In the Wolf's Mouth (21 page)

A youth in the doorway of the house. Sullen, waiting, one arm up on the door frame.

‘Look at you,’ Cirò said. ‘You’re strong. Look at those arms. Like Jack Dempsey. Shall I call you Jack?’

‘Don’t care.’

‘What should I call you?’

‘Don’t call me anything. I don’t care.’

‘Really? What about Shit-the-bed? What about Little Dog? You don’t care, you don’t care. I’ll call you what I want.’

‘Doesn’t matter to me. What do you want me for?’

Cirò walked over to the boy and took hold of his shoulder. He gripped until Mattia looked up. Mattia said, ‘I know what you are.’

‘You don’t know anything, Jack. You’re a kid. I’m
your mother’s husband. That’s who I am. I’m your father. I want to help you.’

Cirò let go and Mattia went and sat on the stool by the hearth.

‘I’m sorry about what happened to your father.’ Cirò received a flash of the boy’s dark eyes, fierce through their pretty lashes. ‘You know, even though he died in an accident, it’s like really he died in the war. That’s how you should think of it. He was killed by the bastard Fascists.’

‘I know what killed him.’

‘I know you do. He was a war hero. He died for Sicily. You should be very proud of him.’

Mattia sat hunched forwards, his hands under his thighs.

‘To die for Sicily. Things will be better now. That’s what we all want. My friends and me, we want better things for Sicily. You don’t know this yet. We weren’t allowed to be here for so long. It’s a life, Mattia, a way to make a living. You could have it. Actually, you know what you could have?’

‘What?’

‘Something I got for you in Palermo.’

‘For me?’

‘Sure.’

Cirò left the room. He returned with an object on his upturned palm: an unopened bar of American chocolate. The brown paper and silver foil were pristine. ‘Here.’

Mattia took it from him and looked down at it. ‘The whole thing?’

‘The whole thing. I can get plenty more.’

‘When?’

‘What do you mean, when? Whenever you want. If you want some, eat it.’

‘Now?’

‘Jesus, if you want it. What’s the matter with you?’

Mattia carefully opened the paper envelope, breaking the contact of its adhesive without tearing, then tore the foil wrapping and snapped off three squares and put them in his mouth. Lushness of sweet flavour, a slow melting into a thick fudge that coated his teeth and tongue. His eyes closed and opened again. He chewed, folding the wrapper tightly shut, keeping it all as neat as a pressed shirt.

‘Why don’t you give that to your mother? She can hide it from the little rats. Then come with me. There’s something you should see.’

Mattia nodded, swallowing like a bird, ducking his head and rising.

They stepped outside into early dusk, the walls of the buildings glowing, a drift of pink in the sky and swifts screaming in rapid circles over the church. Cirò led the boy down to the left, out of Sant’Attilio, past the others on the street. Albanese greeted an old uncle of the Battista family. The old man looked at him wonderingly, hopefully. Cirò passed on. The Battistas had been friends of the Albaneses. He must have been wondering if what he’d heard was right, that it was all coming back.

Mattia felt very awake after the chocolate. The evening breeze vibrated over his skin. He wanted to run but instead walked beside this inescapable man.
They walked in the direction of the Prince’s house. When they got to Angilù Cassini’s house, Cirò said, ‘Wait.’

‘Yes?’

‘Sshh. You see this house?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know who lives here?’

‘Angilù Cassini.’

‘Angilù Cassini? Angilù? He was just a little shepherd when I left, out fucking his goats in the mountains. Angilù Cassini?’

‘Yes. He works for the Prince, on the estate. He does everything.’

‘Does he? You’re a good boy. You should work for me, you know. Work together. Two leaves of the artichoke. You want that?’

They were both quiet. Cirò looked up the avenue of olive trees to the front door. It was a strange feeling for Mattia, spying like this. It felt like something was going to happen. The quieter they got, the more it felt like that. Eventually, Albanese said, ‘He has children?’

‘Three daughters.’

‘No sons? Doesn’t surprise me. Probably none of them are his. You know the girls?’

‘Sure.’

‘Hey, you haven’t? Jack, don’t tell me you have … already? Those innocent girls.’ Cirò laughed, looking at Mattia’s pained frown. ‘I’m only kidding. You know who used to live here?’

‘Who?’

‘Me. Me and your mother. This is where we lived
when we got married. I was the landlord of the estate. You didn’t know that? Big, isn’t it?’

‘It’s big.’

‘These trees. I used to make the oil from these olives. My house. My house until the Fascists. Our house. You want to live here? A room to yourself?’

‘It’s big.’

‘And when I’m gone meeting Jesus somewhere, it would be your house. You’re the oldest. You and your wife.’

26

Something outside made the dog bark. Cesare always barked in threes with short, absolute silences between. Cesare set off Sal’s dog two hundred yards away. It answered with its hoarse single responses, like frightened coughs. Together they roused several other dogs at different distances, a cacophony of paranoia and display that went on until they tired and relaxed slowly back into silence. Angilù didn’t like to hear it. It brought the night to bear, made him feel the space outside, when he just wanted to sit with his family and eat his soup, all of them in the single circle of lamplight. Angilù had too much to think about.

The end of the war was worse than the fighting had been. You could hide from that and you knew it would end. Now, Cirò Albanese was back. This was definite. Everybody knew. And if Albanese was back, Angilù could lose everything. Life on the estate was threatened. Angilù and the Prince had right on their side, they had goodness, good sense at least, but what was that against Albanese and his friends and the old, broken law? What he should do was to speak to the English as soon as possible and explain that he’d been living there for twenty years, that the Prince owned the property and he wanted Angilù there. It had taken Angilù some time to feel that he belonged there. At
first the house was too big for him and his wife. They lodged in its corners. They huddled together. It was only when they had children, after long years of thinking they never would, that they began to inhabit the place. Anna was born and her yells filled the whole house and she survived and the place was theirs. It always had been theirs of course. The Prince had given it to them.

The English needed to understand how the whole system worked. He had to get to the Allies before the peasants also. No doubt some imaginative land claims would be made. The Santangelis were terrible for that.

In the morning, Angilù rode on a horse into Sant’Attilio, arriving at that prestigious height and dignity. When he was a boy, the only horses he saw were ridden by the Prince and his field guards. Those looming men in their liveries were the tallest beings in the world. Everyone else rode by on mules or jogged uncomfortably on donkeys, tensing their legs to keep their feet from touching the ground.

In Sant’Attilio, Angilù was recognised. Lifting his hat, looking down at people, he thought he saw a look in their eyes. Something they wanted to say but couldn’t, some knowledge molesting them. That’s what he thought he saw, but he was very agitated, jerking around in his saddle to look at everybody. He caught sight of Luca Battista and asked him where the Allies were. Luca told him they were in the town hall, of course.

At the town hall, Angilù dismounted, shooting down onto both feet. That hurt a little. He was getting older. Also, in his hurry, he hadn’t placed his feet quite right
and stumbled a couple of paces forward. He tied his horse to a railing and walked in.

A man in uniform seated at a desk looked up. Angilù took in his shiny, combed hair and, disconnected beneath the desk as though belonging to someone else, his bare pink knees. Like a child, the Englishman was wearing short trousers.

‘Good morning, can I help you at all? If it’s the medical officers you’re after I’m afraid they won’t be here for a day or two.’

Angilù answered in Italian. ‘Do you not speak Italian? I don’t speak English and I’m not going to be able to make you understand anything if you can’t speak Italian.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to speak a good deal slower than that if I’m going to understand you.’

‘I said, do you speak Italian? I need to talk about my house and the old landlord. I should have got the Prince to come with me.’

‘Did you say “Prince”? There is a local prince, isn’t there? Look, stay here, and I’ll get someone who can help. I can read a newspaper perfectly well but you don’t sound like what I’m reading. Stay here.’

Angilù watched the man get up and walk out on legs as red and bare as a hen’s. When he came back, there was another man with him. When Angilù had repeated what he had to say, they led him into a room with a table. Their names were Treviss and Worka. Slowly, Angilù explained to them his situation. Each time they definitely understood, he said ‘yes’ and stamped the side of his fist on the table.

They asked him questions about Prince Adriano
and wrote down some of the things they said, pens circling on paper, small whirlpools of Angilù’s thoughts now lost to him. He could understand numbers and recognised the shapes of some names but he couldn’t read. When they were finished, they stood up and shook Angilù’s hand and showed him to the door. They were interested in his horse and came out and patted its neck while he mounted. They waved at him as he rode away.

Will said to Travis, ‘That was a little distasteful, didn’t you think?’

‘I’m not sure I trust anyone round here.’

‘I mean, if he got his house when the former occupant was driven away by the Fascists, then isn’t he the expropriator trying to hang onto his property? I mean, in a sense, he’s just come in here and declared himself a Fascist.’

‘Maybe. Though that’s going a bit far.’

‘Could be Albanese, of course. The person who was driven away.’

‘Nice horse, though. Handsome animal.’

‘Has this Cassini been mentioned in any of the denunciations? I’ll ask Albanese and talk to the police. And I suppose I should go and visit this prince.’

27

Ray checked every inch of the attic on his hands and knees, peering down into the cracks between floorboards for any signs of wires or devices. The place was huge, the size of the whole floor of an apartment building, only with no interrupting walls. It was an enormous container of empty space. He felt the terror of that space around him. Always some part of it was so far away he wouldn’t know. The search took him hours. Against one wall were a few boxes, some old paintings, a table and a rocking horse. He checked these first of all. They were the most frightening. Mouth hanging open as he crawled around them, sweat stinging his eyes. He reached his trembling hands inside the boxes and found only fabrics. The paintings were of old saints and landscapes. At one moment, he moaned, thinking it was all about to end but he realised that the wires in his hand were to hang the picture from.

Walls next. Shuffling around on his knees, he felt the plaster with his fingertips. There were cracks here and there. They didn’t look deliberate. Along one side, Ray could feel the sun’s warmth coming through, a slow pulse of heat transmitted through masonry and wood. At one spot along that side,
something was happening. He heard scratching and leaned close. Silence. Then a snapping sound and a dry screaming started up. It was a bird’s nest. He remembered that sound from home. Sometimes walking under a subway bridge, up in the grimy iron darkness, you heard the baby pigeons screaming for food. The adult bird flew away again and the screaming stopped.

There were two small windows. He was lying down, looking out of one at a geometric garden with spooky white statues standing in their postures, pointing upwards or lazily leaning, when he heard someone coming up the steps to the little door. He got up and ran to stand beside it. As the door opened, he reached through and caught hold of the person and threw them down. He got his forearm over their throat and shouted, ‘Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you?’ He saw beneath him a terrified woman, the same woman who’d cut herself in front of him and taken him to this place. She was twisting and jerking, trying to lift her head. When he let her go, she scooted backwards away from him on her heels and her hands.

‘You are mad,’ she said. ‘Be quiet.’ She laughed and winced and touched her mouth to see if it was bleeding. Her head was ringing. So shocking, the attack and contact of his body, the force of it. What it told her: he wanted to live.

Ray cursed like his father, calling on the saints to help him. Her eyes widened.

‘You speak Italian. Are you American or Italian? If you are a hiding Fascist there will be a problem.’

‘I’m not a Fascist. Jesus fucking Christ. That’s the last thing I am. I’m an American.’

‘You have to be quiet. It’s a big house. But you have to stay here so no one hears you. You cannot go near the windows.’

‘I have to check if it’s safe.’

‘Of course it’s safe.’

‘And don’t come in without warning me.’

‘How can I warn you? And why do you speak Italian?’

‘I am Italian. I mean, my parents are Italian, from the south. I’m from Little Italy not big Italy.’

‘I see.’

‘Raimundo Marfione. But I’m Ray. Everybody calls me Ray.’

‘Okay, Ray. Is it all right if I speak English and Italian also when I can’t remember words?’

‘Sure.’

‘Good. Please will you stay on that side, where those boxes are? I’m going to go out for a while.’

She got up and smoothed her hair with trembling hands. She brushed the back of her dress. ‘You’ve got me all dusty. If my father had seen you touch me like that, he’d have had you whipped.’

‘What’s that?’

She said in English, ‘You know, hit. Like for a horse.’