Power to Burn (11 page)

I don't notice the cold much any more. I hardly need to collect wood for the fire. Sometimes I imagine my insides iced over like the tap outside in the garden, white and slippery and hard. Maybe I'll paint them that way.

I
t was the hour of the
passeggiata
, where people stroll the streets and window shop, but I hardly noticed anyone as we walked. The air was dense with cold, and it began to numb all the teeming thoughts in my head. As we rushed toward the bus, away from San Gimignano and its towers, my ears began to ache and soon all I could think of was getting inside the bus and feeling warm again.

I found a seat near the back and Angelica huddled next to me, her teeth chattering. Dusk, with the sun setting over the hills, was surely the chilliest time of the day.

‘So,' I said when the bus started up and our faces had thawed, ‘you were saying? You can't run away now. We have an hour and a half together and we're sharing a very small bus seat. Will you tell me what Lucrezia has to do with us and our power?'

Angelica took a deep breath. ‘Don't you feel this cold?'

I exploded. ‘Now we're going to talk about the weather. The things people do to change the subject!'

‘No,' said Angelica quietly. ‘If you listen you will see the connection. This cold, these freezing temperatures aren't normal, Roberto.'

‘I know,' I said impatiently, ‘Nonna's told me all that. It's a terrible year, the worst in history etc etc. It's all anyone talks about.'

‘This
is
the worst winter ever in Italy,' Angelica went on grimly. ‘Almost every day scientists come up with a new theory, about localised pressures and mini ice ages, but no one really understands what is happening. And if this cold continues, people will die.'

I rolled my eyes. ‘That is awful, and I wish I could do something to help, but really, what has this got to do with us?'

Angelica plugged on, as if I hadn't spoken. ‘If the cold continues, people will die, from the cold, from hunger, from lack of light.'

‘Soon it will be spring again, Angelica. No one can die from lack of sunlight in three months, except maybe for a few surfers I know.'

‘I don't think spring is going to come this year.' Angelica looked into my eyes. ‘Not to this part of the world.'

The way she was looking at me made me feel more chilled than I was already. I felt I was being drawn into some icy net of mystery, and it was spreading, beyond the family, into the world. Suddenly I wasn't so sure I wanted to be entangled.

‘The cold began the day I heard you were coming to Italy.' Angelica paused. I could feel a weight in her, and it scared me. ‘And that's when the visits began, too.'

‘What visits? Who from?'

‘Lucrezia.' Angelica's face had grown so serious, she looked about ten years older.

‘
Now
you tell me,' I burst out. ‘Where is she? Can we ring her?'

I was relieved to see Angelica smile. But what she said next made the uneasiness I felt before balloon into fear.

‘I don't know where Lucrezia lives, but I'm sure she's still alive. Lucrezia has been visiting me in my mind, Roberto, in my dreams.'

‘You mean she's been . . . haunting you?' I said slowly.

‘In a way. In the beginning she showed me scenes from her girlhood. From when she was quite young.'

‘How do you mean, “showed” you?'

‘Well, I was in my room, at my easel, and in the far corner of the painting I was finishing, at the end of the road, a girl appeared. She began doing tricks, making frogs jump out of this chocolate box. I just stood there and watched. It was like one of those video games where every time you push a button, the scene changes. Only I didn't have to push a button. The painting just kept changing.

‘A boy appeared next on the road, and the girl ran to meet him, her arms outstretched. But then a man – could it have been Nonno? – came between them. He grabbed the girl and shut her up in a tower and he chased the boy away. And then there was just the girl on the road, standing alone. She was watching a burning house, and she was crying. She looked so small on that big road, with the flames lighting her face.'

Angelica seemed far away as she spoke, as if she were in another world. ‘Nearly every night,' she drew another deep breath and went on, ‘until you arrived, I've dreamt of that painting. And in each dream the girl came closer along the road, until one night I could see her face.'

I felt a leap of fear. ‘Did she have black hair, and –'

Angelica nodded. ‘And her left eye was fringed in the corner with white lashes. Just like . . . her.'

I was quiet for a moment, and in my mind I saw again the old lady with the chestnuts, and the tramp. Somehow I didn't want to tell Angelica about them, I didn't want to have a part in this story anymore. But she was waiting, as if she knew.

So I told her about that day in Rome, about the church and the fire and the old lady, and the tramp.

Angelica sighed. ‘She's been trying to contact you too. I knew it. She can feel your power and it's stirring her own. But those old women you saw were only illusions she created, I think. She used them like signposts. She's playing a game with us, Roberto. She's getting closer and I don't know what will happen.
Ho paura davvero
– I'm scared.'

The bus stopped then and a group of school kids came on, laughing and pushing. We had to move up and rearrange ourselves and for a moment I wished I was with those other kids, with nothing more to think about than the next game. A harmless game.

But the questions wouldn't stop. I had to know.

‘What happened in the last dream you had?'

‘The girl changed into an older woman. There were mountains behind the road, and it was snowing. The sun went down behind the mountains and the painting grew darker and darker, the colours all merging into a greyish black. When I touched the painting, it was as cold as ice.'

I looked out of the window and saw stars pricking the sky above the hills. A boy pulled the window down a little, letting in a gust of freezing air. A reminder, like a sinister chorus in a song. It was always there outside, waiting. The cold.

‘She was telling me something, Roberto.' Angelica shut her eyes, reliving it. ‘She's telling me about the cold. Lucrezia is weaving a spell.'

‘What do you mean?' I burst out. ‘That
she
is responsible for the cold? For all the tonnes of snow and ice and dark afternoons? But that's ridiculous, it's impossible! You're off your head!'

Angelica was silent. ‘You sound just like Nonno. Open your mind, Roberto. Lucrezia's power is strong, she's been working at her magic all these years. It's probably the only thing in her life. And she must be angry, so terribly, icily angry. Her magic is freezing us all.'

The bus was pulling into the terminal and in a rush Angelica said, ‘Think, Roberto. Think about Lucrezia and how Nonno separated her from the boy she loved. She never saw him again, never loved anyone again. Think how
we
were separated all these years. Think how it changed our world. Can't you imagine the rage, eating away at you every day of your life? Thinking how things might have been?'

I had a sudden picture of the Indian lady and an alarm rang in my mind, insistent and frightening. But I didn't want to think about it, I didn't want to, and my brain felt numb.

‘Think, Roberto,' Angelica said urgently. ‘You must try to remember how it was when we were little,
together
. Then you will feel the pain of what we've lost.'

‘Oh great, Angelica. Now you want to ruin
my
life! Why should I go looking for pain? Why should I? You must be mad!'

Angelica stood up and pulled me towards her as the people filed off the bus. She touched the dimple in my chin, gently.

‘Because only then will you understand yourself. And only then will you know Lucrezia. You need that knowledge, Roberto, to build your power. And that's the only way we will have enough power, together, to fight her.'

When we arrived home Nonna was serving up the pasta. She and Nonno pelted us with questions about our day, and Angelica answered them cheerfully, as if we'd just been on a normal little sightseeing tour.

I sat there marvelling at her. It was amazing how she could serve up little pieces of reality, like selecting dishes from a menu, and she recited just the right tidbits for the occasion.

I saw Nonno looking at me, and I tried to smile and get in on the conversation. But all the time I was trying to see him. Who he really was. He had this silk dressing gown on and matching slippers, and his face was all shiny and scrubbed. His moustache bobbed as he spoke, and he was rubbing his hands together, looking at our faces so eagerly, as if we were telling him the answer to the riddle of the universe. He was so damned eager to please.

How could he, this elderly kind-looking man, be the devil of the family? Did Lucrezia really hate him so much? Did she hate
us
so much? Somehow it got back to history again, and I started thinking how so often in books we only get to see the one side of things. As far as I could make out, Nonno had made a dreadful mess of things, but did that mean that everyone in the family had to go on making more mistakes?

Near the end of the meal Nonno turned to me and said, ‘There's a letter for you, Roberto. From your mother.'

Great timing, I thought. That's all I need. I just wanted to sit in front of the fire and be a vegetable.

But everyone was watching me as if this were the match of the season and I was the star player, so I took the letter and opened it.

Dear Roberto
,

How are you? Are you eating well?
(Typical)
. I miss you so much I'm watching all your favourite TV programs
. (Holy Moly, is this my mother?)
Dad can't stand them so he has hidden the remote control, he says I'm not to be trusted
. (That's the understatement of the year!)

By now you will have met your twin sister. Oh, what can I say? Angelica. It is so strange to write that name, to you. Even though I know the shock you must have felt, I can't help enjoying the picture I have of you two sitting there together. Where you belong
.

I suppose I am a coward. I let Nonno tell you about everything. Your father wanted to talk to you years ago, to write to Angelica. But I thought you were both too little. I was afraid. And then, suddenly, we'd left it too late. You must understand, Roberto, I have never been very brave. I hope you can forgive us. I'll write to Angelica very soon, when I get the courage up. Tell her she's my dear girl. I love her very much
.

She went on then about other everyday things, like her work and Dad having the flu and how he'll only eat soup. She ended up saying that she can't wait till I get home, and then we'll all have a big
talk
.

I folded up the letter. What a joke, a big talk.
Our
family? When have we ever really said what we felt? All those weeks when she and Dad haven't spoken, except to say ‘The steak was good' or ‘Let's watch that Nature program on TV'. How could Dad have let Mum's family push his only daughter away? Maybe he's never forgiven her. I don't know how I ever can.

But she sounded so guiltless. Almost happy. Does she think these few measly lines will explain away all these years of secrets?

She thinks it's all okay now. She doesn't know that something terrible is only just beginning.

I threw the letter down on the chair next to me, and went on staring at the fire. A while later Angelica came over.

‘I'm going to bed now,' she said, and bent over to pick up the letter. ‘May I?' She cradled the piece of paper as if it were the crown jewels and carefully put it in her pocket. ‘Sweet dreams,' she whispered, and kissed me on the forehead.

I
t is night. A man is marching down the street, holding a flaming torch. His boots ring on the cobblestones. But now there comes a low roaring, as a crowd hurtles around a bend, running to catch up with the man
.

They are chanting something, old words that I can't understand. There is something wrong, terribly wrong, like the beginning of a war. I run with them, and they are frenzied, like animals in a pack. I am so small and no one swings me up on their shoulders, so I have to weave in amongst knees and feet kicking constantly against me
.

I have to reach the man with the flaming torch
.

I run until I am alongside the man and then I see what he is carrying under his other arm
.

It is a little girl, no older than me. In the light of the flames I see a dimpled chin and eyes huge with horror. My eyes, her eyes
.

‘
Save me!' the girl cries, and suddenly I know where the man is taking her. I know what he is going to do with the flaming torch
.

‘
Strega! Strega!' the crowd is chanting, and now I understand. Witch, they are going to burn the witch
.

I open my mouth to shout but no sound comes out. My lungs are burning, my throat stings with the need to scream but still there are no words
.

The girl looks at me and then she closes her eyes. As if she is already dead
.

Then the man and the crowd drift away like coloured smoke and I am left alone on a grassy hill, and it is daytime. I have a beautiful green kite and I'm trying to fly it. Suddenly the wind catches and it soars up, dipping and diving above me. The cord breaks and as the kite sails away the tail flutters and three lemons drop from it and land at my feet
.

I put the lemons up to my face and they smell bitter and cold. The saliva fills my mouth and now I am no longer running through grass. I am on top of a mountain, deep in snow and my back is leaning against a chestnut tree
.