The Italian Wife (17 page)

Maybe she was right. Maybe he did need forgiveness. But not right now and not by this woman with her narrow disembodied head that looked too cumbersome in its finery for her thin stalk of a neck. He took the seat in front of the large desk and she sat herself behind it opposite him, her hands folded away in her lap. But Roberto wasn’t fooled by the serene expression she assumed. Those eyes of hers were sharp enough to skin a rabbit.

‘Here,’ he said, and placed a folded sheet of paper in front of her. ‘My letter of authority. Signed by Chairman Grassi himself.’

The nun examined it thoroughly and returned it with a nod. ‘He must think highly of you to give you such access to people’s lives.’

‘It’s my job.’

‘A movie camera team arrives in town every now and again, I’m told.’

‘Yes, that’s L’Unione Cinematografica Educativa. LUCE. They make short showreels to run in cinemas, so that people throughout Italy can see how well the great project is progressing.’

‘But they’ve never come here. Why you?’

She sat forward a fraction and placed both hands quietly on the surface of the desk. Roberto presumed that was as close as she would ever come to expressing aggression. He sat back in his chair and wondered what it was she was nervous of behind the calm passive face.

‘I am employed to keep a record of everything in the town,’ he explained, ‘not just the big cinematic events. And your quiet haven of peace here at the convent of
Su
o
re di Santa Teresa
is a small but important part of the whole picture.’

The nun’s upper eyelids slid down until she was staring at him through no more than narrow slits. ‘You mean you are a spy,’ she stated. ‘You and your camera have come to snoop on us.’

‘No, Reverend Mother. Quite the opposite. I have come to show the world what a model of rectitude you have created here.’

‘It is not for the world that we do it, Signor Falco.’ The tip of her tongue flashed across her lips. ‘It is for God that we do it, for our Father in Heaven.’

‘Of course.’ Roberto inclined his head in a small gesture of courtesy. ‘Now,’ he picked up the letter he had extracted from Grassi when he first agreed to undertake the wretched job and replaced it in his pocket. ‘Time to take some photographs.’

‘The smallest ones in the front, the tallest girls at the back.’

Roberto was arranging the class of pupils. These girls were too young, Rosa wouldn’t be among them, but still he studied their small faces, seeking clues to their life here. He did not miss the bruises on the backs of their hands or the quick feral way their eyes darted back and forth. They reminded him of a young fox he’d once seen cornered by two hounds in a field. Quivering on its toes, ready to bolt before they ripped its throat out.

He had carried one of the long benches out into the quadrangle that lay at the centre of the convent. He set up his tripod and summoned the classes one by one. He didn’t ask any names, but as each group trooped into the courtyard he arranged them, settling the smallest girls in a row cross-legged on the cobbles. The next in height were seated on the bench and behind them in a line stood the tallest ones, stiff as Roman guards.

He noted how they huddled together, shoulders brushing against each other, as though eager to avoid standing out from the grey nervous little flock. He told them to smile. But they didn’t. He checked the average age of every class with each of the nuns who came to stand one at a time smiling placidly beside their pupils, hands tucked discreetly into loose black sleeves, so no man could look on them.

‘I need an assistant,’ he announced.

Twenty-two pairs of eyes fixed on him instantly.

‘Sister,’ he addressed the nun with old acne scars over her face, ‘I would like one of these girls to assist me.’

‘Reverend Mother didn’t tell me anything about that,’ she answered uneasily. She flapped her wings like a nervous crow.

‘
I’m
telling you,’ he pointed out.

The class was of nine-year-olds, some in pinafore dresses too large for them. None of them spoke.

‘I require one of the girls to help me with my camera equipment,’ he explained. He made a fuss of unscrewing the film-holder slot, adjusting the tripod and reaching for a new lens in his case all at the same time. ‘I do not have three pairs of hands,’ he snapped with a frown.

‘Well, I suppose Sofia might…’ The nun turned to one of the girls with small sharp features.

‘I’ll have that one.’ Roberto pointed to the only girl who possessed a mass of unruly curls, as Isabella had described, and shy dark eyes. ‘She looks competent enough.’ He didn’t wait for the nun to object. ‘Come here, girl.
Pronto
!’

The girl scurried forward. He handed her a film holder to keep ready with a warning not to drop it. She looked terrified. When he’d rewound the shutter and the next class started to file into the courtyard, he told her to place the holder into his dark-box.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked casually.

‘Gisella.’

His hand paused. Damn it. The wrong girl. Yet there was no other nine-year-old who fitted the description so well. It would seem that the child Rosa had already been removed from Isabella’s reach.

‘Well, Gisella, don’t worry, you’ll be good at this. You just have to hold things when I hand them to you. Understand?’

The girl nodded nervously and Roberto had an urge to wrap one of his hands around the long white throat of the Reverend Mother in her overheated study and question why the girls in her school had eyes that looked out through a veil of fear. What kind of spiritual guardianship or pastoral care did she envelop them in?

‘Signore.’

‘What is it, Gisella?’

She stared at his shoes. ‘Thank you for choosing me.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he smiled.

She ‘
assisted
’ him through the photographs of the last two classes and stood silent at his side while he set up for shots of the convent building itself. He talked her through what he was doing with the Graflex, popping up the viewfinder, opening the lens F-stop to make it brighter and using a cable release to press the shutter more gently. When he’d finally finished he led her into a small gloomy storeroom at the back of the kitchens, ostensibly to pack up his equipment case in its dim light without damage to the film stock. It led off the quadrangle and was a place where they would not be overheard.

It was there among the strings of onions and sacks of coarse flour that he asked casually, ‘Do you know a girl called Rosa Bianchi?’

Gisella was eyeing up a large tin box that was marked
Biscotti
. ‘
Si
, I know her. She is the one with the mother in hell.’

‘Is that what the nuns say about her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is she still here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which class?’

She didn’t answer but her fingers crept out and ran along a corner of the tin. Roberto moved over to the shelf, tore off the lid and scooped out a handful of the hazelnut and aniseed biscuits. She gasped as he piled them into her cupped hands.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘which class?’

‘Mine.’

He looked at her plain little face and swore at himself for making such a mistake. Rosa had been there all the time. Right under his nose.

‘Thank you for your help, Gisella.’

She heard the dismissal in his voice and quickly finished pushing a biscuit into her mouth, regarding the mound in her hand with a panic of indecision. Clearly they were permitted no pockets in their dresses. Roberto removed a clean handkerchief from his jacket.

‘Here, use this.’

She wrapped the biscuits in it, tied the corners in a knot and tucked it behind the bib of her dress. She grinned up at him, delighted with herself, and the grin, so unexpected in the solemn face, pulled at Roberto’s heart.

‘Would you like me to take your photograph?’ he offered with a smile.

Her eyes widened with delight and she nodded shyly. This time he used the Leica. He walked Gisella out into the yard and talked to her for a few minutes about the time when he was also nine years old and had stolen his uncle’s dinghy for an afternoon because the sea was so blue, sparkling all colours of the rainbow.

‘But the wind off the Amalfi coast can be treacherous,’ he told her, ‘and the boom swung across and knocked me into the sea. I had to tread water with the fishes.’

‘What happened?’ she whispered, appalled.

‘I went to school the next day with a thumping headache and a backside walloped by my father,’ he laughed.

She laughed too and that was when he took the picture. ‘When it’s developed, I’ll get it to you,’ he promised. ‘Somehow.’

She stared at him with such fixation that it embarrassed him.

‘Thank you for your help. You should return to your classroom now.’

He stepped back into the storeroom to pick up his case, but to his surprise Gisella followed him into its musty interior.

‘Will you kiss me?’ She said the words quickly, as if they were burning a hole in her tongue.

Roberto looked with surprise at the nine-year-old girl.

‘No.’

‘Please.’ Her cheeks were beetroot red. ‘The older girls will ask me if you did and they’ll make fun of me if I say no. They’ll say I am too ugly for any man to want to touch me.’

‘No, Gisella. You are far too young. Not ugly at all, for God’s sake.’

‘They kiss the man who delivers the coal.’

‘They’re lying.’

Tears slithered down the girl’s pale cheeks.

‘Oh, Gisella, don’t listen to them.’ With difficulty Roberto kept a grip on the stab of anger towards the girl’s tormentors and quickly swung his case over his shoulder.

She was still standing there between him and the door.

He walked right up to her, gently took her face between his hands, surprised by how hot her skin was, and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. He smiled down at her.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

‘Now go to your classroom.’

She nodded.

‘Enjoy the biscuits,’ he said.

She nodded again.

He drew a small sealed envelope from his jacket pocket. ‘And give this to Rosa Bianchi. In private.’

Carmela was shaking. Eyes huge with distress. Her long bony fingers were welded to Rosa’s wrist, above which a sheet of paper was clutched in her hand. With every tremor it rustled through the air that was ripe with the stench of the lavatory block. They were jammed into one of the cubicles and speaking in whispers.

‘Get rid of it,’ Carmela hissed. ‘You’ll be in trouble.’

‘No. No one knows.’

‘They’ll make her tell them. You saw them take the biscuits from her.’

Rosa shook her head and tore open the envelope. Her heart was knocking against her ribs and inside her head she could see the bloodless hand pushing her into the pit of darkness again, except this time it would be worse. This time she would be locked in for days. Or weeks. No one would know or care. They would slide food under the door, flat slices of bread. Or maybe they would let her starve. The darkness would suck all life from her soul and her hair would turn as white as the novices’ robes.

‘Aren’t you frightened?’ Carmela asked.

‘No.’

She was so frightened her eyes could not focus on the words written in black ink on the paper. She blinked to remove the mist but it clung to her eyeballs like oil.

‘Is it from your father?’

‘Of course.’

‘He must have seen the light in the window.’

‘I knew he would.’

‘You’re just like him, Rosa. So brave.’

But Rosa had stopped listening to her friend. She screwed the letter into a tight ball and hurled it into the lavatory bowl with a feral moan that rose from her empty gut. Her eyes cleared but now they had to fight back tears.

‘What does he say?’ Carmela demanded in a shocked whisper. ‘Is he coming for us?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not from Papa. It’s from the photographer.’

‘What?’

‘The photographer who came today. He says he is a friend of the architect, Signora Berotti.’

‘So why is he writing to you? What does he want?’

‘She wants to see me. To help me.’

Her friend eyed her warily. ‘That’s good. Isn’t it? You like her.’

‘But Mother Domenica won’t let her in.’

Rosa bent over the lavatory bowl, plunged in her hands and tore the sodden letter and its envelope to shreds.

‘Don’t,’ Carmela crooned. ‘Don’t be upset. The architect can help you find him.’

‘She doesn’t even know he exists.’

‘Then you must tell her.’

Rosa’s head shot up. ‘Yes, you’re right.’ She stared with relief into her friend’s speckled eyes. ‘I must tell her.’

‘But how? She can’t get in here to see you.’

Rosa flushed the lavatory, dragged her wet hands down her dress to dry them, leaving behind a murky trail, and wrenched open the cubicle door. She looked straight at Carmela.

‘Then I must get out,’ she told her.

15

The moment Isabella pushed open the huge brass-edged doors of the Fascist Party headquarters and set foot on the coral marble of its reception hall, she knew she was in trouble. A black uniform stepped in front of her. Bull-chested and heavy-booted. She could smell his sweat.

‘No entry, signora.’

He stood too close, forcing her to look up. She could see an old scar like a silver brand under his broad chin and feel the blackness of his shirt squeezing out the narrow strip of air between them.

She smiled at him. ‘I’ve come to make an appointment to see Chairman Grassi.’ She had unleashed her hair from its usual tight restraint and shook it at him with a light laugh. ‘I’m hoping he might be free today.’

She had been coming to the headquarters every day and taken her place in the queue at the desk of Chairman Grassi’s deputy, Signor Marchini, but each time she had been turned away with an abrupt ‘No appointments today, Signora Berotti.’

‘Tomorrow?’ she’d asked.

‘Not tomorrow.’

‘Next week?’

‘Chairman Grassi’s diary is fully booked next week.’