‘Oh.’ First time the lieutenant properly looked at him. ‘OK. You’re the one. Big Brain. Kind of expected you’d be. . .’
‘Sir?’
‘’Scuse me, lieutenant.’ It was the waitress. ‘That’s us ready.’
‘Move it.’ The officer pushed him forward. ‘Quicktime.’ He never did tell Frank what kind of a smart-ass he should have been.
The return journey was worse, the lieutenant ushering him on like he was a prisoner. There was no victory in this parade. Swivel-heads following their progress, a tinder-trail of commentary behind. Frank was so thirsty though, he could think of nothing better than to pour a draught of cool water down his throat. When they reached the dining car, he looked for Luiz, saw that he’d squeezed in beside the other soldiers. Why wouldn’t you? Who would want to eat alone? In the midst of all their various shaved-pinks and golds, Luiz looked simply tan. Table for one then. Fine. Leastways, it was a table. The old couple, thankfully, had gone. Though if he were to meet them, face on, he didn’t know what he’d say.
Man, he would say nothing. Frank went to take a seat at an empty table. The waitress scuttled up. ‘Uh. . .’
‘Chapel,’ called the lieutenant. ‘You sit here.’
It was a table at the end of the row. And they’d rigged up a curtain on a pole, so it could be drawn round Francis Morgan Chapel as he ate.
It remained that way for the duration of the journey: Frank behind his curtain, the rest of the guys taking in the view. Outside of mealtimes, Frank was allowed to walk through the train. One time they stopped in Alabama, and the lieutenant took them off for lunch. Said Frank could come too.
‘You sure, sir?’
‘Sure. Last time we stopped here, Bull Connor sent a bunch of his boys by to say hi to you Negro recruits.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, there was no trouble.’
‘Well, OK then, sir. I’ll come. Thank you.’ Frank grabbed his coat, eager for the chance to walk on unmoving carpets, get the air on his face. And it might be a chance to know the other recruits better. On untainted ground, where there were no compartments. Luiz was a decent guy, had tried to get Frank to come play cards in another of the berths – he meant well, Frank reckoned. But he didn’t want to be Luiz’s pet.
‘Who’s Bull Connor anyway?’ Frank asked.
‘Chief of Police,’ said the lieutenant.
Frank didn’t get off the train. By all accounts they had a great feed. Frank rang the changes with a hamburger on a bun, then yellow ice cream for dessert. He was starting to like his curtain, was adept at noticing the changes in the blue and green pattern when light struck through the weave, or when a person moved past. One time, he heard a woman – she sounded old, so he pictured her as the old biddy who’d had him curtained in the first place – say to one of the soldiers: ‘You brave boys – you make me so proud. God bless you.’
But this black boy made her ashamed. (If it was her – but, for the purposes of his digression, it was.) ‘Brave’ was a word Frank heard a lot; you did in times of war. It had a ready glow to it, was an honourable, solid word, hung big and certain as a medal on your chest. Folk cast it like a cloak to cover many things – often the things you didn’t want to contemplate, not even to stand close to. Was it brave to do what you were told? Because that’s all these ‘boys’ were doing. Was it brave if you weren’t scared, if you thought you were on some glorious adventure; if you knew it was not an adventure, but a terrible unknown place, if you showed that terror on your face, if you sat here and cried; if you joked too loud and cared for nothing but what flavour ice cream there was today, if you listened and did not join in, if you made yourself be first, be funniest, if you hid behind a curtain, if you pulled your curtain wide?
You had to be scared before you could be brave. Otherwise, it meant jack-shit. Frank ate his soup. Listened to the soldiers some more.
Eventually, the train arrived in dusty Georgia. ‘Men,’ said the lieutenant, saluting the red earth and the vast blue, wakening sky. ‘Welcome to Fort Benning. Since 1918, this here has been the home of the US Infantry. Be proud, soldiers. Be very proud.’
Sun-up, and the place was alive. Men marching, men shouting. Men running, men at ease. A huge factory of men. The complex covered thousands of acres. It was a city of soldiers, groupings of white buildings and well-tended gardens; here a chapel, dust, trucks, dust; there, assault courses, barracks, dust, tents, towers, showers, dust, brick-coloured dust that puffed in clouds from your boots, got in your hair, your teeth.
Frank was hived off from the rest of them, unsure at first if it was for special training or segregation. It was the latter. Luiz too, surprisingly, but it seemed there were gradations of colour, and, if you were dark Hispanic, you were not white. There were American Japanese (also problematic) and American Indians, who were welcomed into the cowboy fold, no longer the enemy at all, except for this one guy with whom the sergeant did not know what to do.
‘You there. You one of them windtalkers, Comanche?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Excuse me, sergeant!’
‘Sergeant.’
‘Name?’
‘Barfoot, sir. Sergeant. Jack Barfoot.’
‘What kinda name’s that? Barfoot? You an injun, son, or a nigger?’
‘My grandfather is a Choctaw—’
‘What the fuck you doing here, boy?’
‘My father was a Negro, sergeant. I was told—’
‘Jesus. You one mixed-up fuck, aren’t you? You mama one of them Eskimos?’
‘Sergeant?’
The sergeant was using his little finger to pick at his back teeth. Some remnant of breakfast still there, or the remains of the last recruit he’d chewed the head off. The stubby pink digit worked away.
‘All you coloured boys – get your bedding and line up here.’
There were six of them, plus Luiz, who mutely shuffled to the left. Barfoot stood in the middle of the parade ground. ‘Yo! You too, Mr Comanche-Mulatto-Son-of-Eskimo-Nell.’ The sergeant quit picking. ‘Hoo-ee. Some wonderful bunch of heroes I got me to work with. Corporal, go get me a turkey feather for the injun’s hat. You ready, boys? You ready to serve your country? You ready to serve the land of THE MOTHERFUCKING FREE?’
Frank started at the use of that cuss word. He’d never heard it yelled by a white man. It was not a word you shouted. The sergeant dragged Barfoot into line. ‘The home of the beautiful BRAVE? Yee-ha! Come on, boys. Come in, to your new home.’
From a barrack window, a voice hollered: ‘Hey, Jody! Run while you can!’
Lesson three: they mean you.
Chapter Three
No buonsenso, anywhere.
The streets of Barga’s Giardino swarmed, folk milling and gathering, lorries rushing, a whistle blowing. Decrees being pasted on walls; Vita saw a woman argue with an Italian soldier, pulling at his brush as he stuck up a poster. Bold black RSI, an angular eagle spread across the flag, its wings stretching from green to red.
‘What do the posters say?’ said Cesca. ‘What are we meant to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mamma. ‘There’s too many people here. Let’s go to the Comune. They’ll tell us more there. There’s bound to be an announcement soon.’
Folk had been saying that for days. They had waited in vain for instructions, quiet and troubled in their homes; Papà’s hand curved over the radio like it was a cage to catch the words, or hold them at bay. Waiting for common sense to prevail. This morning, Mamma had snapped. She was not a patient woman.
They pushed past bewildered soldiers, watching as a gang of youths smashed the window of a droghiere. Only Vita gave chase, yelling as the boys ran off with armfuls of fruit and tins.
‘Just leave them!’ Papà shouted, and she stopped, abruptly, shocked at her own reaction. Was this how it would be? Your country at war with itself.
Her mother slapped her arm. ‘Don’t ever do that again.’
Straight over Ponte Vecchio
she marched them, up the steep alley that heralded the start of the narrow passages of the old town, past Caff è Capretz with its stone loggia, dodging the salvoes and whistle-stop snatches – Rome. . . on fire – Deserting. . . us or them?
The wooden doors of the Comune were shut fast. A crowd stood outside. Before anyone could stop her, Mamma shoved her way through, seizing the great brass knocker.
‘Open up, you fools. You’re meant to be our leaders.’
People were staring. But the woman who wrote frequent letters to Il Duce would always aim straight for the top.
‘Elena, come away. They’re not going to let you in.’
‘This is hopeless. We have the girls. . . Mario, what are we to do? Is the fighting coming here?’
Fury, then fear. Mercury-fast, the way only her mother could be. Papà let her scold and cry a little, then led her from the Comune, steering her by the elbow, navigating the churning streets.
At Bar Alpino, they passed another line of soldiers, climbing into a truck. These were different. They had unfamiliar greeny-grey tunics and puffy trousers, tucked into long black boots.
Papà spoke softly. ‘Let’s go home. We need to find Giuseppe.’
Vita had never seen German soldiers so close before. They were loading up picks and spades, clearing out Barga’s ferramenta.
‘Yes.’ Mamma dabbed her eyes. Recalibrating. ‘Good. About time they showed their faces here.’
‘Mamma, how can you say that? If we’re supposed to be at war with them?’
‘No. We are not at war with Germany.’
Papà addressed the ironmonger, who was watching his store being emptied. ‘Be able to retire after this, eh, Enzo?’
‘Sì, sì. A great day’s business. Except I don’t think I’m being paid.’
‘Ah.’
‘There’s more of them coming. They say six Wehrmacht divisions have arrived in the north. Same troops Mussolini was begging Hitler for, before. Funny how they’re only arriving—’
‘But they are here now, Enzo, and that is wonderful. We must give thanks to Il Duce for his foresight, no?’ Mamma’s tears had dried to nothing; she was brighter in fact, puffed up, almost, as if her misery had soaked her through and filled her with renewed conviction.
‘Well, some aren’t too happy.’ The ironmonger jerked his head. ‘Watch the rats deserting.’
A young woman edged past the truck, pulling at her headscarf. She carried a hessian sack.
‘Is that Devora?’
‘Think so. Helping herself before she leaves. The Monsignor is far too generous. . .’
The way those pale soldiers were clattering the tools onto the truck. Methodical. Relentless. There was something majestic in their stoic arms, their neat swings and dips – one whistled at her, and Vita looked sharply to the sky.
‘Mario, why don’t you take the girls home?’ said Mamma. ‘There’s an errand I need to do.’ Scrutinising Vita, the way she might measure her for a dress.
Papà was still scrutinising the soldiers. ‘No. We’ll wait. I don’t want you wandering alone in this. . .’ He waved his hand. How to describe the oscillation of bodies and faces? In every strut, there was a cower. In every smile, you could see the skull behind.
‘Fine. I won’t be long.’ Then Mamma disappeared into the crowds. Methodical. Relentless. As she watched her mother go, Vita caught sight of Devora again, hunched in a doorway. She seemed shrunken, deep in conversation with a person Vita couldn’t see. It was a man, she could make out his arm, slung round Devora’s shoulders, and her, nodding. Very unseemly for the housekeeper of the Canonica to be—
The man was first to step from the doorway. It was Joe.
‘Cara, did you hear me?’ said Papà. ‘Let’s get some limonata.’
They sat on the terrace of L’Alpino: men and the radio chattering inside the bar, outside, engines running, people running, everywhere was sound and motion.
‘You not thirsty, Vita?’ her father asked.
‘No.’
‘Look at the face on her.’ Cesca slipped into bargaweegie. ‘Who stole your scone?’
‘Don’t speak English,’ said Papà. ‘Not here.’
The Germans moved off, folk scattering as the truck clattered down Via Roma. A few tedeschi soldiers remained outside the ironmonger’s. Smoking, surveying the street. Vita chewed her thumbnail. It was up to Joe who he spoke to. One of the soldiers caught her gaze and smiled. Hurriedly, Vita picked up her drink. She looked through her lashes at her father, trying to see beyond his thinning hair and sad eyes. There was a photograph at home she loved, of him as a child, outside their café in Scotland. Centre stage was his nonna, who must have followed her husband to Paisley. But he was no longer in the picture. Instead, their sons stood either side, with their sons: Joe’s dad and Vita’s papà. Short trousers and gappy teeth, Papà grinning and holding a bottle of limonata aloft, while Roberto held baby Antonia.
Joe looked like his father. Vita’s memories of Zio Roberto were vague. He and his wife rarely left the café, and Joe would be sent here for long summers on his own. Vita was thrilled to walk with this handsome Scottish Guidi, eat granita at Piazza Angelio, Joe the centre of a laughing crowd, with every girl secretly a little in love with him. But it was always Vita whose arm he took. He was such a flash of light to be around. Gallus, her papà called him. Look at him now, sauntering, brazen, past the soldiers.
‘Buongiorno, Guidis!’ Joe reached over the low trellis to kiss Vita’s hand. If they were to get married, he would kiss her lips. He would kiss her everywhere – that’s what Renata said men did. Everywhere. She’d imagined it plenty. Joe dropped her hand. Took a swig of her limonata, his throat pulsing; she could trace the long draught going down. It was like looking at a lovely piece of art. Her tongue worked at a shred of lemon.
‘Giuseppe,’ said Papà. ‘I told you not to come into town. It’s not safe.’
‘Ach! Bugger the Bosch.’ Joe winked at Vita. There was a darkening under his eyes the way an apple spoils.
‘Did you hear me, son?’
‘Dolce – walk with me?’
She shook her head. Pulled her hand away – she should have done it earlier, to show she was jealous.
‘Oh, go on. It’ll do you good.’
‘I’ll go with you—’
‘No, Cesca,’ said Papà. ‘Joe. Get your arse back up the hill before I kick it, you hear?’
Vita took another drink. ‘I’m sure Joe’s got lots of girls to go walking with.’
‘Fine. I’ll away then.’ He said it loudly and deliberately in English. Saluted them, then began to march slowly down the road towards Ponte di Catagnana. Proper marching, from a man who wasn’t fighting.
‘Bloody idiot.’ Papà rubbed his calf. ‘That boy’s a liability.’
‘No, he’s not,’ said Cesca. ‘He’s funny.’
‘He’s full of himself is what he is. Is your leg sore again, Papà?’
‘I’m fine.’
You weren’t supposed to notice his leg. He’d hurt it in Abyssinia. When he was tired, his wide stride wavered, and he limped. Vita thought that was why he was up most nights, listening to Radio Londra or the sad music he called laments.
Cesca crunched the ice at the bottom of her glass. ‘I need to pee.’
‘Don’t drink so quickly, then.’
‘I’m not. And why were you so mean to Joe?’
‘Shut up, Cesca.’
‘No, you shut up. You’re not my mamma.’
‘Both of you. Just stop. Here.’ Papà handed Cesca some money. ‘Pay for the drinks when you’re inside. Please.’ He took out his tobacco and pipe. ‘You two are as bad as your mother. What have I done to deserve three argumentative women?’
At the end of the road, just as it dipped, Joe turned and waved at them.
‘You mean passionate, Papà.’ Spontaneously, Vita stood. Blew Joe a kiss. He looked so small in the distance. She felt a rush of tenderness, sharp as if she’d pressed a bruis
e. But Joe kept walking, she’d not been quick enough; he hadn’t seen her.
‘He’s something else, that boy. You could do worse.’
‘Why did he come here, Papà?’ She sat down.
‘He’s never talked to you about it?’
‘He never talks to me about anything. Not even his mamma and papà.’
Her father stretched out his bad leg. ‘Was it a bomb?’ she ventured. ‘Renata said it was a bomb?’
A puff of grey ash. The fragrant smoke made a thread in the air. ‘No. Roberto drowned. A shipwreck.’
‘In the war?’
‘Kind of.’ Papà paused. ‘The shock was too much for poor Giovanna. They took forever to. . . well, finding out what happened took an age. It was terrible. She never kept well, even here. Then, when Roberto took her with him to Scotland, the damp air. . . Och, it’s very sad.’
‘But why did Joe come here?’
Her father patted her hand. ‘You should speak to him about that, Vita.’
‘I’ve tried.’
‘Well, try harder. You’re no a wee lassie any more.’
‘I thought we’d only to speak Italian.’
‘Sometimes I forget what I’m speaking.’
You can be more than one thing, cara. He’d always told her that. Whenever there was a pageant, or San Cristoforo’s parade, Papà would wear a piece of tartan over his tabard. Mamma laughed at him, yet it was she who stitched the plaid. Vita thought he was proud of being both. But maybe he’d been defending his differences.
‘Do you miss it? Scotland?’
‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Just. . . it must be strange. Growing up somewhere, then living somewhere else.’
‘It is. But here’s home too.’
She tried to imagine life without her family, her home. The weight of imagining it frightened her. Do you want me to marry Joe, Papà? That’s what she really wanted to ask. Am I to marry him, or be a teacher? But she knew he’d answer like he always did. Good question, Vita. What do you think?
‘What will this mean for Joe? If more Germans come?’
Until now, he’d been safe enough, because Scottish or not, he was barghigiano. And nobody bothered with Barga. Young, able-bodied men were at a premium, so he’d even been welcomed on their neighbours’ land – provided he worked while the shadows were lengthening.
The Sound of the Hours Page 4
