Farelli's Wife

Vito sighed, for he was a risk-taker, but just then his wife came into the room and Joanne appealed to her.

‘Cretino,’ she admonished her husband briskly. ‘You want this nice girl to go to gaol? Forget this silly idea and come and eat.’

‘More food?’ Joanne protested, laughing. ‘Are you trying to make me fat, Maria?’

‘I’m trying to stop you fading away,’ Maria said. ‘No girl should be as thin as you are.’

Joanne wasn’t really thin, but elegantly slim. She was fighting to stay that way, but Maria made it hard.

The table was groaning under the fruit of her labours: garlic bread and tomatoes, black olive pâté and fish soup, followed by rice and peas.

Despite her concern for her figure, Joanne couldn’t resist this mouth-watering repast. She’d loved Piedmont cooking since she was eighteen and had won a scholarship to study art in Italy. She’d been blissfully happy, tucking into the rich, spicy meals, or wandering through Turin, drunk on great paintings, dreaming that one day she would contribute to their number. And she’d fallen wildly, passionately in love with Franco Farelli.

She’d met him through his sister, Renata, an art student in the same class. They’d become good friends, and Renata had taken her home to meet her family, wine growers with huge vineyards just north of the little medieval town of Asti. Joanne had fallen in love with Isola Magia, the Farelli home, and been instantly at ease with the whole family: Giorgio, the big, booming papa who laughed a lot, and drank a lot and bawled a lot; Sophia, his wife, a sharp-faced, sharp-tempered woman who’d greeted Joanne with restraint, but made her welcome.

But from the moment she’d met Franco she’d known she’d come home in a totally different way. He’d been twenty-four, tall and long-boned, with a proud carriage that set him apart from other men. His height came from his father, a northern Italian. But his mother hailed from Naples down in the south, and from her he derived his swarthy looks, dark chocolate eyes and blue-black hair.

In other ways, too, he was an amalgam of north and south. He had Giorgio’s easygoing charm, but also Sophia’s volcanic temper and quick, killing rages. Joanne had seen that rage only once, when he’d found a young man viciously tormenting a dog. He’d knocked the lout down with one blow, and for a moment his eyes had contained murder.

He’d taken the dog home and tended it as gently as a woman, eagerly assisted by Renata and Joanne. That night the dog’s owner had returned with his two brothers, drunk and belligerent, demanding the return of their ‘property’. Joanne would never forget what had happened next.

Calmly Franco had taken out a wicked-looking stiletto, thrust the blade through some paper money and held it out to them.

‘This will pay for the dog,’ he’d said coldly. ‘Take it and never trouble me again.’

But the brothers hadn’t touched the money. Something they’d seen in Franco’s eyes had sent them fleeing out into the night, yammering with fear, never to return. The dog had been named Ruffo, and become his inseparable companion.

But such incidents had been rare. Franco had been more concerned with enjoying himself than fighting. For him there had always been a joke to be relished, a song to be sung, a girl to be wooed, and perhaps more than wooed, if she was willing. When he’d smiled his white teeth had gleamed against his tanned skin, and he’d seemed like a young god of the earth.

Until then Joanne hadn’t believed in love at first sight, but she’d known at once that she belonged to Franco, body and soul. Just looking at him had been able to make her flesh grow warmer, even in that fierce Italian heat. His smile had made her feel she were melting, and she would gladly have melted if, by doing so, she could have become a part of him.

His smile. She could see it now, slow and teasing, as though the world were his and he was wondering whom to share it with. And she knew, by instinct, what kind of a world it was: one of desire and satiation, of sinking his strong teeth into life’s delights while the pleasure overflowed, of heated taking and giving, living by the rhythms of the earth that received the seed so that there should be growing, reaping and growing again. She had known all this the first time she’d seen him, striding into the flagstoned kitchen and standing near the door, his black hair turned to blue by a shaft of light, calling, ‘Hey, Mama—’ in a ringing voice.

How could anyone resist that voice? It was rich with all the passion in the world, as though he’d made love to every woman he’d met. And Joanne, the girl from a cool, rainy country, had known in a blinding instant that he was her destiny.

Sadly, she had no illusions that she was his destiny. The estate was filled with lush virgins and ripe young matrons who sighed for him. She knew, because Renata had confided, between giggles, that Franco took his pleasures freely, wherever they might be found, to the outrage of his mother and the secret envy of his father.

But he had never even flirted with Joanne, treating her just as he had his sister, teasing her amiably before passing on his way, his exuberant laughter floating behind him. And her heart had been ready to burst with joy at his presence and despair at his indifference.

‘I couldn’t eat another thing,’ Joanne declared, regarding her clean plate.

‘But you must have some cream cheese and rum pudding,’ Maria said. ‘You’re working her too hard,’ she scolded her husband.

‘It’s not my fault,’ he protested. ‘I show her the pictures and say, “Work as you like,” and in a week she has finished the copy of the Carracci Madonna.’

‘Because she works too much,’ Maria insisted, slapping cream cheese on Joanne’s plate. ‘How many are still to do?’

‘Four,’ Joanne said. ‘Two more by Carracci, one Giotto and one Veronese. I’m saving the Veronese until last because it’s so large.’

‘I can’t believe that an English girl understands Italian paintings so well,’ Vito mused. ‘At the start I had the names of several Italians who do this work, but everyone said to me, “No, you must go to Signorina Merton, who is English, but has an Italian soul.” ’

‘I studied in Italy for a year,’ Joanne reminded him.

‘Only for a year? One would think you had lived here all your life. That must have been a wonderful year, for I think Italy entered deep into your heart..’

‘Yes,’ Joanne said slowly. ‘It did...’

Renata began inviting her every weekend and Joanne lived for these visits. Franco was always there because the vineyard was his life and he’d learned its management early. Despite his youth he was already taking the reins from his papa’s hands, and running the place better than Giorgio ever had.

Once Joanne managed to catch him among the vines when he was alone. He was feeling one bunch after another, his long, strong fingers squeezing them as tenderly as a lover. She smiled up at him. She was five feet nine inches, and Franco was one of the few men tall enough to make her look up.

‘I came out for some fresh air,’ she said, trying to sound casual.

‘You chose the best time,’ he told her with his easy smile that made her feel as if the world had lit up around her. ‘I love it out here at evening when the air is soft and kind.’

He finished with an eyebrow raised in quizzical enquiry, for he’d spoken in Italian, a language she was still learning.

‘Morbida e gentile,’ she repeated, savouring the words. ‘Soft and kind. But it isn’t really that sort of country, is it?’

‘It can be. Italy has its violent moods, but it can be sweet and tender.’

How deep and resonant his voice was. It seemed to vibrate through her, turning her bones to water. She sought something to say that would sound poised.

‘It’s a beautiful sunset,’ she managed at last. ‘I’d love to paint it.’

‘Are you going to be a great artist, piccina?’ he asked teasingly.

She wished he wouldn’t call her piccina. It meant ‘little girl’ and was used in speaking to children. Yet it was also a term of affection and she treasured it as a crumb from his table.

‘I think so,’ she said, as if considering the matter seriously. ‘But I’m still trying to find my own style.’

She hadn’t yet learned that she had no individual style, only a gift for imitation.

Without answering he pulled down a small bunch of grapes and crushed a few against his mouth. The purple juice spilled out luxuriantly down his chin, like the wine of life, she thought. Eagerly she held out her hands and he pulled off a spray of the grapes and offered them to her. She imitated his movement, pressing the fruit against her mouth, then gagged at the taste.

‘They’re sour,’ she protested indignantly.

‘Sharp,’ he corrected. ‘The sun hasn’t ripened them yet. It’ll happen in its own good time, as everything does.’

‘But how can you eat them when they taste like this?’

‘Sharp or sweet, they are as they are. They’re still the finest fruit in all Italy.’ It was a simple statement, unblushing in its arrogance.

‘There are other places with fine grapes,’ she said, nettled at his assurance. ‘What about the Po valley, or the Romagna?’

He didn’t even dignify this with an answer, merely lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug, as if other vineyards weren’t worth considering.

‘What a pity you won’t be here to taste them when they’re ripe,’ he said. ‘That won’t be until August, and you’ll have returned to England.’