Rosamanti (14 page)

When she got to the chicken coop, Pietro, glistening wet from the rain, was busy dropping black plastic sheets down over the open sides of the pen, tethering them with little straps. Sarah heard Geraldina’s frightened bleat above the thrum of the rain and the loud explosions of thunder.

“Go back to the villa. It will hail soon.” He turned and ran down to the goat shed.

She turned and started running back up to the house. In the distance, she heard a dull roar, getting louder and louder. Suddenly, hailstones pounded her, smacking into her head and bouncing off the rocks on the path, sounding like someone had opened a bag of marbles and tossed them from a height. The rain became heavier. Thunder boomed ominously, preceded by piercing threads of lightning, illuminating the gloomy morning with blue-white light. Keeping her head down, she kept on running, frightened should it strike her, or one of the exposed rock outcrops that dotted the surrounding landscape.

Breathless, she reached the sanctuary of the kitchen door and dived in to its gloom. She grasped the edge of the old wooden table, feeling her heart beating wildly. The close proximity of the lightning made her jump, as the windows of Rosamanti rattled and shook.

Eventually, the worst of the storm eased, the thunder rumbling grumpily out to sea, and the rain slowing to a light mist, then completely stopping. She looked out the kitchen door down toward Geraldina’s yard. Seeing no sign of either Pietro or the goat, she walked down, hoping they were all right. As if to mock the events of the past half hour, fresh sunlight and patches of blue sky appeared, replacing the dark and foreboding sky of such a short time ago.

Approaching the goat shed, she heard Pietro singing softly. She peered into the little shed, seeing him sitting cross legged on a bed of straw, with Geraldina down on all fours and her head resting in Pietro’s lap. As he sang to her, he stroked her head and rubbed her fat belly. Sarah smiled fondly at the two of them, the besotted goat and the loving master. He stopped singing when he caught sight of her, a slight flush rising up his deeply tanned face. Gently lifting Geraldina’s head, he reached over and pulled a thick swathe of alfalfa from the bale and gave it to her. She happily transferred her attention from him to the food, allowing him to crawl out, half bent over, from the little shed.

“Hey. Are you okay?” His wet hair stuck to his head, and his bare torso still shone from the drenching he’d had.

“Sure. I’m fairly used to violent thunderstorms at home, but this one was scary. Are they always like that?”

“Mostly. But not normally in the mornings. Usually they build up throughout the day if the humidity is high.” They began walking back up the hill. “This one seemed to come from nowhere.”

After hot showers and a quick breakfast, they sat opposite each other in the little kitchen, drinking coffee.

“Have you thought about moving Geraldina up here, closer to the house?”

He raised one eyebrow and his head tilted to one side.

“No. That’s always just been the goat shed.” He looked thoughtful. “She would love being in such close proximity to human company. And she’s not noisy.”

They finished their coffee and went outside.

“You have so many unused outbuildings here at Rosamanti. Maybe we could fix a yard for her and attached it to one of them. Then she would have much better shelter and be closer for milking.”

They chose an old, unused pig pen behind the pergola, out of sight from the house, but close enough that she would feel part of the family. Pietro quickly made a list of things he would have to do to fix the pen up for Geraldina. They set to work, bringing up her hay bales and finally the lady herself. It was comical watching her sniff around her new accommodation. She looked pleased.

As they sat on a bench seat watching her and sipping cool lemonade, Sarah remembered the other building that she had explored a few days ago.

“I went for a walk to the little cottage over the rise.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the building. “I had a most amazing idea.” She paused, searching for the right words. “It would be perfect for your restaurant!” She took his silence as a cue to keep going.

“Although I haven’t yet seen inside, I can see it would need a lot of work. But the location is fantastic. People would come for the view alone.” She looked out into the distance, her eyes conjuring up images of what she was describing. “A fresh coat of paint, wisteria drooping from a rustic pergola, little tables with red tablecloths, and inside, an intimate boutique bar for the winter months, where patrons could sample your cheeses and wines.” Her enthusiasm caused fresh waves of excitement to bubble inside her. When she finally finished, she turned to look at him expectantly, her eyes glistening with the possibilities she saw.

He stared out into the distance, but instead of the happy expression she expected, his face was clouded, his eyes cool. Her heart sank.

“Pietro?”

An agonizingly long minute passed before he finally turned his face to look at her. She had never seen this side to him. There was no anger, just a blank countenance, as cold as the stone slabs up on Villa Jovis. It was as though she had trodden on someone’s grave, showing great disrespect to something held dear. Fear grew slowly and steadily inside her. Fear of what? She shook her head slightly, trying to make sense of what she had said that was so…wrong. Waiting for him to speak was killing her.

“Have I said something to offend you?” She heard her voice shake.

The veil dropped a little from his eyes. She might have seen just a small softening in his expression. She wasn’t sure. Still, he said nothing.

His head dropped and his eyes closed. “That building is never to be opened. Ever.”

Deliberately, as though he was in pain, he stood up and walked away. Emptiness filled her chest cavity, aching, as she heard his Vespa start up and drive down toward the roadway. Tears stung her eyes, spurting out and dribbling down her cheeks. A loud sob forced its way from her hurting chest, sounding like a scream. Crumpling, she fell back into the chair, put her hands over her face, and cried.

* * *

Some hours later, she lifted her face from where it had been resting on her arms. The jug of lemonade, now warm, and two glasses rested on the table. They served to remind her afresh, of the events of earlier. The skin on her face was dry and taught where her salty tears had dried. Her limbs felt like jelly, no strength to move. She sat there listless—broken.

Geraldina’s bleating roused her. Gradually, her mind registered that she had not yet filled the water trough for the goat. Painfully, she stood on wobbly legs and walked unsteadily into the kitchen. She filled a bucket with water from the tap, took it out to Geraldina, and poured it into the old bathtub which was her new water trough.

When she went back to the villa, she climbed the stairs and sat at her desk. Desperate to try and blot out the memories of Pietro walking away—perhaps walking out of her life—she tried to get back to what was a normal life, and that meant she had to start writing. Looking out the window, she found that she could now see Geraldina, sitting in the shade of the hut, chewing her cud. She turned on her laptop and opened her document, staring at the manuscript. Emptiness filled her head. Nothing. Felicity French was as trapped as she was, caught in a void, unable to function. The muse had once again departed, replaced by demons.

She stared out the window. The sun shone down strongly on the blue sea, making it sparkle. Large white ferries crisscrossed between the island and the mainland, their wakes glistening out behind them. Looking up to the high cape towering over Rosamanti, she saw people wandering through the ruins of Villa Jovis. A compulsion to be with other people overcame her. She stood up, knocking her notebook from the desk. Bending to pick it up, she saw it had opened to where she had written Carlo’s translations of the three clues.

“Like a dog, you seek the bone.” She repeated the phrase over and over in her head, trying to unravel the cryptic clue. She ran downstairs, into the drawing room, and found Nonna’s map. There were four places marked on it: Rosamanti, Villa Jovis, Grotta Bianca, and Grotta Azzurra. Four places, yet only three clues. Then one has to be the starting point. But which one?

Again she studied Nonna’s map. Maybe she should compare it to the other map.
Pulling out the old map from the shelves, she opened up the page showing Villa Jovis and Rosamanti. The black dots and lines stood out clearly, but today, she noticed something else. Faded, sepia brown lines and dots were just barely visible, obviously the sepia ink not able to withstand the ravages as time as robustly as the black India ink. She took it over to the window and pulled back the curtains. Squinting, she searched the map of the grounds surrounding Rosamanti. The villa was marked, as was the track leading up to Villa Jovis. Some of the outbuildings were also marked.
There!
At first she thought she imagined it. A faint brown dotted line led from Rosamanti to one of the outhouses. From there, it continued on, finally stopping at a small dot near the cliffs, just south of Villa Jovis. A track! Maybe a pathway!
The first flurries of excitement coursed through her, reviving her and breathing life back into her listlessness.

Her backpack hung on a hook behind the door. She grabbed it down and carefully placed the two maps, her notebook and pen, into it. Downstairs, she placed a bottle of water and some apples in the bag. Lastly, she changed into her training shoes and placed her hat on her head. The kitchen door banged behind her as she pulled it shut, and she set off down the track to the mysterious cottage. When she arrived, she again studied the map, then looked at the unfriendly and rugged escarpment that stood between the cottage at the cliff tops near Villa Jovis. There was no track leading up. In fact, she doubted if even Geraldina could have negotiated the steep and rocky climb. There has to be another way up, she thought.

Determined to find it, she began returning to Rosamanti, only this time she followed as best she could, the twists and turns of the dotted pathway on the map. It went up over rocky outcrops where she struggled to get a good foothold. Several times she slipped, scraping her knees. “Why would the pathway have been over this damn awful lump of rock when it’s perfectly easy to go around it?”

Standing back in the shade of the pergola, she sat and tried to think it through logically, mentally noting the direction of the path she trod and the one marked on the map. Instead of meandering like a normal path, the one on the map seemed to have long straight stretches, interspersed with several right angle bends. “Come on, Felicity French. Help me here.”

As if hearing her, a light bulb went off in Sarah’s mind. Of course! It was a tunnel!
Tingles shot down her arms, causing her fingers to shiver. She jumped up and circumnavigated the exterior of Rosamanti, looking for anything that looked like an entrance. From the kitchen door, she went out to the courtyard where her shiny new bike still stood against the white walls. Around farther, and past the windows to Nonna’s drawing room, then around to the utility room where old plumbing poked through the stucco walls into a concrete pit. Nothing at all looked like it could be a hidden entrance. Maybe it’s not hidden, she thought. Pietro told her there had been Lombardis living here for over four hundred years. Why would it be hidden?
A stab of pain entered her as she thought of Pietro. He would know. He grew up here
.
But she wondered if she’d ever get the chance to ask him.

She went back into the kitchen and sat at the table, the maps spread out before her. Staring at nothing in particular, the sideboard came into focus, with two wine glasses and a half empty bottle of wine left there last night when she and Pietro went to bed. She stood up and walked down the narrow hallway to the utility room with its concrete wash tubs and ancient washing machine. Reaching up, she took the flashlight from its hook on the wall, bent down, and opened the cellar trapdoor. She took some deep breaths, trying to calm her heart. She pulled the backpack over both shoulders, turned on the flashlight, and carefully climbed down into the Lombardi family cellar.

Chapter Nine

Searing anger frothed and bubbled. Pietro couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this angry—any anger, for that matter. He was known as a calm and well-balanced man. Never had he displayed a temper with another human being—or animal for that matter—but when he was younger he sometimes became angry with himself. Nonna used to tell him he was too hard on himself, always expecting perfection. Salty tears burnt his eyes as he struggled to see the road in front of him.

“Bambino!” He spat the word out, twisting the throttle of the Vespa back as far as it would go, making the engine scream. He wanted to go—to travel somewhere far away from here, so that he could be angry all by himself. But full throttle wasn’t making any difference—it would never be a fast mode of transport, especially on these steep Capri roads.

Winding his way through the narrow lanes behind Capri township, he was soon on the main road leading up to Anacapri where he had so recently traveled with the love of his life clinging tightly to his back. In such a short time, she had become so important to him. He could still feel her breasts pressing against him as she climbed onto the bike that afternoon he had first given her a ride to Rosamanti.

The hairpin turns switched back on themselves. Pietro leaned the bike over first left, then right, almost causing his foot pedal to scrape on the roadway.

He tooted the horn several times, swerving to miss the bus coming from the other direction. His mirror clipped the rock wall, sending his bike into a death wobble. Holding on tightly to the handlebars, he knew he was going to lose the fight.
Bang!
The bike slid underneath him, tossing him to the gravel verge.

“
Cazzo!
”
He banged the earth with his fist, sending up a cloud of red dust. “
Sono una testa di cazzo!
”