The Summer of the Firefly - 1. Chapter 1

Traffic flashed by as the car ploughed its way along the shimmering Autostrada. Beyond the parched embankment, past straggly shrubs weighed down with dust and oil and scatterings of litter, the tenements of Naples scrolled past with endless uniformity. Gianni pressed a hand against the window and watched numbly as the cracked and shabby buildings, with washing strung across the balconies and potted plants wilting in the July sunshine, slipped by one by one.

“It’ll be okay,” the driver said, “don’t worry.”

Gianni, who had been lost in thought, turned to see a pair of dark brown eyes looking back at him in the rear-view mirror.

The driver – Pietro, that was his name, Gianni remembered – grinned reassuringly at his passenger. He was a good-looking young man, with the deeply bronzed look of someone who spent much of his time out in the Mediterranean sun. He wore a navy blue shirt with a floral pattern, whose sleeves he kept rolled up to just above his elbows, freeing his brown arms to rest on the steering wheel. A pair of designer sunglasses was perched on his forehead just in front of his immaculately styled black hair, while bright stars of sunlight glinted off his wristwatch as he drove, making Gianni squint.

“Marina and Vittorio are good people,” Pietro insisted. “A bit old-fashioned, maybe, but they’ll take good care of you. As to Anna, well, she can’t wait to meet you.”

Anna – that was his cousin, Gianni recalled after a moment’s thought, and this young man’s fiancée. He still hadn’t managed to sort out all the new information in his head: in truth, his mind still dwelt upon his familiar old semi-detached house in west London, and the parents that he’d left behind.

“I’ve never even met my grandparents,” Gianni replied at length.

Pietro nodded. “So Anna told me,” he said. “I know a lot was left unsaid between Marina and your mother, but they’re family. Marina barely spoke for days after she first heard about the accident.”

The accident – the details of that were still hazy in Gianni’s mind, too. He remembered the beach: they’d spent the weekend in Bournemouth as a birthday treat for Gianni, where they had bought pizza for lunch, and Gianni had enjoyed an ice cream on the promenade. When he had dropped the last bit of the melting ice cream, smearing it down his t-shirt in great globs, his father had laughed, calling him a “twit” and ruffling his hair. His mother, reflecting on her son’s teenage clumsiness with a resigned smile, had fished a tissue out of her handbag so he could clean himself up.

Gianni also remembered driving home on the M3. They had been listening to a local radio station, which had been playing a load of 1980s ‘pop classics’ by artists like Paul McCartney, Duran Duran and the Pet Shop Boys; Gianni had called his father ‘lame’ for singing along (“Because Lady Gaga and Take That are so much better,” Dad had teased).

But, after that, there was nothing. All Gianni could recall was waking up in the hospital bed, his head in bandages, to see the round, tear-stained face of Mrs. Deakes, their kindly neighbour and sometime babysitter, watching over him.

“Gianni, thank goodness,” she had said breathlessly, grasping his hand.

The ward was gloomy, and there was a hard, clinical smell to the air. Looking out through the gap between the green curtains that surrounded his bed and seeing no-one else nearby, Gianni said, “What happened? Where are Mum and Dad?”

To Gianni’s confusion, Mrs. Deakes didn’t answer him. Instead, she turned away, and cried, “Doctor! He’s awake!”

An efficient-looking young Afro-Caribbean woman with tightly plaited hair and a spotless white coat came hurrying into the cubicle. “Hello, Gianni,” she said with a practiced smile, “I’m Dr. Reid. I’m glad to see you’re back with us.”

“You’ve been out for hours,” Mrs. Deakes interjected. “I was so worried!”

Dr. Reid approached Gianni’s bedside. “Now, I need you to be still for a few minutes while I check a few things,” she said. “Can you do that for me?”

Dr. Reid proceeded to undertake a brisk examination of the reluctant Gianni, who squirmed uncomfortably as he was prodded and probed in search of injuries. Dr. Reid checked his temperature, made sure that he had feeling in his hands and feet, and checked that he could wriggle his toes. When she had finished, she stood back, looking reassured by her findings.

“You’re a very lucky young man,” she said. “You don’t seem to have sustained any serious injuries, aside from a spot of concussion, although we’ll want to keep you here for a little while to be sure.”

None of this made any sense to Gianni. “I don’t understand,” he repeated, “where are my parents?”

Dr. Reid’s efficient, businesslike air faltered. She sat down on a stool to one side of Gianni’s bed and looked down for a moment to adjust her lapels, as if gathering herself. Silently, Mrs. Deakes continued to hold Gianni’s hand.

“I’m afraid there was an accident, Gianni,” the young doctor said gently. “Your family’s car was involved in a collision with another vehicle.”

For a moment, Gianni could make no sense of her words; he stared aimlessly for a couple of seconds at the strip light in the ceiling, noticing in a vague sort of way how it flickered at either end.

“Gianni...?” Dr. Reid prompted gently.

Slowly, the implications of what he’d just been told began to unfold in Gianni’s mind. Glancing at Mrs. Deakes, he found that she was crying. He tried to speak, but found at first that he couldn’t.

“Are they okay?” he managed at length, a tight knot forming in his stomach.

Dr. Reid shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She paused, awkwardly. “But I’m told it was quick. They’ll have felt very little pain.”

Dr. Reid dropped her gaze and became very interested in inspecting her hands, but Gianni, whose brain seemed to have come to a complete standstill, continued to gaze at her for several seconds. The information was too much to comprehend – it didn’t compute.

Reaching desperately for practical matters, Gianni turned to Mrs. Deakes, brow furrowed.

“Where will I go?” he asked.

Mrs. Deakes sobbed loudly and, before Dr. Reid could stop her, flung her arms around the unsuspecting Gianni, who was lifted off his pillow with a gasp. Her ragged breath was hot on the back of his neck, which became damp with her tears as she spoke between sobs.

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” she said. “We’ll take care of you.”

That night, Gianni was left alone. Having told him to get some rest, Mrs. Deakes went home, promising to return in the morning. Gianni, however, didn’t sleep. A great numbness had settled upon him, and he lay facing the green privacy curtain, which faded to grey in the bleak traces of light that filtered in from the corridor, his bandaged head throbbing dully, and tried to remember the events leading up to the accident: they wouldn’t come, as if a part of his memory had simply died away.

* * *

The next day, Mrs. Deakes returned, accompanied by a smartly dressed woman in her forties with copper-coloured, dyed-looking hair. Taking a seat next to Gianni’s bed and opening a briefcase, the woman smiled sympathetically.

“Good morning, Gianni,” she said. “My name is Carole; I’m a social worker with the council. We need to talk about what happens next.”

Settling into what looked like a familiar routine, Carole began to ask Gianni a series of questions.

“Your full name is Gianni Fortuna?”

“Yes,” Gianni answered listlessly.

“And you’re fifteen years old?”

“Just.”

Carole nodded. “Apart from your parents, Paul and Francesca, do you have any other family in England?”

Gianni had to think for several seconds to find the answer.

“No,” he replied at length, “I don’t think so.”

“We haven’t been able to trace any either,” Carole said. She paused to add a few notes to the paperwork in her lap. “Gianni,” she said after a few moments, “here’s what I think we should do. There is the option of foster care here in the UK, or possibly adoption...”

“Adoption?” Gianni repeated bleakly.

Carole nodded. “Yes, but it’s unusual in young people your age, and I’m not convinced that that would be the best solution for you.” She paused. “I’d like to try and get in touch with your family in Italy. How would you feel about that?”

“I dunno,” Gianni replied. “I guess.”

“Can you speak Italian? Fluently?” Carole pressed.

Gianni shrugged. “I’m okay.”

“And do you know how I can contact them?”

Gianni shook his head, making it throb once again.

Carole nodded patiently. “All right,” she said. “I’ll need to go back to the office and make some calls. But, in the mean time, can you think of anyone at all who could help us look after you?”

Gianni felt tired and woolly-headed. He frowned, but couldn’t gather his thoughts. At length, he gave up, and replied “I’m not sure.”

“Let me,” Mrs. Deakes interjected. “I’ll look after Gianni, until... everything’s sorted.”

Carole gave Mrs. Deakes an appraising look. “You’re the neighbour?”

“Yes. And a friend,” she added. “I’ve known Gianni since he was little.”

“All right,” Carole said. “You’ll understand that we’ll need to do some paperwork?”

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Deakes replied.

Once she had taken Mrs. Deakes’ full details, Carole left, promising to be in touch soon. Mrs. Deakes gave Gianni’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

“You’ll be all right with me,” she said.

Carole returned a couple of days later. She explained to Gianni that she had been in touch with his grandparents in the Naples area, who had agreed to take him, and that he was to go to them as soon as he was fit to travel. Carole assured Gianni that the family’s solicitor had been contacted, and that the estate would be taken care of – Gianni hadn’t really understood what she meant, but he had thanked her anyway.

When Gianni was ready to be discharged from hospital, Mrs. Deakes came to collect him. She hugged Gianni tightly as they met in the foyer, then lifted his hair off his forehead to inspect his healing injury.

“You’re going to have a scar there,” she said with a smile, “but don’t worry. Girls like that sort of thing – it’ll make you seem all interesting.”

Right now, Gianni couldn’t think of anything less important, but, recognising that she meant well, he offered her a weak smile in return.

Mrs. Deakes took Gianni straight to the funeral. Of this, Gianni recalled few of the details; he remembered wandering around, feeling like an alien, while his father’s business colleagues and his mother’s academic friends gave him their condolences. He knew he should be crying, but he couldn’t; none of it seemed real. All that Gianni really remembered was that Mrs. Deakes had been there, by his side, for the whole time, and for that much he was grateful.

That evening, Mrs. Deakes took Gianni home, to pack. Wandering the house while Mrs. Deakes waited in the hall, Gianni was disconcerted to find everything strangely unchanged: Mum’s dressing gown cast onto the still unmade bed, and Dad’s reading glasses lying half-unfolded next to an empty coffee mug on the dining room table, as if nothing unusual had happened. Numbly, Gianni went to his bedroom and packed some clothes, his iPod, some family photos, a pen and pencil, a notepad and a few of his favourite books, before taking one last glance around the room with its laden shelves and general teenage clutter, as if to say farewell.

As he returned to the hall, his laden rucksack dangling off one shoulder, Mrs. Deakes pressed a small parcel, wrapped in crumpled brown paper, into his hands.

“This came yesterday, from the picture framers,” she said quietly. “The postman told me it got damaged at the sorting office – he was very apologetic. I think it was meant to be a birthday present, but your parents never got a chance to collect it.”

Taking the rectangular parcel, Gianni saw a glimpse of colour beneath the torn brown paper. He ripped the damaged paper off, revealing a neatly gift wrapped package decorated with a pattern of brightly coloured balloons, which he began carefully to unwrap.

The package contained a simple black picture frame. Mounted inside the frame was a small tapestry, embroidered with a pattern of silver stars and message. Gianni read the tapestry as he knelt to drop the scrunched-up wrapping paper into the waste paper bin.

“Life can be complicated, but be true to your friends and loved ones, show kindness and understanding and never be cruel, and you will deserve no cruelty; most of all, always be true to yourself. Love others, and you too will be loved as we have loved you.”

Gianni gazed in silence his mother’s careful stitching, and felt a prickling in the corners of his eyes as the tears that had so far eluded him finally threatened to break free. Blinking them back, he looked up at Mrs. Deakes, who was smiling sadly.

“Thanks,” he said thickly.

Carefully sliding the framed tapestry between the clothes in his bag, Gianni glanced around once more at the family home that he had known for fifteen years, and prepared to leave it for the last time. Slipping an arm around his shoulders, Mrs. Deakes led him gently out into the street.

* * *

The strident, twin-tone horn of a passing truck and a blast of hot, dry air through the slightly open window brought Gianni back to the present day, and he saw that they had emerged from between the dusty embankments into more open surroundings. Pietro was singing quietly to himself in the driver’s seat. As the sun-baked tenements fell back from the road and gave way to dense clusters of smaller houses, Gianni became aware of a great, looming land mass in the distance, rising out of the flat ground around it like a giant limpet shell.

“Is that Vesuvius?” Gianni asked.

Pietro nodded. “Sure is.”

Gianni brushed a lock of dark hair out of his eye – Mum had been saying that it was getting too long – and surveyed the endless suburbs sprawling out over the plain below the mountain. Above them, the dormant volcano continued to draw his gaze, quietly menacing in its unmoving nature.

“All these people”, he said, gesturing out over the plain, “don’t they worry?”

Pietro chuckled. “Pompeii was a long time ago,” he said. “So many people live here now that everyone assumes they must be safe.”

“It couldn’t happen here,” Gianni mused.

“Exactly,” Pietro nodded. “But you won’t need to worry about Vesuvio where we’re going – we’ll be on the other side of the mountains.”

Pietro gestured out through the far window. Following Pietro’s lead, Gianni looked across and saw a vast, undulating, tree-covered ridge rising steeply out of the plain.

“Up there...?” he said, peering up towards the rugged summit.

“And beyond,” Pietro replied. “We’ve got a way to go yet.”

They fell back into silence. Gianni returned to watching the unfurling landscape, and Pietro turned on the radio. Gianni recognised some of Dad’s favourite ‘pop classics’, mixed in with unfamiliar Italian pieces and strange cover versions of familiar songs, sometimes in English, sometimes not; from time to time, Pietro sang or whistled along. As Vesuvius receded into the distance, the repeated refrain of a melancholic eighties pop song drifted into Gianni’s consciousness.

Don't let me go...
Don't cry tonight...

Gianni let the music wash over him, lost in thought once more.

At length, the car left the dual carriageway and Vesuvius finally vanished from sight as they entered the busy main street of a small dormitory town. Gianni looked bleakly out at the crowded road, where the concrete apartment blocks that surrounded him amplified the sound of the passing cars, trucks and noisy two-stroke scooters to cacophonous proportions. As his parents had never had enough money for a big overseas holiday, Gianni had never been further from home than northern France, and everything he saw was unfamiliar. He began to wonder what his grandparents’ home would be like, and tried to imagine living in a shabby apartment building on a loud, dusty road such as this one.

Gianni reflected on this prospect for a while until, unexpectedly, they broke out of the town. Pietro steered the car onto a side road, then they slipped through a low bridge under the Autostrada and began to climb. Gianni watched with marginally greater hope as the apartment blocks and houses gave way to carefully ordered trees, and the road was engulfed in a working rural landscape, with the deep green mountains as an ever-present backdrop.

“Lemons,” Pietro said, gesturing at the netted groves bordering the road. Gianni looked more closely and saw the plump fruit hanging among the dark, shiny leaves, ripening from green to a vivid yellow in the relentless sun.

“I’ve never seen them growing before,” Gianni said.

“You’ll see a lot of them in these parts”, Pietro replied.

They had soon entered another small town. In the heart of the settlement, the steeply climbing road wound in a serpentine fashion between further scruffy apartment blocks, while at ground floor level an assortment of local bars, cafés, Tabacchi and grocery stores crowded around the narrow, congested street. At one point, Pietro had to halt the car to allow an improbably large lorry, loaded with logs, to navigate a tight bend as it made its way back down the hill towards the Autostrada while, on the pavements, the gregarious locals could be seen greeting friends or shouting enthusiastically down mobile telephones. Looking around, still uncomfortable, Gianni wondered what to expect from their final destination.

When they finally left the buildings behind them, the road began to twist and turn through a series of tight hairpin bends as they made their way onward up the mountain. Gianni’s eyes widened as a vast panorama opened out over the plains around Vesuvius, where a seemingly endless sprawl of densely packed housing stretched out towards the Bay of Naples, receding into a haze as it approached the coast.

“It’s incredible,” Gianni said.

Pietro grinned. “You should see it at night,” he said.

The road climbed on, getting ever higher and narrower as it clung to the side of the mountains, the hairpins getting sharper, the landscape getting wilder and the expanses of Naples receding further down below as they gained altitude. At length, Gianni became aware that they were approaching two imposing rocky crags, atop one of which stood an ancient, ruined stone fortification.

“The Valico di Chiunzi,” Pietro said proudly. “This is where we pass from one side of the mountains to the other.”

For a few moments, Gianni stared at the abandoned watchtower, trying to imagine armoured soldiers guarding the mountain pass in days of yore, but then they reached the foot of the rocky crag and the fortification disappeared from view. The panorama of Naples fell away for the last time, and Gianni cast his eyes forwards as they passed between the two rocky crags and into a verdant inner valley where, suddenly, layers of tree-covered peaks enclosed them from all sides. Gianni stared; more accustomed to the flat streets of London, he had never experienced a landscape so steeply undulating and yet so lush, despite the sweltering heat.

“Tramonti,” Pietro announced.

The valley of Tramonti was a broad and rugged expanse of trees and rocks. Scattered hamlets could be seen nestled between its many peaks, while signs at the roadside advertised the local vineyards. It felt to Gianni as if they had entered a different world, and he surveyed the scenery in silence as the road made its tortuous journey along the side of the valley. To Gianni the winding road seemed endless, but he didn’t mind; as the greenery spread out around him, he permitted himself to wonder whether a better life awaited him than he had first imagined.

After what seemed like an age, they climbed around the edge of a great rounded hill and into a narrow cleft, leaving the broad landscape of Tramonti behind them. Then the tree-covered peaks fell suddenly and steeply away, and Gianni became aware of a glint of blue, not that far away beyond the mountains.

“I can see the sea,” Gianni said, surprised.

Pietro gave a puzzled laugh, as if this were an odd thing to say. “Yes, that’s right,” he replied.

Gianni looked across at the driver. “Mum never told me about where she grew up,” he explained.

Pietro frowned. “Why not?”

“I don’t think she liked to talk about her childhood,” Gianni replied.

Pietro nodded as he caught Gianni’s meaning. “Because of your grandmother,” he said.

“Do you know what happened?” Gianni asked hopefully.

Pietro shook his head. “I’m not really the right person to ask,” he replied. “I’ve only heard parts of the story. Maybe Marina will be willing to tell you, if you ask her.”

Gianni gave a neutral shrug. Privately, he doubted that his grandmother would be any more willing to talk about their past than his mother had been.

They fell into silence again, and Gianni pressed his face to the window, watching the glint of blue draw closer. Soon, they had emerged on the side of another steep valley where, hundreds of metres below, a small town nestled enticingly at the distant waters’ edge, its terracotta roofs seeming to shine in the sunlight.

“Minori,” Pietro said, gesturing at the town.

“Is that where my grandparents live? Down by the water?” Gianni asked.

“Not exactly,” Pietro replied. “They live up in the hills above the coast, in Ravello.”

“Oh,” said Gianni, a little disappointed.

Perhaps sensing Gianni’s thoughts, Pietro grinned. “Don’t worry. You’re better off up in the hills, and the coast won’t be far away. From Ravello you can see all the way down to Minori, and further round the coast to Maiori, too.”

Gianni continued to eye the rooftops of Minori, which drew gradually nearer as they made their way down the side of the valley towards the coast. When, at length, the last of the mountains fell away, Gianni’s view opened out to reveal, far below, a vast expanse of sea of the brightest blue. To either side of Minori, the steeply undulating hills rose straight out of the water as if stretched out of the ocean floor by some divine hand.

“Here we go,” Pietro said.

Tearing his eyes away from the coastline down below, Gianni was confronted by an unexpected sight. Ahead, the first ancient villas and churches of Ravello clung to the side of the impossibly steep hill like barnacles clinging to a rock. Above and below, Gianni saw that even the steepest of slopes around the town had been cultivated, with olive trees and netted lemon plantations growing out of a hillside which had been carefully terraced, giving it the appearance of a flight of giant, leafy steps.

“San Martino,” said Pietro. “This is where my Anna lives.”

Soon, Gianni and Pietro had reached the edge of the crowded hillside community. So steep was the landscape that Gianni’s view of the sea was never blocked, the roofs of the properties below barely peeping up beyond the height of the railings that bordered the pavement. To either side, as Gianni looked around, flights of steps began to appear, leading invitingly in amongst the buildings.

“Do you like it?” Pietro said, glancing back in the rear-view mirror once more. Gianni nodded, temporarily struck for words.

The road continued along the hillside, the glittering sea down below drawing ever closer. Tarmac gave way to cobbles and small trees lined the street as the main road, which was signed to ‘Amalfi’, disappeared off into a tunnel under the hill. Onward they drove towards the distant water until, just as Gianni began to think that they might drop off the cliff if they went any further, Pietro finally drew the car to a halt.

“This is as far as we can go by car,” he said. “We’ll have to walk it from here.”

Pietro got out, stretched, and then opened the door for Gianni. Slowly, Gianni clambered out and then drifted straight to the railing, where he hung himself over the edge and stared out to the sky-blue sea. Pietro joined him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Welcome home.”