The Truth About You (31 page)

Since speaking to him yesterday, she’d felt so down and stressed by what was happening that she’d almost rung Marco earlier to call off their trip to the island. Now she was nothing but glad that she hadn’t, since her spirits had lifted considerably during the past twenty minutes, so she was going to stay focused on her search, and on how fortunate she was to have Marco’s company, as well as his help. On the drive down the hill he’d filled her in on his visit to the town hall, where he’d found a record of Melvina’s marriage to Aldo, but none bearing the name of Alessandra Clementi. This had come as no surprise, since it had hardly been likely he would turn anything up when her father was
ignoto.

As she listened to Marco now, explaining about the sculptures they were passing beside a children’s playground, she couldn’t help reflecting on what she’d learned about him over breakfast that morning. It had come out when Stacy had wondered aloud why no one ever spoke about his wife.

‘I expect it’s because she left him and went back to England with another man,’ Zav casually informed them.

Lainey wasn’t sure who’d been more shocked, her or Stacy. Since Zav must have got his information from Benito they didn’t doubt that it was true, but it was hard to imagine someone leaving a man like Marco. Of course, they barely knew him yet, and judging him merely on his looks and charm was a bit like judging a house by a glossy front door. It could be hiding all manner of evils inside. Or a broken heart, she couldn’t help thinking, and if Marco’s wife really had left him for another man, there was a good chance he wasn’t feeling much better than she was right now. If he wasn’t, he was very good at hiding it, but hopefully so was she.

‘Excuse me, but you are looking very –
pensieroso
?’ Marco was searching for the word. ‘Pensive!’ he cried laughingly. ‘I am sorry, did I interrupt?’

Laughing too, she said, ‘No, no, not at all. Or at least I’m glad you did. I want to thank you again, not only for coming with me today, but for taking Zav and Alfie to spend the afternoon with Ben while Stacy works.’

He seemed surprised. ‘It is very good for Ben to have the company of English boys his own age. He is, of course, close with his cousins, but the children, they change so quickly as they grow up – and Ben, having parents of different nationalities, is caught between two cultures, which is good in one way, but hard for him in another.’

Since she didn’t feel it would be right for her to mention what she knew about his wife unless he did, Lainey said, ‘He’s a very sociable – and handsome – little boy.’

With no small irony, Marco said, ‘I would take all the credit, if he did not have a very beautiful mother who makes sure to look after his manners.’

Smiling, and liking him for speaking kindly of his wife in spite of what their differences might be, Lainey turned to watch the ferryboat shunting its way into dock. She needed to focus her mind on Isola Maggiore now, which she could see across the way, covered in trees, seeming almost close enough to swim to, though she wouldn’t be willing to give it a try.

How many journeys, she wondered, had her mother, or grandmother, made over this short stretch of water? What had been in their minds, who had they been going to see, what had troubled them or made them happy? Having no idea what she would learn at the other end, what might have happened in storms or sunshine, crisis or calm, she could only allow herself to board the ferry and hope, if either of them was looking down on her now, that they weren’t as hostile to her search as she feared.

‘Do you know the story of how the lake receive its name?’ Marco asked, as they went to stand at the ferry’s bow ready to start the short crossing.

‘No, but I hope you’re going to tell me,’ Lainey smiled, enjoying the rocking motion of the boat and swish of the waves lapping its sides.

‘It is from,’ he began, turning to sit on a bench seat, ‘an Etruscan prince who came to these shores and fell in love with a beautiful nymph, Agilla. She fell very deeply in love with him too, but then the prince died – I do not know how – and so the lake bears his name, Trasimeno. It is said that when the wind blows over the water it is the sound of Agilla still mourning the death of her lover.’

Lainey pulled a face. ‘That’s so sad.’

He smiled wryly. ‘I’m sorry, but don’t worry, I think they were very happy while the prince was alive.’

‘How long were they together?’

‘Oh, fifty years I think. Possibly one hundred. A very long time.’

Her eyes sparkled. ‘I know that’s not true.’

He seemed curious. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because she was a nymph and nymphs don’t exist.’

He threw out his hands. ‘How can you say this?’ he cried. ‘You spoil the story for me now.’

Laughing, she turned back to gaze out over the sun-dappled waters, feeling nature’s beauty and romance wafting over her as gently as the breeze. She couldn’t stop herself wishing Tom was here to share it, but a brutal reminder of where he actually was quickly moved her thoughts on.

The island was coming into clearer view now, with all kinds of boats bobbing about the shoreline, and through the dense forestation on the hillside she could see the double bell gable of a church glinting like opals in a bed of emerald green.

Minutes later they were following the island’s jetty into a small clutch of market stalls whose wares were mostly for tourists: guidebooks, beach balls, name bracelets, and an assortment of handcrafted lace. Though there were plenty of people around, the only language she could make out was Italian; however the music blaring from a nearby café was unmistakably Madonna.

‘This is Via Guglielmi,’ Marco explained, as they reached a meandering brick-laid street with picturesque stone houses each side of it, and troughs of tired-looking flowers adding their colour to so much grey. ‘This is named after the Marquis Guglielmi, a very rich man, who lived here for many years in the nineteenth century and made the Franciscan monastery and church into his villa. It was his daughter, Elena, who brought a lady from Turin to teach the local women to make the lace, which became famous around the world.’

Liking the sound of Elena, Lainey looked around for some signs of women sitting outside their doors pursuing their craft, but there were none. She tried to imagine what it might have been like when her grandmother, Melvina, had worked here, presumably as a much younger woman, and decided that it had probably been a hotbed of rivalry and gossip, given the meagre size of the community.

‘This is the Museum of Lace,’ Marco explained, crossing the street towards what looked like a small mission house with its flat facade, oblong windows and arched front door. ‘If you would like to go in and look around, we can do this, but first I will ask if they know who is the best person to talk to about our search for Melvina.’

Twenty minutes later, after browsing the few display cabinets of antiquated lace collars, tablecloths and tassels, they stepped back out into the blazing sun armed with the name and address of an old fisherman who, they’d been told, knew everything about the island and everyone who had lived on it during his lifetime of almost eighty years.

Since Via Guglielmi was the only street on the island, they were soon knocking at Signor Donata’s scratched front door and gazing up at the tightly shuttered windows for some signs of life. After several more attempts to rouse him they had to accept that he was either deaf, or not at home.

‘I will see if we can get round the back,’ Marco decided, ‘he could be in the garden,’ but as he started towards an alley that ran down the side of the house a bent and very frail-looking man appeared, blocking the way.

After establishing that he was Signor Donata, Marco quickly set about introducing himself and Lainey, and explained why they were there. The whole time he spoke the old man’s rheumy eyes kept flickering to Lainey, as though he was assessing the truth of what he was hearing. In the end he nodded, and turned back into the alleyway, beckoning for them to follow.

The garden at the back of the house was mostly overgrown, with an old fishing boat slumped in the grass close to the lake, as though exhausted by its lifetime’s work. On a bumpy patio there was a round marble-topped table with four plastic chairs and a collapsed parasol barely clinging to its spokes.

‘
Vuoi qualcosa da bere?’
the old man asked, looking at Lainey.

‘Would you like a drink?’ Marco translated. ‘It would be polite, but I’m not sure what he’s going to offer.’

Amused, Lainey said, ‘I would love one, thank you.
Grazie.
’

Several tranquil moments passed while Signor Donata went inside to do the honours, leaving Lainey and Marco to watch a mangy cat emerge from beneath the boat and pad towards a gaggle of fat geese pecking about the edge of the lake. By the time Signor Donata returned, Marco had managed to struggle the parasol up over its rusty pole to provide them with some much-needed shade.

The drink turned out to be a syrupy sort of orange squash with lots of foam around the top and ice cubes at the bottom. Given how thirsty she was, Lainey had no problem swallowing it almost in one, then promptly wished she’d waited when Signor Donata watched her put her glass down again before lifting his own and saying, ‘
Salut
.’

Catching Marco hiding a smile, she whispered an apology and sat quietly listening as Marco returned to his explanation of why they were there. This time she heard her grandmother’s name mentioned several times, and her mother’s, and saw the way the old man’s eyes seemed to sharpen. He started to nod, slowly, but the rugged texture of his skin was making his expression hard to read.

Finally Marco turned back to her. ‘I have told him that you are Melvina and Aldo Clementi’s granddaughter,’ he said, ‘and that you are hoping to find out something about your family while you are on holiday here, in Tuoro.’

Lainey smiled at the old man, hoping to encourage him to speak freely.

His eyes remained on hers as he began speaking in a voice so gravelly and low that she wondered if Marco was able to follow. Since he didn’t interrupt, she had to assume that he was, and so she waited and listened, trying to gauge from their expressions what was being said, but it simply wasn’t possible.

In the end, after asking several questions, all of which seemed to receive the answer ‘
No,’
or ‘
Non posso dirvi,’
Marco began his translation.

‘Signor Donata says he remembers your grandmother, Melvina, but he knew better your great-grandmother, Maria. She came from Passignano, but she lived here, on the island, with your great-grandfather, Alberto, for all of her married life. Alberto was a fisherman born on the island and she, like many of the ladies, worked at making the lace. When her daughter Melvina is old enough she is making the lace too.’ He glanced at the old man, who was gazing at nothing as he listened to his story being told in a language he didn’t understand.

‘He says that Melvina was very beautiful,’ Marco continued, ‘and that she had very high spirits. All her young life she was in mischief, but everyone loved her so everyone forgave her. It was when she became older that the real trouble began. Each time she goes to the mainland she says she will never come back. She hates the island, she tells her parents. She wants to have a better life, the same as the noble ladies who come to buy the lace. Maria and Alberto were afraid of the way she began behaving with the men who sometimes came with the ladies. People used to say that she was trying to find herself a husband, and anyone’s husband would do as long as he was rich.’

Lainey pulled a face. Were she not certain that both men were staunch Catholics, she might have made some sort of quip about her grandmother’s morals. In the circumstances, she felt it better to keep quiet.

Marco’s eyebrows arched ironically as he seemed to read her mind. ‘Signor Donata says that Melvina did find herself the husband of someone else,’ he continued. ‘His name was Luigi Valente. Everyone knew him, because he lived in a grand villa close to Cortona and he was the host when many of the wealthy people who want to buy the lace come to the region. He was a man who always had an eye for the pretty girls, Signor Donata says, and Melvina was prettier than most.’

The old man suddenly spoke again, at some length, using his hands to emphasise whatever point he was making.

When he’d finished, Marco said, ‘He wants you to understand that he is only repeating what he has heard from his wife over the years. He himself never saw Melvina with Valente, but her relationship with him was common knowledge, and his wife saw them together often, sometimes here on the island, or in Tuoro. It was said that when she became pregnant Valente paid your grandfather, Aldo Clementi, to marry her, and Aldo agreed because he was very much in love with Melvina. Apparently Valente bought them an apartment in Tuoro where he visited Melvina many times over the years, and Aldo he always turned a blind eye.

‘Your great-grandmother, Maria, was so ashamed of her daughter’s behaviour that she would no longer see her. She banned her from the house, even from the island, but Melvina did not care. She was besotted with Valente. When her son was born she did not even try to pretend he was the son of Aldo. She told everyone he was the son of Valente, and Valente did not deny it. It is terrible for Aldo, for Maria and Alberto too, but Melvina she had no shame. It is said,’ he continued, his voice turning grave, ‘that Valente’s wife caused the accident that killed Melvina’s little boy when he was two years old, by putting a curse on him.’

Thrown by this unexpected revelation, Lainey looked hard at the old man, wishing she could ask him herself if he actually believed in the curse. Surely not?

Marco was speaking again. ‘After the death of her son Melvina came to grieve on the island, where Maria took care of her and tried to make her well again. Aldo came too, and it is said that Valente sometimes visited, but Signor Donata does not know if this is true. Though he saw him often on the island over the years, he cannot recall whether he came during those months. He thinks if he did it is not likely that Maria and Alberto would allow him to enter their house. All he knows is that by the time Melvina and Aldo returned to Tuoro she was pregnant again, and no one could say for sure if the little girl, when she came, was the child of Aldo or Valente.’