La Limonaia was quiet when Frank got there. Almost dusk. He checked round the perimeter, found the back door unlocked. Nobody home. Well, he’d plenty of time. Three hours till he was on patrol again. Three hours to make the place nice; to douse Vita in sweetness, then, when she was mellow, he would argue his case. Jesus, he would get down on his knees if it persuaded her to jump in the jeep and come with him off this damn hill. Right now, a squad was mining the pontoon over the Corsonna. The guys at the front were due to fall back, pulled away to cover another flank considered even more threatened than this one. By tomorrow, or the next day, this whole area would be unmanned. Might be vulnerable for a few hours only, but Frank knew they’d blow even the temporary pontoons to protect Barga if need be. And leave Sommo and Catagnana to their fate.
He could order Vita to return to the Conservatorio, kidnap her, or he could convince her. What he wanted, above all else, was to make her smile. To give her a gift, a real thing, not just a handful of supplies. Foraging in an abandoned house, he’d found an old tin bath. Frank knew the power of a good soak. What she’d said she wanted most, what she dreamed about. So tonight, when Vita came home, the bath would be waiting for her. Hell, they could all take a bath, her and that other dame and her kid too, if it persuaded them to move off this hill.
He’d brought new soap and a clean towel. Borrowed three burners and a little gasoline to heat the water. The candlelight danced on the stove, shining up the enamel to alabaster. It wasn’t pretty, but he figured in front of the stove was the best place, so the air would be warm around her. Was only a hip bath, and she’d long legs to squeeze in there. He’d like to have used the parlour instead of these hard surfaces and tiles, but no way could he carry the bath through to empty it after. From here, they could drag the tub to the back door, drain it outside.
Took him twenty, thirty pitchers to fill the thing. He didn’t use their precious water. The burners he’d stolen from the quartermaster served two purposes: to heat the water yes, but also to melt the snow. In and out he trooped with his shovel, tipping snow into the cauldron and topping up the gasoline and trying not to think how much fuel he was using. Frank worked through yawns and heavy eyes, through frostbitten fingers when his mitts got too wet. Four hours on; this was his four hours off – he should be sleeping or eating. But it would be worth it. Shit. What if she didn’t come home? He carried on, fashioning a screen from kitchen chairs, with a tablecloth over to keep the draughts away. He couldn’t keep the water warm forever. What a waste. Maybe all the partigiani would pop down soon for a dip, seeing as how they kept watch over La Limonaia.
Frank was looking out for her, was all.
He sat on the remaining kitchen chair. Laid his head on the table. Finally, when he was just about to turn the burners off and leave, the back door opened. Rather, it exploded in a flurry of snow, a female yelling: ‘Per terra! Ho una pistola!’
Frank hit the deck. A blunt and gleaming shotgun pointed in his direction. ‘Vita! It’s me. Francesco!’
‘Gesù. What you doing, lunatic? I could of shot—’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Pulling himself to his feet. ‘I thought you’d be here earlier, OK? When it was still light. Man, will you put that down? I just wanted to. . .’ He tailed off, stepping backwards so she could see the surprise.
Vita didn’t speak. Her bottom lip moved, like she was chewing a bad taste. Frown lines deepening. Gently, he took the shotgun from her hands, laid it on the table. She swallowed, it was a precursor to freaking out. . . Shit, he had got this wrong, wrong; she was insulted, raising her face to seek out the top of the big wooden cupboard. Was she searching for some implement to hurl?
‘Hey, I’m sorry. It was just you’d said how much you’d like a bath. I didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘No. You did.’ Her voice was liquid. ‘You meant kindness.’ Small inclination of her head. ‘Grazie, Francesco. And thank you too, for my picture.’
‘Sure. Well. Was just a sketch. I’ll do you a better one. Look, best get in while it’s still warm, yeah? There’s fresh soap there – only lye, I’m afraid, I couldn’t get nothing scented – and the towel’s new too.’ Embarrassed, rambling. Grateful she wasn’t mad. ‘You can keep it,’ he added lamely. ‘Hey, I’m gonna wait outside till you’re done. Make sure no one disturbs you. Plus you’ll never lift the tub on your own.’
Her chin jutted. Cute.
‘Vita, I can barely lift it.’
‘How long did this take you to do? Heating the water. Where you even get the water?’
Frank raised his hands in submission. ‘It’s not yours, I promise. I brought a couple gallon cans. And snow. Mostly snow. I made sure it was clean.’ He had picked out every piece of grit and twig as it melted. ‘Don’t worry. I only used a little bit of your wood. I’ll chop more. I borrowed some burners and fuel from the cookhouse. But I’ll need to take them back.’
‘You carry them all the way up here?’
‘Yeah. Well, no. I stole a jeep. But I brought in all the snow. Tons of it.’
She shook her head. Then something wonderful happened: a luminous, tearing waterfall of laughter ringing from her throat. ‘This is amazing.’
‘Right. God. Good. Get in. I’ll go outside.’
‘I canny believe you did this. For me.’
‘No problem. Be a lot easier if I didn’t have to drag it halfway up—’ He bit his tongue. Chiding would not work. ‘OK. Well. Enjoy. Bath’s all yours. I’ll wait outside.’
‘Is freezing! No, don’t be daft. Just wait in the salotto. Or my room maybe, it’s warmer. Is the one on the left.’ She pulled off a mud-caked boot. ‘I won’t take too long. You’ll need to get back – Frank. Have you had no sleep?’
He shrugged.
‘Go lie in my room. Please. Just rest your head for a wee while.’
‘You get clean, then I mess your bedsheets? Nah. I’ll just sit in your lounge room.’
‘Salotto.’ In the candlelight, she was glinting: a wild, sweet, elvish thing, stirring water with her foot. Casting spells.
‘Salo-toe. I’ve put a clean dress out for you too – I’ll leave it by the door.’
‘I wear pantaloni now,’ she shouted.
Frank left as she was undoing the little buttons at her neck. He wished he hadn’t seen that. He carried a candle through to the salotto. It smelled musty. When he sat on a cushioned settle, the damp came through his woollen pants. He retraced the actions of her fingers, her thumb pressing out the button from its loop, her hand stretching down towards the next one. Held his skull in his hands. Two walls and a door away, Vita was naked. It was no use. He walked into her bedroom. The window here wasn’t shuttered. Blue snow-light, washing the ceiling. He put the candle down. Opened her wardrobe, and the smell of her slapped him. He had not thought this through, that they would be here alone, would never have. . . never have. . . Oh. Pushing his face into a long cascade of fabric; the sound of the sea in his ears. He walked round the room. Stroked her counterpane. Her pillow in his arms. There was a frond of green lace, a hair ribbon maybe, tossed over her mirrored bureau. He held it under his nose. Put it in his pocket.
Returning to the dark hallway. Kitchen door was fast-shut. Slivers of light on the floor and on the hinges. The only glow was inside that room; it was spilling from the cracks, the long crack in the place where the door and its hinges did not quite meet the jamb. Dirty-hating, the way you dirty-hate your hand as it slides into your pants when you are a kid and God is watching, but it slides in nonetheless; it is driven by the piston of your hammer-fist heart, the same thing that was driving him now, driving his filthy cheek into the crack of the door and the line of his sight lining up with her limbs, unsure at first of what he could see: a tan curve. Elbow or knee; no, it was shoulder. Oh, Jesus Christ, it was turning. It was breast.
The flat of his hand, slamming against the door. He heard Vita shout, but he opened it anyway. This wasn’t them. Kept his eyes screwed shut, aiming to formulate a rea
son, a way to try and say it and not be dirty. Couldn’t hear her any more, fuck, man, he must be terrifying her, and this was not him, he was not a monster. He would never, ever hurt her.
‘I want to see you,’ said his voice.
Crystal clink of water. Air brittle. Breath held.
‘I swear I won’t touch you. I swear.’
‘Alright,’ she said at last. ‘Alright.’
So he came inside. Couldn’t swallow, couldn’t think right. Slid against the wall, slid downwards till he was on the cold floor. Then he opened his eyes. Thought she would be looking away from him, that he’d shamed her, and it was already too late. But her gaze was direct in his. Level. Holding his eyes, she ran the yellow soap down the length of her leg, ankle to shin to thigh. Folded it into water. Began to wash her breasts. Cupping her suds-filled hand over right, then left, pouring the pitcher high to rinse them. Drops of water hung from her nipples, her pale nipples, her untied hair wet across her face. She tossed it back and in that generous, practical movement, he glimpsed the sun as it splits blurred cloud. Heard the slow drip of moisture. He knew that there would be no one else.
Vittoria stood, faced him. Soaped the dark triangle between her legs, but it was a demure action, made him think of Venus in that picture, when she’s rising from the waves, then just as quick, she was down again, pouring a pitcher full of water over her back; that neck lowered, he had seen every bit of her unwrapped for his delight, and it was still her neck that sent him demented.
He got to his feet. Didn’t speak, just held the towel for her to step into. Vita, so still and so quiet. Frank wrapped the towel around her, wrapped his arms around the bundle of towel and drew her in, the fine, brilliant angles of her. He felt his knees give, but she caught him as he caught her hair. Handfuls of soaking hair, half-hummed whispers, and then he kissed her. Not a long kiss. But perfect.
‘You go get dressed.’ His throat was hoarse. ‘I’ll drain the tub.’
‘OK,’ she said.
‘OK? Make an americano of you yet.’
‘Can-a.’ She brushed her lips against his nose. ‘Americana.’
He turned away to let her get dried properly, shy again after the boldness. But her bare arms came up from behind, under his own. The damp heat of her, pressing through the back of his shirt.
‘Francesco.’ Breathing it in his ear. ‘Love me.’
‘Oh, Christ, Vita. I do. I love you.’
‘We might no be here again.’
Only then he understood. He turned round. Holding her. Kissing her eyelids, her cheeks, butterfly kisses until she started to shiver. Laying her on the kitchen table, gentle as he could though there was a heap of junk and tools there, pushing them off with his elbow, half-gone with the wanting of her. Her mouth on his, his open shirt grazing her skin, then his flesh was touching her flesh, and she took him close into her. Far and far in the close dark kitchen, with the hard snow arrowing the window. Slower and closer. Slower and closer, cast blue and gold by tiny flames. Belonging to no one but themselves.
Dazed. Sleepy murmurs; a coming-to that glowed. Frank stretched, running his hand along her hip. He kissed her shoulder.
‘I need to go, baby.’
‘Not yet.’
They watched moonlight shift in a slow waltz over the tiled floor. The snow had stopped. He put his fingertips on his heart. It hadn’t. Everything had a different light to it though.
‘I got to get back, or they’ll put me on a charge.’
‘Of what?’
‘Being AWOL. On account of how we’re all yellow-bellied cowards.’
She moved onto her back, put her cool hand on his face. ‘No way. Americani are brave. Everyone knows that.’
‘Not the black ones.’ He kissed her breast. Unbelieving that it was his. Was it? ‘I swear they’re desperate to court-martial someone.’
‘That is just daft.’
‘It is.’ Hand under her neck. One final kiss, his brain speeding, spinning that this was true. He’d woken, and it was true. ‘Will you please come down with me, baby? To Barga, like I asked?’
Wrong thing to say. She sat up, dragged the towel off of the floor and put it round her. ‘I got things to do here. Important things.’ A hank of hair fell loose into her eyes. She was so beautiful. Sullen and belligerent.
‘Vita. Winter is closing in. There’s rumours Austrian reinforcements—’
‘No rumours. It’s true.’
‘Yeah? Well, clearly you’re better informed than me. So, in the next few weeks, this place is gonna get blasted to fuck. You understand that?’
‘Sì.’ She was still perched on the table, but hunched. He rubbed at her shoulders, her eyelids half-shutting.
‘Then why won’t you leave Catagnana?’
‘Because if nobody lives here, then. . .’ Her beautiful face was flushed and rosy. ‘By Christmas we’re gonny win.’
‘Says who?’ He needed to get dressed. She was coming off of this mountain if he’d to carry her over his shoulder. Act out a scene from those Nazi posters.
‘Everyone.’ She jumped from the table. Bare feet padding on the tiles. ‘We just need one final push.’
‘Vita. I’m begging you.’
‘Can you get a message to Lucca? Are there ways?’
‘I guess. Yeah, sure. We got a mail run goes there twice a week. Hey – you want to go back to your nonna’s? It would be way safer than here.’
‘And never see you? You want that, Buffalo?’ She was fiddling with something on the counter of the big dresser. A cutlery canteen? In the dim light, he could only see outlines.
‘No. ’Course I don’t.’
‘By Christmas, I promise.’ Her words were flat, almost detached. ‘I’ll only stay up here till then.’
‘What if that’s too late? What would your sister do without you?’
‘She would understand.’
‘I thought you said you miss her?’
‘Of course I do. But I have to do something. Same as you.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘How no? You can help my country but I canny? If I am at La Limonaia, at least I feel useful.’
‘What about the Conservatory? You’ve been helping the nuns.’
‘I’m no a bloody nun!’
They both started laughing. Frank paused, mid-button. ‘True.’
‘La Limonaia is a safe house. Is a safe house because of me. The partigiani won’t let me fight. All I get to do is make polenta and deliver documents and ferry folk up and down. Canny even get this stupid thing to work.’
He came over, but it was just an excuse to slip his arms through hers. It wasn’t a cutlery canteen; it was the suitcase OSS had made her carry. She was poking at the radio transmitter inside.
‘Shit, Vita. You oughtn’t to have that on view.’
‘Doesny work anyroad.’
‘Battery gone?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her backside arched slightly into him. He was growing hard again. Was she worth going to jail for? Undoubtedly.
‘Let me see. Sometimes the components can get corroded. You got a screwdriver?’
‘Aye. Think you shoved it on the floor.’
‘Oh. Yeah.’ He felt full and light, as if his blood was effervescent. The radio set filled the entire suitcase. Frank opened the front plate. Orange dust fell from a nest of wires and bulbs and fuses.
‘See? Rust.’ Beyond that, he’d no idea, save only that Vita’s admiration was trained on him. ‘OK. Deal time. You come back with me tonight, and I’ll take this to one of our wireless guys. They can make music come outta thin air. If they can’t fix it, no one can. And if no one can, we’ll get you a new one.’
Peach-skin nape of her neck. His hand, braceleting her wrist. He ran his thumb over the fine nub of bone. ‘Vita. Please—’
She jerked away. ‘Don’t. Please.’ Patted the back of his hand. ‘Don’t you see? If the tedeschi make me leave La Limonaia, then. . . there’s nothing. For any of us. What
will we come home to? This is for all of them. No just me. What if they are restless? Maybe you try to find comfort in the places you once loved.’
‘Who?’
‘Sorry. Ignore me. I. . . my da says I haver.’
‘Haver?’
‘Talk mince. Look, please. Can you not fix it now?’
‘I’m not an expert.’
‘But you are.’ She kissed him. ‘You’re brilliant. Please just try? I don’t want to take the radio away to Barga. We need it here. They’ve to send a staffetta to Castelnuovo and back every time we want to pass on information. It’s dangerous.’ She pulled out a rusted coil. ‘Is it just that spring? Can we no find a new one?’
‘Careful. Don’t pull it. You got any clocks, watches?’
‘Maybe in that?’ She pointed to the radio, sitting on a shelf by the stove. ‘Canny use it now there’s no electric.’
The candle was guttering. The ticking of Frank’s watch grew louder. ‘Vita. Baby, I honestly don’t know what I’m doing.’
She flashed keen, sharp teeth. ‘Me neither.’
‘Did you change the battery? I thought the power supply on these things was self-contained?’
‘Don’t ask me. It was Tiziano.’
‘What about fuses?’ He twisted a dial marked megacycle. ‘You been playing with this? You shift it to a higher frequency and it can cover hundreds of miles.’
‘No. Tiziano said not to touch it. Tedeschi can triangulate your position.’
‘Ooh. Get you.’
She stuck out her tongue.
‘OK, I give up.’ He blew on the coil, shoved it back in. ‘I gotta go or Dedeaux will—’ Immediately, the set began to crackle. ‘Hey. Alright! We did it.’
An awful static hissing. Frank moved the dial slowly, trying to pick up any traffic. Yips and woofing, a howl like a whole kennel full of dogs trapped inside the transmitter.
Fsshhnon lo farà mai il popolooshBuona sera. Gelato ragazzo sta trasmettendo Gelato raboO Boom. Eich spreche . . .
‘Joe!’ The radio fizzed, then banged. ‘Get it back, get it back!’ She was shouting at Frank. Smoke was rising from the suitcase; he could smell burning.
The Sound of the Hours Page 28
