The Tuscan Child(13)

“Then leave me now. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“Who will see?” She spread her hands. He had always noticed how expressive Italians were with their hands. “The only reason anyone would come here at this time of the year is to look for mushrooms, like me, or to set a snare for rabbits.” She patted his arm. “Don’t worry. I will be careful. When the place is swarming with Germans, one learns to move like a shadow. Come. Shall we try to climb these stairs?”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll go up on all fours, like a baby,” he said. “Steadier that way.”

“Then give me the stick and your bag.”

“It’s my parachute,” he said.

“Parachute? Good silk.” Her eyes lit up. “When you no longer need it, I can use it to make new underclothes. We have had no new clothes for years.”

He was amused. “All right. It’s a deal.”

“You start to go ahead of me,” she said. “I will make sure you don’t fall.”

As if she could catch me, skinny little thing, he thought. He dropped to his knees and started to haul himself up the stairs. He had to put weight on his wounded leg at every step, pain shooting through him. At one stage he thought he was going to vomit, so he paused, breathing hard.

He made it to the top of the first flight. It had begun to rain in earnest now, fat drops pattering onto his leather bomber jacket. Ahead of him the damaged steps rose, impossibly steep, cracked, and dangerous. He dragged himself up, one by one, conscious of the drop beside him. The steps were wet and slippery, and he had a vision of himself sliding off with nothing to grab on to. A metal railing ran up one side, but he was too low down to use it. At last he made it to the top and lay panting on the wet rock.

She came to stand beside him. “Well done, Signor. Come. Only a few more steps and we will find you a place that is dry and safe.”

She helped him to his feet and draped his arm over her shoulders again. The incongruity of it crossed his mind—the upright Englishman who kept his distance from women and addressed them with polite frostiness now draped over a strange Italian woman he had just met. They went across the slick pavement of the forecourt, now broken and uneven, one small step at a time. She held on to him firmly, supporting him. Now he could see that the lower buildings to his left were reduced to complete rubble. It was hard to tell what they had been. In fact, they were beginning to look like part of the rock itself. Plants had grown up between the fallen stones, a small tree now sprouted between cracked flagstones, and a vine of some sort—now dead—sprawled over a pile of rubble. But the building immediately ahead of them, to which she was taking him, still had walls standing, although the roof was gone. There were three broad, curved steps leading to what had been a church door, although the door itself now hung at a crazy angle, swinging in the wind. She pushed it aside and stepped into the area beyond.

“Well, it’s not very welcoming, but it’s better than nothing.” She turned back to him. “At least you will be out of the wind here. And we can build you a shelter with some of this fallen wood.”

He had dragged himself the last few feet into the former chapel. Amid the utter destruction were still signs that it had once been a house of worship. The walls had been painted with frescoes, now pockmarked and washed away by rain and wind. A headless saint stood in one corner. Small glimpses of the black and white marble floor showed through the piles of dust and rubble. He saw that the wood she had referred to consisted of the great beams of the fallen ceiling. She is decidedly optimistic, Hugo thought. He didn’t think they could move such beams between them, even if he’d been fit and mobile. But he did notice the pews that lay strewn around and the broken cupboard in one corner. Presumably in time he could build up the fallen blocks of stone, if he was planning to stay here for long. He couldn’t see that happening, however. There would be the matter of food, for one thing. But he also couldn’t picture himself making his way across country in his current state.

Almost as if she was reading his thoughts, she aided him to a big stone and eased him down on to it. Then she pulled some prickly shells from her pocket. “Here. The chestnuts. Eat them. They are better than nothing. I will try to return with better food for you.”

“No, you must not come back. It’s too dangerous. I do not want to put your family in danger. You have been very kind and I thank you.”

“It is nothing.” She gave him a sweet, sad smile. “My husband has been missing for three years. I hope and pray that if he needed help, as you do, someone would do their best for him.”

“May I know your name?” he asked.

“It is Sofia. Sofia Bartoli. And yours?”

“I am Hugo. Hugo Langley.”

“Ugo? This is an Italian name. You have Italian ancestors?”

“Not that I know of.” He winced in pain as he moved.

“Let me see your leg,” she said, noticing his grimace. “Let us see how bad it is.”

“Oh no. Please don’t worry yourself. I can take care of it.”

“No, don’t be silly. I insist. Where is the wound? Can you roll up your trousers?”

“It’s just above my knee. Really, I can take care of it when you are gone. I think there is a first aid kit in my parachute pouch.” He hoped she caught the gist of what he wanted to say. He’d spoken haltingly as he fished for unfamiliar words. What he actually said was, “Items for aiding make clean in my sack for parachute.”