During the spring of 1948, the Serrati family moved into their new house. Rachele was over the moon at having two bathrooms and an ultra-modern kitchen with electricity. She threw parties to show off to her friends, became more cheerful.
One morning at breakfast the post was brought in by Antonio, who was now wearing a livery: black trousers and a striped green waistcoat, which fitted tightly around his slim waist. He looked good in it, thought Vittoria. She was almost sixteen now, her body developing from a child’s into that of a woman: breasts rounding and ripening, hips taking on a female curve, her mind prickling with awareness of the opposite sex.
He caught her eye and smiled, his black eyes warm. He was her only real friend in this house. When her mother died she had knelt by the bed, sobbing, until Carlo told her gruffly to go to her room and rest. He wasn’t unkind, but he had never loved her mother: he had begun by resenting her and had ended indifferent to her. He didn’t share Vittoria’s grief. She had stumbled out, almost blind with crying, and collided with Antonio, who held her, wordlessly comforting, stroking her hair, while she wept on his thin chest.
‘She’s dead, Mamma is dead. And the baby, the poor little baby, it looks so small and white, like a wax doll. Mamma …’ In a wail, she cried, ‘Nobody here wants me. I’m all alone.’
They had both heard Carlo opening the bedroom door and had sprung apart. Vittoria had run along the winding corridors to her room. Carlo would have been shocked if he had seen a servant putting his arms ar
ound her. Ever since, she and Antonio had had an unspoken bond.
She smiled back at him now, knowing that Carlo was looking at the letters and would not notice. If he did, he wouldn’t approve. She had to be careful when he was around.
‘Who do you know in Switzerland?’ Carlo asked, holding out a letter with a Swiss stamp.
‘Nobody.’ She stared blankly, her mind still on Antonio, who had left the room.
‘You must know somebody – this is addressed to you.’ He tossed her the expensive cream envelope.
She had only to glance at the black, scrawling handwriting to know who it was from. ‘Olivia!’ she said, her eyes brightening. ‘I wonder what she’s doing in Switzerland?’
‘Open it and find out!’ Carlo teased – he was in a very good mood. Was Rachele pregnant again? Vittoria wondered, slitting open the envelope. Please, God, don’t let her lose this one. The atmosphere in this house would change dramatically if Rachele had a child. Even Vittoria could see that the woman was born to be a mother: her face showed the ache of emptiness, of need. Put a baby in her arms and Rachele would be transformed with joy.
‘Olivia … She’s the aristocratic one, isn’t she? Lives in a palazzo? One of the families whose names are written in the Golden Book of Venice?’ Carlo’s tone was faintly derisive: he had often been snubbed by members of the aristocracy and looked down on as a tradesman.
Defensively, Vittoria said, ‘That’s what Olivia told me, but I don’t even know if the Golden Book still exists. I don’t think it matters any more anyway.’
‘Oh, it matters – to the upper classes,’ Carlo said, mouth twisting. ‘They never stop thinking about their long history. Just because their families were around in the Middle Ages, and their names were written in this book Venice kept to make sure that only the right families got into government, these aristocrats look down on people like us, Vittoria. We’re vulgar manufacturers, we aren’t blue-blooded, we don’t live off the money our ancestors made. We get our hands dirty working to create wealth for this country, for our employees.’ He looked down at the letter in her hand. ‘Well, is your friend on holiday in Switzerland?’
He took a crisp hot roll from the basket in the centre of the table, spread it with black cherry jam and bit into it aggressively, with his big, white, teeth.
‘No, she’s at school there – well, she calls it a finishing school, very grand, she says, and she’s having a wonderful time. It’s not like being at school at all. She’s got a beautiful view of a lake from her window. The school’s at Lausanne – where’s that?’
He snorted. ‘Do they teach you geography at that school of yours? Lausanne’s on Lake Geneva, just inside the Swiss border with France.’
His mind wandered, as it always did, back to his obsession with work. ‘The Swiss drug companies have a big slice of the international market and it will be years before we catch up – but we will, I shall make sure of that. There’s a long road ahead of us. We need forward planning, and friends in high places, to take advantage of our position in Italy. Then we can expand into the rest of Europe.’ He drank some more of the fragrant black coffee, then said, ‘How long does your friend say she’s staying in Switzerland?’
Vittoria consulted the letter again. ‘Two years. Until she’s eighteen. She’s the same age as me – she was in my class at the convent school in Venice.’
Carlo tapped the fingertips of one hand on the table, frowning down at the roll on his plate. ‘How would you like to join her in Switzerland?’
Vittoria was so taken aback that for a minute or two she wasn’t sure what to say. She had never thought of going away again – she liked her present school and would miss her friends – but it would be a relief to escape the dark moods in this house, Rachele’s weeping and Carlo’s thunderous tempers. And she would be with Olivia – the only peaceful years of her life had been spent in Venice, with Olivia and Gina.
‘Won’t it be terribly expensive?’ she asked, uncertainly.
Carlo gave an assured shrug. ‘Don’t worry about that, we can afford it. The factory is doing better every year and I’ve almost finished paying for the new buildings. We make more money now than we ever did before the war. Look, I’ll ring the school and ask them to send us a prospectus.’
‘I think I would like to go. I wonder if I’ll learn to ski.’
‘I expect you’ll have to – they get a lot of snow. You’ll enjoy yourself, and you can be useful to me, too.’
‘Useful?’
‘One of our chief rivals has a factory in Lausanne. You might be able to pick up whispers of new ideas.’
She was astonished. ‘Spy, you mean? But … I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘Just keep your ears open. Anything you notice or hear could be useful, any gossip about new drugs they’re developing. The local people will work in the factory. When you go into town to a cafe or a cinema, you might overhear something interesting. But be careful! Don’t let anyone guess what you’re up to, even your friend from Venice. Not a word to a soul, Vittoria.’