‘Benvenuta,Signorina Lucy.’
‘Benvenuto.I… I mean,Buon Giorno dei Morti.’
Oh God.She groaned inwardly.I just wished Padre Paulo ahappy Day of the Dead. What a numpty.
As she entered the vestibule an earthy, herbal scent, mixed with cloyingly sweet incense, drifted out through the stained-glass doors. She gasped. There were candles everywhere, their flickering tapers swaying gently to the haunting strains of a Requiem Mass. Chrysanthemums, tied with black ribbon, adorned the mahogany pew ends, and worshippers, some kneeling, bowed their heads, crossing themselves in silent prayer.
Despite the solemnity, the atmosphere in the church was warm and alive, with shiny-haired children holding flowers and lanterns being patted on the head or smothered in kisses by elderly relatives.
She scanned the sea of faces, searching for Elena, Stefano and family. A red balloon hovering against a creamy fluted column guided her to a pew near the pulpit.
Elena waved and patted the space next to her. Lucy squeezed along the row.
‘Scusi, scusi.’
As she took her seat, a wave of incense wafted through the air. Buttery sunlight beamed down from the ocular window, like a spotlight, onto the marble statue of Christ. Lucy’s eyes were drawn upwards to the soaring, vaulted ceiling, depicting angels and intricate religious symbols in muted blues, greens, reds and gold leaf. Heavenly, peaceful voices floated down from the organ gallery.
She felt a surge of joy at being alive, at being in this country, which wasn’t afraid to embrace life, with all its tragedies, joys,traditions, beauty, chaos and danger. No wonder Italy was known as thebel paese– beautiful country.
The congregation rose to its feet.
‘Preghiamo.Let us pray…’
Lucy watched from the cemetery gates as the red balloon disappeared into the crowd.
She sat down on a bench, kicked off her heels and wiggled her crushed stockinged toes in the chilly air. Reaching into her rucksack, she took out a pair of socks and trainers and slipped them on.
Today was not a day for looking glamorous, à la Italiana. Today was a day for exploring dusty, unevenly paved streets and cobblestones. Today was a day for comfort, not chic.
She zigzagged her way through the ancient, bustling streets towards the station. The harmonious peal of bells bore down over the rumbling, the clatter, the whine and the beep of buses, alarms, mopeds and cars.
Snatches of tangled conversation flowed by, thick and fast.
Inside the station’s glass, concrete and tile enclosure, the thrum of traffic was reduced to a hollow drone as loud automated announcements echoed around the cavernous concourse.
Lucy looked up at the departure board, searching for the Sorrento train, stopping at Ercolano Scavi.
She slung her bag across her body, and headed down to platform three. The rickety Circumvesuviana train was covered in garish graffiti. Inside it was uncomfortable and loud. Bang on time, it shuddered and lurched into motion. Lucy wedged herself between a gum-chewing American tourist and a man looking as if he was about to give birth, bellowing into his mobile phone.She turned her head towards the grimy window, the pungent odour of garlic wafting under her nose. As they rattled and jostled along the track, the city flickered across her reflection, like a tracking shot from a film.
Twenty minutes later, on schedule, the train screeched to a halt. Lucy stepped down onto the platform and headed for the exit, Dario’s guidebook clutched tightly in her hand.
First stop, a macchiato.According to Matteo, Il Postino – a former post office – was one of the bars which had reintroduced the WWII tradition ofcaffè sospeso– ‘suspended coffee’ – where those who could afford a coffee paid for two, leaving one cup suspended, which the barista would offer to a stranger in need. When Matteo was homeless, he said the comfort of a hot drink gave him a taste of a better existence, and was one of the things which inspired him to change his life. He had never forgotten his time living on the streets, and carried thecaffè sospesotradition forward whenever he frequented a coffee bar.
The waiter led her to a corner table next to an oil painting of Mount Vesuvius.
As she sipped her well-roasted, delicious coffee, she stared up at the belching plumes of flame, and the tsunami of lava spewing out of the angry volcano’s cone. Elena’s comment about Italians embracing death as part of life rang in her ears. Was living in the shadow of a dormant and dangerous volcano a sharp reminder of your mortality, she wondered? Did it heighten your sense of carpe diem?
According to Dario’s guidebook, twenty per cent of the population chose to live in the ‘red zone’, which would suffer the deepest impact in the event of a major eruption. The new Lucy was all for seizing the day, but wasn’t that taking living on the edge a bit too far? Or was it a case of burying your head in the sand?
She checked her watch and signalled for the bill.
On registering her generous tip, the waiter’s mouth broke into a wide, toothpaste-ad grin. ‘Grazie.’
Lucy put on her best Italian accent. ‘Prego.’
‘English?’
She sighed. ‘How did you guess?’
