The Bottom of Your Heart (25 page)

Rosa tried in vain to move her hand.

“Well, Barone', I'm in no pain, but I just can't seem to move. If I can't move, as you know, I don't know what to do with myself.”

The baroness nodded.

“I know, I know. You've always been highly judicious and energetic. That's why we chose you as Luigi Alfredo's
tata
, my husband and I. But now, you see, you're obliged to stay still. And you can rest.”

“Barone', in that case you'll forgive me not getting to my feet. It strikes me as such a strange thing to lie here on my back, me, a servant, while you're sitting there uncomfortably on the edge of the bed.”

Marta smiled at her, with a little smirk of the lips identical to the young master's.

“Don't worry. I know you aren't well, like I told you. What I'm wondering, though, is who's looking after Luigi Alfredo while you're here?”

Rosa thought it over for a moment.

“There's Nelide, my niece, the daughter of my brother Andrea, do you remember him? He's the one who keeps sheep and farms your land down by Sanza; your ladyship always said he was a good man. When your ladyship . . . when you passed away she was just a little girl, but she's grown up to become a strong, healthy young woman. She's got a good head on her shoulders.”

Marta nodded and went on sewing.

“Nelide, yes, I remember her. So it was Nelide you've been training these last few days. You're quite right, she's a capable girl, trustworthy. Do you think she's ready to take your place?”

“Well, she's certainly young, Barone'. But we're an unusual clan, young and old we're all the same. She might make mistakes, after all, who doesn't? Still, she's honest and strong, bursting with health and with no foolish ideas in her head. Her one fault is that she doesn't talk much, and when she does she speaks only in proverbs: maybe she does it to seem wise.”

Marta sighed. Rosa interpreted that as a sign of fear.

“Barone', understand me. I didn't have any time left, I had to act quickly. If I'd had, I don't know, maybe another couple of years, I'd have educated her properly, I'd have kept her with me for longer periods of time, I'd have made her to go over the renters' accounts to see if she knew how to do it on her own. Forgive me, Barone'. I thought I could get it all done in time.”

Marta caressed her cheek.

“Don't you worry, Rosa. She'll do fine, she'll figure it out. Now you get some rest. I'll stay here and sit with you. When you like, we can talk again.”

Rosa smiled and fell asleep for a while.

Nelide, who was studying her face, saw her lips wrinkle in a sort of smile. Her respiration was deep and regular.

The girl checked the warm cloths on her aunt's legs. How long this night was.

 

Night.

Endless night. Night without light.

Night for the dead, night for the ghosts.

Night without life.

M
ajor Manfred von Brauchitsch had awakened very early, even though life on the island moved even more slowly on Sunday than on the other days of the week.

The problem of different speeds had always been an issue during his stays in Italy. It was as if Manfred was a cog in a gear that was spinning very fast, and that was then inserted into a weaker engine. For that matter, he was German: his people were typically a little frantic and maniacally devoted.

He stepped out onto the balcony of his room. Dawn, from the pensione where he usually stayed, imbued the sea and the spit of land that jutted out into it with indescribable hues, colors that he would be incapable of extracting from his palette even in a thousand years. Perhaps, he thought, that's what makes the people here so slow: how could you stop, even after centuries of being accustomed to it, from pausing to admire such a wonderful landscape? How could you keep from taking it easy, breathing this blossom-scented air, listening to the music that saturates it?

He went back in to do some calisthenics. He was determined to keep in shape: the years passed and his profession demanded absolute efficiency. He had to admit to himself that he was gratified by the frank appreciation he seemed to receive from the island's women, whenever he crossed paths with them during his evening walks.

While he was doing his second round of deep knee bends, he found himself thinking about that girl, the schoolteacher at the summer colony whom he'd run into for the past several days out at the beach where he went to paint.

There was no doubt that he'd made quite an impression on the other schoolteacher, Carla, that was clear from her attitude and the glances she shot him; but the one he liked was Enrica, who was in charge of the little girls. She offered him no encouragement, which only stimulated his natural competitive spirit.

She wasn't especially beautiful; at first glance she might in fact appear insignificant. Her legs and arms were too long, she wore eyeglasses and her clothes were mousy. But deep inside, Manfred was first and foremost a painter, and he'd recognized her remarkable figure, lithe and firm, her handsome bosom and her swan's neck. And the smile that she beamed so frequently at the little girls, luminous and full of tenderness.

Perhaps it was because he was accustomed to capturing particular appearances and intense expressions that he'd been so taken by Enrica. The measured gentleness with which she moved, the womanly way she had of sitting on the beach, with her white skirt gathered beneath her legs and her chin resting on her hands as she gazed out at who knows what, in the distance.

He wiped away the sweat with a hand towel and headed off toward the bathroom.

This wasn't something that happened often, he mused. Since Elsa had died, more than ten years ago, he'd had only a few fleeting affairs, and each woman had been gone from his mind as soon as the moment of their physical intimacy was over. But this time, he found himself counting the hours that separated him from his next painting session on the beach.

Enrica, he understood, was shy and reserved, a delicate blossom, a butterfly; if he moved too quickly he ran the risk of ruining everything. He also sensed a certain insecurity on that woman's part, or even fear: perhaps there was some sadness or grief in Enrica's past, as there was in his own, for that matter.

In their infrequent conversations, he'd preferred to stick to unremarkable topics. He'd told her about his hometown, the land he hailed from and where now, perhaps, one of those terrible summer rainstorms was coming down, auguring the onset of autumn. It was too early to tell her about Elsa, of the way he used to be, of how he had changed and why. Of war and serving under arms. Of the fact that he was a soldier.

Times were changing. The aftermath of the postwar sanctions and the burning sense of defeat were gradually being overcome; in Germany there was a new spirit in the air. Alsace and Lorraine had been lost, the German empire's colonial possessions were lost, most of the army, now shrunk to a hundred thousand men, was lost, the navy, which had preferred to sink the fleet rather than hand it over to England, was lost; nonetheless, the sense of honor, the belief in the nation's own grandeur, the urge to rise again, were more alive than ever. Nationalism, fomented by the harsh terms of the peace treaty, had engendered a political party that had sunk its roots deep into the populace, and the preceding April it had come tantalizingly close to sweeping the elections, gathering over thirteen million votes. This in spite of the fact that the movement's leader was a man who nine years earlier had been in prison for spearheading an unsuccessful coup attempt right in his own home state of Bavaria.

When Manfred had left for Italy, there had already been talk of new elections to right the political imbalance. He personally favored the leader of the National Socialist Party. Though he didn't care for the excessive fury and bullying methods the man used to put his ideas across, he had to admit that the pride and patriotism that quivered in the words of that excellent orator moved and enflamed him. Deep down, he was a soldier: his love for his homeland, his desire to defend it from foreigners and expand its borders, formed part of his nature.

Moreover, he liked the fact that the man took his inspiration, more or less explicitly, from the Fascist regime. In Italy, he sensed a liveliness, an optimism, and a confidence in contrast with the difficult conditions in which most of the people seemed to be living. He wished he could see the same attitude spreading through Germany, among the elderly in particular, wearied by the war and the economic collapse. If the two countries, brothers deep down in their souls, were to share certain values, nothing and no one could ever stop them. That's what he thought.

In the meantime, he told himself as he splashed cold water on his arms and back, he'd establish a nice strong alliance with the girl on the beach.

It was nice to feel that sensation again. It was nice to feel he was still alive. At the end of July he'd return home to vote in the federal elections, and to see if he could be useful in the reconstruction of German military might, which had until then been progressing slowly and discreetly. A couple of days ago he'd received a letter from a veteran, a onetime fellow soldier, asking if he was done with his life of leisure and was ready to venture once more into the breach. He'd written back, informing his old friend that nothing on earth could make him miss the opportunity to let him eat the dust of his charging steed.

The thought of his horse reminded him of the treatments he was taking on this island. Daily training and mineral water mud packs, that volcanic mud that so many doctors had described as miraculous, were having their beneficial effects. The pain in his shoulder was almost gone.

Manfred brushed his thick blond hair and looked up at the blue sky. He suspected that there was also another reason for his renewed sense of vigor.

Good officer that he was, he wondered exactly what strategy he should employ to outflank the barriers that Enrica had erected to protect herself. He was sure that if the girl could be persuaded that he would never do her any harm, she'd lower her defenses and soon let herself be lulled by her feelings.

As he was biting into one of the biscotti that the elderly proprietress of the pensione had given him, he caught himself fantasizing about the expressions on his parents' faces if he returned home with a new wife, and an Italian one to boot. His mother had told him over and over again that Elsa was gone, that he needed to make a new life for himself, and that before she died, the one thing she wanted was to cradle in her arms a grandchild, to be certain that the family name would not die out with Manfred.

Enrica was young and self-assured, and she had beautiful hips. All the right features.

The major flashed a smile at the sea. After taking the mud, he would go back to the beach.

He had a painting to complete.

A
s soon as he was allowed, Ricciardi had run to Rosa's bedside, taking the stairs two at a time.

He'd finally managed to send Maione home late into the night, convincing the brigadier that sleepy as he was, he was of no use to him: he could come back to work the next morning. Modo, as was so often the case, had stayed the night in the hospital's internal quarters, and had gotten up twice to update Riccardi on his
tata
's condition, which remained stable.

As for Ricciardi, he hadn't slept a wink. He couldn't manage to get used to the idea that he might be about to lose the woman who had always been his entire family.

He found her complexion pale, her breathing labored; she was sitting practically straight up, her body propped on four pillows. Standing in front of the bed, erect and motionless, was Nelide. Ricciardi greeted her fondly: it touched his heart to see her pure and silent love, and he was impressed by the fact that she showed no signs of weariness. And yet she must have stood there all night long.

He sat down, took Rosa's hand in his, and his heart sank: the hand was icy cold. To look at her face, though, she appeared untroubled, and even faintly alert, as if she were listening to something. Ricciardi didn't know what to make of it. He turned to Nelide.

“She didn't ever wake up? Not even once?”

The girl shook her head. Then she spoke:
“Cchiú scura d'a mezanotta nu' ppò vveni'
.
”

It can't get any darker than the middle of the night
, the commissario translated mentally. He knew the young woman's habit of speaking in proverbs; once or twice he and Rosa had even joked about it. Now, looking down at his old
tata
, he wondered if he would ever again hear that off-kilter, contagious laugh that had formed the background of so many moments of his life.

He missed Enrica—powerfully, sharply. He would have liked to let her know that Rosa—the woman who had become her friend, the woman who had talked endlessly to him about the shy, sweet girl who lived across the street from them—was ill, gravely ill. And that his heart was in tatters, and that a major part of his desolation was due to Enrica's absence.

He rested his head against the bed and fell asleep.

After an amount of time he couldn't have quantified, he felt a hand on shoulder. He woke up with a jerk and found Modo next to him.

“You didn't go home, did you? Stubborn hardheaded man, I told you there was no point in staying.”

Ricciardi looked at Rosa; she hadn't moved a millimeter.

“I can't bring myself to leave her. And after all, today is Sunday, I don't even have to work. I might as well stay here, don't you think? If she happened to wake up . . .”

“Ricciardi, I'll tell you again: she's very unlikely to wake up. It's practically impossible. We'll transfer her to a single room and we can try some therapy, but there isn't much we can do.”

The commissario turned to look at Nelide; she was still on her feet, motionless like her aunt, but from her lively intelligent eyes, it was clear that she wasn't missing a word.