‘Yeah, but the Urgent Virgin done popped his cherry, I do believe. Ain’t that so, Chap?’
Fucking Ivan. Comanche laid his hand on Frank’s arm. ‘Ignore him. You wanna go get some chow?’
Frank shook his head. Poured another brandy. Fuck it. The room was getting cloudy; fugged with smoke and. . . His hand jerked, spilling another man’s beer.
‘Ho! Watch your—’ The guy stopped. Moved away. Fuck him. Fuck them all. The partigiano who beat Frank up was one of Vita’s lot. Maybe she sent him. Maybe she really hated him now. Man. His hand was bleeding. How’d that glass get broke?
‘Right, men!’
Frank tried to focus. Why was Bear standing on the bar-top?
‘She doesn’t want me, Com.’
‘Keep it down, man.’
‘Listen up! Colonel Sherman wants to brief us on transition. Officers are already present. Get yourselves sober and your asses shifted. Right now.’
Fast-marching through the old town. Seemed Comanche had him by the arm whenever they swung a bend. They assembled inside a cramped palazzo, in an odd, tall salon stuffed with horsehair chairs and opulent couches, with two long dining tables and assorted stools. As if every missing stick of furniture in Barga had wound up here. Dedeaux had been to the barber’s; blond crew cut, hair sharp as sharp. Shame il capitano wasn’t. Check him out, swaggering up front, trying to crawl up the colonel’s ass. Frank was so thirsty. The alcohol had dried out his throat. Colonel Sherman said a few words, the usual rousing platitudes, then, for reasons that were misty, but involved being straight from the horse’s mouth, handed over to Captain Dedeaux, and departed quick as he came.
Dedeaux sipped a glass of rum while he spoke. Mean bastard kept his liquor close. ‘I’ll make this quick. Most of us will be waving bye-bye to Barga very shortly. I’m delighted to say, we got ourselves some fresh black blood.’ He smacked a startled 366er on the back. ‘You boys are all most welcome. Plus, I believe the injuns are heading in soon to join the fun. Proper ones. Not your woo-woo kind.’ He actually ululated, sucking his hand over his fat, stupid mouth. ‘But firstly, I need me some volunteers. A few brave boys from the 370th to hang around and augment the 366th.’
Bear’s hand went up, middle finger slightly higher than the rest. To the untrained eye, it looked respectful.
‘Suh?’
‘Yes, sergeant.’
‘May I ask how long these volunteers would require to stay behind for? And what would their detail entail? Sir?’
‘I was coming to that, McClung.’
‘Like fuck you was,’ mumbled Frank.
‘Captain, may I?’ Lieutenant Fox stepped up. Fox was the 366th’s forward observer. Guy looked like a film star, slim moustache and steady eyes. Frank would’ve liked to know him sooner. You could tell his men rated him. At L’Alpino, he’d been surrounded by a bunch of them, hanging on his every word.
‘As you men know, winter is closing in. We got OSS reporting Mittenwald troops advancing at Monte Uccelliera, and more of Kesselring’s men moving into Castelnuovo. Clearly, momentum is building. So. We need to strike at them before they strike us. If Jerry’s thinking like we are, he won’t want—’
‘Bullshit,’ said Dedeaux.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Bullshit. Fifth Army Command have stated clearly they can see no indication of an enemy attack. Jus’ spies planting false intel – to scare the crap outta these chickenshitters.’
There was the bullshit, right there. Everyone knew enemy activity was increasing. Partisans had spotted Monterosa too; that fearsome hybrid created by the Fascists, of ex-Royal soldiers and raw recruits. They sure weren’t coming to visit their moms.
‘OK, sir,’ continued Fox. Barely blinking, running over the top of Dedeaux, so smooth the prick was taken unawares. ‘Well, what we do know is, we need to take Jerry out. Take Lama di Sotto, take control right along the Serchio, before their reinforcements have time to amass. Therefore, our aim is to march two platoons up to Sommocolonia, where we’ll meet with a local partisan platoon. From there, ideally we’ll march onto Lama di Sotto itself. At the same time, two other Buffalo companies will head to Bebbio and Scarpello, so we’re in position to facilitate a multiple, co-ordinated attack. Of course, there are no guarantees. The terrain’s extremely difficult, the enemy, within their Gothic Line, are incredibly well-ensconced—’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Frank. ‘Suicide mission sounds good to me.’
‘On your feet, soldier,’ said Dedeaux. ‘You some kind of clown-show? Aiming to fuck up my men’s morale?’
Frank sat where he was. ‘Sir, I am one of your men. And, if you ask me, it’s—’
‘Suh!’ Bear got to his feet. ‘I guess I can volunteer my squad. We all familiar with the terrain, and with the type of enemy action to expect. We’d be happy to accompany you 366th gents up to Lama Ridge. And,’ projecting his voice, ‘straight on over the other side. Let’s kick us some Kraut ass!’ he hollered. ‘Let’s kick ’em way over the mountains and back to fucking Krautdom come!’ Fist pumping as his other hand administered a warning jab to Frank’s temple.
Bear slapped him harder when they left the briefing, Buffs spilling into freezing Barga, plenty 366ers still whooping. The rain had turned to sleet, roads and steps were shiny-slick. A corporal skidded down the sloping street, gaining speed. Fell on his butt, to claps and cheers. A young woman stepped disapprovingly over the corporal’s legs.
‘Hey, college boy,’ said Bear. ‘You fixing to get court-martialled?’
Frank shrugged.
‘Here.’ Bear offered him his hip flask. He took a swig. Took another. A-fucking – other. Felt the burn tear through him, splashing and searing his empty belly. Empty world, empty stares: him staring out, that passing woman staring in. Frank almost wished the fierceness would return – would welcome a blast of it, but it was all held inward. Or maybe it had died too.
‘Easy!’ Bear wrestled the brandy off of him. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you, Chap?’
Frank knew that dame. It was Vita’s sister. ‘Hey, Frankie!’ he shouted. ‘Hey, wait up!’
‘Leave the kid alone, Chap.’
The girl skipped around. ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’
‘Scusi, signorina. Chapel, get you sorry ass back to base. Go get cleaned up.’
‘Sarge.’ A 366th corporal broke in, clutching a map. ‘You gotta sec? I can’t find where we s’posed to be.’
Frank slipped round the huddled Buffs. Following Cesca through slender, winding streets towards the edge of town. Sparkling walls towered either side. Shuttered nothings. He was in a ghost-maze.
‘Frankie! Frankie One, please. Wait up.’ His voice reverberated.
‘You are pished. Away home.’
Frank’s eyes filled with sudden tears. A dripping, persistent uncertainty at first, then they were coming so thick they felt like a storm. A lightning storm. Home. Electricity pulsing through his brain, black holes where his family, his life, should be. In the centre of the storm, alone, was him. One day, when he was an old man, all this would be surreal. His memory would fade and he would forget the intensity of this moment, the rub of the boots that tore his heels, the perpetual damp resonance round him like shadow. If he could forget the softness of his momma’s skin, he could forget anything. Forget why he was here, when here was a circle of forever, a wheel on which, daily, you ran. But Vita had come and made it right. She was everything.
‘Is Vita—’
‘Go away!’
‘Cesca. I’m begging you. Jus’ tell me. Does she hate me? I gotta know.’
‘Hate you?’
‘I gotta see her.’
‘No way, pal. You stink. You stay well away.’
‘But I love her, Frankie.’
‘Well, you’ve a gey funny way of showing it.’
So busy jabbering over her shoulder at him that she too succumbed to the hazardous ice. Of course, being a sure-footed Barga girl, Cesca only slithered. Enough
to make her glide into him.
‘Frankie, please. I’m sorry. I should’ve kicked the shit outta Dedeaux. But he’s my captain, and—’
‘It’s no that. Here, your eye’s all swolled up.’
‘What? Yeah, I know.’ He waved dismissive fingers. ‘One of Vita’s pals.’
‘Vita’s pals? Who? Mother Virginia?’
‘Nuh. The Commie one.’
‘Lenin? Aye, well, no wonder.’
‘No wonder what?’
‘He seen you, Frankie. How could you?’
Frank shook his head, vigorously, and the whole street began to slide from under him. ‘I don’t get you.’
Cesca hoisted him by the arm. ‘That’s the problem. You don’t get any of it, do you? She loves you, you eejit. And you’ve went and broke her heart.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
Christmas Eve. Hour of the final Novena. Vita reached beneath the table, for the basket of candles. The Duomo was filling, folk shifting, silent, over pink marble tiles, to the places they’d always stood. Midnight Mass was at four o’clock this year, because of the curfew. She unrolled a waxpaper cone, to count the remaining tapers. Surely then, the duelling guns would cease? For one night, they would get a respite from constant fear and noise. Christmas Eve had fallen on Sunday. You couldn’t get a day more holy.
December was nearly done, and the barghigiani had endured. Relentless shelling; day upon day where folk died and the skyline changed irrevocably as another palazzo vanished, or the campanile at Albiano fell.
She shook out the waxpaper. Only three tapers left. No candles in the Conservatorio either. This was no good. There had to be light on Christmas Eve. She put her shawl over her hair.
‘Ces! I’m away to find some candles. Five minutes.’
Her sister nodded. She was binding pieces of Joseph together with straw from the manger. He’d come off worst in the shelling. Vita went down the rampa, to the warren-like streets of the old town. Treading carefully, a deep crust of snow lay on roofs and cobblestones. That little droghiere near the Comune might still have candles, if she said it was for the Monsignor. She’d say he’d light one specially for them. Worth a try. What Vita needed was a magical emporium, a shop like Signor Tutto’s. Frost rang beneath her boots. The soles offered little grip; they had worn so thin, she could feel the ice coming through.
She stared through the grids and shutters of the empty shops she passed, trying to picture last year, when those same stores had been filled with Christmas bustle, folk haggling over the last of the panettone. Rations had been saved, small, secret parcels stashed and the bells were pealing from the Duomo in obstinate joy. Mamma was alive, war was still beyond their mountains and the night was for Baby Jesus, for the children. This afternoon, a handful of people poked in the few shops that remained, darting like furtive rats. The droghiere was shut. She pushed her forehead into the window grille. Piles of screwed-up paper on the floor, the type fruit came cushioned in. No baskets of oranges and lemons. No dark green leaves of carciofi, nor papery chillies woven into a plait. If she concentrated, she might fall like Alice through the mirror, spin headlong into a topsy-turvy world that made more sense than this. In the windowpane, she saw a man behind her. Tall and fine, he was a long, dark dancing line more brightly dangerous than any fuse. The freezing metal of the screen tingled, rusty on her skin.
The man at her shoulder was not really there; he was a warm imagining which ran up her spine. He had loved her and she had let him. Why not? She’d no mother, no father. Who was there to care? Why should she not lose herself in pleasure, when it was so scant in the world? And so what if it was lies? If he had betrayed her? Deliberately, Vita tried to make it a small, angry matter, a thing of animals and defiance. Placed spikes round her heart like mines, because whenever she let her guard down, a mouth of such misery and want consumed her. She hadn’t room for it. Loving folk brought pain.
She watched the reflected activity across the street. Comune officials packing boxes into a car. More rats. Vita turned from the window. Her gaze shifted across the road. A US truck was parking beside the Comune car. Two military policemen jumped out. They approached a young woman who was doing the same thing as Vita: staring into an empty shop. Grabbed an arm each, and started tugging her towards the truck.
‘Help me!’ she pleaded. But nobody intervened.
Their friendly liberators had begun arresting Italian women, to check them for disease. All it needed was a finger pointing, a whispered con un moro.
‘Dirty bitch,’ said a passing man. Vita bowed her head. Perhaps she would be next. Mother Virginia’s fury at the Buffalo capitano had taken the edge off any accusations. But people talked. Renata suspected, for one. And Lenin. Her cheeks felt hot. The US truck drove off, peeping its horn, forcing the Comune officials to scatter. There were a handful of other women already in the back, clad in robes and nightdresses. Le donne perdute. The women you never spoke about, never acknowledged if you passed them in the street.
Puttane.
He hadn’t wanted to say it, at first, Lenin. When he told her. About the Buffaloes he’d seen at the bordello. Vita placed her cold palms together. Blew on them. Sì. The lightest, twisting hiss. Sì, he’d said eventually. The Moor from your terrace. He was there too.
It had nothing to do with her.
Nothing had. She felt entirely detached. Anger cooled to steel. This was war. Transactions were how you operated. Firm-binding circles become spidery lines, cut adrift and shapeless.
The Buffaloes had claimed him.
Vita climbed the hill, towards the Duomo. She would learn not to care. Her feet skidded on black ice. She braced herself, pressing the side of a high, louring wall, using the gaps between stones as handholds. She should have stayed in Catagnana. In Barga, she was impotent. A refugee, tended to by nuns. As the days grew darker and smaller, so did Barga’s streets. They were claustrophobic, dusted with their own remains. Each streak of sky above each vicolo was thick with ash. Her breath puffed in front of her, hot then cold. Hanging now onto the low hedge, slithering up the Duomo rampa. A pamphlet stuck to the sole of her boot. She peeled it off. One of those horrible ones the Luftwaffe were dropping: a half-nude woman encouraging the Boys of the 92nd to Slip over to Jerry!
Vita stamped her boots, entered the cathedral by the side door, which gave onto a thin, vaulted corridor. Cesca met her, smiling fit to burst. ‘I found some tapers.’
‘Did you? Great. Well done.’
The lassie was bouncing on her toes.
‘It’s not that exciting.’
‘Someone’s here to see you.’
Her heart slipped like a fish. ‘Who?’
‘Oh, someone. Someone tall, dark and handsome.’ Her sister dragged her under the graceful arches.
‘No. I don’t want to see him.’
‘Vi, please. Hear him out.’
It had been four days. She felt sick. ‘Where is he?’
‘I’m here.’ Frank was waiting for her in the shadow of an arch. Vita fell forward, lost herself in olive drab and oilskins. Then pulled back.
‘I’ll leave yous to it. I’m away.’
Vaguely, Vita heard the door into the sacristy opening, her sister going through. Frank took her face between his hands. ‘You’re too pale. You been eating?’
‘No really. Oh, Francesco.’ Stroking the roughness. ‘Was I not enough for you?’
‘Did Cesca not tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘I didn’t do it. Baby, please.’ He caught her wrist. ‘We don’t have much time. You got to believe me.’
‘What? That it doesny matter? You and your friends, in the whorehouse?’
‘Vittoria, I’ve never, ever—’ He stopped. ‘OK.’
Her stomach, falling.
‘Twice, I have been to a whorehouse. But I never did a thing either time. I swear. The other night, we were just waiting on Luiz. Outside, I promise. And the first time was months ago.’
‘Mont
hs? Not here?’
‘God, no. Way back in summer.’
‘Before Lucca?’
‘Yes, before Lucca. Of course before goddam Lucca.’
‘And you never—’
‘On my momma’s life. I just. . . let the lady have a nap. Before she had to – do the next guy, you know?’
Lightness swelling. Becoming tears, at the waste, the waste. At how you can choose what you believe.
‘Francesco.’
She loved how the tip of his tongue touched his teeth, how he thought before he spoke. How his eyes became so bright and vast that it was like staring at the sun. She buried her nose in his neck. He smelled of smoke and snow.
‘I missed you.’
‘I love you so much.’ Her hair shivered under his mouth. ‘I love all the colours of you.’ Kissing the top of her head. ‘Here, where you’re cioccolata.’ Tilting her neck so he could reach her collarbone. ‘Here where you’re caramelle.’ Lifting the underside of her wrist to his mouth. ‘E latte. Here’s good too.’
Through the door, in the body of the Duomo, the Conservatorio piano played. She and Nico had dragged it up the rampa this morning. The Monsignor’s baritone resonated, practising his singing; determined this service would be perfetto for his flock. Tu scendi. A faltered note.
Francesco began to unbutton the top of her blouse. ‘I love this bit, where you are creamy caffè.’
Tu scendi dalle stelle
His lips nudged the swell of her breast. Kissing her out of her senses, as though the sky had swung, dreadful and wonderful, and she was lost.
‘I love you, Vita.’
‘I love you.’
The outer door creaked. Clutching her shawl to make herself decent. The quick light of a match, then an American drawl. ‘Gotta split, Chap.’
‘I’m coming. Vita, I have to go.’ But he hesitated, closing the door again so the two of them were the only two creatures in the universe. Laced his fingers between hers.
‘What does that song mean?’
‘“You descend from the stars.”’
Holding one another. Strong arms. Frail bone. The seconds ticked by. Holding hard curves till they were softer than your own shape, until you didn’t know where the ending of yourself began. That was a fine thing. To feel another’s body contain your own, and the bright, slow shine of it wind round and through the pair of you. Being that close. If the boys who were Germans were allowed to do this tonight, if the boys who were Jocks and Tommies and Austrians; the Indians, the Fascists, the black boys and the white, the americani, the partisans. Just allowed to kiss their sweethearts and be quiet and kind with them for one last time, then they’d want to hold them for always, she thought. There would be no more fighting.
The Sound of the Hours Page 32
