The Italian Matchmaker (10 page)

‘It’s too terrible to imagine.’

 

In the farmhouse on the hill that had belonged to her great-grandmother, Cosima painstakingly replaced every one of Francesco’s knick-knacks. She brought each object to her nose and sniffed it like a pining dog. Sometimes she felt that she’d find him asleep in her bed as if the last three years hadn’t happened. She could almost hear his breathing and feel his presence in the room. But she’d turn to look and he wouldn’t be there, just the memories that lingered like ghosts. She felt so alone. So abandoned. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to die.

Alba sat on the terrace with her aunt Beata and watched the sun set slowly into the sea. The place hadn’t changed much since Immacolata’s day. Back then there hadn’t been a road to the house: they had had to park beneath the eucalyptus tree on the hill above and walk down a narrow path. Alba and her husband, Panfilo, had built a proper drive and added to the house to accommodate their growing family. Toto, Cosima’s father, had married again and taken his wife to live with his parents, a few hundred yards through the olive grove in the house where he had grown up, leaving Cosima with Alba, where she felt most at home. Cosima’s half brother and sisters had married and had children, buying houses nearby so the once quiet hillside rang with the happy laughter of young people. The place still smelt the same, of jasmine and viburnum, eucalyptus and gardenia. The wind swept in off the sea, bringing with it the scent of pine and wild thyme, and, in the evenings as the air grew cooler and the light more forgiving, crickets rang out with the flirtatious twittering of roosting birds. ‘I worry about Cosima,’ Alba said, watching the children rag about on the grass. ‘She’s thirty-seven. She should be enjoying marriage and motherhood. She should focus her thoughts on those who are living and who love her.’

‘I know,’ Beata agreed. ‘The children play around her and she barely notices them. Little Alessandro follows her like a lost dog, as if he senses the reason for her unhappiness and is trying to compensate, but she ignores him. It’s the guilt, you see. She blames herself for Francesco’s death.’

‘They say those who drown don’t suffer.’

‘How can they know?’

‘I hope it’s true.’

‘I wish she had faith.’ Beata put down the shirt she was mending and a frown drew lines across her smooth forehead. ‘Then she would know that Francesco is with God and that God is looking after him as He is looking after Immacolata and my dear Falco.’

‘And Valentina,’ Alba added gently. Her family still had trouble saying her mother’s name, as if to mention it was somehow sacrilege. ‘But she has lost her faith. Death often brings a person closer to God, but Francesco’s has taken her away from Him.’

‘One has to accept what comes. How can we presume to know God’s plan?’

‘Do you know what Rosa said to me today?

‘That she wants to move out? Don’t listen to her, Alba. She’s headstrong and passionate, just like you were at her age. Rosa’s quite a handful. It’s no surprise that she doesn’t like her cousin getting all the attention. After all, it always used to be Rosa everyone talked about. She was the noisy, excitable, vivacious one in the family, and so much younger than Cosima. We all spoiled her terribly. Now she’s having to watch while Cosima steals the limelight, wandering about dressed in black, weeping and wailing.’

‘Do you think Cosima’s self-indulgent?’

‘I would never say such a thing about my granddaughter. How can I pass judgement on a young woman who has lost her world? My heart goes out to her.’ Beata crossed herself.

‘It’s the Festa di Santa Benedetta next week. I’m going to encourage her to come with us.’

Beata resumed her sewing. ‘That statue hasn’t bled for over fifty years. The last time was the year your parents met. Your father was so dashing in his naval uniform. They made a handsome couple.’

‘Then it failed to weep blood the following year, the day before they were due to marry. The day she was found on the road to Naples in furs and diamonds, murdered with Lupo Bianco.’

‘But still we keep celebrating the miracle even though the statue has dried up.’

‘You never know, it might happen again.’

‘God works in mysterious ways. Anyway, you must take your place in the festival as your grandmother did. You are a descendant of Saint Benedetta.’

‘It’s hard to keep a straight face, Beata. They all take it so seriously. The disappointment when Christ’s eyes remain dry is terrible. It was probably a hoax in the first place. Father Dino and a bit of tomato ketchup.’

‘May you be forgiven, Alba!’ But Beata’s mouth curled up at the corners as she suppressed a smile.

‘Ah, Cosima,’ said Alba as her niece came out to join them. ‘Is everything in its proper place now?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied, taking a seat in the wicker armchair that used to be Immacolata’s. ‘Everything is where it should be.’

Alessandro stopped playing and stood watching his aunt, his face serious. Then, inspired by a feeling he couldn’t understand, he plucked a rose and walked tentatively up to her. ‘For you.’

Cosima frowned. ‘For me?’

‘Yes, from Francesco.’

Cosima’s eyes welled with tears and for a moment she was unable to speak. Alba exchanged glances with Beata. They held their breath, waiting for Cosima’s reaction – anticipating the worst. But she took the rose with a little smile. It was yellow; Francesco’s favourite colour. She looked at Alessandro with such tenderness his heart swelled. She touched his face with her fingertips.

‘Thank you,
carino
,’ she said. Alessandro blushed a deep crimson and looked to his grandmother for approval.

‘That was very sweet of you,’ said Alba encouragingly.

‘He’s a darling,’ agreed Beata, relieved that Cosima hadn’t taken it the wrong way. Alessandro returned to his siblings and cousins, making off through the olive grove.

‘I’m so touched,’ said Cosima, twirling the flower between her thumb and forefinger. ‘He’s very good to apologise.’

Alba was pleased Rosa wasn’t around to hear her. As far as she was concerned, her children had nothing to apologise for.

‘Yellow is a good colour on you,’ said Alba, tired of seeing her niece look so pale and ill in black. ‘Do you remember that pretty dress with little yellow flowers?’

‘It’s in my cupboard,’ said Cosima.

‘Don’t you think you’ve worn black for long enough?’

Cosima’s face hardened. ‘I will never wear colour again. It’s an insult to Francesco’s memory. I will never stop mourning him.’

Cosima scattered the ground around her with eggshells so no one knew where to tread any more. Everything caused offence. Beata was right: she had been allowed to grow self-indulgent and it had to stop or she’d drive the family apart.

It was fortunate that just then Panfilo’s truck drew up under the eucalyptus tree to stop Alba from speaking her mind. They heard the motor behind the house and the barking of his dog, Garibaldi. ‘How nice,’ said Alba, getting up. ‘I wasn’t expecting him until later.’ She left Cosima and Beata on the terrace and walked around the house to greet her husband.

Garibaldi jumped out of the back and galloped down the path as fast as his short legs could carry him. His stumpy tail wagged furiously. Alba bent down and patted her knees, calling his name. The dog flew into her with a yelp and she laughed as he ran rings around her. ‘Hello, wife!’ exclaimed Panfilo, striding down the path towards her with Toto. ‘Look who I picked up on the road!’

‘Hi, Toto,’ she called, waving. Then she rested her eyes on her husband and felt the warm glow of love spread across her body as if seeing him for the first time. At sixty-seven he was still ruggedly handsome with shoulder-length silver hair, a broad forehead creased with lines and a long Roman nose above a large, sensual mouth. His eyes were turquoise, deep set, with crow’s feet that fanned out into his temples, reflecting the laughter within them. He was tall and broad, his skin brown and weathered, his hands large and tender. She grinned as he approached, his camera bag slung over his shoulder. He wound his free arm around her waist and kissed her, lingering on her skin for as long as he was able to.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he murmured, running his eyes over her face.

‘Work is work,’ she replied, casually. ‘I’ve missed you too.’

‘How’s everything?’ He meant Cosima.

‘Same.’ She pulled a face which said more than words ever could.

‘What’s happened to your car, Toto?’ Alba asked as her cousin joined them.

‘It’s with Gianni. The brake’s gone again.’

‘It’s important to get that mended,’ she said with a laugh. ‘We don’t want you driving it off the cliffs.’

‘I gather those people from the
palazzo
came for coffee?’ said Toto. ‘Rosa was full of it.’

‘She’s a great deal more excited about it than I am,’ replied Alba. ‘If you ask me they are nothing but trouble.’

‘Aren’t you even a little curious to see what they’ve done?’ Panfilo teased, squeezing her waist playfully.

‘Why would I be? My own uncle committed a murder in there. It should have been destroyed, not rebuilt and redecorated by people with too much money and no tact.’

‘They probably don’t know the history,’ said Toto.

‘Then someone should have told them.’

‘I’m very curious,’ said Panfilo.

‘That’s because interiors is your job,’ said Alba. ‘I suppose you’re going to photograph it now.’ Panfilo remained silent. Alba turned and stared at him. ‘Panfilo?’

He shrugged guiltily. ‘Work is work.’

‘You’re not. Over my dead body!’

‘You don’t have to come with me. I thought you’d be pleased that I was taking a job close to home instead of travelling all over the world.’

‘But it’s the
palazzo
!’ she gasped.

‘It’s not the place you knew thirty years ago, my love. You don’t even know whether Nero had anything to do with the sale. He might have died a long time ago, or moved away. It’s all buried in the past.’

‘But you’re going to dig it all up again.’

‘I’m taking photographs, that’s all.’

‘Then who’s writing the article to go with the photographs?’

‘What difference does it make? It’ll be a story of design.’

‘So, it’s
House and Gardens
.’

Panfilo looked bashful. ‘No,’ he replied.

‘You
know
it’s not just an article on decoration, don’t you?’

‘It’s none of my business. I just take the photographs.’

‘What’s the magazine?’

Panfilo glanced at Toto who grinned mischievously and shook his head, then thrust his hands into his pockets and walked tactfully on ahead, leaving them alone.

‘The
Sunday Times
.’

‘The
Sunday Times
!’ She pulled away. ‘You know that means some pretty in-depth reporting.’

‘What does it matter? If I don’t do it, someone else will.’

She brought her hand to her throat. ‘Oh God! They’ll dig up everything. They might even find out that Falco didn’t act alone in killing the
Marchese
.’

‘There’s no proof that Falco even killed him, let alone whether or not he had an accomplice. Don’t worry, your father’s quite safe. I promise.’

Rosa hoped that the handsome Luca would return to the
trattoria
but, in spite of her pretty red dress and the Yves Saint Laurent perfume Eugenio had given her the previous Christmas, he did not come back. She was surprised her face hadn’t managed to lure him. After all, she was a local beauty and constantly compared to her grandmother, the legendary Valentina. She even worked extra hours in the hope of seeing him. A little flirting was a healthy thing, she told herself. Having got away with one affair, however, she wasn’t going to risk her marriage a second time just for the thrill of taking a bite of the forbidden fruit.

Since her children had been blamed for a crime they did not commit, Rosa had barely spoken to Cosima. The two women breakfasted under the vine on the terrace with Alba, Panfilo, Eugenio and the children, and each managed to behave as if the other didn’t exist. Rosa was fed up of tiptoeing around her cousin, aware that the very existence of her children must cause Cosima pain. Wasn’t it time she put on a pretty dress, tied her hair up, applied a little blusher and lipstick, and threw herself out into the world again? If she left it much longer no man would want her. Francesco was dead; mourning him wasn’t going to bring him back.

Alba seemed not to notice the growing rift between the two young women. She was wound up like a clockwork mouse over Panfilo’s commission up at the
palazzo
, but Panfilo just teased her, knowing he would get his way in the end. Why her mother cared so much about that place Rosa couldn’t imagine. Thirty years was a lifetime ago. She was amazed Alba’s memory stretched back that far.

Rosa had told Eugenio she wanted to move out, knowing that it was impossible. They hadn’t the money to buy a big house of their own – and only a big house would satisfy Rosa. Eugenio had told her how insensitive she was and she had accused him of being disloyal and of not loving her any more. It had developed into a full-blown row. If she had feared her marriage was becoming dull she certainly revived it with their making up, pleased that the passion was still there to be reawakened when necessary. She didn’t consider what it cost her husband to have to reassure her of his devotion time and again. She didn’t realise that she wore him down with each tantrum and each reunion. His policeman’s salary was small. He was aware of her love of fine things, like a magpie always attracted to shiny baubles and glitter, and he was only too aware of his inability to satisfy her.