In the Wolf's Mouth (20 page)

‘I’m sure he is,’ Gem echoed. But you couldn’t say that and it didn’t help, pure corny sentiment. Ray wiped his sweating palms on his pants and kept walking.

‘That stuff,’ he said. ‘It’s better if you don’t ask.’

‘Okay. Whatever you say.’

‘I don’t want to crack up,’ Ray interrupted him. ‘You’ve seen those guys. How it gets.’

‘Yeah, no. Fuck that. That’s no good for anybody. Look, how far do you think I can throw this stone? You reckon I could hit that tree?’

That night they ate from the hospitality of one of the locals, a thin minestrone with hardly anything floating in its flavoured water.

Gem told the black-clad woman, ‘Just like my mamma makes.’

Ray said, ‘I think we should go to Palermo and start again from there. Otherwise we’ll be lost for ever.’

‘Could be worse.’

‘Or we don’t go back at all, how about that?’

‘Become deserters, you mean?’

‘That’s the way. Blend in. Disappear. Just watch it all happen.’

‘Become Sicilians. This old girl’s gotta have some daughters.’

The following day they were starting to get into the higher country. They passed between the flaking, bullet-pecked walls of a village and out into hills.

‘They look sorta soft, don’t they?’ Ray liked Gem enough now to share thoughts like this with him, odd, vulnerable thoughts that took some understanding. ‘The way they’re crumpled up, I mean.’

‘Yeah.’

Ray thought they looked like heaped cloths with long folds of shadow. ‘You could make a cowboy picture here. They’ve even got those cactuses.’

‘Prickly pears. And we got guns. Just need some Indians.’

‘Indians all ran away, thank Christ.’

‘Look up ahead. One of their trucks.’

‘Indians didn’t have no trucks.’

On the road about a hundred yards ahead of them was a burned-out truck, its green paint blistered by fire, its canvas gone but for charred shreds. As they approached it, Gem started to jog ahead to have a look. Always eager. Ray saw him jump up into the air and
apart in pieces. That was a strange thing for him to do. Ray felt a powerful hot wave overwhelm him. He saw one of Gem’s lower legs, the boot and the shin, whirling towards him, right at his face.

23

Ray woke up and opened his eyes. The immense, painful light of the sky dropped onto him. His mouth was full. He wrenched himself over onto his stomach and coughed, hawking hard to dislodge a gritty paste at the back of his tongue. He stood up and started walking, falling forwards and catching himself with each stride. He walked past the small crater and the remains, the colours strong in the sunlight, and past the truck, its shreds of canvas flickering madly, rasping in the breeze. He walked straight into that area so that he too would jump and disappear. But he didn’t. The world wouldn’t take him. He had to carry on hobbling over its hard surface, over rocks and into the wind.

He walked for some time, well clear of the area. His feet kept hitting the ground and he didn’t fall over. There were little itchy patches on his face and body. When he touched them, they were wet, loose or sticky. He walked over a hill and down to the right. The apparition of a large building. He walked towards it.

The building grew. It had three sides. No one stopped him as he approached. He went in through the door into a hallway as big as a museum. Overhead the ceiling swarmed with clouds and angels. In front of him, stone steps, round at the edges. They poured towards him.
He started walking up them. He wanted help, he supposed, but he didn’t call out for it. The silence was nicer. It was nice to be inside where it was quiet.

Corridors and furniture, gold-framed paintings leaning forwards off the walls like they wanted to look at him or tell him something. There were rooms to the sides of the corridor, widely spaced. The third of them had an open door. It was a lady’s bedroom. There was a dressing-table with a mirror and brushes and little bottles. Soft colours, patterns. So gentle and floral, he stepped inside. A bed. A chair, books. He reached out to touch a book and saw his fingers leave blood marks. He caught sight of his headless body in the dressing-table mirror. His uniform was stained. This made him want to cry.

The bed was extraordinary. An ornate silver frame had doves resting in curlicues of branches. The cover was of dark silver satin. He lifted it up, slippery between his fingers, and climbed in. The thick pillows slowly gave way under his head. He drew his knees up to his chest, pulled the cover over him and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, a young woman was sitting on the end of the bed, staring at him.

He tried to speak but his voice cracked. He coughed and tried again. ‘Don’t make me go back. I’m not going back. Don’t make me.’

24

‘You are American,’ she said.

Who are you? What is this place? Don’t make me go back.’

The young woman was smiling. Her skin was pale yellow. Her eyes were dark and glittering. She was breathing intensely through her smile, through her teeth. He said again, ‘Don’t make me go back.’

‘You are American soldier.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You are young.’

Some kind of shock went through his body, tightening every muscle. His feet pushed down, his hands gripped the cover. When the spasm let go of him, he sank back down, soft and weak. ‘Don’t make me go back. I ain’t going back.’

‘There is a place,’ she said. ‘Do you speak French? French is better.’

‘I don’t speak no French. Are you French?’

‘You put blood everywhere,’ she said. ‘The servant will want to know. But it is fine.’ She stood up from the bed and went over to the dressing table.

‘What?’ His head, as he raised it from the pillow, felt heavy and unstable. She had a small pair of scissors in her hand. Its little silver beak was open.

‘It is fine,’ she said and dashed the scissors against
her arm. She looked, unsatisfied, at the result. She did it again. ‘There,’ she said. ‘What an accident.’ She did it one last time and swore, throwing the scissors onto the floor. She held out her left arm and Ray could see blood tapering down to the ends of her fingers, hanging in red droplets. ‘See. Accident, look.’ She shook drops of blood onto the dressing table then walked over to the bed and wiped her hand on the covers and the pillow.

‘There is a place,’ she said in a whisper, leaning over him. ‘But you must make no sound. Why do you cry?’

‘Don’t,’ he said, holding the covers up to his chin. ‘Don’t hurt yourself.’

25

The Americans arrived from Palermo in a jeep. A message from their superiors in Messina had alerted the British in Sant’Attilio that they were coming.

Samuels led in three men, Major Kelly, his subordinate and the local contact. Kelly removed his hat to wipe his forehead and revealed dark red hair, the colour, Will thought, of a red setter’s. This made Will think of dogs and the black Lab, Teddy. How was he getting on back home? Major Kelly said, ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ He wore round spectacles. His skin was pale and blotched by the heat. Despite his American baritone, Major Kelly was clearly an Irishman, his parents or grandparents had been immigrants. Another American pretending to be an American. As an Englishman, Will could see what he was underneath. The underling was of the neat and healthy American type, square-headed with fair eyebrows and blue eyes watching the major to anticipate his needs. The third man was the local, a heavy, middle-aged man with large hands, slow and economical in his movements.

‘Shall we?’ Will said and led on to the room where a table was prepared with glasses, paper, ashtrays, and where the local police chief sat waiting with Sergeant Whelan of the Metropolitan Police Force.

The Sicilian absorbed his surroundings, raising his eyebrows. He reached out and touched the painted walls and felt the doorknob.

‘I won’t keep you long,’ said Major Kelly as he sat down. ‘Gentlemen.’ He nodded at the policemen. ‘I’m sure we’ve all got plenty to do getting Sicily back on her feet. I’m here to introduce you to Mr Albanese who is returning to Sant’Attilio after a long time. His anti-Fascist stance meant he had to flee to the land of freedom some twenty years ago.’

‘How do you do?’ said Will.

Major Kelly glanced up, surprised at the interruption. ‘Good, good. Get to know each other,’ he said and went on, ‘Mr Albanese has been of great aid to us, providing a good deal of useful information. He’s well connected here, of course, his family and so forth, and despite his long absence will be able to help you in the business of defascistification.’ Major Kelly whistled. ‘That’s a hell of a word. A man ought to be allowed a drink before he attempts it.’

‘Quite,’ Will said, thinking that of course Kelly, being an Irishman, would welcome that arrangement.

Albanese spoke suddenly. ‘Hey. You got a cigarette?’

‘Oh, surely.’ Will patted his pockets. ‘I’ve got some somewhere.’

‘Here.’ Samuels leaned across the table and offered his open packet, cigarettes steepled towards Albanese.

‘Thanks.’ The Sicilian then accepted a light offered by Kelly’s subordinate. ‘You Italian?’ Albanese asked.

‘Me?’ Samuels pointed at himself. ‘No. No, I’m from London.’

‘You look like you could be Italian.’

‘He’s a Jew,’ Will explained.

‘Is that right?’

Samuels nodded.

‘I knew Jews in New York. Smart guys. You got people there?’

‘Some, I think. My mother’s brother went there. We don’t hear very much from them.’

‘You should go over and find him. Family, you know. And maybe you’ll like it.’

‘Perhaps one day I will. The rest of them, who aren’t in England, are in Poland. I’d like to go and find them too.’

‘So,’ Will interrupted, ‘you live here? In Sant’Attilio?’ But Albanese hadn’t finished.

‘It was a Jewish guy made this suit.’

Will smirked at that. ‘It’s a beautiful suit.’

‘The best.’

‘So you live here in Sant’Attilio?’ Will repeated.

‘That’s right. My wife. My family.’

‘So, you’ll be on hand.’ Albanese said nothing. ‘You’ll be nearby.’

Albanese exhaled smoke and shaped the tip of his cigarette against the glass of the ashtray.

‘Whatever you need. A lot of these Fascists, they’ll act like they’ve done nothing. And you won’t know who they are, who’s innocent, who’s guilty. But I can help you. I can show you around, make friends for you, make you at home.’

‘Allow me to introduce you …’

‘I allow you. You’re allowed.’ Albanese interrupted and turned his smiling face around the company, looking for amusement at his joke.

‘This is Sergeant Whelan. He’s come from the
Metropolitan Police in London to help with the re-establishment of law and order here.’

‘And this is Captain Michele Greco of the local police. Did you two ever meet?’

‘No. I don’t think we did.’

‘No, we haven’t met.’ Greco wriggled upright in his seat. Albanese said something to him in Italian and the two men exchanged words too rapidly for Will to understand. The up and down melody of the language threw up quick crenellations of sound. Afterwards, Albanese said in English. ‘We are going to work great together. Greco here understands me. He knows I am a man of respect.’ Albanese translated that phrase into Italian and Greco, frowning, confirmed this with an inclination of his head.

‘That sounds like what I wanted to hear,’ announced Major Kelly. ‘And with that, I shall return to Palermo. Gentlemen.’

Outside, Cirò detained the Americans with questions to which he already knew the answers, long enough for people to see them together. He wore his new hat. He shook their hands and gave them advice. He patted the younger one on the shoulder. On the other side of the road, three young boys sat with their arms folded.

While the jeep bounced away, Cirò beckoned the boys over. They sauntered across, loose and casual, not too interested, but Cirò could see the dissembled haste, the urgency: they were coming like cats at feeding time.

‘Here, ever seen these?’ Cirò pulled out of his pockets some American coins. ‘They’re from America,
the US. You want them? You can have them. I’ve got plenty more.’

Cirò walked away, up to the square and past the church, past Tinu, and up the narrow street under lines of laundry hung in careful mirroring patterns – socks, underwear, vests, shirts, nightshirts, shirts again, vests, underwear and socks – to the house where he now lived.

He found Teresa and kissed her on the back of the neck. She sank heavily in his arms. ‘You can’t wear black for much longer. One more week. People will understand. It’s different because I’m back.’

Teresa didn’t say anything.

‘You remember our wedding day?’ he said.

‘Yes. Of course.’

He looked over the top of her head, remembering.

‘Where is the photograph? You still have it?’

‘I have it. It’s put away.’

‘Well, get it out. We’ll put it up. I’ll get a new frame. You don’t know what it means to me. You don’t know how happy I am to be back even if we’re only halfway there. Things are going to be like they were before.’

‘You look young when you’re happy,’ Teresa said. ‘You look like you used to.’

‘I feel like I used to. Where’s Mattia? I want to talk to him.’

‘I don’t know. In their room, maybe.’

Cirò climbed the narrow staircase and opened the door to the room with two mattresses on the floor and three half-naked children, forbidden to play outside so soon after the death of their father. They were fighting, tussling, a litter.

‘Where’s Mattia?’

The eldest, a boy of about nine, said, ‘I don’t know.’

‘You do know.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Where is he?’ Cirò took one pace towards the boy.

‘He went out.’

‘So you do know. Go out and get him for me. Go on.’

The boy wriggled past him and pattered down the stairs on his bare feet.

Cirò looked at the two who were left. ‘Who wants a coin?’

‘Me!’

‘Me!’

Cirò produced one from his pocket and flipped it spinning into the air. He left them fighting for it.