The Sound of the Hours

by Karen Campbell

  Half-shut eyes; tasting the rasp of burned toast, then syrup. But she was growing anxious. Desperate to unwrap him, this Christmas present she couldn’t have. Listen to yourself. Such appetites must be unwomanly. These pantaloni were unsexing her, and the thought suddenly became very funny, and then she was giggling to herself, Dina frowning, then giggling too.

  A knot of Buffaloes passed, Frank among them. She sensed him there, conscious of the heat on the back of her neck, his hand trailing on her shoulder – then he disappeared out the door. She looked round. Apart from the Balestri lot, there was hardly anyone she recognised. Cesca had gone with Renata and Rosa to get some sleep, Renata waiting pointedly for Vita to come too, but there was urgent partigiani business. . . Vita had to talk tactics with Dina. . . Aye, right, said Cesca as they left.

  The eerie dance of light on the walls, the snores of the strangers surrounding her, were unnerving. It felt subterranean. As if the room was waiting for death. Did he mean for her to follow?

  One touch. Sometimes it is the greatest thing. She pulled her fur around her, climbed over a sleeping Buffalo and went, shivering, into the cold. Frank stood directly outside the door.

  ‘Ciao, bella. Want to go for a walk?’ His fingers grazed hers.

  Clusters of Buffaloes were dotted on the streets, building barriers, priming guns. Just as many stood smoking cigarettes.

  ‘Yes. But not here.’

  ‘Where then? We can’t go far.’

  Up beyond Piazza San Rocco rose the Via del Saltello, the ancient drove road that led across the mountains. She could see the outline of the redbrick customs house which sat on the brow of the hill. For centuries, the lords of Sommocolonia had gathered levies there, growing rich from the passage of trade. It had given this place power and status. A group of shadowy men were carrying something bulky towards the building.

  ‘Follow me. Secret place I know.’

  She led him away, across the hazy grey shapes of the piazza and down the steps beside Renata’s house. A single Buffalo stood guard at the bottom, rags and foliage fluttering from his helmet. His white snow-cape flapped as he aimed his rifle.

  ‘Halt!’

  ‘Ginger. Be cool. It’s me.’

  ‘Hey, Chap. Signorina.’ He winked.

  Vita stood to one side as Frank tried to persuade the soldier to let him through.

  ‘No can do.’

  ‘But the lady needs to get home. I said I’d escort her.’

  ‘Orders, Chap. We got a perimeter guard all round the village.’

  ‘I can vouch for her, man. She ain’t no spy.’

  ‘Can’t let no one in nor out. Not even cute ones.’

  ‘C’mon. We just need to get some air.’

  ‘Jus’ need to get laid, you dawg.’

  The forest edge loomed, trees stark against the cloud-washed moon. Vita pulled the fur collar closer to her face. Tugged Frank away, back up the steps.

  ‘Hey, baby, I’m sorry. He didn’t know you could understand him.’

  She shrugged, glad of the dark to hide her humiliation. ‘Would rather your people saw us than mine.’

  ‘That ’cause you’re ashamed of me?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I am ashamed of me.’

  She led him back to Piazza San Rocco. There was a hunger there. Not just in them; in everything. Night-time yet, but a paler version of itself: banks of deep grey were beginning to creep from the east, you could see day coming, tentative fingers pushing into the star-studded black of elsewhere. Soon, it would be too bright to stand here so brazen.

  ‘Where were you taking me anyhow?’

  ‘I wanted to show you our truffle grove.’

  ‘Classy. You know, after the war we could export them. Make our fortune.’

  ‘You want me for my money? Some families have olive plantations or vineyards. Us Guidis have fungus.’

  ‘I was serious, Vita. What I said before. I want you to marry me.’

  She put her finger on his lips.

  ‘Is only special people can go there.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Sì. Best place in all of the Garfagnana.’

  ‘What’s Garfagnana?’

  ‘This.’ She spiralled her hand at the wooded landscape surrounding Sommocolonia. ‘All the trees. In Etruscan it means enchanted woods.’

  Veils and ribbons of cloud passed the moon. An owl cried on its night-sweep for prey. She wondered if it was the same owl she had seen up on the plateau. How far did they roam? Stubborn, still-hanging leaves shook on the nearest trees as a rumble of artillery came from the far side of the valley. They crossed the square, past a cigar-smoking Buffalo shouting at two partigiani. ‘No, grazie. I already made my peace. Buonasera, Chappelley. Hey, sweetheart.’ It was Frank’s sergeant.

  ‘Sarge.’

  Frank half-shielded her with his body, but it was too late.

  ‘Vita, ain’t it? Is me, Bear. Bono notto. Come translate for me, will you, kid? These two just arrived from Viareggio, but I can’t figure out a word they say. I think they’re asking if I want prayers.’

  One of the strange partigiani was patiently repeating himself. ‘Will you tell this idiot we have new intel. From a priest.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t know. We met him on our way here.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘You deaf, girlie? I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t call me girlie. I’m partigiana, same as you.’

  His companion spat in the snow. ‘Cristo. No wonder they needed reinforcements. All they’ve got is Mori and ragazze.’

  ‘And now we have old men from Viareggio too. So.’ Her breath glittered. ‘You want to tell me what your intel is?’

  ‘The priest asked if we were going to Sommocolonia. He said to tell the Buffaloes that a German attack is imminent.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow as in today, or tomorrow as in tomorrow? It’s the middle of the night.’

  Time was confusing. Who kept track of actual hours now? Folk inhabited a netherworld, stalking their own hills like wraiths, digging animal holes in which to circle and snatch an hour of sleep.

  ‘Tomorrow as in tomorrow. Twenty-seventh, he said. Guaranteed.’

  Who to trust if you cannot trust a man of God? Vita translated. The sergeant sucked on his cigar. ‘OK. Let’s go pass that on. Guess we can stand easy for a bit. They got time to deploy more troops up here at least.’ Bear nodded at Frank. ‘And maybe we will get some of these folks evacuated when it’s light? You gentlemen come with me. Veni, vidi.’

  ‘What?’ The partigiano shook Bear off. ‘Where is the fat Moor taking us?’

  ‘Lieutenant Sommati’s in charge of partigiani,’ said Vita. ‘But I don’t know where he is. If you go with the sergeant, he’ll find him.’

  ‘There’s more of us from Viareggio, up by the Customs House. Place is a shambles – we’re all just hanging about, waiting for instructions.’

  ‘Well, I know they were needing reinforcements up at Montecino.’

  She saw Bear lean into Frank, say something in his ear. Vita pointed up the hill. ‘You know the low ridge of pines directly above the village? First in the firing line, if the enemy comes from Lama.’

  ‘Nope. Don’t know where Lama is either. I told you – we’re not from here.’

  Frank came to stand slightly behind her. He hooked his little finger onto hers, insistent. The wind funnelled through the piazza. Vita could feel the iron weight of the sky, and them, so tiny beneath. The snow flurried. The vastness was overwhelming. A rush of fear passed through her, and she told herself it was just the wind.

  ‘Honestly,’ the other partigiano said. ‘You spend days trudging through blizzards, and this is the thanks you get. You should’ve told that stupid comm-op to get stuffed, Bruno. The foreign one. He said you lot were crying out for reinforcements.’

  ‘We are.’ She could feel the sharpness of Frank’s hip against her backsi
de.

  ‘Jus’ any time you like, Vita-bella,’ Bear drawled in English. ‘Tell ’em there ain’t no rush. Not like there’s a war on.’ He relit his cigar.

  ‘What did he say?’ said the one called Bruno.

  ‘Look, just go with Bear, find Sommati, and they’ll give you your orders. If you’re lucky they’ll give you whisky too. A wee dram?’ Vita said to Bear, in English.

  ‘Sure, sure.’ The sergeant gave Bruno a hefty back-slap. ‘Come meet the family, amigos.’ They headed for the ramp that led to Casa Mazzolini.

  ‘You want to go back with them?’ she said to Frank.

  He shook his head.

  ‘What did Bear say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘“You got one hour, boy. Use it well.”’ He smiled, and didn’t look at her.

  ‘Ah. Well, see, time here is different, Buffalo. Molti secoli o un anno o un’ora.’

  They walked to the next level up, casting shadows on the houses and the thin, cobbled streets. Snow-quiet and empty. A shutter flapped.

  ‘I love when you talk Italian. Don’t have a clue what that meant. But it sounds pretty.’

  ‘It is a poem. About here.’

  ‘Sommo?’

  ‘No, Barga. It says . . . let me look a bit more at. . . things that are many centuries, or a year, or an hour old, and at those clouds that disappear.’

  ‘OK. Swell. Still don’t get what that means.’

  ‘You a college boy and all.’ She put her arm through his. ‘I think it is saying that here, now, contains many times, you know? Things that last for a second and all of history, and what is moving and coming. Is all here.’

  ‘Well, all I know is you’re here. And you’re all I need.’

  He swung her round, pressing her into the length of a wall, kissing her eyes, her mouth.

  ‘Wait. Not here.’

  ‘Vita, you’re killing me.’

  ‘Please.’

  She couldn’t explain. It felt tonight as if she was walking to her fate. If her legs were blown from beneath her or a bullet met its mark, it would be because it was time. The street here was so narrow you could press your hands against the walls on either side. When she was little, it was a badge of honour if your limbs could span the gap. Vita used to go one better, wedging herself off the ground with her arms and feet. See if you can hold for a count of ten.

  Round the corner, the passage split into two separate cobbled lanes. Which way? She held Frank’s hand. Followed the last of the moonlight.

  Pale light yawning. A figure walked through Sommocolonia, trying to get a sense of how many Americans were stationed here. He hoped it was hundreds. This street was so narrow you could press your hands against the walls on either side. Round the corner, the passage split into two separate cobbled lanes. Which way?

  Sometimes it is the smallest thing. The call of an owl. Joe followed it. At the end of this lane was a paved terrace, which overlooked the eastern flank of the mountains. If the Buffaloes hadn’t found it already, he’d suggest the Viareggio partisans should bag it. A fine vantage point for the coming day.

  But someone had found it. They’d even found the wrought-iron chair on which the Widow Giotto used to sit with a cat in her lap. Two entwined bodies were straddling the chair; he could see a naked black arm, pushing up the pale flesh of a woman’s spine, her undone blouse cascading from her hips, into a nest of fur. The black arm rubbed up and down, long fingers massaging the bony ridge of her arse. The woman groaned, grinding her backside to his thrusts, the side of her breast gleaming. Joe should turn away, but he couldn’t. Transfixed. Sinewed black biceps. Her white elbows raised to hold her hair to the waning moon, then she was bowing, bowing onto the man’s chest, him loving her. Joe moved from the doorway he sheltered in. The woman was murmuring Ti amo as the sky exploded in a shower of red and blue light. A flare, sent high above the enemy positions on Lama di Sotto ridge. Their swaying became rigid.

  ‘What was that?’

  Sometimes it is the greatest thing. A voice. Joe felt it as a slow, bright impact, even before the colours fell from the sky and lit her stricken face. Did he make a sound then, or before?

  ‘Joe?’ Vita was holding on to the black man’s shoulder, looking backwards. ‘Giuseppe? Giuseppe!’

  ‘Vita.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ She clambered off the man she sat astride, tugging at her clothes; the soldier was pulling his shirt close, and her, but she was off, up. Tripping on her trousers, throwing her arms round Joe, her bare nipples pushing and spreading into his chest, but he shoved her away.

  ‘Christ, woman. Cover yourself.’

  ‘Joe!’ She was still unclad. The black soldier stood over her, trying to hide her bareness with the furs. ‘It is you. Oh my God.’ Fists at her mouth she was weeping. ‘It is you. Francesco. Is my cousin Joe.’

  ‘You get the fuck away from her. Now.’

  The soldier held his palms wide. ‘Hey, man. I love her. This is not—’

  His words were drowned by a shower of noise and light, comets streaking, streaming in long, earthbound arcs that began to speed and crash around them.

  ‘Incoming!’ yelled the soldier. ‘Get down.’ He threw Vita to the ground. ‘You got a gun?’ he shouted. ‘Hey! You! Joe. You got a gun?’

  Tracer bullets burst onto the hillside, over a group of figures, less than a mile uphill. The whish-whish-whish of mortars started. Black towers of earth rising as missiles hit the ground, sky screaming with pink and yellow flashing veils of light.

  ‘Not here,’ he shouted. ‘At Casa Mazzolini.’

  ‘Take this.’ The soldier set a pistol on top of the metal chair. ‘Keep her safe.’ He bent and held Vita’s face between his hands. ‘I’ll come back for you, baby.’

  ‘Where you going, Francesco?’ She latched onto his wrists.

  ‘There’s enemy movement over there,’ said Joe. ‘North of us.’

  ‘Got it.’ The soldier wasn’t looking, though, he was whispering: I love you, I love you; then a grinding screech as a wheeled cannon was dragged past the end of the lane, and Joe’s knees were dunted by the soldier scrabbling by him, to reach it. Thick white smoke. A mountain range ablaze. Howitzer shells whistled in, shredding trees, igniting houses. Joe could hear men screaming. Vita snatched up the gun, went to run after the soldier.

  ‘Vittoria! Stay here!’

  ‘And die in a doorway?’ she yelled. ‘I need to evacuate Renata’s. All the weans are there. Come on!’

  ‘Renata will—’

  ‘I love you, Joe.’ Racing to the top of the alley, past an army medic, the red cross on his helmet slipping as he tended to a figure on the ground. Vita could see the rear of the cannon, Frank’s crouching scuttle as the cannon moved, then a shrill whirr made her recoil, and the medic was prone too, felled by a sniper’s bullet as a huge blast hit the alley and a wall tumbled to block the entrance.

  ‘Joe!’ Cordite coated the roof of Vita’s mouth. Bullets snapping like ripping teeth. Hails of brick and twisted metal flying, windows exploding, her breath in ragged heaves.

  ‘I’m alright! Just get out of here.’

  Choking smoke filled the air; she could no longer see him, or Frank. There was a volley of huge explosions on the Saltello above Sommocolonia; Vita colliding with running bodies.

  ‘Gesù, what was that?’

  ‘Minefield. Think the Krauts just found it. Hey, Vita!’ It was Lenin and Tiziano. Lenin kissed her forehead. ‘Gelato’s alive! Did you see him?’

  ‘Yes! I can’t believe it!’

  ‘I told him to go to Montecino. We’ve got a big machine gun parked there. Come with us.’

  ‘I need to find my sister.’

  ‘No,’ said Tiziano. ‘What you need is a fucking gun.’

  ‘I’ve got one.’ She held Frank’s revolver aloft.

  ‘Cesca will be fine,’ shouted Lenin. ‘She’s a Guidi same as you. We’ve walls to defend, so move it, comrade.’ A bowl of f
lame ricocheted down the twisting street. They dived for cover in a drainage trench as a mortar exploded in front of them.

  ‘Hold fast. Hold fast.’ Tiziano was signalling up at one of the houses. Urgent drilling of a machine gun. Vita, burrowing her body into the earth. Grit-filled air in gulps, hearing cries and screaming all around.

  ‘Hold fast!’

  Running boots. Troops moving and dropping, moving and dropping. Americani in formation, come to get them out. The guns drilled on; it was a factory of noise, ha! If this was your work, your daily work; soil spitting as the bullets struck, she was becoming hysterical. An uninjured woman, screaming wild. Beside her, Lenin reared, firing at the sky.

  ‘Save your fucking bullets!’ Tiziano shouted. ‘They’re too far away.’

  Lenin slumped. Thank God. That man never usually listened to sense. Vita twisted her neck to say as much. Saw a piece of meat. Saw a blue-boned knob at the end of a joint lurch towards her, and it was Vita, it was Vita’s own body that broke Lenin’s fall. The torso’s fall. Yelps and cries, a Buffalo’s contorted face, telling her to fucking move. Leave him, leave him! What the soldier was telling Vita, what Vita was telling Tiziano, who was trying to lift the Lenin he could reach. He’s dead, Tiziano. Come on. Yellow-pointed arrow-flash. Rifles, bullets. Running low.

  Dawn came as they were sprinting for their lives.

  First light, making every day anew. How it glows and climbs, up here, where the far sky billows. The subtlety of its incursion, forward, onward, until it erupts into piercing life and rolls across the hours. Opening them, offering them, gobbling them, sweeping them away, and each and every living thing in its path will gain or lose that day. From the 3rd Company Hoch, tedeschi who were only following orders, who were trying to make their frontal attack on Sommocolonia from the Lama di Sotto road – until they hit the ring of mines there, to their mates from 2nd Company, creeping round from the Mariola Forest, who had been so quiet, so stealthy. Yet the detonations of their dying friends were what shocked Sommocolonia to its senses, made it bristle and turn outwards and be alert to the creeping threat below.