‘Oh, hello,’ Will said.
‘Good afternoon, officer,’ Albanese replied in his New York accent, sounding exactly like a gangster in an American film. ‘You here because of what happened to those two men? It’s terrible. I don’t like to see it. The war is finished. I want justice not dirty business.’
‘Couldn’t agree more.’
‘You know who this is, officer?’ Cirò jerked a thumb at the old man. ‘This is the new mayor of Montebianco. You get the message from Palermo yet?’
‘No.’ Will blinked. ‘No. But it’s probably waiting for me when I get back. So no doubt we will be meeting very soon.’
The old man didn’t appear to understand. He leaned to Albanese who whispered in his ear. Then the old man raised a hand in greeting. He wore a quite enviably beautiful suit of brown pinstriped cloth and sharply sculpted shoes with a swirl and gleam in the leather that made them resemble polished wood. Glancing down at them, Will saw also his thin, knobby ankles filmed by fine yellow silk socks.
‘And this is my son, Mattia.’
‘Your son? From America?’ Will didn’t know that Albanese had brought a son with him.
Albanese smiled, saying nothing. He stayed that way long enough for it to be incumbent upon Will to speak again. Albanese did not introduce the third man and he did not look up. He kept his chin tucked down into his neck, a hand raised with his cigarette in front of his face, his fingertips resting on his temple. Will was left to guess who he was.
Finally, Will said, ‘So, I’ll see you back in Sant’Attilio.’ He climbed, self-consciously, onto his motorcycle and kicked it awake. The engine hacked and rattled, blue smoke stuttered behind, and Will pushed himself away, lifting his feet.
Mattia envied the machine. When he was older he would have one of his own. He liked particularly the shape of the fuel tank at the front, a glinting teardrop or the thorax of a wasp. The machine had a look of agile power. He pictured himself with one that was black and highly polished. He would ride it wearing sunglasses and a wristwatch. People would hear him coming.
Alvaro Zuffo was telling them about seeing his witch for the first time in years. She had shown no surprise when he walked through the door. She said, ‘I knew it would be today. You’ve been buried at the bottom of the sea all this time. Now you will breathe air again.’
‘Mattia.’
‘What?’
‘Listen to what Mr Zuffo is saying. You know who this man is?’
‘Cirò, it’s okay.’
‘He has to know. Mattia, you understand? You pay him respect.’
‘I will. I do. I’m listening.’
‘The boy understands, Cirò. He’s learning. He’s learned from the events here this morning, haven’t you, boy? You understand.’
‘Yes I do. I do. I understand.’
31
Ray awoke from a deep, black sleep that had been devoid of dreams. Every muscle in his body was completely relaxed. He was a dead weight pressing onto the floor, heavy as a rock. For this moment, Ray was free, completely hidden. A moment later, when he noticed this unusual state, he uncovered himself. He remembered all that he had forgotten. His thoughts began their marauding. His heart started up.
His body was too tired to jerk upright so he rolled onto his side to look around. Nothing had changed so he was probably still safe. From one of the windows, burning towards him across the floorboards, was the light of the sun. He looked into it, blinding himself, and crushed his eyes shut, a shape of hot molten metal floating inside.
Ray sat up, blinking. Still in this place. It was so large and a whole night had passed. Anything could have happened. He pulled off the blanket and got on all fours, crawling one way to check for signs. There was something in here, he remembered. Where was it? Oh, that. The rocking horse, poised, perfectly still on its painted hooves. He started towards it because he wanted to touch the choppy carving of its mane and the smooth swell of its flank. His long shadow stretched towards it. Every time he lifted his hand, the shadow fled up the wall. Every time he set it down, his hand and its shadow connected. But what was he thinking? He hadn’t checked the place yet. He looked along the crack between the floorboards in front of him for any triggering devices.
There was a noise at the door. He kept his eyes shut and waited. Three. Two. One. Nothing. Three. Two.
‘Good morning.’ A woman’s voice. ‘What are you doing?’
It was the woman, the same one. Of course it was.
‘Nothing. Nothing. I’m okay. No one’s been up here, right?’
‘No one’s been up here. If someone came up here, you would know. There would be a big problem.’
Ray, still on all fours, hanging his head, looked at the woman through the gap of his armpit. Her feet were in the shooting sunlight: small shoes with shiny buckles.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’
‘Did you sleep well?’ Luisa shook her head after that question, at the absurdity of inquiring after this man like a guest at a house party.
‘I slept okay. I woke up.’
‘Why don’t you sit down?’
‘Okay. Okay, I will.’ Ray instructed his muscles to move, to let go. They wouldn’t until suddenly, like an avalanche, they did. He arranged himself against the wall by the spot with the bird’s nest, his knees drawn up. He rubbed his face with his hands, groaned, opened his eyes wide. ‘So who are you?’
‘Who am I? My name is Luisa.’
‘Luisa. Luisa.’ Ray mused on this for a moment. ‘Okay, but that’s just a name. I mean, who are you? I mean, where am I?’
‘You’re in my house, in my father’s house, Prince Adriano.’
‘Prince Adriano?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like, he’s a prince?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what are you?’
‘I’m a princess.’
‘You’re fucking with me. You’re not serious.’
‘No. I am serious. There are plenty of us in Sicily. Don’t be too impressed.’
‘It is a big house.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘And only you two?’
‘And servants and sometimes people who work on the land. It’s a sad story. The house is very big. We get lonely. But my father prefers it to the city.’
‘Cities aren’t always nice.’
‘You are from a city?’
‘From New York.’
‘The big city.’
‘Yep, it’s big.’
‘My father will go out later. I can bring you down into the house and give you more food.’
‘Okay. That would be good.’
‘Did you use the pot?’
‘What? Oh sure. Over there.’
‘Okay, I will take it.’ Luisa walked over and picked up the chamber pot that Ray had covered with the napkin she had provided. Its weight slewed from side to side as she walked. ‘I go now,’ she said. As she descended the stairs, she caught the strong animal aroma of Ray’s urine. Luisa never carried her own chamber pot. The sensation of holding a strange man’s was extraordinary. She felt a calming abasement in her soul. She was a servant. She was performing one of the acts of the saints.
32
Mattia ran back with the news: the Prince’s car had just pulled up at the town hall. Cirò left the house on the hunt for Angilù. Today the new currency was going to be distributed and Angilù would surely be coming on the Prince’s behalf. The car was there but Angilù wasn’t; he must have gone inside. Cirò couldn’t see him in the small crowd. The place was busy. Stupidly, some of the people had brought things they hoped to sell in exchange for more currency. A man was being told at the door that his two chairs weren’t wanted. A woman stood with a hen under her arm, its long red legs reaching out to steady itself on something, its talons closing around air. There were guards standing by the car, two of them, looking around with more of a display of vigilance than the action itself. A pair of pea-brained peacocks, twitching their heads from side to side. In America, those two would not have had those jobs. So stupid they were. It wouldn’t take long to get them on side.