Tuscan Rose (24 page)

Rosa was disappointed to be returning to Florence. The tour had been tiring but it had also been an adventure. She’d had a
glimpse of what it was to feel truly alive for the first time in her life; to live by her wits and succeed. Now they were returning to the city, it was uncertain how much work there would be for them as entertainers. Benedetto would find roles with a theatre or on a film, while the others would have to seek odd jobs to supplement their income over the winter. Rosa knew that she would miss the camaraderie of the troupe and the sense of family. But most of all she knew she would miss Luciano.

When Luciano left to go into Pistoia, he gave some money to Piero and told him to buy everyone a meal at one of the restaurants near the station. They found a café and ate soup, spaghetti with garlic and olive oil, and
panzanella
—a salad of bread crumbled with tomatoes, onions, basil and vinegar. While they were eating, Orietta turned to Rosa.

‘What do you intend to do when we are back in Florence?’ she asked. ‘Where will you live?’

Rosa shrugged. She had been loath to think about it. She wasn’t sure that she had the confidence to be a music teacher after what had happened at the Agarossi home.

‘Well,’ said Orietta, sending a glance to Piero and Carlo. ‘We’d like you to come and live with us.’

Rosa was too moved to speak. The Montagnanis had been like aunts and uncles to Sibilla, the closest thing Rosa could give her daughter to a family.

‘Live with you? Me? Why me?’ she stammered.

Carlo placed his hand on Rosa’s shoulder and looked at her with his angelic eyes. ‘Because I’m tired of being the youngest,’ he said. ‘If you come and live with us, everyone can pick on you instead.’

Benedetto laughed and ribbed Carlo: ‘They don’t tease you because you are the youngest.’

Rosa couldn’t blink away her tears fast enough. She had never known such kindness. She and Sibilla would have a home. It was too wonderful to believe.

‘Ah, Rosa,’ said Piero, shaking his finger at her, ‘no crying. Come and live with us and be happy.’

When the troupe arrived back in Florence, Benedetto and Donatella bade them farewell. Benedetto was returning to Rome with the promise to contact the troupe again the following summer. Donatella and Dante had found work with a circus that was touring France and Britain. Orietta took in sewing work and Carlo found a job as a porter at a hotel where the manager didn’t ask for any paperwork. Piero and Luciano had the most difficulty finding jobs because, along with Carlo, they refused to obtain Fascist Party memberships. They ended up working illegally for a publisher, hawking journals and magazines door to door.

Piero took to the work philosophically but Rosa could see Luciano’s pride was rankled. They were capable of something better, but without Fascist Party cards no one would employ them. Rosa thought of the Italian proverb:
A burden that one chooses is not felt.
But it seemed to her that Piero and Luciano felt theirs.

The Montagnanis agreed that Rosa didn’t need to work until Sibilla was weaned, but she was determined to pay her way. Her mind drifted back to Via Tornabuoni. She no longer felt ashamed at the idea of approaching Signor Parigi. Her ‘family’ needed the money and the worst Signor Parigi could do was say no.

Rosa stopped a moment to admire the window display before entering Signor Parigi’s store. A pair of bronze candelabra with jasperware medallions were arranged on top of a mahogany credenza. Next to the credenza was a rosewood firescreen with a peacock-motif panel. Rosa glanced through the window and saw that Signor Parigi was talking with a female customer. He was still elegant, this time in a charcoal grey suit. Rosa smiled when she remembered the infatuation she had once felt for him. Her heart now only had space for Luciano, although she had no idea how he thought about her.

Rosa entered the store and a bell on the door tinkled. She had left Sibilla with Orietta and felt ‘phantom pains’ not to be carrying
the baby basket. She would explain about her daughter if she was offered a job.

As Signor Parigi was occupied, Rosa expected that his wife might appear to greet her. But it seemed she wasn’t there. Signor Parigi made a gesture of acknowledgement to Rosa but showed no recognition of her. Disappointed, Rosa turned her attention to some etched-glass lamps but felt drawn to look again at what the customer was wearing. The woman’s lithe figure was flattered by the crimson coat dress, pinched at the waist with a wide leather belt. Rosa experienced a wave of dizziness as she stared at the belt, and found herself standing on vast grasslands that were burnt yellow by the sun. An animal moved up ahead of her. It had powerful hind legs and a long thick tail. It leaped—no, hopped—through the grass, coming to a stop near a muddy waterhole before turning to look at her. It had long ears and doe-like eyes. There was a bulge in its stomach. Something moved and then a smaller version of the animal appeared from a pouch. Rosa thought it was the most beautiful vision she had ever experienced. Suddenly there was a loud
bang!
The animal fell to its side and flailed on the ground as blood burst from its neck. There was another gunshot and the baby animal’s body spun through the air. Rosa gasped and found herself standing back in the store with Signor Parigi and his customer staring at her.

‘You’re admiring my belt,’ said the woman with a smile. ‘It’s Schiaparelli.’

‘It’s kangaroo leather. From Australia,’ said Rosa, shocked that her power to see the origin of things had returned with such force. She had not felt it so vividly for years.

The woman laughed with surprise. ‘Very good. How did you know that? Schiap is the only one importing it into Europe. She’s a genius.’

Rosa looked beyond the woman to Signor Parigi. He was beaming at her and she saw that he remembered her now.
‘Concentrate, Signora Bellocchi,’ said Signor Parigi, winking and placing a jewellery box in front of her. ‘Tell me about this item.’

Rosa stared at the box. At first she found it difficult to see beyond the image of the tortoise whose shell had been used to decorate the lid. She had an image of the hundred-year-old reptile floating peacefully in the green sea off the New Guinea coast, unaware that his life was about to be taken by a spear thrust by a native. Sibilla had said that Rosa had a supernatural sympathy with animals. Rosa was going to have to see further than that if she was to impress Signor Parigi. She ran her gaze over the bronze-winged women on the sides of the box before opening the lid and smelling the velvet-lined interior. Suddenly in her mind’s eye she saw a reflection shining back at her from the box’s mirror: a young woman with blonde ringlets was checking her complexion.

‘France, 1870,’ Rosa said. ‘The young woman who owned this box died in a carriage accident when she was seventeen. Two days before she was to be married.’

Rosa looked up at Signor Parigi and saw the surprise on his face.

‘Incredible!’ he said, clapping his hands. ‘I don’t know about the woman but the date and origin are perfect. And what about these?’ He held up a pair of cherub torcheres with foliate carving.

Rosa wasn’t enjoying the forced psychic readings; they left her drained. She had no control over her power to see the source of things so couldn’t guarantee her ability every time. Sometimes the vibrations were so strong that she felt the animal or tree from which the object had been fashioned; other times she sensed nothing at all. Rosa glanced at Signor Parigi and understood that he did not believe in her intuition. He thought her visions were creative embellishments on a solid knowledge of antiques, but he was enjoying the ‘show’. He saw it as a novel kind of salesmanship.

Rosa concentrated on the torcheres. She saw streets of water. ‘They are Venetian,’ she said. She had a vision of a woman kneeling by her bed and praying. ‘They belonged to a pious
woman.’ She was about to add that she thought the woman was Signor Parigi’s late mother, but decided to keep that knowledge to herself.

Signor Parigi placed the torcheres down with care. ‘They are not for sale,’ he said. ‘I just like to have them close by.’ Then, turning back to Rosa, he grinned from ear to ear. ‘When can you start?’

Rosa enjoyed her work at Signor Parigi’s shop. He paid her a commission on any furniture she helped to sell with her ‘charming stories’ and didn’t mind her bringing Sibilla with her. The baby slept in the backroom and Rosa fed her when the shop was quiet.

A few days after Rosa began at the shop, Signor Parigi gave Sibilla a rattle. ‘Look what Uncle Antonio has for you, eh?’ he said.

The rattle was sterling silver with a whistle handle. Rosa realised that behind Signor Parigi’s elegant appearance and keen business acumen lurked a warm heart. Sibilla could see it too. She responded to Signor Parigi’s gift by blowing bubbles and lifting her feet to her hands for him.

Rosa thanked Signor Parigi profusely.

He waved his hand. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘But if I am Uncle Antonio for your daughter, it’s silly for you to be so formal with me. Address me as Signor Parigi in front of customers. Otherwise I’d prefer it if you call me Antonio.’

Rosa bought two dress suits to wear to work, one with a wraparound jacket and the other with bell sleeves. The rest of the money she put into the communal tin at the apartment in Via Ghibellina. Within a short while, however, she was making much more than everyone else.

One morning while Rosa was getting ready for work, she walked into the kitchen to find Orietta cleaning up after breakfast and Luciano putting on his boots. He wasn’t going with Piero to hawk magazines that day; he’d found a labouring job. He looked Rosa up and down.

‘I hear this Signor Parigi lets you call him Antonio now,’ he said, glancing at Orietta. ‘Is he married?’

Luciano’s tone was protective and Rosa experienced a shiver of excitement when she sensed the jealousy behind it. It wasn’t that she wanted Luciano to be unhappy, she simply needed to know that he felt
something
for her. Since the end of the tour she had wondered if the attraction was all one way. He hardly ever looked at her.

‘Why, yes,’ she answered, trying to reassure Luciano. She harboured such tender thoughts for him, she didn’t want to play games with him. ‘Or at least, I think so. He hasn’t mentioned his wife since I started there. Perhaps she’s pregnant and not working any more. He goes home at lunchtime. Somebody must be waiting there for him.’

‘A maid perhaps,’ said Luciano, turning to the window.

Orietta put down the coffee cup she was washing and looked from her brother to Rosa. Guessing the reason for Luciano’s mood, she smiled.

‘Aren’t you two going in the same direction today?’ she asked, nudging her brother. ‘Sibilla’s getting heavy. Maybe you can carry her basket for Rosa.’

Rosa’s heart lit up. She could have hugged Orietta.

‘Of course,’ said Luciano. He kissed Orietta goodbye and grabbed his jacket and hat before opening the door for Rosa. Together they walked out to the street. Being close to Luciano made Rosa light-headed. She kept bumping into him as they made their way. She sneaked glances at him, trying to tell what he was thinking.

Luciano stopped and turned to face her. ‘Do you remember that night in Lucca when you asked me about Nilda?’

‘Yes.’

‘She was the wife of a good friend of mine. He was sent to prison for his role in organising the front against fascism and she took over his work printing an anti-fascist newspaper. She was denounced by a neighbour and deported to Ponza where she was so ill-treated she died. She was only twenty.’

A chill prickled Rosa’s skin. She felt sorry for Nilda, instead of jealous. It could have been her own fate.

‘Did you love her?’ she asked Luciano. She could tell from the way he avoided her eyes that he had. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Many anti-fascists use their wives and girlfriends to carry out undercover work because they aren’t as conspicious,’ Luciano said. ‘But battles should be fought by men, not the women we are supposed to be protecting. I’ve lost my mother and…Nilda…and that’s enough. I don’t want to lose any more women that I…’ Luciano stepped closer to Rosa and took her hand. ‘I don’t want you to be
curious
any more. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

Rosa nodded. Her skin tingled at his touch but before she could relish it too long, he let her hand go. A grim conversation was not what she had been expecting from the walk.

They reached Via Tornabuoni. ‘I have to head this way,’ Luciano said, pointing in the direction of the Arno and handing Sibilla’s basket to Rosa. She didn’t want him to go. She wanted him to stay with her and Sibilla. Something glinted in the sunlight.

‘What’s that?’ Luciano asked, pointing to Sibilla’s rattle.

‘It’s only a toy,’ Rosa said hastily.

Luciano’s mouth pursed. ‘From Antonio Parigi?’

Rosa didn’t want to lose the moment. But she didn’t want to lie to Luciano either. ‘He likes children,’ she said.

A veil fell over Luciano’s eyes. ‘I’d better be going.’ He turned away.

‘Luciano!’

He looked back at her. Rosa wanted to tell him something. But what? They hardly ever talked. And yet there was a connection between them.

‘What time do you finish today?’ she asked him. ‘Do you want to walk back with us too?’

‘I would have,’ he said slowly. ‘But I have to meet someone this evening. Some other time?’

Rosa nodded. ‘Some other time.’

She watched Luciano walk away. Was he doing something
dangerous this evening? Would he be arrested? She couldn’t bear to think about it. With a heavy heart, she headed in the direction of the shop.

As the weeks passed by and Antonio made no mention of a wife, Rosa began to suspect that the woman she had seen may have only been a customer after all. She was too embarrassed to reveal this possibility to Luciano. Besides, Antonio never behaved improperly towards her so Luciano had no cause to be jealous. Then, one blustery day when Rosa was polishing a Chinese cabinet, the door to the shop flung open and in swept the woman Rosa had seen. She looked chic in a turquoise dress suit with a Fabergé pendant and matching earrings. Her shoes were white pumps and she wore a marina hat on top of her finger-waved black hair. Working with fine furniture had given Rosa an appreciation of beauty and she couldn’t take her attention off the vision before her. The woman’s dark eyes were broody, her nose was perfectly formed, and her full mouth was sultry. She was the classic Italian beauty.