The Tuscan Child(36)

“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.”