The Echoes of Love (39 page)

‘After the Holy Mass, the pilgrimage continues during the morning to the Basilica of the Pink Madonna of Gerico of Tergu,' Paolo went on, still watching the passers-by and ignoring her apology. ‘There, the religious mysteries carried by the
Apostoli
pilgrims are offered to the Virgin Mary during a Pontifical Mass, accompanied by the crying song of the death of Christ. After the mystery plays and the mass, a long parade goes to the old town bastion wall, and returns to the church, where everybody enjoys lunch.'

Suddenly from afar burst the swelling melody of the
Miserere
, throbbing through the night, sung by a perfect choir and perfect soloists. An impressive silence blanketed the town while they listened to the exquisitely mournful sound. Soon the procession came marching up the narrow medieval street on its slow way home to the Church of Santa Maria, where it had all started at dawn.

Men that were part of the
Confraternita di Santa Croce
were dressed in white tunics and cloaks with thin, high-tapering hoods – a costume that could be nothing other than medieval in inspiration, reminding Venetia of the processions of the
Semana Santa
in Spain, where she had attended a more elaborate ritual in Seville when she had been working on a restoration job there a few years back. The cowled men and the pilgrims all held torches or candles, the golden glow of which threw a warm tone over the attendant multitude, swarming like bees to get a nearer view. As the procession passed by, the crowds lining the streets fell devoutly upon their knees.

Paolo and Venetia joined the worshippers on their way to the Church of Santa Maria, following the wooden cross and the human skull set on a tray, both carried by the apostles and accompanied by prayers and religious chanting of the three choruses.

There was an intensity about the worship which Venetia had not observed before, even in Spain. It was as if a great mystical shadow was being cast by the twenty-four hooded men and it stirred Venetia's emotions profoundly. She could well understand how this sort of rite recalling the Passion of Jesus and involving legions of devotees would awaken a lagging faith and leave an indelible and unforgettable impression for all time – for who could ever erase the memory of one of these processions wending its glimmering way at night through the narrow medieval Sardinian streets into the immensity of the dark, waiting church?

From time to time, Venetia had glanced up towards Paolo and was surprised to discover that he was totally immersed in the ceremony, praying and chanting with the devotees as if he had lived all his life in Sardinia. It touched her. She could see that a man who had such a heavy cross to bear as the one Paolo was carrying could certainly find solace in the spiritual experience of the
Lunissanti
. She had sometimes wondered if Paolo had a faith, and now she found a potential new facet to his personality that intrigued her. Her heart flooded with compassion and love for him. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to make him happy, to compensate for all the countless years and memories he no longer had.

The procession moved on through the streets, the crowd humming and swaying in one sweeping wave of bodies, in time with the ritual. Candlelight flickered on faces engrossed in their chanting and cowled heads bent in quiet supplication as they walked. The lines of people standing at the side of the road knelt in a slow ripple of motion as they passed by. Out of the corner of her eye, Venetia saw a sudden movement in the crowd and looked up. Only one person had not knelt. The back of a young woman's head was fleetingly visible, her long raven tresses spilling over her shoulders as she pushed into the throng away from the road, and disappeared. She looked so like Allegra at that moment that Venetia sucked in a breath.
Impossible, there's no way that girl could be in Sardinia.
There was any number of black-haired young women in the crowd who looked just like Allegra. Venetia shuddered.
Get a grip
, she chided herself. She was becoming far too jumpy. Looking back at Paolo, who was still standing with his eyes closed, lost to the ritual, she took a deep breath.

After the procession returned to the church and Mass was celebrated, Paolo and Venetia left the local populace heading off to the main square of the town to celebrate the rite of thanks-giving for the
Lunissanti
. They made their way back through the dark cobbled streets to their hotel, after deciding to have dinner at La Grotta E Il Tempio.

‘It's an amazing nightclub that opened last year with two different dance floors, one inside and the other outside,' explained Paolo. ‘I haven't been to it, but I've read about it and many of my friends have told me that it is an experience not to be missed:
molto
originale,
different, fun.'

Venetia hooked her arm through Paolo's. ‘I'd better dress accordingly in that case.'

Back at the hotel Venetia sifted through the clothes she had brought that were now neatly hanging in the cupboard. She had intended to wear her purple butterfly dress in Sardinia and the unwelcome image of the torn fabric flashed sharply in her mind. She swallowed slightly, not wanting these dark thoughts that kept following her to triumph when she was feeling so happy being with Paolo.

Paolo leaned against the edge of the small desk, watching Venetia, his dark brows gathering into a slight frown, as if he had read her thoughts.

‘I can just imagine how beautiful you would have looked in your purple dress.'

Venetia stood there with her back to him, not answering. She didn't want to spoil the evening by discussing the incident again.

Paolo came towards her. ‘You seem upset,
amore mio
. I shouldn't have mentioned it, I'm sorry. You'll look beautiful in any outfit – and I prefer you anyway when you're not wearing anything.' He turned her around and drew Venetia to him, letting his hands roam over her curves. His eyes sparkled mischievously. ‘Ah, but that is only for me, and as we're not dining alone, I wouldn't like to share you with the rest of Sardinia,' he told her, kissing the tip of her nose.

She shot him a gently scolding look. ‘I should hope not! Yes, let's not think about disagreeable things tonight. We're together, that's all that matters, isn't that so?' Her eyes shone as she smiled up at Paolo. She turned back to the cupboard. ‘I've brought other dresses with me, and the good thing is that you've hardly seen any of them.'

Venetia looked at him and saw his mouth twitching as if he were trying to stop himself from laughing. As she watched, the effort at control became too much for him and Paolo's lips parted in an indulgent grin.

‘Yes,
amore
. I wondered what you had brought with you in that large suitcase the porter nearly dropped on his foot. Now I know!'

Venetia giggled. ‘Oh, don't tease! So, what shall I wear? Mmm… what about this?' She took out a sunglow-yellow strapless lace mini-dress, which she had bought on one of her trips to Paris. The warmth of the colour had struck her and, as it was on sale at half price, she had bought it on the spot, but had never worn it.

‘
Meravigliosa!
' Paolo folded his arms and looked appreciative.

Venetia showered and applied some mascara to her lashes and a tinge of gloss to her cheekbones and lips before stepping into her dress and zipping it up.

With its subtly structured boned bodice and waist-clinching grosgrain belt, the yellow dress moulded itself to Venetia's curves like a glove. For this occasion she wore her hair up in a sophisticated topknot. Every now and again she glanced at Paulo, who watched her silently, his eyes alight with fascination, longing and intensity. She clipped to her ears a pair of twenty-four-carat gold, wood-effect pendant earrings.

‘Venetia, you are utterly beguiling,' he murmured. ‘You look like a ray of sunshine – the ray you brought into my life.'

‘I love nature-inspired jewellery.' She smiled shyly at him and slipped into cut-out golden leather high-heeled slingbacks. ‘I'm ready,' she said, grabbing her glamorous box clutch sprayed with glitter that she had won at a tombola raffle at one of her godmother's charity parties a year ago in Venice.

Paolo stared down at her, a blazing look in his eyes she now knew so well. ‘It's already past midnight. Let's go,
cara
, before I change my mind about going out tonight and carry you on to the bed that's looking at us so invitingly.'

On the way out, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror by the door, Venetia hardly recognised herself. Gone was the defensive, guarded young woman of not so long ago: her eyes were shining, she positively glowed.

La Grotta E Il Tempio nightclub was a stone's throw away from the hotel, at the top of the hill, looking down on the main town and the wide stretch of beach. The night was cool and balmy. Under the moonlight, the sea was fashioned of opal and pearl. The waters lay resignedly beneath an almost mauve sky; there was no wind.

The club had a most unusual setting. Set back from the road, its high rectangular entrance was cut into the dark cliffs that reared up almost sheer, like a rocky palace hugging the coast. From the street-level entrance, Paolo and Venetia descended almost fifty feet, along a narrow rock path that was interspersed with stairs leading deep into the cave. Halfway down, they could hear the soft strains of dance music. The path then widened out into a series of large grottoes, partly natural but in many places cut out to enlarge the cave into a stunning space. The first dance floor was set around the natural crevices. The rock was mostly the clean bluish-grey of limestone, but it was veined with red clay and sparkling white seams of spar. The acoustics were good and the lighting subdued, giving the place a real enchanted grotto atmosphere.

The place was not overcrowded and Paolo and Venetia sat down for dinner in a corner far away from the dance floor. They were given the house appetiser with the compliments of the chef, which consisted of thin slices of
Buttariga
and
Pane
Carasau.

‘I've never had this before. What is it, Paolo?' Venetia broke off a mouthful and tasted it.

‘
Buttariga
is smoked mullet caviar marinated in olive oil.
Pane
carasau
is also known as
Carta di Musica
, music bread, because it's so dry and thin that it resembles pages of a score. The shepherds combine it with tomato sauce and eggs, so it makes a hearty dish that they call
pane frattau
.'

‘I really love this. I'll buy some
Buttariga
to take back with me. I'm sure my friend Francesca will be amused – she's a great one for trying new things.'

‘It keeps for months, so does the music bread.'

The waiter, when he came to take their order, recommended the homemade
carraxiu
, which he explained was achieved by laying a suckling pig, a calf, or a lamb in a hole dug in the ground and covering it with aromatic myrtle leaves. ‘The pile is then covered with firewood which gradually cures the meat,
e ne fa una prelibatezza davvero succulenta,
and makes it a really succulent delicacy
.
Tonight,
signore
e
signorina
, it is suckling pig
.
'

Paolo looked at Venetia. ‘So let's try this truly “succulent delicacy”, yes,
cara
?'

‘Why not? I'm all for having a totally Sardinian night.'

Paolo glanced up at the waiter. ‘And what do you suggest for the main course?'

The man nodded courteously. ‘
Costata di Vitello alla griglia con Funghi Spadellati, Crème brûlée di Mais.
In Sardinia we have a great variety of mushrooms. This dish is made with the
dittula
mushroom, which is rare and has a most delicate flavour.'

They both ordered the grilled veal with mushrooms and Paolo requested a bottle of the local red wine,
Torbato
, which came from the region of Alghero where they had arrived by plane that morning.

The service was quick and the food delicious. Soon Venetia had forgotten about Allegra with her fiery black eyes, Antonio, Rufus and the incident of the torn dress, their near car crash – everything but the present, with its music and fun and laughter. She was enjoying every moment with a new gusto – that of a healthy young woman who felt good about herself and about the man who was sitting at her side, gazing at her with adoring eyes.

Soaking up the romantic atmosphere, Venetia smiled back at Paolo. ‘So, aren't you going to tell me any more legends?'

‘If that's what you'd like,
cara
, I will oblige,' he said, grinning and lighting a cigarette as they waited for their coffee. ‘There's a very famous legend about the Gulf of Cagliari, which is called “Bay of Angels”. As the visitor comes into the Port of Cagliari from the sea, the first image that appears is the promontory of St Elias. Its most distinctive aspect is a limestone ridge at the top of the hill – it's called “
Sella del Diavolo”
. Legend has it that after the seven days of Creation, God decided to give the angels a land where they could live in peace, with the condition that it had to be a place where there were no wars or evil. The angels searched long, until they came down on our earth and discovered the Gulf of Cagliari with its emerald sea, its green vegetation, and the pure white of its cliffs.

‘“Here is our uncontaminated place,” the Archangel Gabriel said, “we will make it our city of love and peace.”

‘The angels settled in what is known today as the Bay of Angels but this prompted the envy and anger of Lucifer who, before he was cast out of Heaven, rode his horse and, with his army of demons, declared war on the angels. The angels then brought about a storm, creating big waves in the Gulf and they made Lucifer fall from his horse. Archangel Gabriel rose into the air with his shining sword and the defeated Lucifer in fury threw off the saddle of his black steed. The saddle immediately petrified, forming the promontory known today as “The Devil's Saddle”. '