‘Va bene, signorina?’ he asked.
‘Molto bene, grazie. Thanks for the ride.’
‘Niente, niente.’ He waved my thanks away. ‘Dov’e vostro amieo?’
Yes, indeed, where was he? I looked up. All I could see of John was a foot sticking out from among the cabbages. I shook it gently, out of deference for his status as wounded hero. I was worried about him. He had kept up the pace without complaint or visible faltering, but I meant to find a doctor for him first thing.
‘John, wake up. We’re here.’
The driver lowered the tailgate and began unloading, assisted by his sober-faced companion. The proprietress of the nearest stall, a short, fat woman with three gold teeth, came stumping over, ostensibly to ask the price of the carrots. She let out a howl of pretended outrage when my friend told her how much he was asking. I could see that her eyes were on me, though, and after the first feint she gave up all pretence of being interested in anything else.
‘Who’s this?’ she demanded, jerking a calloused thumb at me. ‘Another of the foreign tarts you pick up, Battista?’
Battista, who knew I spoke Italian, made deprecatory noises. I smiled sweetly at the old busybody and handed her the sack of carrots.
‘They are very cheap, signora, good, sweet carrots. A bargain. My friend is there in the truck. He fell and hurt himself yesterday, when we were hiking in the hills. Signor Battista was kind enough to give us a ride.’
I thought I had better mention that John was hurt in case he had passed out again. It was just as well I had done so. He came crawling out from among the cabbages and he looked awful. He must have scraped the scab off the cut on his head, because there was blood running down his cheek.
The old lady gave a cry of distress and sympathy. Women of all ages and all nationalities are suckers for a boyish face and a little blood.
‘Ah, poverino – poor child, how did you hurt yourself?’
Squatting on the tailgate, John gave her a long look out of his melting baby-blue eyes, and smiled wanly.
‘I fell, signora. Thank you . . . you are very kind . . .’
She put out a plump arm to steady him as he slid down. He had gone a sickly grey under his tan, and he looked as if he would have fallen but for her support. If it had been anybody but John, I would have melted with sympathy too. Seeing as it was John, I reserved judgment.
‘I will take him to a doctor,’ I said.
‘No, I’m all right. Just need to rest awhile.’
‘Where?’ I demanded. ‘We can’t go to a hotel looking the way we do. Especially when we haven’t any money.’
The old lady must have picked up some English from the tourists.
‘My daughter has rooms for rent,’ she said. ‘Just around the corner is her apartment.’
She didn’t finish the offer; it was clear from her expression that her native caution was at war with her maternal instinct.
John looked like Saint Sebastian minus the arrows – all noble suffering.
‘We have money, signora,’ he murmured. ‘Not much, but we could not accept charity. Take this, please – I think I can walk a little . . .’
He held out a handful of crumpled hundred-lira notes.
Everything I owned was in my purse and my suitcases back at the villa. Fool that I was, I had forgotten men carry their junk in their pockets. Not that I had planned to go to a hotel anyway. I intended to head straight for the police station. When I had mentioned this during our wanderings the night before, John had not been overly enthusiastic, but he hadn’t objected. Now I began to suspect he had something else in mind.
There was nothing I could do about it. We had attracted quite a crowd by this time. Romans are cynical, big-city types, but in any city – yes, even in New York – you will collect a certain number of willing helpers if you are young and beautiful and in trouble. Helpful arms gathered John up and propelled his tottering footsteps in the direction the old lady had indicated. I could only trail along, thinking nasty suspicious thoughts.
The apartment was old and poorly furnished, but it was reasonably clean. The room had an iron bed, a pine dresser, two straight chairs, a washbasin, and a picture of Saint Catherine accepting a ring from the baby Jesus. Once again I mentioned a doctor, and was shouted down by my assistants, who now felt that we were all one big happy, family. They wouldn’t call the doctor until the patient was just about ready for the last rites. A little wine, a little soup, a little pasta, and the poor young man would be just fine. The bump on the head had hurt him, but there was nothing serious wrong. A little wine, a little soup, a little pasta . . .
Finally I got rid of them and closed the door. Then I turned on John, who was lying on the bed staring blandly at the cracked ceiling.
‘I’ll send a doctor,’ I said. ‘On my way to the prefecture.’
‘Wait.’ He sat up with an alacrity that confirmed my worst suspicions, and caught at my arm. ‘Let’s discuss this first.’
‘There is nothing to discuss. I told you what I meant to do. The longer we wait, the more opportunity Pietro will have to clear out that workshop.’
‘Sit down.’ He gave my arm a shrewd twist. I sat down.
‘Did I hurt you?’
‘Didn’t you mean to?’
‘No. I’m sorry. But you are so damned impetuous . . .’ He swung his legs off the bed, so that we were sitting side by side. The sudden movement made him go a shade greyer. He might have been putting on some of his weakness, but not all of it was pretence.
‘Are you really going to turn me in?’ he asked, with a faint sideways smile. ‘After all we’ve been through together?’
‘You stuck with me,’ I said grudgingly. ‘You would have had a better chance of escape alone, I suppose. Damn it, John, I don’t like to be a fink, but what choice do I have? I refuse to let that gang of swindlers get away with this. Why are you so considerate of them? They tried to kill you.’
‘I don’t think there was anything personal in that,’ John said.
‘Personal, impersonal, who cares? How can I agree to let you off when I don’t even know what you’ve done?’ I demanded, my mounting anger compounded with a certain degree of shame. ‘If you would tell me about the plot – give me some alternative . . .’
‘That does seem reasonable.’
‘I mean, if you won’t even . . . Oh. You will tell me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Lie down,’ I added. ‘You look like hell.’
He obeyed. I turned so that I could see him. It was amazing how innocent that man could look when he wanted to. His eyes were very blue. The shadows under them were like bruises. Then he grinned, and his fine-boned face was transformed – from Saint Sebastian to Mercutio.
‘I was born of poor but honest parents,’ he began.
‘Be serious.’
‘I am. My parents were extremely poor. They were also of the gentry – not the landed gentry, unfortunately. Only a few paltry acres around the family mansion, which has approximately five years more to go before the termites devour it. Do you have any idea what a handicap that combination is – poverty and gentility? I couldn’t get a position – ’
‘Horsefeathers,’ I said rudely, fighting the melting effect of those cornflower-blue eyes. ‘The class barriers went down with a crash in World War Two, even in England. When the Duke of Bedford is selling souvenirs to tourists who visit his stately mansion, anybody can work.’
‘Ah, well, it was worth a try,’ John said, without rancour. ‘You sense the truth, of course; I am personally disinclined to engage in vulgar labour. It’s a psychological handicap. If you knew my mother – ’