Notorious (13 page)

The bald man took Dante aside and spoke to him in Italian too fast for Czeslaw to understand. The priest shrugged him away, leaning heavily on his walking stick. When Czeslaw turned, he saw the bald man was holding back the crowd with his raised hand.

Dante and Czeslaw climbed alone.

The street rose, steeper and steeper. The village must have been cut into the side of the rock, the houses built along lines of softer earth. A low square building squatted at the top of the street, its stone tower rising three storeys, the cross on its roof piercing the grey clouds.

Dante led him through the main chapel, past the wooden pews. The altar was simple: a white table, a plain iron cross, a tray of metal cups. Czeslaw thought of the gold cups and orb, the embroidered wall hangings and Renaissance paintings in the private chapel at Koloshnovar. He felt the familiar sadness flood him; the burden of the ten thousand sufferings he had to pay penance for. He heard his father’s voice, the bored drawl which even at this distance of miles and years filled Czeslaw with desolation. The words beat against his heart, they chafed his mouth with dust.
The crying of the cargo
kept us awake all night.

Dante led him through a side door into a narrow room. Benches flanked a lit fireplace, a low wooden table between. A stone basin was at one end of the room, a long wooden box covered with blankets at the other.

‘Are you more fluent in French?’ said Dante.

Czeslaw nodded and kneeled on the flagstones. He held out the leather bag and said, ‘Father, I must confess.’

Dante put a hand on his shoulder, pulling at him to rise. ‘Eat first.’

‘I have come,’ said Czeslaw, pulling the lira from his satchel, ‘to give your village money.’

Dante stared at the notes. ‘No-one in this village deserves your money.’

‘But you will hear my confession?’

Dante went to the stone sink and began filling a kettle. ‘I am not as worthy as I was,’ said Dante, his back to him.

‘You’re a priest until you die, surely.’

‘Yes,’ said Dante. ‘Until I die.’

He turned. The bones of his cheek had tightened so the skin fell from them as translucent as paper. ‘You wouldn’t want me to hear you.’

‘I do.’ Czeslaw said, believing it, ‘It must be God’s will.’

‘God moves in very mysterious ways,’ said Dante. He smiled at Czeslaw, who smiled back at him.

Czeslaw sat on the wooden bench by the lit fire. The warmth relaxed his shoulders, made him realise how tense he had been. He yawned into the glowing heart and said, ‘Where am I?’

‘You’re in the hills behind Castelmontrano,’ said Dante. ‘You are in the Triangle of Hunger.’

Czeslaw was driving. Or was he walking? He was gliding through the village. The afternoon sun tinged the white walls with pink and found blood in the water in the barrels under the eaves. The dogs lying in the shadows watched him go past, their flanks rising and falling. Now he recognised the strange markings on the doors: wolves’ heads on men’s bodies. The heads were in profile, watching him. The village seemed empty. He had seen figures in the hayfields in previous days so he presumed most of the villagers were somewhere down the mountain, bringing in the hay, tending their vines or their goats. He glided slowly down the main street, the car springs squeaking over the cobblestones. Occasionally a curtain twitched. He told himself this was natural. Houses without people were like eye sockets in a skull. He reached a scattering of squat buildings and went to the nearest doorway.

It was dim inside. He stood, adjusting to the light.

In the corner, what looked like twisted grey rags hung over hay scattered on stone. The rags moved slightly as though someone had brushed past not so long ago.

He went forward. Not rags; a pelt draped over a large rusting hook hanging on a chain from the rafter. The chain turned, clinking and creaking. The pelt revolved slowly. Old, grey, dangling. Matted in places. A dark drop fell to the floor and trembled on the stone. The drop was dark water in this light. Or oil. It took him a moment to realise it was blood.

The pelt turned. It was matted with blood. Dripping blood. Black blood.

The pelt kept turning. It turned and turned and turned its face to him.

It was a wolf. The hook was caught under its throat.

It turned and turned.

He saw now. The hook was not caught under the beast’s throat.

The hook was through its throat.

The pelt turned. The wolf opened its eyes and looked at him.

Czeslaw woke on a cry, a feeling of being smothered, pressure on his chest, the beast’s fur covering his face.

He was lying on the bench next to the fire. He sat up with a start and almost hit his head against Rosita, who was leaning over him. She jumped back and muttered an apology, then stared at him, mouth open.

Dante was nowhere to be seen.

‘The Father has gone to get your dinner,’ said Rosita. He saw himself reflected in narrow panes in her shiny black eyes; she never blinked that he could see.

Rosita gave him a quick smile and looked serious, frightened even. Czeslaw wondered if she would get into trouble for bringing him up to the village. This was the south, he reminded himself. Honour was more important than trade here, the villagers in Siracusa had said, hooking their thumbs at the ground. In southern villages, they said, spitting on the floor, power is more important than love. ‘
Chi gioca
da solo, non perde mai
: He who plays alone never loses.’

He scrutinised Rosita: the stocky plump figure under the shapeless dress, the round jaw, the shadow across her upper lip, the black down on the side of the cheeks. An unattractive child. He supposed he should be grateful to her; she probably wasn’t allowed to help a stranger.

He managed a smile and, dredging up his Italian, asked her how old she was.

‘I’m sixteen,’ she said, sliding down the bench. Her drab brown skirt had hitched up; he saw a plain tan petticoat in rough linen. Not linen, sacking. Potato sacking.

‘Do you like?’ she said and held out the brown material. On it were embroidered flowers in coarse red wool: roses, the lumpy red heads eating into the rough material like stains.

‘
Bella
,’ he said, gesturing a sewing motion. ‘You are good at needlework.’

‘I am,’ she said, clapping her hands. ‘And cooking and housework.’

She dipped her head, pleating the skirt between her fingers. ‘All the things to make a good wife.’ She turned her head away, glancing across her cheek at him, a sideways look that reminded him of something. Maybe the deer in the mosaic.

He saw the faces of the young men in the barn: broad-faced, broken-nosed, mouths already set in classic lines of mistrust. The poor girl. She wouldn’t have much to choose from.

He began to feel a lack, as though he was cold. ‘I’m sure you deserve a good husband,’ he said, absentmindedly. He felt for the bag at his chest. It wasn’t there.

He swung his legs off the bench as Rosita said, ‘You have a wife?’

‘So far I haven’t had the good fortune.’ And never would, he thought as he bent over the side of the bench.

‘You deserve a good wife,’ said Rosita.

He shook his head, distracted, his hand inching across the paving stones, feeling the crevices packed with dried mud. Finally, his finger slipped on slimy coldness. He hooked the gold drawstring and sat up, clutching the bag.

Rosita was next to him. Again, that faint sour smell.

He was surprised to find her so close. He drew back.

‘How old are you?’ she said.

He wanted to move but he stayed still. ‘Twenty-four.’ He held up his hands and counted off the years. ‘An old man to you.’

‘Very good,’ she said, stretching out a hand to touch his hair. He couldn’t help himself: now he did move, abruptly, not caring if he was rude. But she had grasped his hair. His scalp twinged as he jerked his head.

‘
Monete d’argento nell’acqua
,’ she said.

‘What?’

She was still staring at his hair. She said it again slowly and, after a struggle, he translated it as ‘silver coins in water’. She didn’t seem to notice that he was leaning away from her. ‘Better than Sophia’s hair,’ she said. ‘Sophia thinks she can have everything she wants.’ Again that sideways look. ‘She thinks you want her.’

‘Who? That little girl?’ he said.

Her black eyes were unblinking; maybe she didn’t understand what he was saying.

She put a hand on his thigh.

He was shocked into inaction. She mustn’t realise what she had done. But she met his gaze squarely and moved her hand slowly and deliberately up his leg, massaging the inner flesh with her thumb.

He could see himself reflected in her black eyes. Her hand moved higher and higher, pressing in, unhesitating, the strokes longer, more languid. Her mouth was open, her lower lip was wet. She was moving closer to – He stood, backed away to the fire. ‘I won’t be marrying.’

‘Not soon, no,’ she said.

‘Never.’ He didn’t care how harsh he sounded.

‘You have a wife?’

‘No.’

She shrugged. ‘Well, then.’

‘But I am promised to someone.’ He clasped his hands, as though he was shaking hands with himself. He felt ridiculous but he wanted to make sure she understood. ‘A sacred promise.’

She laughed and pointed around the room. ‘Your woman can’t see you here.’ Her confidence made him uneasy. It was almost as though she was refusing to understand him.

‘Another kind of promise,’ he said. He made the sign of the cross, looked upwards. Surely she would understand now.

She stood. ‘I saved you,’ she said.

‘I didn’t promise you anything.’

‘You came to the top of the hill with me.’ She put her hands on her hips. Her face was flushed. ‘I do not think there is anyone else.’

‘There is someone else.’

Red washed her face. ‘Who?’ she said loudly.

He gripped the leather bag with both hands. ‘God.’

She snorted and spat on the stone floor. ‘God does nothing for us.’ Her voice swelled into a shout. ‘God does not come near Santa Margherita.’

Her eyes were black marbles. When she clutched the collar of her blouse, he thought she was going to pretend he had strangled her. As she hooked her hands into the white cotton, he was already laughing in derision. She stared at him. He heard the wind howling outside, the small cracks and pops of the fire behind him. She ripped, tearing the material at the neck, exposing her throat. She ripped, the sound louder than the wind and the fire. She knuckled her fist, hit herself again and again. The skin below her collarbone mottled red.

‘Stop it!’ His voice was too loud. Maybe she was in some kind of shock.

He raised his hands, palms to her. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Let us talk, calmly.’

She shook her head, her black shiny hair swinging. ‘When they know what you did to me,’ she shouted, ‘you’ll have to marry me.’

‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I must get to France. A matter of honour.’

‘This is honour,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll tell them what you did.’

She ripped again. Her throat and upper chest were a vivid throbbing red, with darker lines where she had scratched herself. In a moment, blood would begin welling up, like dark water, like oil.

‘No-one else saw what you did,’ she screamed.

‘I saw,’ said Father Dante, coming into the room.

The priest carried a wooden tray with bread and bowls of soup. He crossed the room in silence. Rosita was still panting, her eyes narrowed. Now she blinked, Czeslaw saw, fast and convulsively. Dante set the tray carefully on the table. A rich smell of bacon and garlic rose from the bowls and Czeslaw realised how hungry he was. He almost felt as though he would agree to anything just to be able to eat. He tried to catch Dante’s eye.

The priest straightened, deliberately averting his gaze.

Czeslaw felt a moment of utter desolation. If the priest was against him, too . . .

‘Father,’ he said.

Dante raised his hand.

Czeslaw bowed his head. Was this God’s work?

Father Dante said in Italian slow enough for Czeslaw to follow, ‘Think carefully, Rosita. A man’s honour is at issue. What happened here?’

‘He attacked me,’ she panted. ‘See?’ She pointed to her neck.

‘He was trying to take advantage of you,’ Dante said.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘He was trying to seduce you,’ said Dante.

‘Yes, yes.’

‘You will swear on the Bible?’

She never hesitated. ‘Yes.’

Czeslaw sat on the bench.

Father Dante advanced slowly. The light from the fire caught his white eyes and made them shine. He looked remorseless, thought Czeslaw.

The priest fumbled for the cross at his waist and lifted it on its long chain.

‘This is very serious,’ he said. ‘I ask again. You swear on the Bible?’

‘Yes. Yes.’

‘Then,’ said Father Dante, gripping his cross, ‘Rosita, you are a liar and you will go to hell.’

Colour drained from her face.

‘I could hear you all the way across the chapel.’

‘No!’

‘I wasn’t the only one.’

Czeslaw held his breath.

Rosita stepped back. ‘There was a witness?’

Dante let go of his cross, raised both hands. ‘Think what you are saying.’

She opened her mouth, looked at Czeslaw, who turned his head away.

She said, ‘He promised me.’

‘Did he?’ said Dante.

Rosita peered from one to the other. Tears in her eyes made them glassier than ever. She clenched her hands.

Dante held up the cross. ‘Are you prepared to swear this in public?’

‘Don’t say another word, Rosita,’ said a voice at the doorway.

The man with the bulging stomach came into the room, carrying a tray with a bottle and two glasses. He dumped the tray on the table and faced Dante, arms folded.

‘Our mayor,’ said Dante to Czeslaw, who got unwillingly to his feet. ‘Franco Rossetti. The man who rescued us during the war.’

‘I did what needed to be done, Father,’ said Franco sharply. ‘People like you forget what we faced.’

‘I never forget, Mayor,’ said Dante.

‘Then remember your part,’ said Franco, shaking his finger. Dante bowed his head. Franco stared at the ripped cotton at Rosita’s throat. ‘Cover yourself.’ She clasped the torn blouse, not meeting his eyes.