The Mermaid Garden (58 page)

London, and flew to Rome. There were so many questions Rafa longed

to ask, but he knew better than to intrude in what Marina believed to

be her own secret adventure. She wasn’t aware that it was Rafa’s, too.

Marina was nervous. She bit her nails, fidgeted, and failed to read

the magazine that remained open on the same page for the duration

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of the entire flight. She was unusually quiet, replying to his comments in monosyllables. The croissant on her tray remained untouched. At

Rome airport she asked him to organize the hiring of a car, which he

did in fluent Italian while she paced up and down like a greyhound pre-

paring for a race. Finally, with a map and two cups of takeaway coffee, they drove through the Tuscan countryside towards an obscure little

town called Herba.

Rafa concentrated on the road while Marina stared outside at the

inky green cypress trees, towering umbrella pines, and Italian farm-

houses with their red-tiled roofs and sandy-colored walls. A warm

breeze blew through the open windows, carrying with it the scents of

wild thyme, rosemary, and pine. She rested her elbow on the window

frame and clenched her finger between her teeth. She felt as if she were driving towards an enormous door with only one chance to open it. If

she failed, it would close forever on the very thing she had waited most of her life to find. Now she was in Italy the Polzanze seemed very far

away and somehow less important. Her focus had changed, the mask

was slipping—perhaps the Polzanze had been nothing but a screen all

along, hiding the only thing that mattered—the only thing that had

ever
mattered. She wiped away a tear and tried to focus on her plan.

It was early evening when the car drew up at the gates of La Mag-

dalena. The light had grown soft, the shadows long. The yellow palace

at the end of the drive peered out of the avenue curiously. A security

guard leaned into the window.

“Marina Turner,” she said. The man nodded and returned into his

hut to open the gates electronically. “Drive on,” she instructed.

Rafa did as she asked and motored up the track. He dared not look

at Marina; he knew without looking that she was crying. He drew up

in front of the house.

“Why don’t you drive into Herba and take a look around?” she

suggested. “Give me a couple of hours.” He watched her get out and

take a while to gather her courage. She swept her eyes over the facade, straightened her dress, and smoothed her hair. Then she walked up the

steps to the front door where she was met by a butler in uniform.

Rafa drove down the coast into Herba, the little town he knew so

well from his father’s memories. He had described it in detail during

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those long rides across the pampa, and Rafa could see now that it hadn’t changed very much since his father was a boy, running barefoot with

his brother across the cobbles. So, this is where it all began, he thought, feeling a strange sense of nostalgia wash over him.

The butler greeted Marina formally then led her over the checkerboard

floor, stopping outside an imposing pair of wooden doors. He knocked

briskly. A voice called from within,
“Avanti.”
Marina caught her breath and blinked the mist from her eyes. The butler opened the door. She

lifted her chin, pulled back her shoulders, and stepped inside.

The man behind the desk put down his pen and raised his eyes. He

blanched in astonishment at the sight of the woman who now stood

before him. “My God,” he gasped, standing up. For a moment he be-

lieved his eyes were deceiving him.

“Dante,” she said softly. She couldn’t take another step, for her legs

were numb. She remained frozen and trembling. The man walked

slowly around his desk and towards her, without taking his gaze off

her—afraid that she would disappear as suddenly as she had come.

When he stood a few inches away, his eyes misted, too. He took her

hand and seemed not to care that a tear had escaped and trickled over

the lines on his skin.

“Floriana.”

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34.

They remained a long while staring at the past. Dante had grown

old, as had she. His hair was gray and receded, the crow’s-feet en-

trenched deep and long into his temples. He had weary bags under his

eyes, and the shadows there betrayed a life defined by hard work and

disappointment. He ran his gaze over her features in wonder, the ques-

tions falling over each other to be asked, but his voice was lost in the turmoil of his emotions. He didn’t let go of her hands but remained as

she did, frozen and trembling.

At last he pulled her into his arms and embraced her so fiercely, for

a moment she was unable to breathe. It was as if the last four decades

had simply dissolved, leaving them as they once were, only changed on

the outside.

He pressed his wet cheek to hers and closed his eyes. “You have

come back,” he whispered. “My
piccolina
.
L’Orfanella
. You have come back.” When he released her, they both laughed through their tears, a

little embarrassed that two mature people could behave in such a man-

ner. “Come and sit outside where I can see you in the light. You haven’t changed at all, Floriana, except your hair, it’s lighter!”

“I dye it,” she replied, sheepishly. “Don’t you like it?”

“It’s different, and you speak Italian like an Englishwoman.”

“I
am
an Englishwoman.”

He took her hand and led her through the house to the terrace. “Do

you remember your birthday party?”

“Of course.”

He looked down at her hand. “You’re not wearing my ring—nor

Mamma’s bracelet.”

Her eyes welled again and she began to explain, “I gave them—”

He smiled and dismissed it with a wave. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing

matters. Come, sit down. We have so much to talk about. Would you

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like tea, coffee? I don’t know what you drink these days.” He suddenly

looked deflated. “Once I knew everything about you.”

“I’ll have coffee and bread. I’m suddenly rather hungry.”

He called to the butler. “Coffee, bread, and cheese for both of us.”

Dante and Marina sat side by side, looking out over the gardens.

Memories rose up from the grass like butterflies and scattered on the

breeze. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, staring at her incredulously.

“I think my eyes deceive me. And yet, here you are, more beautiful now

than when I knew you.”

“I never thought I’d see you again. I read and reread your letters, and hoped you’d come and find me. For years I waited.” She shook her head,

not wanting to revisit that bleak and lonely time. “What happened to

Good-Night?”

“He pined for you, Floriana. He just lay in the road and stared

ahead.”

She pressed her hand against her heart, horrified. “He pined

for me?”

“Yes. We carried him inside eventually, but he wouldn’t eat. Floriana,

I didn’t know what had happened to you. I looked everywhere, but no

one knew anything about it, except Elio.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That you had run off with another man, just like your mother.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Of course not. Tell me now, where did you go?”

The butler brought coffee in a silver pot and a tray of homebaked

bread, cheese, and quince. Marina waited for him to pour the coffee

and leave them alone before she replied to Dante’s question. She had

never spoken about this before—even remembering had been too

painful. But now, as she brought those memories to light, she realized

that time had diminished their power.

“The evening before I was due to meet you at the wall, a stranger

came to the apartment. My father told me he knew that I was pregnant

with your child. He held in his hand a brown envelope. He said it was a gift from Beppe Bonfanti.”

“He blackmailed my father?”

“I’m afraid he must have.”

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“So my father knew?” Dante lost his gaze in the gardens. “My father

knew all along?”

“I don’t know how
my
father found out because the only two people who knew the truth were Father Ascanio and Signora Bruno, neither

of whom would have betrayed me.”

“So, then what happened?”

She faltered a moment, for Dante’s face seemed to have fallen with

the weight of his sorrow. “The man told me he had come to take me

here, to you, and I believed him. What alternative did I have? He

claimed your father was going to take care of me—of us.”

“Where did he take you?”

“We drove up here, and there was Good-Night in the road, his tail

wagging at the sight of me. But then the car passed the gates, and

Good-Night ran after the car.” Her chin began to wobble. Dante took

her hand and stroked the skin with his thumb, silently imploring her to go on. “Good-Night couldn’t keep up. He ran and ran, but soon he was

a little dot until he had disappeared altogether. That was the last I ever saw of him.”

“And why he remained in the middle of the road, expecting you to

come back.”

“I missed him so much, Dante. I almost missed him more than you.”

She sipped her coffee, and Dante cut them both a slice of bread.

They ate in silence as Marina remembered Good-Night and Dante

remembered his demise. “He took me to the convent, Dante.”

“Santa Maria degli Angeli?”

“Yes, the very same.”

“But I pounded on the door. For the love of God, I pounded on that

door day and night.”

“You knew I was there?”

“I
hoped
you were there. It was the only place I had to look. Father Ascanio promised he would arrange for you to go to the convent, so

when Elio said you had run away, I prayed that you had gone there.

You had nowhere else to go. But they turned me away, claiming they

had never heard of you. Of course, I didn’t believe you had run away.

I thought perhaps something had frightened you or that you had lost

faith in me.”

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He looked so dejected, her heart buckled. “No, Dante . . .”

“But I never suspected my father knew. He never let on. To his dying

day, he never let on . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Yes, I read that he had died.”

“You did?”

“Six months ago. I keep all press cuttings about your family—and

now with the Internet it’s a lot easier.”

“Oh, Floriana,” he groaned.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I’m not sorry at all. I never liked him.” He cut a wedge of cheese.

“Let’s not talk about him. Go on. The puzzle is taking shape.”

At this point Marina found it hard to speak. It was as if a weight had

descended onto her chest. “I gave birth to a son.”

“We have a son?”

“We
had
a son, Dante.” Her neck began to grow hot and itchy. “A beautiful little boy I nursed for five months, there at the convent, until he was finally taken from me.”

“Who took him?”

“Father Ascanio.”

“So Father Ascanio knew where you were all along?”

“He arranged everything,” Marina told him.

“I don’t understand. He said he didn’t know where you had gone. He

said he was praying for your safe return.” He shook his head. “He lied

to me.”

“He was only trying to protect you, Dante. He said he feared for our

lives . . .”

“He feared for your lives?”

“Yes, he said he couldn’t protect us if we stayed in Italy.”

“Protect you from whom?”

“From Beppe.”

He looked at her askance and rubbed his chin. “It doesn’t add up,

Floriana.”

“You mean, there was no danger?”

“I’m not saying that at all.” He seemed to dismiss the one piece of

the puzzle that wasn’t fitting. “Go on.”

“Father Ascanio said that the only way to protect us was to give the

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child up. He sent me into hiding in England, and I don’t know where

he sent our son . . .” Her voice cracked. “I was hoping you might know.”

Dante gazed back at her helplessly. “I didn’t even know we had a

son.” Then his face hardened, and he lost his focus among the statues

in the garden. “However, I think I know someone who does.”

“Father Ascanio? I wrote, but he never wrote back.”

“Father Ascanio died years ago.”

“Then who?”

“You never spoke to anyone else before you went to England?”

“Only the Mother Superior.”

“No one else?” She shook her head. “Of course you didn’t. It’s begin-

ning to make sense. After all these years, it’s beginning to add up. Leave it with me.”

“Who?” She persisted.

He took her hand. “Leave it with me, Floriana. You have to trust me.”

Her shoulders dropped. “I do.”

Suddenly, she remembered Rafa. “Oh goodness, Rafa might be back