The Tuscan Child(58)

His musing was interrupted by the sound of an engine coming from the road below. Several army vehicles, small as a child’s toy cars, were making their way north. Instinctively he ducked behind a section of wall. Then his ears picked up another sound—the deep, throbbing hum of a plane engine. Not a German plane. Not British, either. Then he saw it coming out of the south. An American light bomber, he surmised. It came lower until he could see the sun shining on the American star. It was right over the German convoy, and then a bomb fell, then another. He felt the reverberation even up on his hilltop. Then there were secondary explosions as fuel tanks blew up. The smoke from the fireball reached his nostrils. The plane flew on, and all that remained of the convoy was flickering flames. It was a sobering thought that even here war was never far away, but at the same time he took heart in the knowledge that the Allies were hunting out the Germans, destroying them as they fled northward. Perhaps the war really was going to end soon.

On his way back to his hiding place, he noticed a feather on the floor from the pigeon he had killed. He bent to pick it up. It was a beautiful blueish grey with iridescence at the edges. Again he felt a pang of regret that he had killed something so beautiful and so harmless. He tucked the feather into his breast pocket and hobbled back across the chapel.

That night he rearranged his bed and wondered if Sofia would come. His hunger by now was so intense that he could think of little else. He fantasised about roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, lamb chops, steak and kidney pie. He retrieved the tin he had found among the rubble and wondered if he could open it with his knife. He had meant to give it to Sofia, but she had been so excited with the pigeon and the parachute silk that he had saved the surprise for later. He turned it over in his hand, then put it down—he would only risk damaging the blade of his knife. And what if it was something that was inedible until cooked—tomato paste, for example? She would surely come tonight and maybe bring some of that pigeon stew with her.

But she didn’t come. He sat up most of the night listening for any sound, but nothing stirred except the gentle sigh of the wind in the trees and grass. Two nights without her. Something must have happened. He let his mind wander through scenarios: The Germans had returned and taken her. She had been struck by lightning in the storm. She had been taken sick and was now lying there, deathly ill. And he found himself praying as he had never prayed before. “I don’t care what happens to me, God, only keep her safe.” And then he added a similar prayer to the Virgin Mary, just in case.

He must have drifted off to sleep because he heard his name being called as if from far off. He opened his eyes to see her standing in the doorway, silhouetted against bright sunlight. “Gesù Maria!” she exclaimed. “Look at all this water. You are lucky you didn’t drown.”

And she came toward him. “My poor, poor Ugo,” she said. “I am so sorry that I left you alone for so long. The night of the storm—when I wanted to slip away it was impossible.”

“I understand that,” Hugo said. “I did not want you to risk coming out in such a storm.”

“I would have come,” she said, “but my son is sick. He had a high fever. He wanted to sleep with his mamma, and he is afraid of thunder. He was awake and clinging to me all night. And yesterday his fever was worse. We had to call the doctor. The doctor says he has tonsillitis and really should have his tonsils removed.”

The words were unfamiliar to Hugo until she gestured to her throat.

“Ah yes. Tonsils,” he said.

“But of course we cannot get to the nearest hospital. There is no transportation. So the doctor gave him some of those sulpha drugs and hoped he would get better.”

“And is there any improvement?”

She nodded. “He cuddled against me all night—the poor child was soaked in sweat. This morning he is weak but the fever is down, saints be praised.”

“No doubt you had a talk with Saint Blaise?” Hugo said, trying to make her smile, but she frowned at him.

“Never mock the power of the saints, Ugo. They are the ones who intercede for us with God. And yes, I did pray to Saint Blaise.”

“I’m sorry. I was not mocking. I just wanted to make you smile,” he said. “But you should not have come in daylight. There were Germans on the road below yesterday.”

“We saw. The Americans bombed them. That was good, no? And our partisans, they also ambushed a vehicle full of Germans and slit their throats.”

“Aren’t you worried that the Germans will retaliate for such actions?” he asked.

“How would they find out which village the partisans come from? For all they know, it could be English or American soldiers creeping through the dark.”

“All the same, you shouldn’t risk coming here in daylight. What if you were seen?”

“I was seen,” she said. “Benito said that he had found new mushrooms after the rain. Funghi di bosco—our favourites. I said I will go out immediately and look for some myself, so I took my basket and off I went. Nonna is sitting with Renzo, who now sleeps peacefully. If I find new mushrooms, what a joy that would be. It would mean I could come out in the daylight again with just cause. It is another small miracle. Usually there are no mushrooms this late in December. But the rains have not been too cold and there has been no frost here yet. Now if I can only find some, I will return the heroine. And I will make us a mushroom soup next time I come. But first . . .” She reached into the basket and placed the bowl, covered in a thick cloth, on the bench in front of him. “See what I have for you today! I made such a good soup with our part of the pigeon.”