A strange mourning. There were those who didn’t care about her grief and didn’t try to hide it. She felt the curses active in their silences like cockroaches in the darkness when the lamps are out. Even Cirò’s family were difficult with her, thinking she knew something they didn’t. If only she had.
Years later a man without fear emerged and that was Silvio, of all people. And then life. Children.
Then a war comes that kills many in other places, that starves people, and brings the resurrection of Cirò Albanese. A miracle is hard to bear. It is terrifying. It changes everything. She knew how they felt, those women in the Bible, Samson’s mother, the mother of our Lord, or the friends of Lazarus.
And then the end of Silvio. What can you do? Nothing. Claw at your own skin. You can’t do anything. You live.
Teresa was not from one of those families, the Albaneses, the Zuffos, the Battistas, but when she married Cirò she knew what she was doing. She was joining the strong. She would eat. If you’d been hungry as a child you’d understand.
Mattia would not now be hungry. For as long as he lived, however long that was. Her heart raced up into the silence where there was stillness but no answers. When she was dead, finally the saints and angels would appear and speak.
45
‘By it and with it and on it and in it,’ said the Rat. ‘It’s brother and sister to me.’
The book always fell open there at the beginning, flat as a table, the spine cracked, the white stitches of the binding loose and stretched. Will flipped on.
The Mole had long wanted to make the acquaintance of the Badger. He seemed, by all accounts, to be such an important personage and, though rarely visible, to make his unseen influence felt …
And again.
It was a cold still afternoon with a hard steely sky overhead, when he slipped out of the warm parlour into the open air.
That was the note he was after — warm parlour, those plush and modest and comfortable English words. Will wanted to climb into the book, to cover his mind with it. His day had been extremely annoying.
Will had sent a scrupulously composed message to Messina commissioning himself for action against Albanese. Neat. Decisive. Reasonable. Will was pleased with it and mentally was preparing himself for the next step and what he would say to Albanese when he apprehended him when the reply came. It was signed by Captain Draycott, of all people, and urged him to inaction, to avoid fuss or trouble. He was to remain a quiet and dutiful servant. Permission was not granted. For Will, this was intolerable. He wouldn’t have Africa repeated. Showing no sign of it except a light sweat appearing on his forehead and a jiggling knee, Will was filled with rage.
He would do it. He would find a way.
46
The saddle and bridle were made from dark red leather. The stitching was strong yellow thread diving down and up through the material. Ray ran his finger over the taut stitches. He could see where the straps down to the stirrups had been folded around and sewn to the right width. He could imagine the pieces before they were sewn together, laid out on a table. They would be different shapes, flat and so much larger than the finished product. You wouldn’t necessarily be able to guess what they would turn into. Ray’s own father worked in leather. Ray remembered the shocking reek of his workshop, the bare lightbulb and dim walls with clock and calendar and cross. The piled leather had an acid tang. His pa sat there bent over the work. His hands were strong and skilful. They had to be to drive the thread through the tough skins. The spectacles on his nose caught the light in two half-moons. They were a concentration of focus. Sometimes he sang to himself. Ray would visit him occasionally to wheedle out of him small change to go to the movies. Afterwards, he would shut the door and leave him there, making things to sell, sewing skins into useful shapes, making a life for his family, alone in that room.
Ray heard the Princess’s footsteps. He turned around and waited for the door to open. She came in, lit up with the secret urgency that surrounded her every time. She said, ‘There are people now clearing away the mines. One of the peasants told me. Your friend. I’m so sorry.’
‘Please don’t. You don’t have to say anything. Thank you.’ He stroked his chin and felt his growing beard, the swarm of smooth fibres under his hand. Unsoldierly now. His body softening.
‘I brought you water.’
The Princess had a bottle in her hand. Not a bottle. What was it called? One of those glass bottles that widened at the top. Some people he knew who worked in restaurants had them at home. A carafe.
‘Thanks.’
Ray watched her walk over to him. She leaned down and he took the bottle from her. He glanced across at where his cup was sitting and she went over to fetch it for him.
She set the cup down and retreated a little way and sat. ‘You like that little horse.’
‘I guess. I like looking at it. It’s a beautiful piece of work. Look at the painting on it.’
She smiled at him fondly, her head on one side. ‘So strange. To meet a stranger. This is something that never happens. There are no strangers here. Usually I only meet the peasants, the aristocrats in Paler mo. We play cards in the same rooms. There are balls, with dancing, all the floors polished. I could go away to see new things but for a woman … It means the end of certain things. A reputation.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘You know, in America the wild west always was interesting to me. Since I was a little girl I always imagine it.’
‘Yeah? Me too, I guess. The pictures anyways. I like those.’
‘For me, what I read. Such a big place, big plains. And horses.’
Ray looked at her. She was smiling quietly, inwardly. She inhaled and Ray saw her taking in that imagined space and freedom. She was picturing it. ‘Would you like to go to those places?’ she asked him
‘I don’t know. I never thought about it, really. I just know those places in movies. I’ve only ever thought of them like that, in black and white. The whole of the country didn’t really exist for me until the army when I met people from places other than New York or Italy. In the army you meet people from all over. I had a friend, George. I have a friend, George. I have his address.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Just this guy. A guy I knew in the army. He came from the Midwest not the far west.’
‘I see. But you could go to those places. They’re in your country and you are a man. You could go there.’
‘I guess.’
‘You seem better today.’
47
Angilù didn’t often carry a shotgun any more and he’d never owned a pistol. He still had a shotgun in his house, its wooden stock worn gaunt over the years, a farmer’s tool. But for this Angilù wanted a pistol. A shotgun could be misinterpreted. People would blame one of Albanese’s natural enemies. A pistoclass="underline" that might suggest something else had happened. There was a phrase Prince Adriano liked to say in French, a saying from one of the old wars — to encourage the others.