Page 32 of Daughter of Genoa (Escape to Tuscany)

I could scarcely bear to go to bed that evening.

It had become terrible to do so: I would lie there and wonder whether Massimo was managing to sleep and if so, where, and whether he was safe there.

When I dozed off, I dreamed of him even more vividly than before.

It felt as if I were really lying in his arms with my head on his warm, bare shoulder and my leg flung over his.

I was always bitterly disappointed when I woke up and found that he wasn’t there after all, and I was in the same small room with the same plain, single, iron-framed bed and the same white walls, so white they were faintly luminous; Bernardo snoring like a walrus down the corridor, Tiberio snoring more delicately by my ear.

I’d bury my face in that rather elderly pillow with the feather ends pricking my skin, and I’d will the time away until dawn came, or the siren sounded, and I had to get up again.

Sometimes – and it seems extraordinary now – I desperately, childishly longed to open the bathroom window, climb down the rope and run wild circles around the courtyard.

I could never have done it in daylight, of course.

No matter how trustworthy Silvia and Bernardo’s neighbours were, such an act would be nothing but dangerous; and not just for me, but for anyone who could be compromised by knowing I existed.

But at night, with the windows covered… well, there would be another set of hazards.

I’d be lucky not to break my neck, whether getting down or getting back up again.

As for running around with the lights off, that was simply asking for a turned ankle or a fractured arm – and then how much use would I be?

Sometimes I had to remind myself of that very sternly indeed.

On that particular night, I almost gave in.

I was so very sick of being trapped inside, of staying put while Massimo and Vittorio and the rest of them went about their work, and even Tiberio strolled in and out as he wished.

I actually went so far as to throw my clothes back on, pick up my shoes and creep along the corridor to the bathroom.

I sat on the edge of the bath for a few minutes, arguing with myself, but the urge didn’t go away.

Eventually I went to the window and pulled back the net curtain, staring down into the dark courtyard.

There wasn’t much moonlight; it was like looking into a hole.

Perhaps that was even better, I found myself thinking.

Perhaps my eyes would adjust and I could risk it after all.

Even if only to climb down and stand there for a couple of minutes, breathe the cool air, look up at the night sky and not have to fear it.

I was caught up in these thoughts when something flickered in the dense shadow below.

A tiny, fiery roundel, the burning end of a cigarette.

Some other desperate soul clearly had the same idea.

Were they merely sleepless, or were they hiding, too?

The idea that there might be someone else in this very building, living this same trapped and fearful life just a few metres away, was too much for me.

I let the curtain fall and went back to my room, where I crawled into bed and wept silent, desolate tears.

*

Massimo thought it very funny when I told him about my midnight urge to escape.

Not surprisingly, because I’d spent most of that afternoon rehearsing the story in my head, finding just the right way to tell it for his amusement.

In my heavily edited rendition it was a one-off impulse, the kind of mad, stupid desire that comes over you when you can’t get to sleep and the world seems knocked out of orbit.

I might almost have gone through with it, if only to get away from Bernardo’s snoring. Imagine if I hadn’t seen sense!

He laughed and put an arm around me, drawing me into his side.

We’d been working in the parlour that evening, sitting together on the sofa, while Bernardo did something to the dripping tap in the kitchen and Silvia (and Tiberio) oversaw him.

The cards were checked and stamped and we had a little time before he’d have to leave: ten minutes, although that really meant five, to be on the safe side.

I slipped my arm around him and rested my head on his shoulder, just as I did in dreams; and I closed my eyes tight and silently begged the clock on the cabinet to stop ticking.

‘I don’t suppose you want to go on an excursion with me tonight,’ he said, stroking my hair. ‘You’ve had enough excitement as it is.’

His heartbeat sounded in my ear, regular, comforting; he was so warm, and there was an endearing softness around his waist. I could easily have relaxed into it, all that banal and beautiful intimacy, if not for the seconds slipping past and the mortal threats outside.

‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘There’s nowhere at all I’d want to go, even if we could.

I’d much prefer to stay here, just like this. ’

‘So would I, very much. If only—’

‘Tell me something about yourself,’ I said, quickly, before he could finish his sentence. ‘Something safe, I mean to say – something you can afford to tell me.’

‘Something I can afford to tell you,’ he said. ‘What kind of thing?’

‘Anything. How did you start flying? Can you talk about that?’

‘Oh, yes. I can talk about that quite easily.’ He rubbed my arm.

‘Now, that was when I was seventeen. I’d first seen an aeroplane take off when I was still small, with my father – I remember it distinctly.

It wasn’t what you’d call an impressive display, but the pilot got this basic craft up into the air and brought it back down again, and I thought that was wonderful.

It was all I wanted to do from that moment on.

So as soon I was old enough, I applied to volunteer with the Air Force. ’

My eyes snapped open. Suddenly I didn’t feel quite so sleepy and comfortable any more. ‘You volunteered for the Air Force? At seventeen? But that must have been in…’

‘Nineteen-seventeen, that’s right. What, are you shocked?’ he asked as I looked up at him. ‘I’m surprised your brother didn’t tell you all this years ago. I’m certain it was one of the fifty thousand questions he asked me when we met at the Aero Club.’

‘He probably did,’ I said, ‘but I expect I’d stopped listening.’

‘Oh, well, that’s nice to know. Anyhow, it was all very bad timing. It took a long time to get my licence, and by the time I did, the war was over and there was nothing for me to do. My mother was relieved, if nothing else.’

So am I , I thought, but I didn’t say it.

‘I wasn’t about to stop flying, though,’ Massimo went on. ‘I got my civil aviation licence, and I learned to fly seaplanes. I had twenty years of joy that way, before everything went to hell.’

I wrapped my arms around him and kissed his cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘What for?’

For making you relive it. For everything that’s happened. ‘All of it,’ I said. ‘I’m just sorry.’

‘Well, you oughtn’t to be,’ he said. ‘Damn little you can do about it. Nice of you, though,’ he added, and returned my kiss.

I didn’t want to, but I glanced at the clock and saw that our time was nearly up. Along the corridor, Silvia and Bernardo were squabbling about something or other, his quiet bass mingling with her aggrieved alto.

Massimo sighed. ‘That’s my cue to leave. And now I’m sorry.’

‘I wish you could stay longer,’ I said. ‘If I’m quite honest, I wish you could stay all night.’

‘Do you? I don’t.’ Before I could react, he drew me closer and went on in a soft, low voice: ‘Because if I could, if it were safe, then I’d ask you to come home with me instead. And I’d hope desperately for you to say yes.’

I was beside myself with longing. I thought I might never sleep again. ‘I would,’ I said. ‘I’d definitely say yes.’

‘One day, then,’ he said; and I shan’t ever forget it, because Massimo never usually said things like that. He was too pragmatic, too sensible, too much like himself to talk about a future that may or may not come.

I smiled at him and he smiled back at me: that beautiful eye-crinkling smile that I loved. ‘One day,’ I said.