Four Hundred and Forty Steps to the Sea Page 8

  “Is it really you, Santina?” he whispered at last, looking at my face like someone determined to put the parts of a puzzle together, rearranging my features into the picture he remembered.

  “It’s really me.”

  “And this? Tua bambina?”

  “No—I look after her. I’m living just down the hill, Marco. I’m home again!”

  The words honeyed my mouth. It was the first time I had used the term.

  He turned away from me, as if unsure. “I have to go now. You’ll come back and see me?”

  Through the neglected hair falling down over his face, and the tension scarring his nails, I saw a glimmer of the child walking down the mountainside only weeks after we lost our mother. “Of course.”

  His face creased into a bleak frown.

  “You must believe me, Marco—I’m here now, working for a family at Villa San Vito.”

  His eyes widened. The words felt an accidental betrayal. Till this moment I’d been counting the days till my departure.

  “I’d have you come back with me right away, only I have this little one to feed and her mother and father are very particular about when they eat and—”

  A yell from another young man farther up the steps leading toward Nocelle interrupted my excited blabbering. Marco gave him a perfunctory glance, before looking back at me. His features hardened.

  “I have to go now, Santina. Come back tomorrow?”

  I nodded, wondering if I could bear to watch him leave.

  He turned and climbed the steps up to the man. I watched his shadow lengthen before him, zigzagging up the stones. The vise around my middle tightened. I wiped away the pictures of my father that bludgeoned my mind. Marco disappeared around the corner. I turned back toward the sea. The wind tousled gentle waves toward the shore. Do people, like water, always reach their natural level?

  * * *

  I made several feeble attempts to stay calm on my return to the villa. I simmered a small pan of water, infusing it with a fistful of chamomile flowers. I tried to allow the earthy steam of porcini mushrooms, wilting with garlic and parsley, ground me in the kitchen and the tasks at hand. I stirred the tagliatelle around the tall pot of boiling water, but hard as I tried, my thoughts tumbled across one another like those fierce, salty bubbles racing to evaporation. Elizabeth banged her spoon on the counter of her wooden high chair. The sound irritated the major but usually left me unruffled. Today it percussed my noisy thoughts with increasing irritation. I grabbed the spoon from her. She burst into tears. The major walked in.

  “Is the child not getting her own way once again? Or is this some personal vendetta that’s escaped me?”

  His sarcasm smarted. Off my look, he retracted. It wasn’t something I was accustomed to witnessing. The turn toward genuine concern caught me off guard. For a moment I thought I might let myself cry.

  “Sorry, sir. I was impatient. It’s been an unusual morning.”

  “Indeed,” he said, running a hand over Elizabeth’s head. The small act of tenderness caught both she and I by surprise. “‘The buttercups, the little children’s dower, Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower.’” He looked between the two of us, left muted by his poetic interruption.

  “What on earth did Robert Browning understand about the great beauty of Italy, Elizabeth?” he asked, running a finger under her chin. “Fancy comparing a melon flower, full of the promise of delicious fruit, to the blasted buttercup!”

  My heart raced. Was the major careening toward the same kind of breakdown as his wife? His behavior was peculiar, even for him. Any doubts about leaving disappeared in an instant. The sooner I left, the better. Elizabeth fell silent.

  “Lunch is almost ready, sir. Am I to call Adeline?”

  “But of course, Santina. You will find her in agreeable spirits this afternoon. Have you not noticed the marked changes in her? Her energy is returning little by little, a sapling of herself. Owed in a huge part to your tender care. Of the both of us.”

  The expression in his eyes made me feel uncomfortable. There was an unfamiliar streak of sorrow, different from when he spoke of Adeline. I turned to leave.

  “Santina?”

  I looked back at the major. The sunlight streamed in behind him like a halo.

  “Take this note, please.”

  I reached out for the small vanilla envelope, expecting him to bark out instructions for delivery, though in the past ten months I could count on one hand the number of people he’d conversed with in town. If he carried on in this manner, the gossips would have a field day concocting elaborate fictions about him and the wife imprisoned on the third floor of this merchant’s palace.

  I looked at the addressee. It was my name.

  “It is rather unorthodox perhaps, but it struck me that writing my thoughts to you would allow you the space and privacy to consider my proposition in the most honest way you can. I’m loath to put you on the spot. Goodness knows I’ve had a lifetime of that from my seniors. It’s excruciating. In every way.”

  I still hadn’t learned how to mask my frown.

  “Excruciating: painful, embarrassing.”

  A pause. Elizabeth looked from me to him and back again.

  “So there we are. That is all. You’re to read this tonight. Sleep on it. I would hate it to ruffle your day any more than is necessary. You’ve obviously been challenged enough already. That much is clear.”

  His thoughts were rambling again. He lifted Elizabeth out of her seat and took her outside with him. Had he fallen in love with his child at last? I could see the feeling terrified him. That’s why he tripped over the words. Where was the man who used the vast spectrum of language with such confidence, throwing descriptions into the air like puffs of Adeline’s vibrant paint powders?

  This was a man who had been grieving for his disappearing wife. As her life force made a quiet return, he allowed Elizabeth in. Before today, he would have rather cut himself off than risk the pain of losing another woman. He’d have said something to the effect that the very existence of children reminds us of our own fleeting fragment of time.... That the new person entrusted to us to love must leave.... How this is the very nature of nurture, the truest test of love.

  Such was his poetry, I had learned.

  I watched him place her down and take her chubby hand in his. They walked toward the steps into the garden. Perhaps she would feel the tender attention of her father after all. The thought uncorked a deluge of silenced memories. What pain must my father have been in to inflict so much on us? The tiny flame of compassion flickered but faded at the picture of my mother’s bruised face. Marco replaced that painful recollection. I left the kitchen in case the major should turn back and see my tears.

  * * *

  Rosalia rang the bell just after lunch. She knew better than to do so, as the major had told me several times that any visitors, business or otherwise, were to call midmorning or not at all. Trying to impart this stringent guideline to the local fishmonger, butcher, and woodsman elicited nothing short of sighed laughter, a nod at best, terse irritation at worst.

  “You’re incorrigible, Rosali’—be quick and go,” I said, poking my head round the side of the door. “He’s in a strange mood today as it is.”

  “What’s new?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “My sisters and I are going up to Nocelle for a spuntino later this afternoon. It’s our youngest one’s saint’s day. I want you to come.”

  I grew suspicious.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Santina, it’s just for some fresh air, why the look?”

  “You’re meddling, and I can’t put my finger on what.”

  She straightened her blouse over her middle, revealing a little more cleavage. I loved how at home she felt in her skin. Perhaps I envied it a little. Her hair curled down her back, fringe lifted off her face in soft waves.

  “And also,” she carried on, “the new folks who moved in two houses down are looking for occasional help. They’l
l be doing lots of entertaining over this coming year. Two sisters. German, I think. I told them I could gather some girls. Thought you’d like some extra money before you leave?”

  “And Elizabeth?”

  “I can look after her.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.” The thought of floating the suggestion to the major made me uneasy.

  “Suit yourself, Santi’, I’ll call for you in a couple of hours.”

  Before I could reply, she sauntered up the steps, toward the alley that ran the length of the back of the villa leading to her house.

  * * *

  Nocelle was Positano’s sister; smaller, older, remote. The one thousand steps that led us up to it were unrelenting, passing through the gorge of the valley. Deep green rose on either side of us, as the stairs wound in and around ragged rocks, undulating through the ancient pines, till we reached the outskirts of the small village. Here, the stone steps took us in between homes, bright red geranium blooms cascading from terra-cotta pots balanced on a prayer along uneven walls, palms offering regal salutes, cacti in the warm glow, their fruits ripening in the sun.

  Rosalia’s sister’s home was modest, perched along the precipice of the cliff. She had a small terrace and two rooms. The table was laid with sfogliatelle and a large cake. The linen tablecloth lifted on the breeze. We took our seats upon the wooden benches and heaved a sigh of collective delight when she brought out a jug of homemade limonata. My legs were accustomed to walking these inclines but even I welcomed the respite. Elizabeth guzzled her drink. Rosalia lifted her up from me and sat her upon her lap, then gave her the reins to an imaginary horse so she could jiggle her into the infectious laughter of a toddler.

  We toasted Rosalia’s sister. Then their brother brought out a huge box. From inside he lifted an enormous record player to squeals of delight. He placed it upon the table and wound it up. Marino Marini began to tinkle his latest hit, “Piccolissima Serenata.” Everybody rose to their feet. Rosalia danced with Elizabeth upon her hip. Her sister held her husband. I turned toward the feeling of a tap at my elbow.

  “Shall we?” Paolino asked. I hadn’t noticed him slip into the party. I could have avoided this had I done so.

  “Just one dance. Then I’ll leave you in peace.”

  Perhaps it was the atmosphere, the folks about me caring little about their troubles for a short pause. They had neither the comfort nor security of wealth, nor regular work, but were full of celebration. I longed to know what that felt like. So long had I been fixed on my next voyage that I failed to enjoy these moments passing by. I watched the family around me, my mind filled with Marco. How long would I have to knit our pasts together before I departed again?

  Without thinking, I let my hand slip into Paolino’s. It was square and strong, a little rough along the tips of the fingers. He held mine with more grace than I would have expected and kept a polite distance, much to my relief. I felt a sudden awareness of my calf as we spun, then admonished my vanity. No one here cared whether it was half the size of my other one. I wasn’t here to impress anybody—most of all not my dance partner.

  “You think they dance under the sun in America, Santina?” he whispered in my ear. I stiffened.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his face relaxing into an expression close to genuine embarrassment. We swayed for a few beats. Rosalia’s family filled in the quiet gaps of our own dwindling conversation.

  He stopped dancing, but didn’t let go of my hands.

  “Can we talk somewhere?”

  I noticed Mr. Marini had moved on to “Perdoname,” his lament begging for forgiveness from his lover. Paolino led me out of the terrace and sat upon the wall surrounding the house. I felt for the donkey grappling the stairs as it passed by us, loaded with lemons in deep baskets hanging either side of his body, an unrelenting porter behind, jeering him on.

  “Santina, I need to say these things. If I wait, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  I looked at my hands for a moment. Where was my mother’s fire to spit some wise retort at him, just enough to steer the conversation away from where I intuited it was headed?

  “You won’t believe me, for whatever reason. But truly, you are the most beautiful woman in this town.”

  I took a breath but should have known he would misunderstand it as a signal of studied feminine modesty.

  “You’re different,” he added, “you’re not like the others. You’ve got your sights set on a bigger, brighter future than this little fishing village. I know that. I love that.”

  “Paolino, please,” I interrupted at last, “stop before you say something you’ll be embarrassed about later.”

  “Nothing I want to tell you can embarrass me. I’m not scared of the truth. You shouldn’t be either.”

  I stood up.

  “But you are,” he said.

  I hovered, angry that he was using his words to prod uncertainty out of me. His charm was as clumsy as I would have expected it to be after all.

  “I don’t think you’d know what the truth was if it slapped you round the face, Paolino. You know nothing about me.”

  “I know you’re compelling. You’re not like those girls who strut around town plastered with makeup to grab the attention of the foreigners. And you’ve survived living with my mother—that’s a small victory in itself!”

  My involuntary laughter annoyed me. His smile changed his face. If I squinted, I might even catch the bud of humility there.

  “Santina, I know nothing about you, it’s true. And I want to know everything.”

  His eyes turned a deeper chestnut. I’d never noticed how thick his eyelashes were.

  “I’ve said too much. Sorry, Santina. You must have a lot on your mind. This is my final act of selfishness.”

  He shrugged.

  I said nothing.

  He took my hand and kissed it.

  My stomach tightened.

  “Come on, Rosalia’s tongue will be wagging!” He smiled, changing trajectory with surprising ease.

  We walked back onto the terrace. The sun had begun its descent.

  “I’ll be heading home now, Rosalia,” I said, lifting Elizabeth out of her arms.

  Her eyes twinkled with a familiar mischief. At last her plan unfurled.

  “And before you say what you’re thinking: No.”

  “No, what?”

  “No to whatever scheme or romantic plan you’re been salivating over. Paolino likes to say things he doesn’t mean. Or understand. You of all people can see that, surely?”

  “I see a lot of things, but that’s not one of them.”

  I turned before she could tease me any further, kissed her sister on both cheeks, and hiked downhill through the valley.

  * * *

  The house was quiet as we stepped back inside, the dusky pink plaster deepening in the final rays. Elizabeth, full of fresh air and exercise, gave in to sleep just as the stars twinkled in the midnight blue of early evening. I took my chair out onto the terrace outside my room. It was a warm evening that mocked the onset of autumn, whose creep over the valley felt a long way off even though it was almost October. The moon was full tonight, casting watery beams upon the glassy sea surrounding the tiny islands of Li Galli. There was a lot of talk in town of the Russian choreographer and the open-air theater he had built there for dance recitals. I imagined ballerinas twirling in the moonlight, their limbs long and lean, allowing every expression to ripple through them. What must that feel like?

  I unfolded the major’s letter.

  28th September 1958

  Villa San Vito

  Positano

  Dear Santina,

  Ahead of your imminent preparations to leave our family, I felt it only proper to express our deepest gratitude. If I were to do this in person, I have no doubt that your face would crease into the embarrassment I have come to see all too often, especially during my intensive approach to teaching. I put you very much on the spot, and I know this. But I did it for good reason. />
  When you arrive on those new shores, there will be scores of people hoping to catch the same dreams as you. No one will care too much about who you are or want to be. You will have to prove yourself. The reserves of inner strength and determination I have observed in you over the past few months reassures me you will find your place wherever you decide to settle.

  Furthermore, I have come to understand over the past difficult year what Wordsworth described as, “The Child is father of the Man.” Elizabeth has taught me more than I care to admit. Her birth heralded the start of the hardest year of our lives. My darling wife is a shadow of the woman I married. Her recovery is slower than I hoped. Yet in spite of this, Elizabeth is a sunbeam. And this is all down to you.

  I knew you were a special young woman the moment I met you that afternoon in London, the way your eyes lit up with an insatiable curiosity, something so similar to my own. What I couldn’t have known is how you would shower my daughter with a care that only a mother can give. I can offer her a fraction of what you can, or indeed what Adeline may, one day, if ever. Only time will tell.

  I have decided the best course of action is to send Elizabeth to boarding school after she turns five. To send her before then seems brutal somehow, though in all likelihood it probably would be the best thing for her. I want to keep her with us until she reaches the age where her mother’s condition might start to weigh upon her in any way.

  If there was any part of you that might even for a moment consider remaining here as her caregiver until she returns to Great Britain, I would do everything in my power to make it worthwhile. It goes without saying that I would offer you a reasonable raise in wages, and, I think only fair, one day off a week where I can schedule additional help.

  If you have reached this part of the letter and have understood everything, I congratulate you on all the hard work you have invested in learning this new language. I hope, one day, I might be able to speak Italian as well as you do English. I gave up hope of cooking linguine with fresh clams and garlic as well as you do, long ago. Perhaps you might teach me before you leave? In Italian of course.