Charlotte Betts        

   

CHAPTER 1      

 

She had eyes the colour of truffles and her dark hair had a dramatic white streak at the front. In her youth, she must have been a beauty, thought Luke. She wasn’t really old, perhaps forty-five, but startlingly, she had the full mouth of a teenage girl. Stained a deep berry red, her lips mesmerised him as she spoke.

 “Sorry!” he stammered. He stood up quickly, long legs tangling with the easel. Making a wild grab at it, he knocked over the water pot. “I’m afraid I don’t speak much Italian yet.”

“Would you like a drink?” she repeated, in English this time. She leaned over the strand of wire, which formed a nominal fence between the two properties and held out the glass of lemonade to him. Luke couldn’t help noticing the deep cleft between her breasts as she stretched towards him; he blinked and looked away. “I thought you were Italian. I’ve been watching you painting,” she said, red mouth parting in a generous smile. “You haven’t moved all day.”

“It’s all so beautiful,” said Luke, taking off his Panama and waving it vaguely towards the valley, shimmering against the backdrop of hot Tuscan hills. A bead of sweat prickled his forehead and he rubbed it away with the back of his hand.

“And do you find you can capture it on paper?”

He turned the easel to face her. “You should be the judge of that.” He sipped the drink, surprised that this stranger’s opinion should matter so much to him. The lemonade was sharp and citrussy, the ice clinking against the glass as he drank. Unable to watch while the woman made her judgement, he ran a finger down the side of the tumbler, scooping up a little bead of condensation. He put the finger to the tip of his tongue and licked off the drop of moisture.

 “You have talent,” she said, sounding surprised. He smiled, relieved that she approved. She leaned over the wire again and held out her hand, the sunlight through the trees dappling her face. Reluctantly he handed her the empty glass, not wanting her to go.

“Ciao!” she said, smiling over her shoulder as she walked away. Luke silently watched her, the dark hair lifting from her neck in the warm breeze and her hips swaying. She disappeared round the corner of the neighbouring house, the Villa Magdalena, secret and shuttered in the heat. After she had gone, he wondered where she had learned her perfect, almost unaccented English.

 

v

 

The following morning, Luke packed his sketchbook and a bottle of water into the elderly Volvo he had inherited from his father and set off towards Arezzo. The past week, since his arrival at the house called Bellavista, he’d not ventured further than the local town. Enjoying the warmth after a cold English spring, he’d dozed in an old hammock slung between two cypress trees in the garden, sketched the distant hills and explored the small, dark rooms of the house. After the meandering drive down through the continent it had taken him a while to feel sufficiently motivated to start on his programme of self-education in the churches, galleries and towns of Tuscany.

In Arezzo he parked the car with some difficulty, squeezing it into a space between a Fiat and a moped and then walked through the Parco il Prato, enjoying the cool vision of green lawns in the heat of the day. He stepped out of the way as two teenagers flashed past him on rollerblades, weaving their way confidently amongst the crowds. At the ramparts of the ruined fortress, he stood for a while gazing at the far views over the Arno valley, wishing he’d brought a picnic, like some of the other visitors. Hunger suddenly gripped him and he hurried past the Duomo, resolving to look at it later and walked briskly through the cobbled square of the Piazza Grande, only stopping to consult his map. He threaded his way through the crowds in the main shopping street, turning off onto the road that led to the church of San Francesco. He ate an indifferent pizza in a mediaeval restaurant next to the church. A small group of American backpackers sat at the table next to him, chattering noisily. 

“Hey! Have you seen the frescoes yet?” The American’s freckled face was friendly as he called across to Luke.

 “Not yet. I’ve only just arrived.”

 “They’re fantastic!” said his companion. “And don’t miss the archaeological museum near the amphitheatre.”

“I won’t,” promised Luke, smiling. The girl nodded and turned back to her companions. Luke wished that he too had a travelling companion. The backpackers’ easy camaraderie made him feel intensely lonely again. The death of his father was still an unhealed wound.

Entering the church, the cool, still air was a blessing after the shirt-sticking heat outside. Studying the faded frescoes, Luke caught his breath as he suddenly recognised the smiling, painted face of the woman who had brought him the lemonade. He moved closer and saw it was no more than a passing resemblance but it happened again and again as he turned to look at different sections of the frescoes. Heart hammering under his ribs, he felt as if her eyes were watching him. Everywhere he looked she seemed to be smiling at him, knowingly. Perhaps it was just that she had the archetypal Italian face, which endured through the centuries? Whatever it was, for the rest of the day Luke found his thoughts constantly dwelling on her red mouth and laughing eyes.

 Returning late to Bellavista that evening, he turned off the car engine and coasted to a gentle stop. He sat quietly, listening to the night sounds through the open windows. Villa Magdalena was in almost total darkness behind the thick hedge and high wrought iron gates, except for one window at the top of the house, which showed a glimmer of light.

The morning broke bright and clear, hot already by nine o’clock. Luke sat breakfasting at the metal table in the garden, dunking almond cake into strong black coffee. A bee bumbled lazily around him, resting for a moment to taste the crumbs on his plate. There was a rustling in the bushes next door and, heart leaping in anticipation, Luke went to investigate. The hopeful smile froze on his face as he saw an aged figure watering the trees. A wrinkled, peasant face split by a nearly toothless grin looked up enquiringly at him and the old man muttered an incomprehensible question.

“Oh! Buon giorno. La signora?" Luke pointed questioningly at the Villa Magdalena. The old man shook his head and a torrent of words poured out of his mouth, leaving Luke entirely bewildered.

“Non parlo Italiano,” he said.

The old man shrugged and carried on with his watering. Disconsolate, Luke returned to his solitary breakfast. Always a loner, now he felt really alone. He had never had many friends; his widowed father had discouraged anyone he considered ‘unsuitable’, consoling Luke with a picnic or a boat ride. ‘We don’t need anyone else,” he’d say, ruffling Luke’s hair. ‘We’re everything to each other, aren’t we?’ Luke wished beyond anything that his father were here now to share Italy with him. Pulling a dog-eared letter from his pocket, he re-read it, mentally hearing his father’s voice once again.

 

My dear Luke

There is a little house in Tuscany, called Bellavista. Now it is yours. Live in the house, learn Italian and experience some of the magic that Italy has to offer. I regret more than anything that I cannot come with you on your voyage of discovery and see your eyes opened to the marvellous things you will find.

I should have taken you to Italy long ago but now the cancer is too advanced and the opportunity has gone. There are many things I should have told you and now it is too late. But we have had some happy times together, haven’t we?   

It has always been my greatest wish that you would find the same pleasure in your work as I have done and I am so happy that you will build your career in the family business. The auction rooms will manage without you for a year or so but when you return I hope you will be equipped to begin to take over my position as the Italian expert.            

You will not read this until I am gone but you must not to grieve for too long. This is goodbye but remember I could not have wished for a better son.

Your loving father,

Robert Percival

 

The strangely formal signature was Dad’s usual flourish in thick black ink, his failing health only betrayed by a slight wobble in the decorative curlicue, which underlined it. Swallowing the lump of grief in his throat, Luke carefully folded the letter and put it back in his pocket. The need to be able to talk to his father was a palpable thing; in losing him he had not only lost his sole parent but also his best friend. How was it that Dad had never told him about Bellavista before, he wondered? He’d thought there were no secrets between them; certainly he’d opened his heart to his father on almost everything. Sighing deeply, Luke wandered over to the hammock and flopped down, sunhat tipped over his face, unable for the moment to summon the will to face yet another lonely day.

 

v

 

Life fell into a pattern. Luke diligently went on forays to towns of historical interest, standing quietly and staring for hours at the frescoes in the dim, mould-scented churches and studying the paintings and artefacts in the museums. He enjoyed wickedly expensive coffee and panforte in the Campo in Siena while he imagined the thundering hooves of the Palio. Crowds jostled him as he ambled through the medieval streets of San Gimignano and he queued for two hot hours in Florence to visit the Uffizi.

In the evenings he returned to the little house and ate bread, cheese and olives, strolling in the garden in the dark, waiting and watching for the beautiful woman next door to return. In his mind he had evolved her into a creature of unimaginable mystery and delight. At night his sleep was disturbed by dreams of her soft golden skin and her dark hair with the magpie streak brushing against his naked chest as she crouched over him, her soft lips descending upon his own. But the Villa Magdalena remained quiet, except for the occasional volley of quick-fire Italian behind the hedge; presumably between the old gardener and his wife. He scrutinised the washing line carefully but he was sure the tattered shirts and voluminous night-dresses could not belong to his enigmatic neighbour. He almost began to wonder if she was a figment of his imagination.

           

v

 

A couple of weeks later, Luke sat at the table in the garden, drinking Rosso di Montalcino by candlelight and watching the fireflies.

 “May I join you?”

He started at the soft voice and then saw her face, luminous in the darkness. “Please! Do sit down.” He stood up hastily, suddenly unable to look at her. “Will you have some wine?” She had come! He felt a hot flush rise up his face and neck as the embodiment of his erotic dreams stood before him.

“I’ve brought a glass with me,” she said, holding it out to him. “I was walking in the garden and I saw you here, all alone. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” Luke pulled out a chair for her. “Actually, it’ll be wonderful to be able to speak English.” He smiled ruefully, “My Italian is still pretty awful.”

She held out her hand to him. “I am Sylvana. And you are?”

“Luke,” he said, a shiver passing through him as he felt her warm skin against his own. It was hard not to confuse his fantasies of the night with the real woman shaking his hand. He poured her a glass of wine, trembling a little.

“And you are on holiday?”

 “Sort of. I finished university last year, Fine Art. Then I worked in a small museum for a while and now I’m spending a few months looking at the art and architecture here.”

“There’s plenty to see. Where have you been so far?”

Luke described all he had seen, soon losing his shyness in enthusiasm. “Sienna and Arezzo. Volterra and San Gimignano, I climbed right to the top of the Torre Grossa and up to the Rocca. Aren’t the views fantastic? Too many tourists in the town at this time of year but it’s still the most magical place, isn’t it? There was a man playing a harp in the square and I sat on a wall and listened for hours. I got terribly sunburned because I just didn’t notice how time was passing.” He poured her another glass of wine and Sylvana nodded and smiled as she listened. He started as she touched the back of his hand with her fingertips.         

“Have you been to Lucca and Cortona?” she asked.

“Not yet.” He stared down at their hands. She removed her fingers and he breathed deeply as he pulled down his shirt cuffs to hide his awkward young wrists.

 “I think you might like Lucca,” continued Sylvana. “The streets were laid out by the Romans and the town is enclosed in old walls. There are wonderful views from there too. And you should visit the Duomo. There is an icon inside supposed to be an effigy of Christ carved at the Crucifixion. I expect it’s a fake,” she shrugged, her shoulders expressive in the way that only an Italian’s can be.

“Sounds a bit grisly,” said Luke, making a face.

Sylvana laughed. “Then you might prefer the Anfiteatro. It’s a mediaeval square built around the Roman amphitheatre.”

“The trouble is, it would take a lifetime to see everything, even just in Tuscany, never mind the whole of Italy, “said Luke. “Every village and town has its treasures. I hardly know where to start. And then I wonder if I’m missing the real Italy; I don’t want to be just another tourist. I want to know about the Italian way of life, the not beautiful things too.”

 “Certainly, if you live here you do take all the ancient things for granted.”            “Everything here is just layer upon layer of history, it’s amazing.” Luke poured more wine and they sat quietly, watching the fireflies as they danced around them.

“And you?” Luke asked. “You have been away?” He watched her twirling her glass around and longed to reach out and touch her slim brown fingers. He imagined lifting her hand to his mouth and gently sucking her pink fingertips.

“I don’t live here,” she said. Luke felt the crush of disappointment. He didn’t want her to go away. “I grew up here but I live in Florence and just visit some weekends. My parents died some years ago and really I should sell the house.” She sighed. “But old Aldo, my gardener and his wife have lived here for forty years and there is nowhere else for them to go.”

“And do you have a husband?” Luke held his breath, unable to bear the thought of her with another man.

“Not really.”

 “Children?” Luke asked, wondering what she meant by, ‘Not really’.

Sylvana twirled her glass by its stem and looked into its depths. “I had a son once,” she said, her face expressionless. “But I lost him.”

“I’m so sorry,” Luke said, feeling embarrassed and inadequate.

She shrugged, her face closed. “It was a long time ago.” The candle on the table between them flickered in a sudden breeze, racing shadows across her cheekbones.

“Your English is very good,” said Luke, quickly changing the subject.

“My mother was English but she died when I was young.”

“Mine, too.” He felt obscurely pleased that this forged a link between them. They sat in the velvet dark and finished the bottle of wine, sometimes talking and sometimes silent, while the cicadas rasped away in the undergrowth. A moth battered its way into the candle flame and extinguished it before escaping into the night. Luke felt relaxed in Sylvana’s company, as if he’d been able to shed a large part of his grief with a long sigh.