‘We shoot cowards.’
‘Yes, that’s another thing. You cannot bear being thought cowards…However, no soldier has ever got himself killed just for his pay, has he, Captain?’
There followed a long moment of silence. I watched the glasses coming and going to their lips. I imagined that they were avoiding each other’s eyes.
‘I lived for a while in Tuscany, and I got to know the Italians: staunch people, much attached to their homes, their fields, their children, as well as to money, but you are different…You are eager and curious…You have in you an impulse towards abstraction which is rare in a woman, very rare.’
‘It is that I…I know horses. There are times when I seem to feel their sadness, their fear.’
A thunderous blast shook the windowpanes.
‘Excuse me, Madame.’
The captain stood up and went to the window. ‘Artillery!’ He turned, and added, ‘It has begun to snow heavily again. If it snows in the mountains…’
Aunt Maria rang the brass bell standing near her glass. ‘Can the snow stop the big guns?’
‘Oh, yes, indeed the snow can. Only the snow. But it will not happen. What has been begun must be brought to a conclusion.’ The captain resumed his seat.
Teresa entered, followed by her daughter. She was carrying a tray, and on the tray was a chicken, or perhaps a turkey. At that moment I remembered that during the afternoon I had seen the steward leaving the Villa with an empty sack over his shoulder.
Another rumble, further away. ‘If winter brings the war to a halt in the mountains…’
‘But have you not already won it?’
A shadow fell across the captain’s face. It was that of Teresa, in the act of serving him.
‘Do you like guinea-fowl?’
‘I have not eaten so well for months, Madame. For years, I should say. Ever since…’
‘Since…?’
‘Forgive me, I was about to…to bore you with personal matters.’ The captain’s voice broke slightly.
‘You are not boring me. You have said you have stayed in Tuscany. Is that where you learnt our language? You express yourself with extraordinary correctness, and I do not say it to flatter you, believe me.’
‘You are too kind.’ I saw him screw in his monocle. ‘Yes, as a boy I spent many of my summer holidays at Piombino, where a friend of mine called…Anselm, Anselm von Feuerbach, had a villa. His mother came from Grozeto.’
‘Grosseto.’
‘Ah, Groseto indeed! You had just paid me a compliment, so I made a mistake.’
‘I assure you, Captain, that I would be very happy to speak your language as well as you speak mine.’
Loretta refilled the wine glasses. I felt a sneeze coming, and stuffed a hanky into my mouth. All I heard was the clatter of knives and forks, and then once more the captain’s voice, slower now, with a note of sadness.
‘Von Feuerbach, a great friend. It is to him that I owe my Italian. We were always together, every summer, on the Tyrrhenian. There was sweetness in my life in those days. In those days I used to read Horace.’
‘Horace?’
‘Yes, I used to read the Latin poets. There was still room in my head for books. I remember the rocks, the undertow. We would dive in at night, Anselm and I…swimming naked, just the two of us…I remember how huge the moon was.’
‘Hearing you talk like this…the war is far from your thoughts…just now.’
Something made me turn my head; I seemed to have heard a sound of scuttling. It was a sparrow! Inside Grandpa’s cubby-hole! If I don’t let it out it’ll die of hunger, I thought. It was hopping about on an old dust-laden newspaper folded over the top of a lamp, and with hefty pecks with its beak was digging a tiny crater in that relic of the freedom of the press.
‘Do you know what is good about war? That it makes things simple. It puts the good men on this side, the bad men on that. You know you have to kill that man: your uniform tells you so. You know you have to give orders to this man and you owe obedience to that one. You only have to glance at his insignia. A soldier even has time for reflection. Civilian life is dull because it is too full of – supposed – liberties.’
‘In peacetime people don’t die, though.’
‘People die anyway, always, all of them.’
‘You have no children, have you, Captain?’
‘I have my men.’
I seemed to see my aunt smile. The captain lifted his glass to his lips. ‘A little more, please,’ he said, turning his eyes to Teresa. I heard not a sound, but I’m fairly sure that the cook, through clamped lips, uttered a diambarne de l’ostia.
Loretta replaced some of the candles. The light became colder, stiller.
‘We need some coffee. We have a little coffee today…real coffee. Let us seat ourselves more comfortably.’
The captain slipped his monocle into his pocket as he rose. ‘I am fond of coffee.’
My aunt went over and sat in front of the fire. The captain did likewise, and cleared his throat.
‘You know, Madame Spada, you remind me of a French lady I knew in Agadir, in Morocco. It was in 1910…’
‘Morocco?’
‘Yes, there was one of our destroyers in the harbour…On military business…I would have liked to marry her, but she hated the army, she hated people who give orders…She had just such a brow as you have, and the same grave look in the eyes.’
‘You wish to flatter me, Captain. But…do you find me so sad?’
A long moment of silence.
‘She is dead.’
I could have heard a pin drop.
Then came two thumps on the door. A few words in German. The captain shot to his feet. There was a brief exchange.
‘Madame, I have to go. This dinner has been…Well, thank you.’
I heard the click of his heels, and pictured him stiff at attention.
‘Teresa, Loretta, get a move on…clear the table.’
Seven
THERE WAS MUCH TALK ABOUT THE VANISHED GIRLS. Whispered talk, which made its way to Teresa’s kitchen. But when Loretta mentioned what had happened in the church her mother shut her gob with a swipe of the dishcloth. At the bar they were talking about the monastery in the mountains and the way the rapists had been reprieved: in the streets the hatred was as thick as the stucco on the walls. Sour looks and silence dogged the footsteps of the troops. The church was still closed. Children were running round and round it, happy because no one was hearing their confession. And it is very likely that the fetid blast that issued from the priest’s mouth – his bad breath was legendary – was not missed even by the most pious old biddies.
I spent as much time as I could with Renato. I was captivated by his physical strength, his brief, clipped mode of expression, always to the point, and by his Tuscan accent. I noticed that as soon as Loretta came into the kitchen her eyes sought him out, while her fingers never missed a chance to brush up against his jacket. He, however, always moved away.
I also spent some time in my aunt’s company. After that evening I felt rather guilty towards her for having eavesdropped. One day, as we were walking together to the old mill, I asked her about the German captain.
‘You’re curious about that fellow Korpium, aren’t you?’
Without realizing it, Aunt Maria quickened her pace. She knew that love is a fool’s game. She knew it because beneath the surface she was a burning fire. The formality that restricted her manners was frail armour. One that made her feel a kinship with the dispositions of men bound by a discipline of death. Grandma said Aunt Maria had in her something of a retired colonel. I think she was wrong, and if anything she was like a colonel out to win medals. She had a high forehead, prominent brows and cheekbones, thin lips and a melancholy smile. And in her look, though sharp at times, there was always a trace of sadness. She preferred dried-up plants to those in flower: ‘To make them bloom again is my business,’ she would say, almost as if it were a mission. She was devoted to simple p
leasures, to books, a plate of risotto, risqué conversation and the algebraic strictness of the liturgy. And she was fond of cats: ‘A cat is always elegant, even when it licks its backside.’
‘Did you really think you’d persuade the captain to shoot them?’
‘No. Not for a moment. I wanted to force him to show his hand. At present we have no choice but to live with these men, these Germans. The future may be rather arduous; we must know them well so we might better fight them.’
‘But the army…Will it manage to check them?’
‘Don’t you hear the big guns? They are firing from the Montello, from Monte Tomba. They are fighting around the Quero Pass. As long as we can hear the guns it means they have not broken through.’
A magpie flew off from the fence at the edge of the wood. I followed it with my eyes. It perched on the rooftop of a ruined house masked from view by an array of hornbeams.
‘Who lives there?’
She turned to me with a slight smile. ‘It belonged to an English family, but it’s been empty for quite some time. Abandoned. Can’t you see the state it’s in?’
‘People you knew?’
‘Yes. I knew one young man. Some years ago. He said he was descended from a famous poet, and quite gave himself airs about it. He was nice, though. We got on well. He was short and tubby and not good-looking, but he had shrewd eyes and was fond of horses.’
‘How is it you love horses so much?’
‘They are beautiful, and full of courage.’ She cleared her throat. ‘They haul great cannons, and ammunition, foodstuffs and grappa and the carts carrying the wounded, and to see them suffer and die like this…It goes to my heart, that’s why.’
‘You pity them more than you do the soldiers.’
‘Yes,’ she said. And she didn’t smile.
When we got home the garden looked like the main square of a capital city. Much coming and going of carts and soldiers. All the men without their helmets or greatcoats, with shovels in hand. And there were some sweeping the portico, some polishing door handles, others trundling barrows laden with munitions. The sentries saluted Donna Maria with a click of the heels, while the captain came to meet us. Slowly, so as to keep us waiting. My aunt took advantage by pretending not to notice him.
‘Madame Spada.’ With a single movement the captain saluted and whipped off his cap, holding it by the peak.
I went on into the kitchen where Renato was plucking a chicken, leaning against the door jamb, with his greatcoat buttoned up to the neck and his pipe smoking like a chimney. In the remaining light hung the odours of soldiers, diesel oil, animals and wet wood. Looking back, I saw my aunt standing very close to the captain. Their coats were almost touching, though perhaps that was a trick of perspective, or else my secret hope of finding chinks in Donna Maria’s armour.
From a cloud of smoke and feathers, chewing on his pipe, the steward said, ‘After supper I must have a few words with you.’
‘Very well,’ I replied, attempting to hide my surprise.
‘Pretend to go to bed, and we’ll meet behind the house, outside the silkworm hatchery. What time do you make it?’ But he gave me no time to pull out my watch. ‘Never mind, I’ll just expect you after supper.’
I felt gooseflesh all up my arms. I crossed the kitchen without paying much attention to the German soldiers, who were also busy plucking chickens. What was going on? I hunted for Teresa. No luck. Not even Loretta was around. Had they been turned out of the kitchen? Grandpa was waiting for me at the top of the stairs, sitting on the top step. He had a big, black book in his hands. I recognized it at once: it was his Gibbon, that bible of his which by way of corrupting us he often liked to quote from, even at random, when he wanted to attract attention. ‘There’s a mass of things in here that don’t make any sense,’ said he, closing the volume and waving it in front of me, ‘but there are a lot of truths as well, and truth is something I have very much at heart, even when I can’t grasp it.’ He rapped his knuckles on the binding of the book. ‘There’s no finer English than this,’ he said, raising his voice a little. ‘The frontiers of that extensive monarchy were guarded by ancient renown and disciplined valour…’ He gave me a stern look. ‘Just what was needed at Caporetto… and at the Saga Pass.’ His crouching bulk continued to block my way. ‘It’s these Germans who are the heirs of Rome, that’s the fact of the matter. It is they who have the renown, and as for the disciplined valour…there’s even less doubt about that.’ He shook his head and got to his feet with difficulty. ‘Come along, laddie, your grandmother wants a word with you.’
Grandma had a red shawl over her legs and body as she leant back against the bed’s headboard. Its vivid colour combined with the pallor of her face to give her a devilish air. Grandpa sat beside her and held her right hand in his left. She was wearing her sapphire-coloured earrings and just a touch of lipstick. ‘Come closer,’ she said.
I went and stood beside her. ‘Aren’t you feeling well, Grandma?’
‘A bit of a sore throat. I have to talk little, and quietly. Listen, Paolo, I know you’re not short of guts, but having guts doesn’t mean underrating danger. It doesn’t take much for these people to hang you.’
‘Why are you telling me this, Grandma?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t follow me. Renato can be relied on…but he has a mission to perform. Your mission, on the other hand, is to stay alive. Italy needs its young men to live. At present the heroics can be left to the youngsters on the Piave, and up on Monte Grappa.’
‘Are you telling me to trust the steward, but not to chance my arm too much?’
A smile spread across Grandma’s face. ‘Just that. You’re still a boy, Paolo, and we love you.’ She took hold of my hand and pressed it between hers, looking up at me and trying to hide her emotion.
Grandpa got up and saw me to the door, patting me on the shoulder. ‘See you get something hot to eat. Teresa has put aside a bit of rabbit for you. These Huns are more ravenous than landsknechts.’
The gasmask hung from her belt and the glass eyes, those huge hornet-eyes, brushed the top of the grass. Renato walked fast, three or four steps ahead. Every so often I looked over my shoulder at the lights of the Villa, but very soon even those of the village faded from sight, dim as they were due to the shortage of paraffin. We skirted the woods, following paths through the underbrush. Heading north-northwest. At one moment I thought I recognized the bell tower of Corbanese off to the right. High up, in the belfry, a speck of light glittered then almost went out. Someone was smoking up there. A sentry, maybe. The sight of that sort of firefly, alone at the top of the tower, cheered me up. The tranquillity of that glow coming and going, tiny but distinct in the darkness, went to my heart, so that I thought not of an enemy but of the man who, with a cigarette for company, was fashioning his own peace.
‘We’re nearly there,’ said Giulia at a certain moment. ‘I’ll take the lead now.’
Renato stepped aside to let her pass. The moon was high and almost full. A rocket burst and a flare lit up the wood. Renato shoved us both face down on the ground. A second rocket opened like an umbrella above the streak of its trajectory.
‘What are they looking for?’
‘A friend of mine,’ said Renato. ‘A pilot…These patrols come from Mura, or perhaps from Cisone.’
Another flare. Then the brilliance faded and became one with the bright moonlight. Giulia rose and followed the edge of the wood for two kilometres or so before turning almost back on her tracks and taking us into the thick of it. It consisted mostly of beeches and hornbeam, and the lower branches lashed me in the face. I warded them off with my upraised hands, so my wrists became a mass of scratches. But I didn’t bat an eyelid. Then, all of a sudden, a clearing.
There before us, about fifty metres away, loomed the black bulk of a cottage. The air smelt of burning paraffin. Suddenly a rectangle of light appeared, and in it the dark silhouette of a man. His shadow stretched out through the darkness until it almos
t reached us. His head practically touched the lintel of the door, even though he was short and thickset. Renato went ahead to meet him, while Giulia and I hung back.
‘Brian,’ said Renato.
‘There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow,’ quoted the man in English, stepping back from the doorway to let us pass. ‘Come in, take a pew.’
After a fusillade of jokes in English that made Renato laugh, the man offered us tea. One single chipped cup, which we passed around. Giulia did not partake.
‘Assam,’ said the Englishman, patting his cartridge-pouch. ‘Never go anywhere without tea.’ He spoke a somewhat basic Italian with a strong accent. And he eyed Giulia hungrily.
‘Where is the plane?’ asked Renato, holding his palms towards the camping stove, from which arose a mighty stink of paraffin.
Brian pointed to the window beside the fireplace.
‘But if they go round behind the house they’ll see it,’ said Giulia.
‘Forgotten magic wand on battlefield of Montebelluna.’
‘The Fokkers will spot it tomorrow,’ said Renato.
‘Tomorrow maybe it’ll snow,’ said the Englishman. ‘Got any tobacco?’
Renato pulled out a leather pouch, stuck his pipe in his mouth and handed the pouch to the airman, who weighed it in his hand as he asked, ‘Any news?’
There was an odour of damp cloth and rotten wood in the room, competing with the reek of the paraffin.
We were sitting elbow to elbow, Renato and I, while the Englishman was standing at the fireplace with his left elbow on the mantelpiece, eyeing Giulia. She, for her part, seemed all taken up by the portable stove, only twenty centimetres by ten. ‘Italian women good housewives,’ he said, puffing smoke up over his head. Then, turning to Renato: ‘Well, go on. News from Florida?’
‘I haven’t set foot there since. Tampa wasn’t the place for me. Those disgusting cigars turned my stomach.’
A heavy silence fell on the room. Giulia’s eyes met mine. Neither of us knew anything of Renato’s past. But now we were almost sure of one thing: that he was working for the Military Intelligence Service.
Between Enemies Page 5
