Sea of Lost Love (23 page)

The road was empty, leading out of the town into the wild, rocky countryside of little brick walls and sheep. They passed a pack of stray dogs, tails high, noses to the ground, ribs showing through their thin coats. The city of the dead rose up before them, its walls warmed to a pale yellow in the morning sunshine. The gates were large and imposing, open to people and dogs alike, but there seemed to be no one there. Celestria and Mrs. Waynebridge wandered inside in silence. They both stopped to gaze at the long paved walkways that ran between the rows of little mausoleums built out of stone that contained the remains of the once living. “Come on,” Celestria hissed, afraid of breaking the tranquillity. The smell of lilies, warm wax, and pine was intoxicating. Mrs. Waynebridge followed nervously, fearful of intruding. Celestria walked on, her light walk almost a skip. In the center was a grassy square of tall pine trees, their branches full of twittering birds, their deep green needles bristling in the breeze. The sun filtered through them, throwing a kaleidoscope of dazzling sunspots onto the neatly cut grass below. “You see,” said Celestria with a laugh. “It's not frightening at all. In fact, it's beautiful. When I die, I'd be happy to rest in a place like this.” She sighed. “It's so serene and heavenly, don't you think?”

“It's still eerie to think that all them houses are full of dead people,” said Mrs. Waynebridge with a shiver.

“Oh, I think there's something rather romantic about it. Let's take a look inside one of them.”

“I don't think we should,” Mrs. Waynebridge protested. “They don't belong to us.”

“I don't imagine anyone would mind. Besides, the dead aren't in any position to complain.”

Celestria disappeared up some steps into a communal crypt. Row upon row of little plaques marked the graves, and each grave was decorated with a vase full of fresh flowers. They covered both walls right up to the ceiling. Entire families were buried alongside one another. When Mrs. Waynebridge entered, she found Celestria running her hand over the words thoughtfully. “Look, here's a whole cluster of a family called Salvatore.” Beside each name there was a small photograph. “These were all old people. Rather nice to live a long life and then end up here. I don't think I'd like to see a young person. Much too close to home.” At the end of the crypt stood a small altar covered in candles, their flames flickering gently amid the heavy aroma of flowers. She thought of her father, dead like these old people. Unlike them, he had had a good many more years ahead of him. “I wonder if we shall ever have a body to bury. Somewhere we can come and remember him. I can't imagine him lying in a coffin, lifeless.” She turned to Mrs. Waynebridge, her voice a whisper. “I can't imagine him dead, you see.”

Mrs. Waynebridge wrung her hands anxiously. “Let's get out. There's too much death here. Gives me the willies,” she said in a wavering voice.

Celestria followed her into the sunshine. As they wandered back Celestria noticed a crypt that stood out from the rest. It was up a few steps, a little apart, and looked as if it had been built recently—the stone was whiter and newer than the others. It wasn't that it was bigger, just that it somehow overshadowed the place where it stood. It was plain but for the initials
N.M
c
C
. engraved into the marble above the door. Without saying a word Celestria felt herself drawn inside.

Within, two candles burned on a small altar, beside which a photograph stood in a silver frame dominated by an enormous vase of white lilies, their scent more pronounced than ever. Celestria moved to take a closer look. The photograph was of a young woman. Her face was radiant and smiling and breathtakingly beautiful, set against the deep blue sky, as if she was already in heaven, smiling down with love. Her hair was rich brown, blowing in the wind, the expression in her eyes light and carefree. Celestria turned to the stone tomb that contained her coffin. It was made out of marble and carved with a relief of a vine heavy with grapes. She wondered who the girl was and how she had died, suddenly saddened by the loss of such a young and vibrant life.

Without warning, a shadow fell across the doorway. She turned with a start to see the tall, arresting figure of a man. His face was gray with fury. He leaned on a stick, but he wasn't old. His hair was fair and unruly and much longer than was fashionable. He shouted at her in Italian, his voice deep and granular like the growl of a bear. He stepped aside so that she could leave. “I'm sorry, I was just curious,” she apologized hastily, her hand immediately shooting up to her chest in mortification. “I didn't mean to intrude.”

“Bloody American!” He switched to English. “You're all the same. Why can't you mind your own business?” Celestria had never been spoken to in such a rude manner. She didn't know how to respond. She wasn't equipped to deal with this sort of person. He stared at her, his pale green eyes ablaze with indignation. She felt her face throb with embarrassment, and, to her shame, her eyes began to water. Suddenly, the man seemed to check himself. His fury abated, and he said quietly, gesturing to the door, “Just leave.”

Celestria pushed past him. He was very tall, well over six feet, and broad shouldered so that as she swept past he dwarfed her. Mrs. Waynebridge waited for her outside, pale with shock. The city of the dead spooked her enough as it was, without some scruffy, unshaven demon rising up out of nowhere to shout at them. Celestria took her arm and hurried away. She felt him watching her, his eyes burning holes into her pale blue blouse. She waited until they were far away before she risked a glance back. To her horror, he was still standing there, his face grim, his gaze fixed upon her. Celestria turned away and hurried on.

“Good God, the rudeness of that man!” Mrs. Waynebridge exclaimed when they were outside the gates. She took off her hat and fanned her hot face with it. “I'm all shaken up like a jug of cream.”

“He was horrible,” Celestria agreed. “I hope we don't bump into him again.” Her legs were trembling. She wiped her eyes with her hand. “How dare he speak to me like that? He's certainly no gentleman. I thought Italian men were meant to be charming.”

“He's no more Italian than I am,” said Mrs. Waynebridge with a snort.

“Where's he from, then?”

“Scotland.”

“He's Scottish?”

“I'd recognize that accent anywhere, I would.”

“I was too shocked to notice.”

“What's a Scotsman doing down here, I ask myself?”

“Probably looking after those sheep we saw yesterday.”

“I didn't even see him coming.”

“I was only admiring the crypt.” Celestria's voice grew quiet. “She was beautiful.”

“A young woman, was she?”

“Yes, his daughter, perhaps. I was intruding. You were right, Waynie, I shouldn't have gone in there. It was none of my business. Oh, Lord, I've made a fool of myself.”

“You're trembling.”

“I'm shaken up like a jug of cream, too,” she replied, relieved to reach the safety of the Convento.

“You haven't made a fool of yourself, love,” said Mrs. Waynebridge reassuringly, pulling a sympathetic face. “You won't be seeing him again. And if you do, just walk on t'other side of road. That's what I do to them I don't wish to speak to.”

Celestria fell through the door with great relief. The dogs rushed up to greet her, and she crouched down to press her face into their fur to hide her tears. Getting up, she glanced at her watch. It was half-past eleven. “Nuzzo will be here shortly. I'm going to go upstairs to freshen up.” She fled before Mrs. Waynebridge could see her crying.

Celestria closed her bedroom door behind her and leaned back against it for a moment. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “Oh, Lord!” she groaned, her limbs still quivering from her encounter. “What am I going to do?” She rubbed her face with her hand, then began to chew on the skin around her thumbnail in agitation. She walked over to the window and looked out, deep in thought. From there she could see into the courtyard below and on to the bell tower of the little church next door. She couldn't see the city of the dead, although it rested just beyond, but she could smell the lilies from that crypt as if they meant only to mock her.

She had never, in all her life, been spoken to in such a rude manner. She felt humiliated, angry, and, to her horror, a little afraid. She hoped to God she never laid eyes on that man again. Let's get the job done and go home, she thought to herself. I don't want to be here a moment longer than I have to.

H
alf an hour later she stepped into the courtyard, feeling a great deal better, and found Mrs. Waynebridge talking to Nuzzo. He was dressed in a smart black suit with a waistcoat and pressed white shirt, and held his beret in his hands, leaving his thin gray hair to stick up in curly tufts. He gave a roguish smile, exposing large gaps between rather small teeth, raised his round, tourmaline eyes to Celestria, and bowed politely.
“Buon giorno, signorina,”
he said in a voice as soft as demerara sugar. Mrs. Waynebridge was clearly taken with him, for the apples of her cheeks blushed with the hue of a young girl discovering love for the first time.

“Good morning, Nuzzo,” Celestria replied, wondering how Mrs. Waynebridge had managed to communicate with him despite his lack of English. He seemed to read her thoughts.

“
Io parlo
leetle English,” he replied, illustrating with his forefinger and thumb, which he held up to his eye like a pair of tweezers.

“A little is better than nothing,” Celestria said briskly. “Are you ready, Waynie?”

The older woman nodded, clutching her handbag. “As ready as I'll ever be,” she said breathlessly, following Nuzzo outside into the sunshine.

Celestria closed the heavy wooden door behind them with a loud clank. Once outside, she cast a quick glance across the dirt road to where the city of the dead stood in stillness and serenity, half hoping, half fearing, that the rude Scotsman would suddenly stride out. Nuzzo waited beneath the avenue of pine trees that lined the road leading into town.

Nuzzo helped them into the cart with great gallantry, as if he were an old-fashioned knight. Mrs. Waynebridge gave her hand willingly, and a little feebly, Celestria thought, in order to prolong the moment. Celestria stepped up swiftly. Nuzzo, however, gave her minimal attention; he had eyes only for Mrs. Waynebridge. Once they were settled, he withdrew a paper bag from inside his jacket.
“Mele,”
he said, revealing two shiny red apples.

“How thoughtful,” sighed Mrs. Waynebridge, taking one and handing the other to Celestria.

“I thought you mistrusted Italian men,” Celestria hissed.

“I do,” she replied, turning the apple around in her fingers. “But I'm enjoying the fuss. I haven't received the attentions of a man for, God knows, fifty years. Alfie gave up once he'd won me. That's what men are like. It's all in the chase.”

Cypress trees rose up to a clear blue sky, where a few large-winged birds floated on the air above the cliffs. The sea undulated gently, waves glittering like sequins in the sunshine. After a while little bells rang out across the fields where sheep grazed, dropping their white heads to chew on the rough grasses and herbs that thrived there. Mrs. Waynebridge's heart grew light with pleasure as the new sights filled her spirit with the taste of adventure. She liked the heat, she liked the smells of thyme and rosemary that flourished among the rocks, and she liked the sight of Nuzzo as he turned and smiled at her with tenderness.

Celestria thought of her father and what he'd think of her traveling so far to seek vengeance for his death. She hoped he would be proud. Even if she found nothing, at least she had tried.

Out in the fresh air that swept in off the sea, Celestria shook her head and allowed the breeze to blow through her hair, leaving a faint trace of pine. The sun shone warmly on her skin, and the horizon stretched as far as she could see, stirring within her something sweet and melancholy. A group of grubby children mucked about among the rocks, waving to Nuzzo as they passed, and a skinny mongrel chased the cart, snapping at the wheels playfully. A few other horses and carts trotted by, and Nuzzo stopped for a chat, laughing heartily with an elderly man whose horse pulled a large load of timber destined for Gaitano's new library.

Finally, Nuzzo drew up alongside a path that led down to a secluded cove. The path was well worn by the footprints of children who liked to play there after school. Today it was quiet. Nestled against the cliffs, it lay in tranquillity like a secret bay. As they stepped onto the stones a trio of white birds flapped their wings and scattered into the sky, leaving to the waves the remains of the seaweed they had been pecking at. “Isn't this charming,” said Mrs. Waynebridge, taking off her hat and patting her hair to check it was still in place.

“I should have brought my bathing suit,” Celestria replied. “I can't strip off here in front of our friend, can I?” Nuzzo didn't understand. He found a spot in the shade and put down the picnic basket Luigi had prepared for them. Unfolding a rug, he gestured to Mrs. Waynebridge.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling.

“Grazie,”
said Nuzzo, nodding at her with encouragement. She shifted her eyes to Celestria, but she was busy taking off her shoes to walk in the waves.

“Grazie,”
Mrs. Waynebridge repeated.

“Brava!”
enthused Nuzzo, nodding excitedly.
“Grazie.”

“Thank you,” said Waynie with a chuckle.

“Sank oo,” said Nuzzo.

“No, no. Thank you,” Mrs. Waynebridge repeated, emphasizing the “th.” “Th…th…thank you.” Nuzzo copied her, placing his tongue against his top teeth.

“Thank you,” he said, pleased with himself.

“Very good,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. Nuzzo opened the basket and pulled out a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“Oh, how very nice,” said Mrs. Waynebridge in surprise.

“Vino,”
he said, holding out the bottle.
“Vino.”

“Vino,”
Mrs. Waynebridge replied.
“Grazie.”

“Bravissima!”
he said with such exuberance that Mrs. Waynebridge found herself roaring with laughter. He poured two glasses and gave one to Mrs. Waynebridge.

“La signorina?”
he asked, looking over to Celestria, who was now in the water, holding up her trousers so they didn't get wet.

“Leave her,” Mrs. Waynebridge suggested, touching his arm. He looked down at her fingers on his arm and grinned. Mrs. Waynebridge pulled her hand away, appalled at her own forwardness. She took a hasty sip of wine.

“It's very good. Go on, have some.
Vino,
you.”

“Io?”

“Yes, you. It's very good.” She took another sip. Nuzzo sat down beside her and brought the wine to his lips.

“Good,” he said.

“Good,” she repeated.

“Buono,”
he added.

“Buono,”
she repeated.

“Lei è brava e buona,”
he said, his shiny eyes twinkling at her, knowing she wouldn't understand.
“E bella,”
he added under his breath.
“Buona e bella.”

“The water's cold!” Celestria called out, smiling broadly. “But it's lovely.”

“Come and have something to eat,” Mrs. Waynebridge shouted back.

“I'm not hungry,” she replied. “Besides, I'm too excited to eat.”

“Excited about what?”

Celestria sighed. “I don't know. I feel excited, and I don't know why.” Her toes tingled, her hair danced on the breeze, and, to her surprise, she felt her heart inflate with happiness. “This place is just adorable. I want it to belong to me. My own special bay.”

“I think, love, this is one thing your grandfather can't buy you.”

Celestria turned around and faced out to sea. How different the water was from the navy water of Cornwall. She closed her eyes and let the sun warm her cheeks. How far she was from England, her mother, Uncle Archie and Aunt Julia, Uncle Milton and Aunt Penelope, her grandmother and the boys, David, Lotty, and Melissa—she was hundreds of miles from home. Down on that secluded bay, so removed from the grim events that had brought her here, she was overcome by a completely new and exhilarating feeling. She felt free. She sensed her father right here with her. He had belonged in Marelatte. Whatever it was that had drawn him here was now drawing her, too.

“I think we should eat,” said Mrs. Waynebridge to Nuzzo, feeling her stomach twisting with hunger. “It's just you and me.” She rested her eyes on his irregular features and smiled with pleasure. “And I couldn't be happier with the company.”

 

They arrived back at the Convento at teatime. Mrs. Waynebridge went upstairs to tidy herself, the sea wind having messed up her hair. Celestria, who hadn't eaten lunch, was now ravenous. She made her way across the courtyard, past sleeping dogs, through the kitchen garden, where the young family of black cats snoozed among pots of sage and basil, into the kitchen. Luigi was washing up. She could smell the risotto. “Is there any left?” she inquired, lifting the lid off the saucepan. “Lord, it smells good!”

“Lei vuole mangiare?”
he asked, holding out a bowl.

“Lovely,” she exclaimed.

“La Signora Halifax mangia a tavola,”
he continued, gesticulating through to the dining room. Celestria understood the word Halifax and skipped through.

 

“Ah, Mrs. Halifax. You're eating late, too!”

“I was out painting and completely forgot the time,” she said. “I think I've burned my nose. It feels awfully sore.” She rubbed it self-consciously.

“It is a little red. I burned my cheeks; they're smarting. I don't care, though,” she said, sitting down. “Mama would scold me for ruining my skin. She thinks brown skin is very common and ugly.”

“She's wrong. It suits you,” Mrs. Halifax replied. “You'd suit anything, dear. You're blessed with a lovely face, whatever the color of your skin.”

Luigi brought her a bowl of risotto and some bread. When he offered her wine, she took it without hesitation.

“Have you had a pleasant morning?” Mrs. Halifax asked, watching Celestria take a forkful of risotto, closing her eyes in pleasure.

“Actually, I've had the most enchanting day, in spite of a shocking start.”

“A shocking start? My dear, that doesn't sound good.”

“You know you said that I should visit the city of the dead?”

“Isn't it marvelous!”

“It's beautiful. In fact, Waynie and I were so moved we even went into one or two of the crypts.”

“I bet you didn't find a single withered flower in the entire place.”

“No, but I did find the rudest man in Italy.”

Mrs. Halifax raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Goodness, he must have been very rude indeed; the Italians are an outspoken lot. Who was he?”

“I don't know. He was so unpleasant, I didn't introduce myself.” It felt exciting to talk about him. Perhaps Mrs. Halifax would shed some light on his identity. “I was simply admiring the beautiful photograph on the little altar when he shouted at me, bellowing from the doorway like a monster.” Mrs. Halifax put down her fork and tried to interrupt, but Celestria ignored her. “I imagine the girl was his daughter. He was Scottish. What a Scotsman is doing down here, I can't imagine. Perhaps it's the sheep. There are sheep in Scotland, aren't there? I have to say, I have never been so insulted in all my life. He hadn't even bothered to brush his hair. He was a sight.”

Before Mrs. Halifax could utter a single word in reply, they both became aware of the man who now filled the archway that led through to the little sitting room with his dark, unruly presence.

Celestria dropped her fork into her risotto and gasped. “Oh, Lord!” she exclaimed. “It's you!”

He strode over and extended his hand. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, revealing brown, muscular arms covered in light brown hair.

“My name is Hamish McCloud,” he said, unsmiling. “I can't say it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”