Kal

by Judy Nunn

  As Giovanni sang, he kept looking along the track which led to the work site. He could see no one. They would be another fifteen minutes, he guessed. Yes, the timing of the coffee was right. Then he caught sight of a lone figure in the distance, walking down the mountain track which led to the border.

  He stopped singing. The boy must have been walking for a long time, he thought, it was an eight-hour trek to Steinach, which was the closest village over the mountains. He would offer him a cup of coffee, he thought. It would not be well brewed but it would be warm enough.

  He stood and beckoned to the boy, who appeared not to see him. Giovanni walked towards the track to intercept him and then he realised it was not a boy at all. It was her. The beautiful girl who had crossed the mountain with Teresa.

  ‘Come and warm yourself by the fire,’ he said. ‘There is coffee.’

  The girl glanced at him vaguely. She looked tired, he thought, tired and cold. ‘Have you come from Steinach?’ he asked. ‘You must be weary.’

  She nodded and followed him to the fire where she put down her knapsack and squatted beside him. He stirred the half-brewed coffee and ladled some into a tin mug. ‘It is not quite ready yet but it will warm you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured as she clasped her mittened hands around the mug and gazed into the fire. Then she noticed the concertina on the ground and glanced at him briefly. ‘It was you singing.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah.’ Her gaze returned to the fire.

  She had not recognised him, he realised. ‘We have met,’ he said. ‘Two months ago, when you crossed the mountain with Teresa.’ She looked at him blankly. ‘Teresa is promised to my brother Rico,’ he prompted. Still her eyes held no recognition. ‘We talked, you and I. My name is Giovanni.’

  ‘Ah. Yes,’ she said, and her gaze returned to the fire.

  She was more than tired, he thought, more than cold. No longer was there laughter beneath her beauty. Her blue eyes no longer danced. They were lifeless, as if something inside her had died. He wondered what had happened and whether he should ask. He watched as she sipped the coffee.

  ‘I am sorry it has not yet brewed,’ he said. ‘The second cup will be better.’

  ‘It is good. Thank you.’

  Giovanni could not help himself. ‘What has happened?’ he asked. And when she said nothing he persevered. ‘You were happy when you crossed the mountain and now you come back over the mountain and you are sad. What has happened?’ She looked directly at him for the first time, but still she seemed not to see him. ‘Teresa is not to finish her work at the chalet for a further two months,’ he said. Again it was a question but, even as he asked it, he felt guilty. He was prying. Something terrible had happened and the girl did not wish to talk about it.

  She looked at him and there was a touch of defiance in her tone. ‘I did not like the work,’ she replied. ‘I am going home.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said and he took the mug from her. ‘I am sorry.’ He started to ladle more coffee but she rose.

  ‘I must go now.’ She picked up her knapsack.

  ‘No, don’t. Please.’ She stopped and looked at him and this time she seemed to see him. ‘I am sorry,’ he repeated.

  ‘Why? You have been very kind. I am warmer now. Thank you.’

  ‘Please stay. There will be heavy snow tonight. My brother and I have a tent, you will be quite safe, and you can continue your journey in the morning.’

  ‘No. I must go home.’

  She lifted her knapsack onto her back and he watched as she started down the track. He wanted to stop her, to entreat her to stay, but he knew it would be useless. He watched until she disappeared into the falling snow and then he once more attended to the coffee.

  As he stirred the brew, steam rose in gusts from the pot and the strong comforting smell of coffee filled the air, but he hardly noticed. The image of the girl, sad and beautiful, haunted him.

  CATERINA HAD SET out before dawn and cut across country from the chalet. It had been three hours before she had reached the track and, towards the end, her snowshoes had weighed more and more heavily with each step and her legs had felt like lead. The track, although steep in places, had been easier, firm underfoot, and it had been a relief to be free of her snowshoes. She was exhausted.

  She had heard the concertina and the young man’s beautiful voice long before she had seen the workmen’s camp. She had not known where the music was coming from and she had not much cared, but the loveliness of the singer’s voice was a comforting distraction.

  Soon she must cut across country again, she thought wearily. She knew she would never reach home before sundown but, if she maintained her pace, she should arrive at her uncle’s farm, which was much closer, just before dark. Caterina did not intend to go to the farmhouse. She would spend the night in the shelter of her uncle’s barn and set off again before dawn; her uncle and his family would never even know she had been there.

  She should probably have accepted the young man’s offer, she thought. He was kind, he had a gentle face and she knew she would have been safe with him. But the company of people was more than Caterina could bear at the moment. Exhausting as the walk had been, the concentration on sheer physical effort had helped to blanket her mind. Even the young man’s questions had been confronting and he did not know her. Caterina dared not think of how she would respond to her family’s queries. She would tell them nothing. ‘I did not like the work,’ she would say. ‘I wanted to come home.’ Just as she had said to the young man. But of course they would sense something was wrong. And she would not be able to keep her silence forever. Only too soon she would have to tell them.

  Caterina knew she was pregnant. For the full month of her affair with Paul her time had not come. But there was more than the physical evidence of her conception. There was the knowledge, deep within, that she carried his seed. Every time they had made love she had taken him into her wholly and unconditionally. In so becoming one, she had virtually willed the conception. To Caterina such uninhibited, joyful invitation had been part and parcel of their love-making and she had thought it had been the same for her lover.

  Caterina had no plan. Indeed, there were no options open to her. She must simply throw herself upon her father’s mercy and pray for the strength to bear her shame. But whatever the outcome, she would survive. And so would her child. Paolo’s child. Caterina refused to believe that the love she had shared with Paolo was wrong. And if she and the child must bear the burden alone, then they would, she would make sure of that.

  ‘ONE WEEK, GIO.’ Rico clinked his tin mug of red wine against Giovanni’s. ‘Just one more week.’

  ‘To the wide brown land,’ Giovanni grinned. ‘Salute.’

  ‘To the gold at the bottom of the world. Salute.’ Rico had bought the bottle of wine to celebrate their last week at the camp, and the last visit Giovanni would pay the widow. Tonight Giovanni was to tell Sarina that when he returned to Santa Lena the following Saturday he must spend time with his family, that it would be at least a week before he could see her again. By the time she realised he had left the village it would be too late.

  The brothers were sitting on their bunks in their tent, sleeping bags wrapped around them, the newspaper article spread out on the ground between them. The other men were drinking and gambling in the mess tent.

  Giovanni and Rico toasted each other again and again, and when they had finished the bottle they felt heady with wine and excitement and love for each other.

  An hour or so later Giovanni was loath to leave. The night was bitterly cold; it had been a long time since he had drunk alcohol and he was feeling the effects of the rough red wine. He wanted to stay in his cosy bunk and talk to his brother.

  ‘Will you come to the village with me?’ he asked. ‘Company for the journey?’

  ‘No, no,’ Rico laughed. ‘It is too cold. Go warm yourself in the widow’s bed and I will think of Teresa and envy you.’

  IT WAS NOT yet eleven o’c
lock when, from the upstairs salon, Sarina heard the door of the servants’ entrance open and close. It could not be the servants. Guiseppina and Ernesto had retired well before ten as they always did. It could not be Giovanni. He never arrived until midnight and, in any event, he did not have a key—she always met him outside. Only she and the servants had a key. Then she remembered. There was one other person who held keys to the house. He always had …

  She heard footsteps crossing the courtyard and, even before she stepped out onto the balcony, she knew who she would see.

  ‘Mario,’ she said. ‘Luigi.’ The brothers stopped in the centre of the courtyard beside the marble statue. Sarina stood erect in her red velvet gown at the top of the stone steps and tried to quell her rising fear. ‘What has brought you to Santa Lena? I was not expecting you.’

  Mario nodded for Luigi to remain where he was and slowly walked to the staircase. ‘Disturbing news has reached us, Sarina.’ Sarina stood her ground, although her heart was thumping wildly. The first step, the second, the third; slowly he mounted the staircase towards her. ‘We need to talk, you and I.’

  ‘Disturbing news, Mario?’ She tried desperately to steady the tremor in her voice. ‘What has happened?’

  As he reached the top of the stairs, she backed away slightly. She could tell nothing from his eyes. They were black, impassive. Had he heard about Giovanni? But surely if he had there would be anger in his eyes. What did he want? ‘You should have sent word,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘I would have had Guiseppina prepare a special supper.’

  ‘You have defiled my brother’s memory,’ Mario said as he slowly circled her. Still his eyes were cold. She would have preferred to see anger there, but there was no emotion. Nothing. Terror struck Sarina. He was going to kill her. He was going to destroy her the way he would a dog that had not done his bidding.

  ‘No, Mario, no. I swear …’ She started to back away but there was nowhere to go. She felt the corner railing of the staircase dig into her spine.

  ‘You have debased the name of De Cretico.’ He did not touch her but his face was only inches from hers. ‘You are a whore, Sarina. A putanna who gives her body to any man who can pleasure her. Was it worth it? Did the young Gianni satisfy you enough to warrant the degradation of my brother’s memory?’

  He even knew Giovanni’s name. There was no point in denial. All she could do was plead for her life. Sarina started to sob. Painful, racking sobs of desperation.

  ‘Please Mario … please … you do not know the loneliness … You do not know the life I have led in this house. I needed the boy. I needed …’ She could not go on.

  Mario looked at her as she wept pitifully, her body slumped, defeated, and he wondered that he had ever desired her. All these years he had hated her for the lust she had aroused in him, and where was her sexuality now?

  Mario felt no sympathy for Sarina but the desire to watch her grovel for her life had gone. He had wanted her death to be tormented. He had wanted her to feel her life ebb away while she begged to be spared. Whether there was actually a spark of pity in him or not, Mario neither knew nor cared, but the relishing of her death was no longer important to him. He would not only make it quick and painless, he would even distract her from its imminence.

  ‘You needed a man,’ he said and slowly put an arm around her waist and drew her to him. ‘You needed a man in your bed and yet you chose a boy.’

  Sarina’s sobs slowly subsided. There was something else in his eyes now. She tried desperately to read what was there.

  ‘You always needed a man, Sarina.’

  His mouth was very close to hers now and she could feel his body against her. Relief surged through every fibre of her being. He wanted her. That was it. How could a man kill the very thing he wanted? Mario had always desired her, she had sensed it. Even through her fear of him she had sensed it. And she had always wanted him. She remembered her fantasies as Marcello had made love to her. It had been Mario, always Mario. She closed her eyes and, as she felt him take her head in his hands, she opened her lips to receive his kiss.

  The crack as her neck broke was audible. For a moment Mario stood bearing the weight of her body in his hands, then, adding just enough momentum, he let her go and watched her tumble in her red velvet gown down the stairs to land in a crumpled heap at the bottom.

  He nodded to Luigi who had watched silently throughout. ‘Fetch the servants,’ he said.

  When he met the three of them at the bottom of the stairs Guiseppina was standing to attention like a soldier awaiting orders, avoiding the sight of the body before her. Ernesto was not. Ernesto was staring open-mouthed at Sarina. He had obeyed his wife’s instructions. ‘The boy will be returning to Santa Lena soon,’ she had said. ‘I heard them talking. And when he does, the signora will become even more indiscreet and everyone will know. If we do not inform the brothers we will be seen as accomplices and instantly dismissed.’

  Ernesto had never been particularly fond of Sarina. She was arrogant and dismissive, but such was the privilege of her class. ‘What will they do to her?’ he had asked.

  ‘They will punish her, it is their right, but we must look after ourselves, Ernesto.’ And, as always, Ernesto had given in. Why was he so shocked now, he wondered. Sarina’s eyes stared up at him, surprised, questioning. And her lips were parted as if to receive a kiss. She looked as beautiful in death as she had in life. Perhaps it was her beauty which shocked him. Such beauty should have lived, he thought, lived and been admired. Ernesto wanted no part of it. But Mario was delivering his instructions.

  ‘You saw the accident, the two of you,’ he was saying. ‘You saw your mistress trip on the uppermost step. You saw her fall down the staircase and when you ran to her aid there was nothing you could do.’ Guiseppina was nodding and Mario turned towards Ernesto. Ernesto felt himself nod back. ‘The boy arrives at midnight, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ Guiseppina answered, ‘midnight on Saturday. He will come tonight.’

  Mario checked the gold watch in his fob pocket. ‘When we have taken the boy away, you will report this accident. You will say nothing of the boy.’

  Guiseppina nodded again. ‘Si, signore.’

  Mario, Luigi and Guiseppina all looked to Ernesto for his affirmation and Ernesto heard himself say, ‘You must leave the signal for the boy or he will know there is something wrong.’

  ‘What signal?’ It was Luigi who asked. It was Luigi who had communicated with Guiseppina. ‘You said nothing of a signal.’

  Before Guiseppina could reply, Ernesto said, ‘The signora always asked me to light the small lamp by the door to the servants’ quarters. I think it was her signal that we had retired and that all was safe.’

  Luigi turned to Guiseppina who did not dare look at Ernesto. ‘I very often retire before my husband,’ she said. ‘I did not know of the signal.’

  ‘Light the lamp,’ Mario instructed.

  The servants were told to wait in their bedroom until, through the shutters, they saw Mario put out the lamp. Ten minutes after that they were to report the accident.

  While Mario and Luigi went out into the night to take up their vigil in the shadow of the stables, Guiseppina and Ernesto huddled together in the blackness of their bedroom.

  ‘Why did you lie about the signal?’ Guiseppina hissed. ‘She never leaves a signal. She waits for him in the dark.’

  ‘I will not be party to another death,’ Ernesto whispered back. ‘It was wrong, woman, you should never have spoken out.’

  ‘They will hunt the boy down anyway,’ she said sullenly, unaccustomed to criticism from her husband. ‘They will hunt him down and kill him.’

  ‘At least we will not have laid the trap. We have given him the chance of escape and you should pray to God that he does. Pray for the salvation of your soul, Guiseppina. It is a bad thing you have done.’

  GIOVANNI SAW THE lamp in the distance and he was puzzled. There was never a light left on in the big house when she was expecting him. S
he always waited in the dark. Sarina was sending him a signal. Had the brothers arrived? Was she warning him? It was certainly not worth the risk of investigation. He turned and doubled back, skirting around the fringes of the village towards his family’s cottage.

  ‘WHERE IS THE boy? Why does he not come?’ Mario called the servants from their quarters. He and Luigi had been waiting in the snow for almost an hour and Mario was cold and irritable.

  ‘He does not come every Saturday,’ Guiseppina said. ‘He will not come now, it is too late. He will stay at the camp.’

  ‘Where do I find this camp?’

  As Guiseppina told the brothers of the site on the side of the mountain where they were digging the new railway tunnel, she did not look at Ernesto. ‘You will find him there,’ she said.

  IT HAD STOPPED snowing. The air was clear and the moon shone down on the camp, still and quiet in the dead of night. Mario lifted the flap of one of the tents. Four men asleep, two of them snoring heavily.

  ‘Gianni,’ he barked. ‘Where do I find Gianni?’

  One of the men sat up, startled. ‘Eh? Eh? What is it, what has happened?’ he muttered, groggy with sleep.

  The silhouettes of two men stood framed in the moonlight at the mouth of the tent. ‘Is one of you Gianni?’ a voice demanded.

  ‘Gianni? No. The next tent.’ The man pointed to the right and, as the figures disappeared into the night and the tent was once more in darkness, he slumped back into his bunk. It sounded as if one of the Gianni brothers was in trouble. Or maybe it was just a dream. His bunk was warm and sleep was near. Just a dream, he thought, and soon he was snoring again.

  ‘Gianni! Which of you is Gianni?’ The sound of his name cut through his sleep and Rico awoke to see the shadowy shapes of two men in the tent.

  ‘I am Gianni,’ he said sitting up. ‘Is something wrong?’