The Tuscan Child(68)

We went up and peeked into three bedrooms. Renzo pointed to a square on the ceiling he said led to the attic. Might it have been possible that someone could remain hidden up there? But Sofia would have had to come up with good excuses as to why she kept needing to go up and down. And if she brought my father food, wouldn’t the old grandmother have noticed that?

We came down and Renzo opened a small door that led to a flight of dark stairs descending into blackness. I hesitated. “I don’t think I want to go down there,” I said. “It looks awful. Is there a light?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think I ever went down.”

A cold draft of dampness and mould wafted up toward us. Renzo looked at me and nodded. “I have to agree it seems most unpleasant. And the same would apply here as to the attic—my nonna would have seen my mother taking down food. I think we had better get back before we are caught.”

He had just finished these words when there was a sound like a truck running into the side of the house, followed by a rumble. Everything started to shake. I heard things falling and crashing. For a moment it felt as if the walls were coming down on us. I grabbed on to Renzo. “What’s happening?”

“Only an earthquake,” he said.

The shaking ceased and I realised that he had his arms around me.

“Only an earthquake?” I demanded. “Only?”

He laughed, releasing me. “They are rather common in this part of Italy,” he said. “There. It’s over. We are fine. Let’s go back to the others.”

We arrived back in the piazza to find chaos. Jugs of wine had spilled on to white tablecloths. Babies were crying. Old women were praying and moaning. Others were rapidly clearing up the mess.

“It is over,” the man with white hair who had entertained me the other night said to the crowd. “Forgotten. Let us enjoy ourselves again.”

“The mayor,” Renzo said to me. “The most important man in this town. He is well respected here. He led us through the wartime and was sensible enough to appear to get along with the Germans. I think it saved us from more grief.”

I looked at the old man with interest. One who got along with the Germans? Might he have betrayed his own people to save his skin? I took this one stage further. Might he have betrayed Sofia, knowing that she was hiding a British airman?

I had no more time for these thoughts as Paola came toward me. “Where have you been? I was so worried. And then the earthquake . . .”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Renzo took me to show me the house where he lived with his mother during the war.”

Paola turned to stare at Renzo. “I see,” she said. “Oh well. No harm done.”

At that moment Renzo’s name was called—or rather bellowed—across the piazza. Cosimo was gesturing to him. “Where have you been, boy?” he shouted. “Wandering off and leaving your old father to fend for himself?”

“Father, you are among a hundred people. Any one of them could have helped you,” Renzo said.

“And during the earthquake? If I’d had to move swiftly to escape? What then?”

“I think the open piazza is probably the safest place in town,” Renzo said.

“Oh, so now you choose to be flippant and disrespectful to your father, do you?” Cosimo came toward him, glaring at him. “Is it this German girl’s influence? I knew she was trouble the moment she came into our town.”

“She’s not German, Father. She is English. And I was not trying to be disrespectful. I was merely stating the truth. And anyway, the earthquake has passed and you are quite unharmed, so all is well. We can get back to our celebration, okay?”

He took the older man by the arm and glanced back at me with the hint of a grin. As they walked away I heard Cosimo say, “The sooner she is away from this place, the better.”

I went to rejoin Paola’s group. The women were still talking about the earthquake, recalling quakes of times past, villages that had been destroyed, people who had been buried alive. They spoke fast and in their strong dialect, so most of it went over my head, but I nodded agreement as if I understood. I wondered how long the feast usually went on, but the matter was settled for me by Angelina’s baby, who started crying.

“Mamma, I think I should take her home,” Angelina said. “It’s getting cold out here and I think it might rain.”

“All right.” Paola got to her feet. “We will come with you. I will make sure you are home safely and then I think I should pay a visit to Francesca. She did not come, I think. Of course I can understand why she stays away at this time of grief. But I will bring her some of our vegetables and maybe some biscotti to cheer her up, poor soul.”

“Who is Francesca?” I asked.

“Gianni’s widow. I think the poor thing has suffered much during her marriage. She may be glad to be rid of him, but then how will she live now? Who will tend to the sheep and make the cheese, eh? It is too much for one woman, and I don’t think she can afford to pay a man to do the work, even if she can find one around here who is not working for Cosimo.”

We took our leave of the people at our table. I had never been hugged and kissed by strangers before. It was a weird sensation, but not unpleasant, to feel that I was part of a big, warm group.

We walked together down the path and left Angelina at the farmhouse nursing her baby.