The Tuscan Child(63)

He ate it, touched by her concerned face as he swallowed each mouthful. “Have you ever tried to paint or draw, Sofia?” he asked suddenly.

“Me? When I was a child. One of the nuns liked my drawing of a donkey and pinned it up on the wall. But that was the extent of my artistic career.” She laughed.

He had an absurd desire to sweep her away to England, to install her in his studio at Langley and teach her to paint, but he stopped himself from voicing this ridiculous notion. Why offer someone something she can never have? Why give false hope? To get through this time of darkness, came the answer.

“When the war is over I shall return to San Salvatore,” he said, “and I will bring my easel and my paints and I shall let you paint whatever you want. Then I shall hang it on my wall at home.”

She giggled. “It will be another donkey. That is all I know how to draw.”

“But it could be a blue donkey. A polka-dot donkey. A flying donkey. Lots and lots of flying donkeys.”

“You are absurd, Ugo.” She laughed and slapped his hand playfully. Then a spasm of guilt crossed her face. “Sorry. I should not have done that.”

“Don’t apologise. I like it when you laugh. It makes me feel that I am still alive—that there is still hope.”

“Me too,” she said. “When I think that I will see you soon, I, too, feel that I am still alive.”

Instinctively he took her hand. “You are the only reason I am alive, Sofia,” he said. “You are the only reason I want to stay alive.”

“No, don’t say that. Your wife. Your son. Your family. They are your reasons.”

He shook his head. “No. If I do not return they will cry a little, say what a brave fellow I was to give my life for my country, and then go about their lives as if nothing had happened. I don’t think there is anyone at home who would truly weep for me.”

“I would,” she said. “If you died, I would truly weep for you.”

And he noticed she had not pulled her hand away. In fact, she was clasping his hand as fervently as he clasped hers.

He awoke to the sound of bells. It was quite dark, and he had no idea of the hour, but the bells continued to echo across the frosty countryside. The Germans, he thought. The Germans have returned to the village. But then he thought, No. The bells are ringing for Midnight Mass. It’s Christmas Day. And he lay back, smiling to himself, recalling memories from the distant past: Hugo at five or six awaking in the cold, grey dawn to find the stocking at the foot of his bed bulging with presents. And Nanny poking her head around the door. “So did Father Christmas come, then?”

“Yes.” He could hardly say the word, he was so excited. “Look at all the things he brought me.”

“Well, aren’t you the lucky boy? And I rather think there might be something else downstairs. We’d better get you washed and dressed.”

And there was: a fat, cream-coloured pony. Happy times, he thought. When Mother was still alive and Father had not yet gone off to war and I had been promised a brother or sister. Only something had gone wrong and mother and child had died in childbirth. Suddenly it was just Father and Nanny. And the next year he was sent away to school and Father went off to war, and he had never really felt safe again.

He lay listening until the last chimes of the bells died away in the still night air.

“Happy Christmas,” he said out loud, and then fell asleep.

When he awoke again he was aware of distant noises—the sound of drums and then trumpets. It immediately brought to mind an invading army, Roman or medieval. But Sofia had told him that everyone would be out and about with much celebrating. Maybe the village band and a procession was part of the “much celebrating.”

He washed himself at the rain barrel and wished he had a comb in his pocket to sort out his hair. He wet it and ran his fingers through it to smooth out the curl. The day was exceptionally clear and bright. And still—so still that his breath seemed like the only sound in the world. The drums and trumpets had ceased, and he pictured everyone in the village sitting around long communal tables, passing great bowls of food, talking and laughing as if they had not a care in the world.

They will be feasting until late in the night, he thought. Sofia might not come at all. He had to accept that and hope she wouldn’t take the risk when people were going home from their celebrations.

Darkness fell. He settled himself in his bed and lay back, longing for a cigarette, a glass of Scotch, a pork pie, a sausage roll, a chocolate bar—all of the little things he had taken for granted all his life.

He thought he heard angels singing and opened his eyes in disbelief. “And there were shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night,” he muttered, the words of the gospel coming back to him. He looked up to see an angel coming toward him, singing in a high, clear, sweet voice. She held up a lantern that illuminated her face.

“Mille cherubini in coro ti sorridono dal ciel,” she sang. A thousand cherubim serenade you from the sky. Then she dropped to the floor beside him.

“Oh, you are awake. I am so glad. See, I bring you good things for Christmas. Come out and enjoy your feast.”

He dragged himself from his bed and perched on the bench beside her. She was unwrapping dishes from the thick cloth.

“Wild boar ragu and pasta,” she said. “And ewes’ milk with honey and pepper. And chestnut cake. And a little flask of grappa. Eat, eat.”