “He has a reputation with the ladies. You can’t trust him further than you can throw him.”
“What, me?” the man who I now remembered was called Gianni asked, putting his hand to his heart. “I am merely showing hospitality to a young stranger. I am a safely married man.”
“Married yes, safe no,” one at the far end commented, causing loud laughter.
Gianni looked sheepish. “We should feed the young lady. Bread and olives is not enough. Let’s call for bruschetta.”
“Oh no, it’s not necessary.” I held up my hand. “I go back to eat at Signora Rossini’s.”
“She won’t serve dinner for hours,” Gianni said. “Not until the sun is well and truly set. You will faint from hunger before that.” He got up and went into the darkness of the trattoria. Then he came back, looking self-satisfied. “They will bring a tray for us. Very good here, you will see.”
I had no idea what bruschetta was. My knowledge of Italian food was limited to spaghetti Bolognese or ravioli of the sort one bought in a tin. Soon a platter was carried out to our table by a skinny young man wearing an apron. On it were thick slices of toasted bread with different toppings. Gianni looked at me with intense interest and said something under his breath to one of the men. The man replied. They exchanged a smile. A translation was not offered to me.
“So now you try the bruschetta,” the distinguished older man said. “Each one is crowned with different flavours that we like in these parts. This one has chicken liver mixed with anchovy, this one tapenade, and this slices of fennel with goat cheese. Eat. They are all good.”
I was all too aware that I was going back to Paola to eat what would undoubtedly be a large meal, but I could hardly refuse. They insisted that I try every flavour, watching my face with expressions of anticipation so that I had to smile broadly and nod satisfaction after each bite. This was not hard to do as each of the flavours was exquisite. I had grown up with simple English cooking—steak and kidney pie, shepherd’s pie, fish and chips, lamb chops—and then as a student my daring experiments in the culinary line were limited by my budget and included Chinese and Indian (or rather the English versions of Chinese and Indian). Therefore I was not familiar with garlic or basil or any of the other tastes I was experiencing. At last, full of food and wine, I was able to plead that Paola would be waiting for me and it would be very rude to be late for dinner.
Gianni, who had volunteered to show me his sheep farm and had insisted on the bruschetta, immediately got to his feet. “I shall have the honour of escorting the young lady home,” he said.
“Oh no, thank you. It is not far and I know the way, and it is still not quite dark,” I said, having trouble with finding Italian words after too much wine.
“It is no trouble,” Gianni said. “I, too, must go home through the tunnel. Come.”
He put a hand on my elbow and assisted me to my feet. I wasn’t too keen to go through a long, dark tunnel with him, even though I didn’t think he’d try anything within shouting distance of the men at the table. Luckily this was decided for me before I could find a way to refuse him.
“Never mind, Gianni,” a voice at the end of the table said. I looked across at a big man in a well-worn undershirt. “I must pass Paola’s house, and it is time for me to leave if I do not want a lashing from my wife’s tongue. Come, Signorina, you will be quite safe with me. I have ten children and a terrifying wife to keep me in line.”
There was good-natured laughter around the table, but the white-haired one said, “Yes, Signorina, you will be quite safe with Alberto.”
I thanked them profusely for their hospitality and remembered to comment again on the quality of their olive oil. This was met with broad smiles all around. At least I had done something right.
“So tomorrow, Signorina.” Gianni still hovered beside me. “Any time you want to see my sheep and my cheese making, you come and find me, okay? I can tell you lots of interesting things, also about the wartime.”
“What do you know of the war?” one of them bellowed. “You were just a child. We were off fighting. We can tell her what the war was like.”
“I was a child, yes, but I ran errands. I took messages for the partisans. I saw much,” Gianni said. “You would be interested, I think, Signorina.”
“You and your tall tales.” Alberto shoved him aside and took my arm to lead me away from the group.
“That Gianni, he is full of hot air,” Alberto said to me. “You must take anything he says with a pinch of salt, Signorina. In the wartime he ran messages, but they were more likely to be for the black market dealers than the partisans. No partisan would have trusted him with an important message. He’d have blabbed about it to the wrong people and squealed to the Germans if they had questioned him.”
We walked then in silence across the piazza and through the tunnel. I suspected that he was now tongue-tied and perhaps was already wondering what the shrewish wife would say about being seen with a young lady. On the other side of the tunnel we emerged into the last of the pink twilight. Bats were flitting and swooping silently across our path, attacking the mosquitoes that now hummed around us. We reached the path to Paola’s front door.
“Here we are, Signorina,” Alberto said. “May I wish you a good appetite for your evening meal and a good sleep.” He gave a quaintly old-fashioned bow and then strode off down the path that led to the valley.