Chapter 4
I did not tell Oscar about sighting Miss Wheeler and Mr. Defoe on the broken-down boat.
I wanted to be one hundred percent certain before mentioning her name to him.
He’d been low in spirits after our Scotland jaunt ended, and although he didn’t admit being hurt by her rejection of his offer to leave Defoe’s employ and join us, I suspected it was the reason for his melancholy.
He’d hid it well. He pretended to be cheerful.
He joined in lively debates at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, and smiled often.
But when he thought no one was looking, his smiles faded and his gaze grew distant.
Either he was pining for the sort of adventure we’d had in Edinburgh or for Miss Wheeler. Perhaps both.
We checked into our rooms in the Grande Hotel, situated on the lakefront promenade in the pretty village of Monteoro. I’d not even finished unpacking when Oscar knocked on my door.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Not quite.” I invited him in while I retrieved my hat. “Have you got the map?”
He removed it from his inside jacket pocket, waved it around, then pocketed it.
“Have you studied the route?”
“We’ll do it on the way.” At my doubtful look, he added, “I know which direction to set off in. Trust me, Gavin. We won’t get lost.”
“It’s very hot out.”
“That’s why we have summer hats.” He touched the brim of his straw boater and nodded pointedly at mine, perched on top of my valise.
I picked it up. “I’m not sure it’s wise to go to the abbey now. It’s growing late.”
“It won’t be dark for hours.”
I surrendered and followed him out of the room, not because my concerns were allayed, but because he had an air of tenacity about him. I knew from experience that when he set his mind on something, he rarely changed it.
After the journey from Milan, I’d wanted to spend what remained of the day sightseeing in Monteoro before enjoying a hearty meal in the hotel’s terrace restaurant, but that would have to wait.
The abbey and its book beckoned Oscar. Setting aside my concerns, I was rather excited, too.
Exploring a centuries-old library appealed to every fiber of my being.
We passed other hotels, large and small, as well as restaurants setting up for the evening.
Tourists promenaded along the lake’s edge, the ladies clutching parasols with one hand and their companion’s arm with the other.
The shops on the main street mostly sold souvenirs, their signs declaring them locally made in English as well as Italian, and sometimes German.
The village’s roots as a fishing hub were almost obliterated by the infrastructure required to support tourism, but there were still some wooden rowboats bobbing on the wash created by the paddle steamer ferry gliding toward the dock.
Oscar consulted his map then pointed up a narrow alley squeezed between buildings. “This way is faster and won’t have much traffic.”
It had no traffic. Ancient cobblestoned steps made it impossible for wheeled vehicles to traverse even if they could fit.
We soon left the busy promenade behind and passed through the bowels of Monteoro where tourists had no reason to venture.
Unlike the perfect face shown to the tourists at the lakeshore, the aging stone walls looming on either side of us bore the stories of the village’s history in the scrapes, gouges and, in one case, what I suspected was a bullet hole.
Overhead, the band of blue sky was broken only by the washing strung between balconies on either side of the alley.
The steady rhythm of our footsteps, joined by the labored rhythm of my breathing, was accompanied by the distant baritone of a man singing.
Despite the high walls protecting us from the blazing sun, my shirt soon dampened.
I pondered the propriety of removing my jacket but hadn’t reached a conclusion when a stocky man carrying a large sack across his broad shoulders emerged from a door.
Oscar and I flattened ourselves against the wall to let him pass.
I was glad for the reprieve from the continuous uphill climb.
“You said this way is faster,” I huffed out between breaths.
“Shorter not faster.” Oscar didn’t sound in the least out of breath.
“You did say faster.”
“I won’t argue with your memory, Gavin. Anyway, what did you expect from a village with the word mont in the name?” He set off again. “Come on, it’s not far.”
It felt far, and once we reached the top where the narrow lane opened to a wider street, I was disappointed to see it also ran uphill, albeit at a gentler slope. I pressed a hand to my aching side. “This village will be the death of me.”
“Be thankful we only have to visit the abbey once.” Oscar pointed to a small piazza across the street. “There’s a drinking fountain.”
I removed my handkerchief from my pocket and patted my damp forehead then followed him to the stone fountain in the middle of the piazza.
The water revived me a little and we set off again, following the route out of the village that climbed ever upwards.
I silently cursed the religious orders for desiring the highest locations for their establishments.
Surely they could commune with God from the flats just as well as the peaks.
We passed a branch of the road with a faded sign pointing downhill to where the gravel lane snaked upon itself before disappearing altogether.
I could just make out the word Pecco. That must be the direction to Monteoro’s sister village.
According to our Baedecker, Pecco was a quaint fishing village that had avoided being overrun by tourists, unlike its larger neighbor.
The guidebook said it was worth the walk from Monteoro to experience an authentic Lake Como village.
We didn’t take that branch. We continued ever upward along the narrow road bordered by low stone walls.
Lush vegetation kept the air cooler than I expected, but I remained thoroughly soaked in my own sweat.
A few steps ahead of me, Oscar stopped to remove his jacket.
I followed suit and took a moment to take in the view while restoring air to my depleted lungs.
Below us, Monteoro nestled on the shore of the glistening lake, its ochre roofs and church spires like a cluster of jewels.
The largest building, the Villa Corzoni on the southern end, was the diamond among them.
“Stunning,” Oscar said.
“Indeed.” I drew in a deep breath before continuing on.
We passed a pair of intrepid English tourists coming down the hill, hiking sticks aiding their steps.
They informed us we didn’t have far to go to reach the abbey and kindly offered us sips from their canteen.
Thankfully, they weren’t exaggerating, and we soon caught glimpses of the bell tower through the olive trees, then finally the abbey complex, squatting on the crest of the hill.
A monk stationed at the gatehouse beckoned to a fellow monk nearby.
The second one greeted us in English and, after we explained the reason for our visit, led us across the forecourt littered with leaves and potholes to a covered ambulatory that ran the length of one side of the cloister.
The vaulted stone walkway provided some welcome shade which hopefully the two monks toiling in the courtyard garden would have the opportunity to appreciate soon.
Their faces were red from the heat, their movements slow as they pulled weeds and grass out of one of the garden beds.
There were more weeds growing in the cracks in the paths, but going by their size, it seemed the monks had decided to leave them there a long time ago.
Our echoing footsteps were the only sound in the peaceful abbey.
It wouldn’t have always been so empty. Centuries ago, when it kept a patriarchal eye over its flock from its hilltop perch, thirty or forty monks would have lived and worked here.
I counted only four, including our guide, all looking as worn out as the crumbling walls.
The abbey librarian I’d been corresponding with for the past year had stipulated that we speak to the abbot upon our arrival, and it was to the abbot’s office we were taken.
Aside from an iron candelabra and large wooden cross on the wall, three buckets had been positioned on the floor in the spartan room.
It took me a moment to realize they were there to catch drips on rainy days.
A tall man with gray flecks in the ring of hair beneath his shaved tonsure stood at the desk and welcomed us in heavily accented English. The bulging eyes studied us with unnerving intensity and the serious downturn of his mouth had me thinking he didn’t like what he saw.
“Thank you for receiving us, Father Abbot,” Oscar began.
“Welcome to Abbazia di San Vittore al Lago. If I knew you were coming today, I would be more prepared. Your letter did not say, Signore Barratt.”
I waited for Oscar to remind him that it was me who’d been corresponding with the abbey librarian, not Oscar. But he did not.
He gave a slight bow. “Our apologies, Father Abbot.”
The abbot indicated the door. “Please, let us go to the library now. It is late.”
I wasn’t sure if he was admonishing us for visiting at such an hour or if he was concerned that we should be heading back to the village in the dark.
We followed him out of the office, along the corridor to another room, this one much more to my liking.
The walls under the vaulted ceiling were lined with packed bookshelves, and tall windows let in enough light for reading at the slanted wooden tables darkened with age.
I breathed deeply, drawing in the scent of parchment, ink and beeswax, the latter from the many candles in the room.
Despite the stone floor, the room was comforting, cozy, just as I imagined a medieval abbey library to be.