Your hands are trembling and your skin feels clammy. He followed you the whole way here. ‘Because of my … cat,’ you lie. ‘She’s lost. I think she went that way.’ You point to a spot out to your right, where there are some steep cliffs on the other side of the trees.
‘A cat,’ the soldier repeats. ‘A lost cat.’
‘Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,’ you call in a voice that sounds tinny and strained even to yourself.
To your horror, the German walks straight past you and up to the crest of the hill, from where he can clearly see the Cat’s Mouth cave. He sniffs the air. ‘I smell smoke … and food,’ he says. Tonight, of all nights, Charlie’s chosen to light a little fire.
The soldier mutters something in German, draws his rifle and stalks towards the cave. Your mind is in a desperate whirl. Do something, anything, to distract him.
‘My cat, sir!’ you cry, feeling foolish. ‘I just saw her over there! Help me catch her!’ The soldier doesn’t even look at you.
A darker, more awful thought slips into your mind. Even if I distract him now, he’s not going to forget what he saw. He knows something’s up, and he’ll tell the others. Charlie’s dead, and so am I and my whole family… unless… both of us together can kill this man.
Charlie doesn’t have a gun, but he has rope and he’s strong, despite his gammy leg. If you can get the German’s gun away from him, Charlie will have a better chance of beating him.
You shout at the top of your voice, hoping that Charlie can hear you and take heed: ‘A German soldier like you must be very good at catching things, right? We can easily do it – you just have to help!’ There’s one German soldier coming to catch you, is the message you hope Charlie gets from that. Get ready to help me.
As the soldier approaches the mouth of the cave, there’s no sign of Charlie, or any smoke. ‘There’s many long cave in here?’ he asks, leaning forward to peer inside.
You take a running leap at his back and shove him hard. He slams into a spiky rock, howls and rolls sideways. He’s jammed between two of the cat’s lower teeth, like a beetle on its back, and he fires, bullets ricocheting off the roof of Cat’s Mouth and sharp pieces of rock exploding all around you.
Suddenly you see Charlie charging towards the pinned soldier, armed with a huge rock. The soldier twists his head and takes aim at him.
‘No!’ you scream. You catapult yourself through the air and land on top of the gun, just as the soldier fires.
A burning-hot shock wave shoots through your body. It leaves room for only one thought: I’ve saved Charlie.
You dimly hear him roar as he hurls himself at the soldier. Vaguely you feel him roll you off the gun and press his hands to your chest.
‘Don’t die, don’t die,’ he’s begging you, and you wish you could do as he asks, but it’s too late. You open your eyes, smile at Charlie for the last time, then close them again. The pain stops.
To return to the last choice you made and try again, go to the end of scene 4.
Seven years later, in 1951, it’s as if you dreamt Charlie, the navigator from Australia who lived in the cat’s guts for six months – or as if he were a character from a beloved old book. You never heard from him again. After the war ended, you kept hoping he’d show up; walk into your house for a coffee. But Mamma said many fighters just wanted to put the past behind them and forget and besides, if he survived, he’d be back on his side of the world by now.
As for the end of the war, everything was supposed to have been wonderful. Mamma had built it up so much with her promises that you’d expected rainbows every day and feasts every night. You’d thought it would be like those glorious days when Papà was home on leave from the army: he’d spoil you kids like royalty and dance with Mamma. After the war, you’d thought, everyone would be happy, the streams would run with something delicious like limoncello or apple juice, the goats would get fat and Papà would bring home gelato.
But Papà never came home. He was killed just two weeks before the war ended. Mamma fainted when she heard, splitting her eyebrow on the corner of the table as she fell. Tommaso started having nightmares, and Giulia stopped talking for nearly a month.
It is all your fault. When you took that cornetto of Domenico Franco’s, all your luck just drained away. Your mamma’s perfect record as a midwife is now ruined: there was a baby born limp who couldn’t be revived; another whose shoulder got stuck and who is now severely disabled; then a mother whose womb didn’t stop bleeding no matter how many herbs or compresses Mamma tried, who died within hours, leaving behind five older children and a newborn. There were too many to be a coincidence, weren’t there?
Then the people of Lenola started looking for misfortune to tie to Mamma. When a baby she’d delivered four years ago, who was now a healthy robust boy, broke his arm falling from a swing, they said it was because Mamma had been his midwife. It was ridiculous, but people started crossing themselves for protection as she passed.
Food has been scarce all over Italy since the war ended, but without Mamma’s income, you’re relying on a few donations from extended family and whatever you can grow in your garden to have enough to eat. Luck hasn’t smiled on you or your family in seven years.
YOU’RE WEEDING THE garden when Mario skids up and drops to his knees beside you. ‘We’re going to get rich!’ he gasps.
You look at him awry. Mario is full of get-rich-quick schemes that usually end up with him getting his face punched.
‘There’s a high-stakes card-player from Naples visiting Lenola right now,’ he hisses. ‘Come and play against him: you’ll win!’
You roll your eyes. Unlike you, Mario’s always had very good luck, and he delights in playing cards. When he first started teaching you to play, he thumped you every time, until you worked out that there were patterns you could follow. You found strategies for deducing exactly which cards had already been played, and which were still in the other players’ hands. Steadily, you started winning. At first, Mario was mystified, then outraged. Now he thinks you’re a genius.
‘Mario, I’d never play against this guy,’ you say. ‘He’s probably a gangster!’
‘Then teach me how to do your thing,’ he begs. ‘I’ll share the money with you!’
‘If a professional card-player works out that you’re counting the cards, he’s going to give you two black eyes!’ you warn him.
‘And two broken arms,’ he adds gleefully. ‘This isn’t just small change with the boys – we could win a fortune!’
You sigh, looking around you. You wouldn’t have long to teach him, and the stakes are high, but the house is rundown, the chickens have stopped laying, the children are always hungry. A quarter of the houses in Lenola are bombed-out shells. Your high school professor told you that you were smart enough for university, but you don’t even have money for a pair of shoes, let alone a new life in Rome.
Mario waves a deck of cards under your nose. You take them and start to teach him.
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, a noisy crowd has gathered at the taverna for the game. You’re sitting in a corner, hoping no one notices you’re there. You’ve agreed to give Mario some hand signals to help him win; you’re not confident he can do it alone. The cards are slapped down. The player from Naples, Carlos, stretches his wiry neck and surveys Mario with lazy green eyes. Beads of sweat form on Mario’s brow.
Each card dealt has a positive or negative value. By adding them up, you can adjust your bet accordingly. Mario makes the right moves.
Good, you think. You remind yourself to breathe, and to stop screwing your face up with tension. Play it cool.
The minutes drag by. You’re concentrating so hard that you feel you could burn a hole in the cards. Occasionally you flick out a finger at Mario: Pass. Now take. Play your ace. He sees the signals from the corner of his eye. Your heart is hammering in your throat.
Carlos is scowling. The other Lenola players except for Mario have all folded easily. The chatter in the taverna stills, and you h
ear someone whisper, ‘How is he doing this?’
You’re just about to show Mario two fingers when a stranger roughly bumps into you, spilling his drink all over you. You gasp.
‘Oops.’ The man sneers through yellow teeth.
You hear Mario thump his table. ‘Hey, apologise to her!’
‘Mario, concentrate!’ you hiss.
Carlos is trying to take his turn while Mario’s distracted. ‘Are you going to draw?’ he growls.
‘Yes,’ says Mario. ‘I mean—’
‘No!’ you shout.
‘I mean, no!’
Slowly, green eyes glowing like a tiger’s, Carlos looks from Mario to you, then back. ‘Then reveal,’ he spits.
With a trembling hand, Mario lays his cards out on the table. Carlos hisses with frustration as he lays his out too – the game is over, and Mario has won.
Right now, you’re so scared of Carlos, you think it would have been better if you’d lost. Then you see the size of the pile of notes that he shoves towards Mario. Carlos looks at you with slitted eyes. ‘Get out of here,’ he snaps.
You don’t need to be asked twice. Within seconds, you’re running through the night in your sweat-soaked dress, Mario by your side, his pockets stuffed full of banknotes, whooping at the stars.
MAMMA HATES GAMBLING – she’d make you donate the profits to the church in a heartbeat, but you know in your own heart that your family needs this break. So you simply tell her that Mario has a new job and wants to pay for you to study in Rome. Mamma’s always been proud of your studies, and a full education will allow you to earn a decent wage afterwards, to share with your family.
But instead of leaping up with joy, Mamma freezes. ‘But you won’t go,’ she says at last and resumes stirring the dinner on the stovetop.
‘Mamma, what?’ you splutter. ‘Why not? I know I can—’
‘No!’ She slams down the wooden spoon. ‘It’s too far to go by yourself! We need you here. I won’t allow it!’
Anger boils inside you. ‘Is this about the curse?’ you demand. ‘You won’t let me go to Rome because of that? We need to start making our own luck.’
‘There’s no escaping it!’ Mamma snaps back. ‘Since the Germans stole our cornetto, everything’s gone from bad to worse.’
You’re boiling with frustration. It’s time to tell the truth. ‘I took the cornetto, Mamma,’ you say. ‘I gave it to Charlie. It wasn’t the Germans – it was me.’
Mamma gasps, a look of pure horror on her face. ‘How dare you!’ she cries. ‘Just think of all those babies who died!’
Now you’re feeling really wretched. ‘I’ll get it back, then!’ you cry. ‘If that’s what it takes to fix this, I’ll find Charlie, somehow, and get it for you! But I’m going to university, too!’
‘Do what you like,’ she hisses. ‘The curse is yours to bear.’ And she walks away.
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, something happens that makes you doubt your future: Mario gets a letter all the way from Australia…from Charlie!
At first you are jubilant – He survived! He’s written to us! – but your joy fades as you realise he’s only written to Mario. There’s not a mention of you.
Dear Mario,
I hope that this letter has found you well. It was my great fortune to be rescued by you and hidden. This letter is to invite you on a voyage to Australia, to my farm to work there. If you can come, I’d be delighted to see you and you would be very welcome to share my home and food, such as it is.
Best wishes to one and all,
Charlie Sanders
Mario rescued him? What about you? Charlie was the one who said you could do anything. Has he forgotten you completely? First Mamma steps on your dreams, and now Charlie. You’re so hurt that you don’t talk to Mario for weeks, although it’s not his fault. I should never have helped him win at cards – then he could never have afforded the boat ticket, you fume. Mario packs his belongings into a thin metal trunk and locks it, ready to go away forever, and still you don’t speak to him.
You could go with him, you know, whispers a little voice in your head.
You tell the little voice to shut up. Charlie didn’t invite me. He only invited Mario, you think petulantly. And he leaves for Sydney tomorrow; it’s too late for me to join him.
The little voice pipes up in reply: So what? There’ll always be another boat! Don’t let your pride get in the way of an adventure!
You squash the thought. When you were younger, this little voice told you to take the cornetto! Just look how well that turned out. You tell it: I don’t want to hear your crazy ideas anymore. Anyway, my plan is to go to university in Rome.
Isn’t it?
To spend the money you won on furthering your education, go to scene 8.
To buy a ticket to Australia instead, go to scene 9.
I’m glad Mario gets to travel to the other side of the world, you tell yourself, but I don’t want to go. Anyway, I have good options here.
You know that’s a bit of a lie. You would have jumped at the chance to go to Australia if Charlie had offered it, but your pride is too hurt to go without an invitation. And as for having good options here, well, the money from the card game will pay for food, board and books in Rome for a while, at least …
Despite your hurting heart, you agree to go and see Mario off at the docks at Naples, along with his parents. On the bus trip down, Zia Rosa says, ‘Wasn’t it lucky that Mario saved Charlie’s life that day.’
Zio Benedetto, who returned home safely after the war, says, ‘I’m lucky to have such a brave son.’
Yeah, what a hero Mario is, you think angrily. As if Mamma and I did nothing while your family was being so brave. Mario sits on the edge of his seat, as eager and alert as a parrot, only wanting to fly away.
At the docks, you take Charlie’s compass from your purse and look at it one last time. The frostiness you’ve felt towards Mario is beginning to thaw at the thought that you’ll probably never see him again, and suddenly you want things to be right between you.
‘Mario, you know I care about you, don’t you?’ you ask him.
‘Of course!’ he says and ruffles your hair.
Mario can be a joker, but he’s always been there for you when you needed him. Now that he’s crossing the world like this, he’ll probably never come back. Letters will take weeks to go back and forth; if you’re really lucky, one day he’ll send you a photo of himself with a wife and baby. You suddenly feel foolish for having wasted your last few weeks together being mad at him. You’re afraid you might cry.
‘Take this, and give it back to Charlie for me,’ you say, pressing the compass into his hand. ‘Tell him … tell him I still think of him, and … could you see if he still has our cornetto? It’d mean so much to Mamma.’
Mario looks uncomfortable, but he takes the compass. ‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ he begins, but a blast from the ship’s horn cuts him off. Passengers begin streaming up the gangplank, and your zia and zio start crying.
‘What is it?’ you ask him.
‘Never mind – I’ll put it in a letter,’ he promises.
You wrap one arm around Zia Rosa and the other around Zio Benedetto. Zia Rosa is openly sobbing, and Zio Benedetto’s shoulders are just quietly shaking, but you see him dab a hankie to the corner of one eye. Your heart is breaking for them. You know that there’s every chance they’ll live the rest of their lives without ever seeing their son again.
WHEN YOU GET off the bus back in the heart of Lenola, you smell smoke. You look up and see a plume of it drifting off the hillside.
Oh God, no. Could it be our home? You know in your gut that it is.
You turn to sprint out of town, leaving your zia and zio behind, praying for it to not be true, but someone catches your arm to stop you. It’s Father Arnolfi from Lenola’s little chapel. ‘Don’t go up there,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’
‘But my family!’ you cry, the words catching in your throa
t.
‘It’s all right, they’re safe in here,’ he says, gesturing to his chapel, and you feel a flood of relief.
‘They’re all right?’
‘Yes, they all survived, thank the Lord,’ he says, leading you inside the chapel. ‘But your home … I’m afraid it’s burnt to the ground.’
Tears spring to your eyes. You can hardly believe it. Your home … your bed … your clothes … your whole family has nothing left.
Mamma, Giulia, Tommaso and Alessandro are huddled on the pews, wrapped in blankets. Tommaso’s head is resting in Giulia’s lap, and Mamma is holding Alessandro in an awkward bundle on her knee.
At least we have each other. You run to them and kiss their smoky, tear-stained faces.
‘What happened?’ you ask.
‘It was an accident – the lamp fell onto a pile of laundry,’ Tommaso explains. ‘I tried to put it out …’
You see that his hands are bandaged and swallow the huge lump in your throat. Poor Tommaso. Poor everyone.
Another accident, you think. Far too many accidents for just one family. You hope more than ever that Mario can get back your cornetto.
ZIA ROSA AND Zio Benedetto take you in, but there’s precious little room in their house, and you know it’s no solution. Everyone in Italy has been struggling since the war; your neighbours would have helped once, but now they’re as poor as you are.
There’s no thought of using the card-game money to go to Rome now – your family needs the money to live on, and unless you can find a way to turn it into more money, it will be gone in a few months. All the children begin looking for work, but there’s nothing. By the end of the week, Tommaso gets a job weeding, but it’s barely enough to pay for bread. You know Mamma’s getting desperate when she suggests that, if you can’t find a job, you could join a convent and be ordained as a nun – at least then you’d have food and a place to live.
Move the Mountains Page 3
