One Summer in Italy Read online

  Then, realising the reason he was staring at her was probably because she was staring at him, she smiled briefly and set off towards the door. She shouldn’t ‘notice’ a male guest, even one with ruffled hair and bright blue eyes, even one who’d asked when she got off shift. Because he’d asked the question where she could be easily overheard, she hadn’t confided that one of Benedetta’s rules – printed in bold – was that staff should not have relationships with guests. Shame, as one of her promises to Aldo had been that she’d do all the things she hadn’t been able to do in the years of caring for him, and that, she’d promised herself, would include men.

  Boyfriends had been few. The last had been Jamie, whose financial situation had made him happy that ‘dates’ had consisted mainly of staying home with Aldo. Jamie had been good at hugs, and sometimes she’d needed them, but she was pretty sure the sex could have been better, even allowing for the fact that she’d never felt at ease up in her room with Jamie while Aldo slept on the ground floor.

  Though she had every intention of steering clear of actual boyfriends for a good long while, Biker Man, a tourist, was unlikely to stick around long enough to qualify. She was single. She’d never had a one-night stand and had placed it high on her list as something a single woman might do.

  She braked to a sudden halt as Biker Man, as if divining her thoughts, stepped into her path.

  ‘Hi.’ He flashed her an easy smile.

  ‘Hi.’ She produced what she hoped was a suitably staff-to-guest smile back.

  ‘I didn’t get your name last time we spoke.’ He lifted an encouraging eyebrow.

  ‘Sofia.’ She imagined Aurora’s ears coming out of her head on stalks in an effort to listen across the reception area.

  ‘I’m Levi. I was just wondering …’ He hesitated.

  Sofia held her breath, trying to decide how to side-step any further interest in her off-duty time. She was going to meet someone – which was true: Ernesto Milani. It was just such a waste! Biker Man Levi’s eyes were mesmeric and he looked to have a hell of a bod beneath his T-shirt.

  ‘… if Amy’s all right,’ he finished.

  Sofia snapped back to reality. ‘You wondered whether Amy’s all right?’ she repeated, feeling slightly foolish for suspecting him of angling for a date.

  He flushed at the surprise in her voice. ‘I haven’t seen her for a couple of days and, with what happened, I wondered if she’d lost her job after all. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you’re obviously friendly.’

  Sofia summoned a smile. ‘She’s fine. It was just her turn for time off. Enjoy your day.’ She made a show of checking her watch, then stepped around him and out through the door, trying not to feel ruffled. But, really? Did Levi think a teenage girl like Amy would be interested in him? Levi looked well over thirty, and Sofia had thought Davide, in his late twenties, too old for Amy!

  Resolutely, she put Biker Man and his smile out of her mind. She had to get into town and locate the church of Santa Lucia.

  Via Virgilio was busy with cars, vans, the occasional lorry and a swarm of motorbikes and scooters. Sofia didn’t rush down the hill towards the centre. Apart from the sun already being a significant presence at just turned eleven o’clock there were enough pedestrians occupying the pavements to make hurrying an effort and she enjoyed gazing around at the buildings, stone or rendered and painted. She’d seen a little of the town in whatever part of each day she wasn’t on shift but it was surprising how much of the past two weeks had been taken up with settling in. Her first couple of days had passed in a whirl of unpacking, orientation, getting sorted with uniform and a hunt for toiletries at a nearby kiosk that seemed to sell everything. Sofia had also found herself helping Amy through orientation and uniform. Sofia had missed out on siblings and was enjoying the novelty of the big-sister role in which Amy seemed to have cast her.

  But, right now, with two joyous days of freedom to enjoy in Montelibertà, she was seized by a ridiculous urge to jig around singing, ‘I’m here, I’m here, I’m really here!’

  Instead, she strolled decorously past shops that sold shiny ceramics decorated with splashy yellow sunflowers and succulent purple grapes. In between the shops came pavement cafés, their parasols the same shade of ivory as those at Il Giardino. On this upper part of the hill the commercial ventures were interspersed with houses and apartments, lavishly ornamented with window boxes in full flower and lavender tumbling from the tops of garden walls. She thought the scent of lavender would ever-onwards remind her of her feeling of euphoria.

  Nearer the town centre the residences petered out and the road became lined with shops and eating places, until Via Virgilio widened into Piazza Roma. Here the buildings were three or even four storeys, painted in earthy tones from ivory to apricot and umber, creating shade for the people passing by or sitting on benches along the way. A giant cartwheel sat in the centre with an old water pump and a profusion of flowers. The cobbles were laid in fan shapes, old and uneven enough to bear witness to a million treading feet.

  One building of honey-coloured stone had a sweeping ornamental arch built into it and when Sofia stopped gazing up at cornices, wrought iron and shutters long enough to walk through, she found herself in Piazza Santa Lucia, faced with the gracefully imposing building that was Santa Lucia church.

  The Palladian front was rendered and painted palest lemon with white raised plasterwork surrounding the circular windows and forming mock columns and niches. Both of the huge carved wooden doors were closed but the door-within-a-door in the one on the left stood slightly open as if to reassure the parishioners that they could visit any time. The upper storey curved and narrowed until it met the triangular gable.

  Her father had been raised a Catholic; her mother had not. Sofia hadn’t been baptised or even attended church very often, but she thought she’d be OK to enter as her shorts were bermudas and her top wasn’t low-cut. Following Aurora’s directions, she made her way around the outside of the church, where the walls were of unrendered stone, to a plain door.

  After hovering a moment, she knocked and entered a tall, cool, silent foyer that smelt of dust and incense. The door snapped to behind her, shutting out the sunlight.

  A man in his sixties emerged from a nearby doorway, his smile lifting the ends of his big grey moustache. His fulsome eyebrows grew as if they’d been blown up and back by a strong wind. ‘Are you Miss Sofia Bianchi? I am Ernesto Milani.’

  As he spoke in English, Sofia followed suit, shaking his hand and thanking him for sparing her his time.

  ‘Please, come this way,’ he rumbled as he turned towards the room from which he’d emerged. ‘I have looked at the register since Aurora Morbidelli speaks to me on the telephone and have information for you.’ His English was accented and far from faultless but it flowed musically from beneath the moustache.

  ‘Thank you!’ Eagerly, Sofia followed him into a little office of glass-fronted cabinets and piles of papers. A window stood open to catch the breeze and a large book lay open on the table. Ernesto seated himself at one side and Sofia took the chair at right angles.

  Ernesto fished a pair of glasses from his top pocket, put them on and regarded Sofia over their rim. ‘Our current records we make on the computer but in 1997 we still record the events of our church in this book.’ He looked at her for a few moments more, his eyes brown and knowledgeable, then he took his glasses off again.

  Wondering if he was waiting for her full attention before he went on – she had been trying to decipher the register from the corner of one eye – Sofia nodded. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Forgive me, but I must ask.’ A smile tried again to shift the weight of his moustache. ‘You are the daughter of Aldo Agnello Bianchi, yes?’

  Surprise made her sit back. ‘Yes. But it wasn’t my dad who died in Italy in 1997. It was my grandparents, Agnello and Maria.’

  He sighed pensively. ‘We were friends, Aldo and me, at school here in Montelibertà. I knew your grandparents also.
I played in their garden and your grandmother made us a delicious drink from lemons. The family had their house in Via Salvatore.’ He gestured vaguely behind him, as if pointing the street out. ‘I remember very well. The Bianchi family and the Milani family, they attend this church, so we know each other.’

  It was several seconds before Sofia could find her voice. The grandparents she’d never met and that her father had rarely spoken of leaped into focus as real people. Unexpectedly, her throat grew tight. ‘I never knew them. They died when I was seven. This is the first time I’ve visited Italy.’ She couldn’t help adding, because she’d really like someone to put some meat on the bare bones of what Aldo had confided, ‘And they never visited us in England.’

  But Ernesto didn’t offer insight. Instead, his eyes grew expectant. ‘And Aldo …?’ His pause invited her to fill the silence.

  Throat constricting, Sofia shook her head. ‘He died last summer.’ Briefly, she outlined Aldo’s history of heart trouble. ‘I never thought I’d meet anybody who’d remember him. He was a young man when he left Montelibertà.’

  ‘He was, he was,’ Ernesto sighed, eyes closing for a moment as he crossed himself. ‘I did not know. I am sorry for your loss. And for my own, though I had not seen Aldo for many years. When he met your mother—’

  ‘Did you know my mother?’ Sofia’s heart almost leaped from her chest. ‘I’ve never met anybody but Dad who knew my mother! She seems to have had no family, and she died when I was five.’

  His eyes were soft with sadness. ‘Yes, I knew her and of her passing. I knew from your family here.’

  ‘From my family here?’ Sofia repeated blankly. ‘How?’

  Shaking his head as if still trying to comprehend the loss of his old friend, Ernesto drew the big register closer. ‘We said a mass,’ he observed, as if that settled the matter. ‘Now I show to you the names of your grandparents.’ He turned the big faded book so she could see line after line of entries in ornate inked script. Thanks to his pointing finger she was able to pick out the names Agnello Francesco Ricardo and Maria Vittoria Bianchi. Her eyes burned at this further link with the family she’d never known. A frustrating link because it came to a dead end – literally.

  ‘The funeral, it was here at Santa Lucia, one funeral for both. And here—’ Ernest pointed to a reference made up of letters and numbers ‘—here is a record of their place in the cemetery.’ He took out his phone and took a photo of the reference, an incongruously up-to-date way to make a note from the old ledger. ‘I will show you in a little while. But talking makes me thirsty. Will you join me to drink coffee in the piazza?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she replied with automatic courtesy and followed him out of the office, mind whirling with her good fortune at meeting someone who’d known Aldo well. And her mother! Aldo telling her to come to the church of Santa Lucia began to make a new kind of sense – he’d known that directing her there would increase her chances of falling into friendly hands.

  For the millionth time she wondered why he hadn’t had more to do with his family yet had so wanted her to visit Montelibertà. She managed to stem her flow of questions until they’d rounded the front of the church and strolled over the cobbles to a café up a tiny street off the piazza, its situation ensuring shade from the strengthening midday sun. The shiny aluminium tables were incongruously modern in her opinion but Ernesto selected one on at the edges of the group. A waiter arrived promptly, asking after Ernesto’s health in rapid Italian. Ernesto ordered espresso and Sofia Americano and the waiter beamed and bustled off. The waiting staff wore dark green waistcoats with their white shirts and black trousers. Sofia preferred Casa Felice’s all black and white look.

  She turned to Ernesto. ‘So do you know—’

  Ernesto held up one finger. ‘I tell you everything I remember.’ He launched into his first memories of Aldo at school, portraying him as a loveable scamp who’d played sport with far more zeal than he applied to lessons. ‘But the teachers always smiled when they said his name.’ Coffee arrived. Sofia scarcely noticed, fascinated by Ernesto’s memories of Aldo in his youth, apparently clear and bright despite their travelling more than fifty years through the hot Umbrian air.

  ‘And then your mother arrived in Montelibertà,’ he related. His eyebrows flicked up and down. ‘She was very modern, Dawn. With trousers this wide.’ He made an exaggerated shape with his hands. ‘And big shoes. Here.’ He pointed to the sole of his sandal.

  ‘Platforms?’ she hazarded, hardly able to believe her luck that this man could remember such a level of detail about the woman Sofia sometimes thought she would have nothing of if it weren’t for photographs. Her memories were made up of a hazy sensation of presence and a laughing, excited voice.

  Ernesto nodded. ‘Her hair was blonde and her eyes blue. All the young men fell in love with her but she chose Aldo. In the end. There was gelosia. Jealousy.’ He cleared his throat and turned to raise a hand in the direction of a waiter. ‘We should eat. Two o’clock has passed.’

  The waiter returned and took their order for hot pastries and cold beer.

  The afternoon wore on. They ordered more beer and still Ernesto talked about Aldo and how he’d had eyes for no one but Dawn from the moment they met. And how Agnello and Maria had been worried and upset by the relationship.

  ‘And that’s why they left Montelibertà,’ Sofia finished for him, thinking that she knew this part of the story.

  ‘Well—’ Ernesto gave an eloquent shrug. ‘Families. There can be many issues. Aldo never said to me, “Ernesto, I leave for this reason or that reason.” He just said, “It is not fair to live here with Dawn, so I go to England, her country.”’

  ‘And did you ever hear from my father again?’ Sofia swallowed, sensing the past disappointment of this good and genuine man even before he answered.

  ‘At first,’ Ernesto sighed. ‘But there were difficulties.’

  ‘Difficulties?’

  Ernesto hesitated. Then said, ‘In not so many years your mother became ill and passed away. I think Aldo had much on his mind, many worries and griefs. Grief upon grief. When your grandparents died I think he finally left Italy behind and embraced England.’

  ‘But when he became very ill he talked about Montelibertà constantly. He asked me to come here. We spoke Italian almost all the time.’ Eyes prickling, she grabbed a paper napkin to blow her nose.

  Ernesto’s eyebrows quirked. ‘Ah! Parli Italiano?’

  At first Sofia only managed a strangled ‘Si.’ But when she’d swallowed her tears she told him, in Italian, how much her father had loved his country, even if he’d never been able to return. How she’d once wanted to take a degree in Italian but Aldo’s health had never permitted such a commitment. ‘My secret wish was to come to Italy to study, but it was so impossible that I never mentioned it to him. Maybe I’ll do it some day.’

  Ernesto gave his moustache a thorough wipe as if needing time to compose himself. But when he looked up, his eyes were smiling again. ‘And you not only speak our language but with the accent of Montelibertà! Now, shall we walk to the cemetery? Or I can fetch my car.’

  Sofia jumped up. ‘Let’s walk. Dad wanted me to take flowers.’

  Ernesto made an expansive gesture. ‘There is a little cart at the cemetery gates. There you can buy.’ They left behind the aroma of coffee and set off diagonally across the piazza.

  On leaving the square they took the shady side of a street that snaked uphill in the opposite direction to Casa Felice. Sofia broached the other subject on her mind. ‘I noticed you didn’t mention my father’s brother, Gianni Bianchi. Did you know him too?’

  For several seconds, Ernesto was silent. Then he said, ‘I know him still. He lives here in Montelibertà.’

  Chapter Three

  Promise #5: Drink Orvieto Classico in Montelibertà.

  Sofia stopped short in excitement. ‘He still lives here? I know so little about him. For a long time the only family members Dad mentio
ned were his grandparents. Then one day he was feeling melancholy and said, “I should tell you about your Uncle Gianni.”’

  Ernesto turned to wait for her, great eyebrows lifting. ‘And what did he tell you?’

  Sofia’s breath came quicker as the slope steepened. ‘Just that Gianni existed, really. I was intrigued – I suppose I’d always assumed he would have mentioned siblings long ago if he had any. I asked a lot of questions but he just said Gianni was younger than him.’

  ‘Si. Two years, I think.’

  ‘Two years isn’t much. I thought it would be a lot more, that maybe they hadn’t kept in touch because they had nothing in common.’

  ‘They had much.’ Then Ernesto began to comment on the streets they were passing through, slanting ever upward. ‘In summer the town is full of sun. In winter, full of snow. This hill, like all the hills, becomes very difficult. We are surrounded by the mountain with only one piece going down. In the past, it was easy to defend. It is an old town, Montelibertà. We have less than ten thousand residents.’

  ‘But lots of tourists? You’re about midway between the airports at Perugia and Rome here, aren’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘Many tourists, but often for short visits or day trips. There is not so much—’ He paused, clicking his fingers as if to summon up a word. ‘Entertainment,’ he selected, in the end.

  Sofia replied in Italian to give him a break from speaking English and his smiles became ever more frequent as he chatted about the town with the knowledge and affection that came from lifelong citizenship. It was half an hour before they reached a cemetery so steep that the gravestones looked as if they had ranked to watch over the town, but to Sofia it seemed to whizz by.

  She bought a bunch of yellow roses at the gates and Ernesto led her up several pathways until they reached a particular marker set in the floor. ‘This row, plot E54. We must search because the lines are long and the marks are old.’