The Italian Bookshop Among the Vines

Contents Title PageCopyrightDedicationEpigraphPART ONE: A Perfect Place: 1921–1929CHAPTER 1: Monterini 1921CHAPTER 2CHAPTER 3CHAPTER 4CHAPTER 5CHAPTER 6CHAPTER 7CHAPTER 8CHAPTER 9CHAPTER 10PART TWO: Forbidden Love: 1937–1943CHAPTER 11CHAPTER 12CHAPTER 13CHAPTER 14CHAPTER 15CHAPTER 16CHAPTER 17CHAPTER 18CHAPTER 19CHAPTER 20CHAPTER 21CHAPTER 22CHAPTER 23CHAPTER 24CHAPTER 25CHAPTER 26CHAPTER 27PART THREE: Jacopo and His Angel: 1943–1946CHAPTER 28CHAPTER 29CHAPTER 30CHAPTER 31CHAPTER 32CHAPTER 33CHAPTER 34CHAPTER 35CHAPTER 36CHAPTER 37CHAPTER 38CHAPTER 39CHAPTER 401946AcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorAbout Embla Books First published in Great Britain in 2023 byBonnier Books UK Limited4th Floor, Victoria House, Bloomsbury Square, London, WC1B 4DAOwned by Bonnier BooksSveavägen 56, Stockholm, SwedenCopyright © Amanda Weinberg, 2023All rights reserved.No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.The right of Amanda Weinberg to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.ISBN: 978-1-4714-1459-6This book is typeset using Atomik ePublisherEmbla Books is an imprint of Bonnier Books UKwww.bonnierbooks.co.uk For Natasha for believing in this book, and for Elena In love is found the secret in divine unity.It is love that unites the higherand the lower stages of existence,that raises the lower to the level of the higher –where all become fused into one.The Zohar PART ONEA Perfect Place: 1921–1929 CHAPTER 1Monterini 1921Silence weighed as heavy as the heat.It was the hour of siesta. Olive trees balancing on the parched earth provided shelter for sagging vines. Beyond the river, a golden mound of tufo burst heavenwards. From the seams of this limestone rock, Monterini sprouted; hectic, unplanned, a mélange of rooftops and church spires.The sun sliced through gaps between houses, toasting washing draped across poles in every via and vicolo. To remain outside in the sweltering afternoon was considered foolhardy, so the villagers escaped to the coolness of their homes, the comfort of their beds.Except for two men.In one of the cobbled streets that crisscrossed the village they waited, in silence. Unaware of the dust settling on his clothes, Jacopo Levi sat on a wooden stool, lower back pressed against a stone wall. His suit and shirt clung to his back. He loosened his tie and reached up to remove his hat. He used it to fan his face, then with the back of his hand, wiped away the garland of sweat moistening his forehead. He breathed deeply, staring ahead of him at the black shutters of his house. He replaced his hat on his head and, from the inside of his jacket pocket, removed a small, leather-bound prayer book. He thumbed through the pages, lips moving silently. ‘Eso Enei. Eso Enei.’ Next to him, shuffling on a stool too small for his limbs, sat his neighbour Angelo Ghione. He was gazing up at a house with grey shutters. The skin of Angelo’s face was pockmarked and toughened by the sun. His hair, the colour and texture of sand, was covered with a cloth cap. His blue overalls were pinned up with string. He was a farm worker, one of the contadini.From Angelo’s left hand hung a rosary. It was his mother’s. Jacopo knew Angelo had carried it with him since the day she’d died, hiding it in his pocket, so no one would notice this female ritual. Now his fingers shamelessly played with the tiny, black beads.Angelo shook his head from side to side, muttering, ‘What a heat wave, I could do with a drink.’ His eyes wandered up and down Via Meravigliosa as if hoping a door would open and a neighbour would spare a mouthful of pasta, a sip of espresso. Jacopo smiled, then returned his gaze to his prayer book. The streets remained silent, save for the pattering of a dog’s paws on the San Gianni path.The houses were set back from the street, reached by a flight of uneven steps. Like a bridge across two continents, a veranda stretched from the black to the grey door, uniting them. Terracotta pots of geraniums covered the chipped, tiled floor and sunflowers trailed over the iron railing supporting the steps.Behind the grey door lived Angelo Ghione and his wife Santina. Behind the other lived the Levis. To escape from the sweltering heat, Jacopo and Angelo had moved their stools into the cool shade of the narrow street. Here, they waited as the hours mingled into the stillness of the afternoon.A scream disturbed the tranquillity. Jacopo raised his gaze towards the black shutters of his wife’s bedroom; they remained tightly closed. Angelo made the sign of the cross and peered at the shutters of his house. A hand appeared between them, wrinkled, covered with brown liver spots, and moved the shutters apart. They flew open and a face appeared, red, with uncombed hair pressed against the forehead. It was Clara Todi, the village midwife. ‘Angelo. Un maschio. Vieni.’ Voice and face faded into the blackness of the room.The two men turned their heads towards each other. Their eyes met. Angelo removed his cap and wiped the sweat gathering at his temples. His rosary slipped from his grasp, the beads cascading down the cobbled street , the sunlight reflecting off them in a ripple of coloured waves. He picked up and kissed the small, silver cross.‘Thank you, Virgin Mary, mother of God.’Jacopo closed his Hebrew prayer book and placed it in his suit pocket. ‘So, yours is first then,’ he chanted as if still praying.‘A son? My son? And so soon!’ A ladder of creases appeared at the corner of Angelo’s eyes. He attempted to rise but sank back onto his stool. ‘My legs are shaking; I can hardly stand.’‘Vieni, I’ll help you.’ Jacopo placed one hand under Angelo’s elbow and the other behind his back. Resting his