The Soul Room (18 page)

There was a section of wall, half-overgrown with straggly greenery about
three feet either side of the door and a few feet above it. Then the wall
disappeared into compacted earth, the roof of whatever lay beyond it seemingly
made of the surrounding bank. I guessed that the bank had been built up to
shelter the garden from the worst of the easterly Autumn winds.

My heart jumped as I noticed that the earth in front of the door was worn
clear of grass. Amongst the weeds at the foot of the bank, there were cigarette
butts and a chewing-gum wrapper. I took a deep breath and tried the handle of
the door. To my surprise it opened easily. A cloud of cool air drifted out
towards me, dissipating almost instantly in the heat. I followed it gratefully
into a sort of ante-room. There were thin windows on the far right and
left-hand walls of the room, horizontal, and only a foot from the ceiling; so
clearly the room wasn’t entirely underground. They let in a little light, but I
also noticed a bare light bulb hanging from an old-fashioned woven cable. There
was a switch on the wall behind me – I tried it and it worked. I turned it off
again quickly – irrationally - fearing that even in the brightness outside
someone might see it.

There was a door on the opposite side of the room. This one was locked
with a heavy padlock. There were cupboards along the left wall of the room
which I found contained lots of tinned food and bottled water. There was also a
couple of torn arm-chairs, and a radio. Was somebody living here, a tramp or
local eccentric?  In this part of Italy there was little middle-ground. You
either conformed to the traditional life: job, wife, baby; or dropped out
completely. If you made it to a big city you were lucky and had a chance to
make it, if you didn’t – well, the sheds and back-streets were full of those
that never got to leave, who remained lost and purposeless.

This room didn’t feel that way though. It was organised; more like a
store room than a living space, and there was no sign of a bed or bedding.
Above the locked door on the far wall I saw a row of old bells, the kind that
you see in the servant’s quarters of country houses. The ropes attached to them
had pretty much rotted away, but you could still see the clouded glow of the
brass of the bells through the dust.

It dawned on me then what this room really was. My heart started to
pound, so I sat down heavily in one of the old armchairs and worked to control
my breathing – in through my nose, out slowly through my mouth, until I felt in
control again. This was one of the rooms that Fabrizio had told me about – one
that marked tunnels into the kitchens of the main house – used to bring in
deliveries without disturbing the ‘VIPs’. Fabrizio hadn’t wanted me to see
these rooms. I remembered the look on his face when I had tried the handle of
the old oak door. I went back and inspected the padlock. You wouldn’t be able
to cut through it without special equipment, but there was no deadlock on the
door, and the bracket for the padlock was simply screwed into the door-frame.
With a chill I imagined it was designed to keep things
in
rather than
keep them out. I would have to come back. I inspected the lock again to see
what size and type of screwdriver I would need – I hoped that Nonna was into
DIY as well as technology, otherwise I’d have to wait until I could get into
town to buy one and I didn’t want to do that.

I had a last quick look around and headed out. As I did so I heard the
sound of voices. I crept as stealthily as I could to the door. There were two
men at the far end of the walled garden. Strong looking young men, their shirt
sleeves rolled up, cigarettes hanging nonchalantly out of the corners of their
mouths. My heart hammered in my chest, what would I say to them? They would
tell Fabrizio for sure, and all my efforts at nonchalance would be lost. I was
a lone pregnant woman far from home, all I had in my armory was a psychic
granny and the element of surprise! Fabrizio would panic if he knew that I
knew
,
and if he had my brother now, he wouldn’t very soon after.

I pressed myself against the door frame and worked out that because of
the angle at which they were coming across the garden, I should be able to
sneak out of the doorway and hide behind the Chinaberry tree and overgrown
shrubbery that surrounded it without them seeing me. I took a deep breath, slid
through and forced my way behind the bushes, hoping the movement wasn’t visible
from the outside. There was no wind, and it would have given me away in an
instant. It occurred to me that to explain away my presence in the store-room
would have been difficult, but to explain hiding behind a tree would be nigh on
impossible. I thanked god that I hadn’t put on my white dress as I’d planned,
but had instead opted for a much more camouflaging beige smock-top and short
black leggings.

The men drew nearer. A broken branch was pressing painfully against my
stomach, I moved it gingerly and to my dismay, found it was dead wood and made
a clear snapping noise; I held my breath. One of the men turned sharply, but
was soon back in deep conversation with his friend. The smaller of the two men
reached over and opened the door of the store-room. He was only eight or so
feet from where I was hiding. I tried to will myself invisible, but luckily his
friend strolled over to him and stood, with his back to me, blocking any view
he might have had.

The sweet smell of the fading Chinaberry tree blossom was overwhelming
and made me feel slightly sick. I concentrated, and managed to catch the odd
word or two of what the men were saying. The taller guy was called Stefano the
other, Lorenzo. They seemed to be recounting a particularly wild evening the
night before, and the story was embellished with a lot of gesturing and
laughter. For a moment I was lulled into thinking them harmless, probably just
local lads who worked for Fabrizio and used this room as a place to have lunch,
or catch a quick siesta on hot days. Then I saw the knife in Lorenzo’s pocket.
It wasn’t like the knives they would use to prune and pick the grapes (the
Amarena's prided themselves on the fact that their fruit was still manually
harvested) this was a long, thin mean looking flick-type knife. The top of it
poked out of his back jeans pocket, the rest was outlined through the tight
denim. 

I sensed a change in the topic of conversation too. The laughter and
gesturing had abated, and both men lowered their voices. This made me even more
aware of not making any noise myself. My legs were trembling with the effort of
staying upright in such an awkward position. I was scared of even leaning
against the wall behind me in case I moved against any dry leaves or twigs. I
did my breathing again – long controlled out breaths, trying to stay calm.
‘Maybe Tomorrow.’ I heard Stefano say. Then the other man, ‘Difficult…much
noise.’ I wished I had put more effort into my Italian.

‘
Bastardo
.’ Lorenzo grunted, and ground his cigarette stub into
the soil in front of him. Stefano nodded. I couldn’t catch any more. To my
great relief they both moved into the room. I heard one of them scrabbling
around in the cupboard, the other moved to the far end of the room. There was
the sound of metal on metal and I guessed with a little fizz of excitement and
anxiety, that he had opened the padlock.

I waited a few seconds, until I was sure I had heard them both move
through the door at the back of the room and close it.  Then I summoned all my
courage and extracted myself from the Chinaberry bush and peeked around the
open doorway. With a flush of relief I saw that they had gone, and the back
door was shut securely though the padlock was hanging unlocked through a metal
loop on the door-frame. For one crazy moment I thought of going and opening the
door, seeing what was behind it, but I reminded myself that one of them had a
knife, not to mention that I was pregnant, and the deal I had made with myself
and my son was that I would be as careful as possible. That meant coming back
at night, when these two young men would be safely ensconced in a local bar, or
at home being cooked a three-course meal by their devoted Mammas.

The sensible
part of me remonstrated that it was madness to go out again that day – that I
should rest properly, plan properly, think it through. But the dominant part of
me, the desperate sister, couldn’t bear to wait any longer to see if it was Dan
that Fabrizio’s men were guarding. I managed to nap for a couple of hours (I
was relieved that I didn’t see my boy, I was worried he wouldn’t approve of the
risks I would be taking) before phoning Dad. It was getting harder to hide
things from him. He could tell from my voice that something was up, but I
managed to fob him off – it was upsetting visiting Sergio’s grave, being
reminded of him here – that he didn’t need to worry, Nonna was taking very good
care of me. I knew he was suspicious, and I had to fight a strong impulse to
give in and tell him everything, to sit back and watch the authorities take
over. I resisted, partly through the fear that I would be a coward for doing
so, but also because a deeper part of me sensed that telling could jeopardise
everything.

'He asks about you every day you know.'

My tummy fluttered. 'Who?'

'That policeman, John. You seemed very friendly before you left, are you
calling him too?'

'I don't need to, he's talking to you.'

Dad sighed but decided to let it go. 'All right sweetheart.
Please
look after yourself. Nicholas is so worried about you too. He wants you back.
He thinks he's lost Dan, and that he's in danger of losing you too.'

'Maybe he's not lost anyone. Dan could still just turn up.'

‘The longer this goes on, the harder it is to believe that. Remember, if
you stay there longer than a week they won't let you fly back!'

'Yes, I know. Don't worry I'm going to leave in a couple of days. I've
nearly done what I came here to do.'

I asked Nonna
for a screwdriver on the pretext of needing to open the battery compartment on
my camera, and I was relieved when instead of fetching one for me, she directed
me to one of her crumbling outbuildings, where I was able to have a good look
through all her tools and select a few. I took one into the house and hid the
others under a bush by the garden gate. I managed to stay composed for the rest
of the evening (my skills in deception were developing well with all the
practice) and Nonna didn’t seem to pick up on anything, and kissed me good
night with her customary cheerfulness. By the time I heard her go to bed my
nerves were resonating like harp strings. Every sense was in an agony of
alertness, and I had to keep repressing the mental image of possibly finding
Dan at last - of the relief and wonder of that moment.

After hearing Nonna go to bed, I sat on the edge of the bed in my black
clothes and hat, my rucksack packed and on my back, and managed to wait another
half-hour so I could be absolutely sure that she was asleep. Eventually I
tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding the boards that I knew creaked when they were
stepped on, and let myself out into the night. The garden seemed to hold its
breath as I crept down the path and retrieved the tools I had hidden earlier.
It was impossibly silent, even the cicadas had stopped their trilling, and it
felt like the sound of my trainers on the dirt path must echo for miles.

Luckily there was a bright full moon, so I was able to find my way
without the torch, navigating the deep indigo shadows of the olive trees and
the pale earth of the track. I wasn’t scared, in fact I was almost ashamed to
discover I was a little excited. I felt incredibly alive, alive because I had
something truly important to do. I was on a mission, and it was bigger than me.
It willed me on, it powered me. And then, a feral cat stopped on the path
ahead, turned its big bright eyes on me and stared. It struck me, strangely,
that we were like two miniature universes, passing in the night. Each of us had
pressing and secret things to do, but we were experiencing this place and
moment in completely different ways. I was a human; full of history and angst
and analysis. It was an animal, ruled by instinct and able to translate the
myriad languages of sound and smell that came at it out of the dark.

Still the cat looked at me. The moon reflected creamily in its yellow
eyes, and I felt that it was expressing some kind of intelligence that I
couldn’t grasp. I knelt down and called to it softly, rubbing my thumb and
forefinger together. It turned and made to come toward me and as it did so I
saw that its belly was swollen and lumpy and I gasped. The sound checked the
cat and it turned quickly off the path and dissolved into the darkness. I
thought of all the little lives growing inside her dark fur, and suddenly I
was
scared. I wasn't just one universe, this wasn’t just about me. There was my
baby too, complete in
his
little world - the warmth and redness of my
womb; his only company the perpetual beat of my heart and whooshes of my
digestion. I was in an ‘outside’ he couldn’t even dream of, I was worlds apart
- under a canopy of distant stars, soft air on my cheek. Without me, his whole
universe would crash into oblivion. The heartbeat would stop, the warmth turn
chill, his own heart stop pumping…I gagged and reached for a nearby tree for
support. How could I do this? How could I risk my baby in this way? I leant my
forehead against the cool bark.

But he had helped me – why would he help me if he didn’t want me to find
Dan?
Of course he isn’t really helping you
, my internal voice argued
back.
He’s just responding to hormone releases, the trace of ancient human
instincts that have survived all our civilising forces -‘woman’s intuition’ –
whatever you want to call it. When you suspect something you may not even
realise it consciously, but your senses pick up on it, you release a tiny
amount of adrenalin, the baby responds
. I pressed my hand against the
hardness of the tree-trunk and felt tears well up in my eyes. No, that wasn’t
all it was. It couldn’t be all it was. Something perplexing and wonderful had
happened to me since I had become pregnant, and it didn’t make sense that I
should just sit back and wait for the birth. Surely this was happening for a
reason? And how could I find out what that reason was if I didn’t act? I kissed
my hand and laid it on my tummy. ‘My darling boy,’ I whispered, ‘I love you
more than anything in the world but I’ve got to do this. Please forgive me.’