The Tuscan Child(46)

I tried to make sense of this, not just their Italian words but the implications of them. Gianni was involved in things that were not quite legal. And shoving someone down a well to drown would be the sort of thing that gangsters would do to teach someone a lesson. But he had also dared to cross Cosimo. I pictured that man’s face—so powerful, and his eyes so cold when he stared at me and said, “You are German, I think.” No, I would not have wanted to cross him.

But he’d had a stroke, which had clearly left him partly paralysed—certainly not able to lift that extremely heavy top from the well and shove a body down into it. But then someone as powerful as Cosimo presumably had minions who would obey his commands. And he had an adopted son who was big and muscular. I had to remember that!

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” Paola said. “Market day in San Salvatore. You shall both help me see which vegetables and fruits are ready to be picked and brought to market.”

“Don’t we have to go up to the town and make our statements at the police station?” I said.

Paola gave a dismissive gesture. “Pah. Let those men wait. We know nothing about Gianni’s activities that might have led to his untimely death. It will be good for us to have something to do, and working out in God’s nature is always soothing for the soul.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t we do that right now, before the sun is too hot, and then you can take your bath at your leisure?”

I would have liked to bathe first, having hastily pulled on yesterday’s clothes, but I wasn’t going to argue with Paola when she was being so kind to me. I followed her out to the garden. “Let us see,” she said. “These tomatoes—yes, we shall find enough ripe ones here, but we will not pick them until the last minute tomorrow. And these broad beans. They must be eaten young like this. The pole beans—they will take another couple of weeks.” She paused, bending to a feathery plant. “The asparagus? We want to keep enough for ourselves, but the plant has been generous this year. Good.”

She continued onward, moving with speed and grace for a large woman. “Ah, look, Angelina. The zucchini blossoms. Perfect.”

I saw her examine a yellow flower. “What do you do with those?” I asked. “Can you eat flowers?”

“Oh, but yes! Zucchini blossoms. We stuff them. So delicious. I will make some for us tonight, if you like. And then this plant will keep rewarding us with zucchini all season long.”

I had just seen something else I hadn’t expected to find in this well-cultivated plot. It looked like a giant thistle. “But surely one cannot eat this?” I asked, pointing at it.

Paola looked surprised. “You do not have artichokes in your country?”

“I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Then I will fry some tonight as an antipasto. Oh, but they are good. You will enjoy.”

We walked on. We found that there were ripe cherries and even some apricots, but that the peaches would not be ready for a while. “We will pick the fruit tonight after the sun goes down, and the asparagus can be cut, too, but the tomatoes, the blossoms . . . those we will wait until the last minute to pick.” She gave us a satisfied smile. “Good. We will have a fine offering at the market tomorrow.” And we followed her back to the house.

I went back to my room to collect my sponge bag and towel, looking forward to a long soak in a tub. As I rummaged in my bag for clean underwear, I noticed a piece of paper sticking out from between the slats of the shutter on my window. It certainly hadn’t been in the room yesterday. I went over and pulled it free with some difficulty. It was an envelope. I sat on my bed and opened it. As I took out a letter, three objects fell on to the quilt. I examined them one by one. One was a little lapel pin in the shape of a many-pointed star. Another was a scrap of brown cloth, stiff with something like paint. And the third was a small banknote. It said “Reichsmark.” A German banknote from the time of the war.

I put them back on to the quilt and tried to read the letter. The handwriting was not easy to read, and my knowledge of written Italian was not great. I went for my dictionary and started to translate slowly and laboriously.

I want to tell you the truth about Sofia. I know. I kept silent until now, for fear of my life, but you are an outsider. I will take you to my sheep and there I will tell you, where nobody can hear us.

It wasn’t signed but it had to be from Gianni. He had invited me to visit his sheep last night. I found that my hand that held the letter was shaking. I looked at the objects on my bed. I had no idea what any of it meant, but I was frightened. Had Gianni been killed because he was going to tell me the truth about what happened during the war?





CHAPTER TWENTY





JOANNA


June 1973

I picked up the three objects from my bed, examining them in my hand and wondering what they could mean. The German banknote was easy enough to understand. German money. Someone had been paid German money. But the other two? I stared at the piece of stiffened cloth. It was dark brown. I lifted it up and sniffed for the smell of paint, then recoiled. It was not paint. It had a faintly metallic smell. Surely it was blood. Hastily I scooped up the three things and shoved them into the toe of one of my spare shoes, where they would be safely hidden. Then I folded the letter and put it back inside the envelope, which I carefully placed between the pages of my dictionary, just in case.