‘I’m sorry, Papa,’ Nico said.
‘Don’t be angry with him,’ Joanne said.
Franco gave her a look. ‘I am never angry with Nico,’ he said simply. ‘Now let us go home so that you can dry off.’
‘I went to the house first,’ Joanne said, hurrying to match her steps to Franco’s long strides, ‘and the old woman there told me where you were.’
‘That’s Celia, she’s my housekeeper.’
Celia emerged from the house as they approached and stood waiting, her eyes fixed on Joanne. She exclaimed over her sodden state.
‘Celia will take you upstairs to change your clothes,’ Franco said.
‘But I don’t have anything to change into,’ she said in dismay.
‘Didn’t you bring anything for overnight?’
‘I’m not staying overnight. I mean—I didn’t want to impose.’
‘How could you impose? You are family.’ Franco spoke with a coolness that robbed the words of any hint of welcome. ‘But I was forgetting. You don’t think of yourself as family. Very well, Celia will find you something of her own to wear while your clothes dry off.’
Celia spoke, not in Italian but in the robust Piedmontese dialect that Joanne had never quite mastered. She seemed to be asking a question, to which Franco responded with a curt ‘No!’
‘Your clothes will soon dry,’ he told Joanne. ‘In the meantime Celia will lend you something. She will show you to the guest room. Nico, go and get dry.’
It was the child who showed her upstairs, taking her hand and pulling her up after him. Celia provided her with a huge white bath towel and some clothes. She bore Joanne’s garments away, promising to have them dry in no time.
An unsettling playback had begun in Joanne’s head. This was the very room she’d shared with Renata when she’d first come here. There were still the same two large beds, and a roomful of old-fashioned furniture. As with the rest of the house the floor was terrazzo, the cheap substitute for marble that Italians used to keep buildings cool.
The floor-length windows were still shielded from the sun by the green wooden shutters. Celia drew one of these back, and opened the window so that a breeze caused the long curtains to billow softly into the room. Joanne went to stand there, looking out over the land bathed in the setting sun. It was as heartbreakingly beautiful as she remembered it, the Italy of her dreams, blood-red, every colour more intense, every feeling heightened.
She tried on the dress. It was dark, made of some thin, cheap material, and it hung loosely on her slender frame, evidently made for someone wider and shorter. It was a pity, she thought, that Franco hadn’t kept some of Rosemary’s clothes, but, after all, it had been over a year.
And then, with a prickle up her spine, she remembered the words he’d exchanged with Celia. And she suddenly understood that he did, indeed, have some of Rosemary’s clothes, and Celia had wanted to fetch them, and Franco had forbidden it.
She went down to find Nico waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. After the initial confusion he seemed less disturbed than anyone at seeing his mother’s image, and Joanne blessed the instinct that had made Rosemary bring him to England. Clearly he remembered her from that visit.
He proved it by holding up a colouring book she’d given him. ‘I’ve done it all,’ he said. ‘Come and see.’
He seized her hand and pulled her over to a small table in the corner. Joanne went through the pages with him, noticing that he’d completed the pictures with a skill unusual in children of his age. He had a steady hand, taking colours up to the lines but staying neatly within them in a way that suggested good control. It reminded her of her own first steps in colouring, when she’d shown a precision that had foreshadowed her later skill in imitating.
When they’d been through the book Nico shyly produced some pages covered in rough, childish paintings, and she exclaimed in delight. Here too she could see the early evidence of craftsmanship. Her genuine praise thrilled Nico, and they smiled together.
Then she looked up and found Franco watching them oddly. ‘Nico, it’s time to wash your hands for supper,’ he said. He indicated the pictures. ‘Put everything away.’
‘Yes, Papa,’ Nico said, too docilely for a child. He tidied his things and went upstairs.
‘It’s strange to find the house so quiet,’ Joanne said wistfully. ‘When I first came here there were your parents and Renata, with everyone shouting and laughing at the same time.’
‘Yes, there was a lot of laughter,’ Franco agreed. ‘Renata visited us recently, with her husband and two children. They made plenty of noise, and it was like the old days. But you’re right, it’s too quiet now.’
‘Nico must be a lonely little boy,’ Joanne ventured.
‘I’m afraid he is. He relies on Ruffo a lot for company.’
‘Is Ruffo still alive?’ she asked, delighted.
Franco gave a piercing whistle out of the window. And there was Ruffo, full of years, looking vastly wise because the black fur of his face was mostly white now. At the sight of Joanne he gave a yelp of pleasure and hurried over to her.
‘He remembers me. After all this time.’
‘He never forgets a friend,’ Franco agreed.
She petted the old dog with real pleasure, but she also knew she was using him to cover the silence that lay between herself and Franco. She began to feel desperate. She’d known that Franco would be changed, but this grave man who seemed reluctant to speak was a shock to her.
‘So tell me what happened to you,’ he said at last. ‘Did you become a great artist?’
His words had a faint ironical inflection, and she answered ruefully, ‘No, I became a great imitator. I found that I had no vision of my own, but I can copy the visions of others.’
‘That’s sad,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘I remember how badly you wanted to be an artist. You couldn’t stop talking about it.’
It was a surprise to find that he recalled anything she’d said in those days.
‘I have a good career. My copies are so perfect that you can hardly tell the difference. But, of course,‘ she added with a sigh, ‘the difference is always there, nonetheless.’
‘And do you mind that so much?’
‘It was hard to realize that I have no originality.’ She tried to turn it aside lightly. ‘Doomed to wander for ever in someone else’s footsteps, judged always by how much I echo them. It’s a living, and a good one sometimes. It just isn’t what I dreamed of.’
‘And why are you in Italy now?’
‘I’m copying some works for a man who lives in Turin.’
‘And you spared us a day. How kind.’
She flushed under his ironic tone. Franco plainly thought badly of her for keeping her distance, but how could she tell him the reason?
‘I should have called you first,’ she began.
‘Why should you? My wife’s cousin is free to drop in at any time.’
She realized that his voice was different. Once it had been rich, round and musical. Now it was flat, as though all the music of life had died for him.
A harassed-looking girl came scurrying out of the kitchen carrying