"Here," he said again, his voice rising with excitement. In a clearing ahead stood a stone building covered in stucco painted a pastel orange. The setting sun cast its rays from the side, illuminating it, in stark contrast to the greenery all around it. Our long shadows ran ahead of us, straight to an ancient rusty pump in front of the building. Sciafani grabbed the handle and worked it madly, both of us oblivious to the noise as it clanked and squeaked, waiting for the first gush of water. It came, and I gulped handfuls down, then took over at the pump and let Sciafani drink and stick his head under the flowing water. We took turns, laughing like kids, and I thought about Al and how we'd opened fire hydrants on hot August days, laughing in the cool spray and feeling like the world was our playground. It was, until the world split us up. I'd heard Al had tried to go straight and joined the navy. He'd been stationed at Pearl Harbor and caught in an explosion. Lost one leg, ended up back in Boston doing the only thing left for him to do. The numbers, and anything else to make a buck.
"Chi la sono?
The voice surprised us, and I jumped nearly a foot. A heavyset older man leading a donkey, weighed down with two baskets filled with olives, looked as surprised as I felt. His white shirt was open and he wore a handkerchief on his head and two or three days' worth of gray stubble on his cheeks. Sciafani walked toward him, speaking calmly, but the old fellow backed up, his eyes searching the trees behind us for signs of any more strangers.
" Amici," I heard Sciafani say. Friends. That seemed to calm the guy down, or maybe it was hearing Sciafani's Sicilian accent. He pointed to me and rattled off a quick question. Sciafani shook his head no, and they talked some more, settling into a friendly conversation.
Finally the old man nodded. Sciafani reached into his pocket and took out a green fifty-lira banknote. Allied Military Currency was printed boldly on the front, and Sciafani pointed to it, seeming to explain what it meant. The old man took the money, folded it, stuck it in his shoe, and pulled at his donkey to get him going again. He didn't give me a second glance.
"What was that all about?" I asked.
"He will bring us food and blankets. This is a storehouse; no one else will be here tonight. It should be safe, he says."
"Do you believe him?"
Sciafani shrugged. "What choice do we have? I choose to believe him. But we should wait in the trees and watch."
"Where did you get the money?" I asked as we walked back up the hill.
"They gave me two fifty-lira notes when they released me. They said this currency would replace all Fascist-issued currency. Is that true?"
"Yep," I said as we settled down in the olive grove, a safe distance from the building but still with a good view. "The plan is to replace all the money in the banks with this, and have people turn in their lire for occupation scrip. It's supposed to stop inflation, I think. The official rate, set by AMGOT, is one hundred lire to the dollar."
"This is the American Military Government you spoke of with the other americano? "
"Yeah, but those guys are no good, don't go by them."
Sciafani shrugged again, with that soulful expression of not expecting too much from life. I wondered about AMGOT. If Genovese and Legs had been able to talk their way in, was AMGOT up to the job of governing an island the size of Sicily? Replacing the currency alone- wait, how much money was that? Enough for all the banks on the island, plus all the lire stashed under mattresses, buried in backyards, and in the wallets of every Eyetie there?
Millions. Millions of dollars worth of lire. How were they bringing AMGOT currency ashore, and how was it being guarded? I didn't know, but one thing was certain, it had to be in safes. Just the thing for a yegg to crack. What had I heard Genovese say to Rocko? I worry about our yegg. Had Genovese found him before he killed Rocko? Or had it been Legs who'd done the dirty work? Much as I wanted to think all this through, I was too beat. I lay on my side and tried to keep my eyes open to watch the house, but I didn't last long.
I knew I was asleep and could feel the rocky ground digging into my side, as odd dreams flitted through my mind. First Al was playing mumblety-peg with a stiletto, then I was lost in a strange city, then in the kitchen at home, but there were no bread crumbs to put out for the birds, and then the woman of my dreams was back. I realized I'd forgotten about her and then remembered, but I lost her again.
Sciafani shook me by the shoulder. The old man was returning.
Only the part about Diana had been true. Early this morning I'd remembered everything, and it had descended upon me like an avalanche of sharp stones. Diana being taken prisoner by the Vichy French while on a SOE mission. Taken by Luc Villard as part of his ransom scheme, drugged, beaten, and raped. I'd found her, brought her back to Algiers to heal, and worried that my best wouldn't be good enough when it came to loving her. All day, while we'd walked, I'd filled my mind with thoughts of home and birds and old friends, but I'd suppressed my memory of Diana. I was ashamed of myself.
"He seems to be alone," Sciafani said, oblivious to the emotions raging inside my head. I tried to sound normal and focus on the old man and the house.
"How long has it been?" I asked. The sky was darkening as the sun dipped below the horizon.
"One hour, perhaps."
"Not enough time for him to reach the Germans and get back here, I don't think."
"Well, if it was, then at least we will meet them with full stomachs. Come," Sciafani said. I did as I was told.
This time, the donkey's baskets were full of blankets and food, along with a jug of wine. The old man, Signor Patane, was very talkative. He kept up a conversation with Sciafani as he helped us unload. He unlocked the padlock on the door and led us inside the building. Farm implements hung from the walls and hay for the donkey was piled up in one corner. He spread out the blankets and set down the food and wine. A chunk of yellow cheese, two rounds of bread, and a jar of olives. It looked like a feast.
" Muffoletta, provola, " he said proudly, pointing to the bread and cheese. I got the impression he was saying he made them, or more probably, his wife. I smiled and nodded.
"Are these his olive trees?" I asked Sciafani, as I smiled at Signor Patane.
"No. A rich Fascist from the mainland owns all this land. Signor Patane works for him, as do most people in his village. He hopes the Americans will take the land from the Fascists and give it to the people."
I thought about the three kinds of people in the world. "So do I," I said.
Signor Patane left us with his good wishes. From what I could understand, unless he was a terrific actor, we were safe here tonight. We ate, ripping the bread and biting into pieces of the sharp cheese. The plump olives were a rich green, marinated in their oil. We drank from the jug of strong red wine. By the time we'd eaten our fill it was dark. Before I fell asleep, I tried to see Diana's face, but the only vision before me was of her in that dusty courtyard, right after I'd freed her, her face twisted with rage and tears, lifting the revolver to her head.
Remember who you are, I wanted to say. You're not what somebody did to you, you're not what happened to you.
It occurred to me that I had said that to her, later, in Algiers, after the bruises and physical wounds had healed. My father's words. They'd helped me once, and I hoped they helped her too. Now it was my turn again, and as I drifted off to sleep I imagined I was back at Kirby's, watching my dad lean in on his forearms and whisper to me, so close it was almost a kiss.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The sun was over the horizon when I awoke. Sciafani was washing up at the pump. We drank water, ate the bits of bread and cheese left over from the night before, and prepared to set off in the direction of Agrigento.