The Tuscan Child(71)

“There must be a crypt of some sort,” Hugo said. “Did you ever visit it?”

“No. I only came here once for a feast day,” she said. “We did not have much to do with the monks. They were shut away from real life up here.”

“Until the Germans turned them out and they found out exactly what real life is all about,” he added.

“Should we go down and explore?” she asked. “It may be dry and snug down there for you.”

Hugo was loath to go down into that rectangle of blackness. Cold, thick air crept up from it, and he smelled musty dampness. “I think we should wait until daylight,” he said. “We don’t know how stable it is down there. The whole ceiling might be about to come down.”

“I will return in the morning if I can get away,” she said. “I will tell them I need to check on my turnip fields. The harvest may be this week. And besides, it is the day after the feast. Everyone will sleep late.”

“All right.” He found he was smiling in anticipation at seeing her again so soon, although he didn’t share her enthusiasm for exploring some old cellar. “You should go home now then so that you get some sleep. Be very careful as you make your way to the door. The floor may no longer be solid.”

“I will take great care,” she said. “And I will be impatient to return so that we can find what lies beneath us. Is it a treasure trove, do you think?”

“I doubt it. I expect your monks were simple men. I have certainly found no gold vessels or ruby rings as I have searched the rubble outside. And their bowls and plates were of crude pottery.”

“All the same,” Sofia said, “it is exciting, is it not?”

“Yes,” he agreed, wanting her finally to have something to look forward to. “It is exciting.”

Hugo found it hard to sleep for the rest of the night. He was conscious of lying in an unstable place that could collapse at any moment and wondered if he should move outside. But the bitterly cold wind swirling around the ruins did not make that seem an enticing prospect. He sat up, wishing desperately for a cigarette. Instead he found the flask and swigged at the grappa. It warmed him but did nothing to dull his anxious mood. He fought against sleep and was glad when the first streaks of morning appeared over the eastern wall.

Hugo waited until it was completely light, then picked his way around the outer wall and made it safely to the front entrance. He saw then that the bomb had not landed directly on the damaged building. It had struck the hillside, cutting out a chunk of soil and rock so that the monastery now perched at the edge of a precipice. At least no German lorries can drive up from the road anymore, he thought. The flight of steps was unharmed.

He washed, had a long drink of water, and then returned to the chapel. He stood for a long time at the entrance to the crypt. Sofia was right—it was enticing, but at the same time alarming. A cold draft crept up from it, although Hugo couldn’t imagine where a draft could be coming from deep within the earth.

He was still standing and staring when Sofia arrived out of breath and with glowing cheeks. “There is a stiff wind today,” she said. “It was hard to walk up the hill. And see, I have pulled up one of my turnips. We will wash it and then you can eat it.”

“Raw turnip?” He made a face.

“Oh, but yes. It will taste good. Crisp and refreshing.” She put it on a fallen beam. “Have you been down there yet?”

“No, I waited for you. I wanted to make the discovery together.”

“I brought another candle,” she said. “It will be very dark down there.” She gave him an excited grin. “Are you ready? I am so curious about what we shall find.”

“Probably a basement where the monks stored their old prayer books and habits and unwanted furniture,” Hugo said.

“But no. It is below a chapel. There may be the tomb of a saint. Or holy relics. I have seen the head of Saint Catherine in the cathedral in Siena.”

“Only her head? What happened to the rest of her? Was she beheaded?”

“No, her head was taken off after she died and put into a gold and crystal case. It is still miraculously preserved for all to see. It grants miracles.”

“Poor Saint Catherine,” he said. “I’m glad I’m never going to be a saint. I wouldn’t want my head cut off after death.”

This made her laugh. She went to slap him, then thought better of it, the intimacy of the prior night forgotten. “Your lighter, please.” She lit the candle. “I will go first and see if the steps are safe.”

“Be careful,” he called, but she was already descending into darkness.

“It is good,” she said. “The steps are not too steep and they are fairly clear. You can hold on to the wall as you descend. Come slowly.”

He followed her, taking one step at a time, feeling the solid coldness of the stone wall against his palm. He heard her gasp but was focusing so completely on not tumbling and making his splinted leg hold his weight that he didn’t look up until he reached the bottom. He let out a sigh of relief and looked up. Then he saw what had made her gasp.

It was a perfect little chapel with a carved and vaulted ceiling. Lining the walls were what looked like tombs—of long-dead monks, presumably. At the base of the steps lay several thick slabs of masonry. Sofia was holding up the candle, trying to get its light to reach the far corners. At the far end was an altar on which stood a tall and very realistic crucifix. There were saints in niches, and on the walls hung several big paintings.