‘Escape.’ He says it in a low voice, and for a second she thinks he will ask her to explain, that he wants to know more. But then he tells her to go back inside, and he sounds impatient, and Clare is dismayed. She sees herself through his eyes then, truly, and sees that she’s ridiculous. She’s nothing, and could never understand him. It’s torture, and it gets worse when he leaves her there, limping past her on his crutch. He smells faintly of sweat, and of clean linen. She holds her breath to hear every last sound he makes, further and further away, until all she can hear are crickets in the foliage, faint sounds from within the masseria, and her own pulse, loud in her ears. She does not do as he tells her; she stays outside for a long time, in the dark, trying to know her own thoughts.
Ettore comes to breakfast the next morning; he’s already at the table, waiting, when Clare and Pip come down. His eyes look bruised, the whites all bloodshot, and Clare, who has not slept, recognises the fatigue in the slow drag of his gaze. Marcie beams when she sees him.
‘Well, good morning, Ettore. Dear boy, you look shattered! What on earth have you been up to? Are you ill?’
‘He’s working as a guard now – I think he was on the night shift,’ says Clare, remembering something he said the night before. The urge to look at him is so strong that she’s careful not to give in to it. She’s worried she might not be able to look away again. The skin of her cheeks is tingling, and threatening to colour.
‘He’s working? Oh, that’s wonderful! Fantastic, Ettore! I’m so pleased you’ve come around,’ says Marcie, so loudly that Ettore winces. He looks questioningly at Clare, and she takes a quick breath.
‘She’s happy you have agreed to work,’ she tells him in Italian. Ettore frowns, and looks down at the table. He nods once.
‘Oh dear – he doesn’t seem too happy about it. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything – me and my big mouth! Well, let’s change the subject. How’s the hand, Filippo?’
‘Oh it’s fine, really. Thank you for asking. Just a bit sore,’ says Pip, but it’s his right hand that’s bandaged, and he’s struggling to eat breakfast with his left.
‘Shall I spread that jam for you?’ says Clare, reaching for his plate, but he shakes his head vehemently.
‘I can do it, Clare.’
‘All right.’ She sits back, stung.
‘What happened to his hand?’ asks Ettore, nodding at Pip. The sun makes him squint until his eyes are the narrowest slits, the skin around them scored with lines; his irises are a glimpse of iridescence between his black lashes. When he speaks he has the same slow intonation as Clare, each word considered and chosen. She has to remind herself that Italian is not his first language any more than it’s hers.
‘He was playing with the dog and it bit him,’ she says.
‘With what dog? With the dogs here in the aia?’ He shakes his head when she nods. ‘Lucky it did not kill him. I have seen one kill a boy before. It took him by the throat,’ he says, and grasps his neck to demonstrate. His hands are nut brown, rough with scars and calluses; the nails are wide and broken off. Clare’s own hand goes to her throat, mirroring him involuntarily.
‘These dogs here? It happened here?’ she says, breathlessly. Ettore nods.
‘He was coming to ask for a mattock to use. The mattock he had was broken. He didn’t know… where to walk.’
‘I simply must know what you’re saying,’ says Marcie brightly.
‘He says… he says that the dogs have attacked somebody before – somebody who went too close by mistake. That a boy was… killed.’ She looks at Pip as she says this, not sure if she should translate it. He fiddles with the frayed ends of his bandage, tucking them in, and there are knots in the corners of his jaw.
‘What! Oh, I’m sure he’s mistaken – I never heard of anything like that happening here! Wouldn’t I have heard about it? He must mean on some other farm,’ says Marcie.
‘He says this one,’ says Clare.
‘You’re only making it up to scare me, and stop me going near them,’ says Pip.
‘I am not,’ Clare says quietly, shocked. ‘Pip, please-’
‘All right! I get the message!’ He struggles up from the table, hampered by his injured hand, and stalks away towards the stairs.
‘Oh, Filippo, honey,’ Marcie calls after him, but he carries on out of sight with his head down and his right arm tucked in to his midriff.
‘He is scared now?’ says Ettore. Clare shakes her head.
‘No. He is angry with me. It’s my fault we are here – he thinks so. He was trying to make the dog his friend.’
‘He must choose friends more carefully.’
‘He hasn’t many to choose from, here.’
‘Why are you here?’ he asks, and she can’t tell if he’s curious, or if he resents their presence. She wants to explain but doesn’t have the right words. She doesn’t know the Italian word for hostage.
‘I do not know,’ is all she can say. ‘Only your uncle can say.’ At this Ettore nods slowly and looks at her steadily.
‘You are honest,’ he says, and Clare has nothing to reply.
‘Now, what we need is to lighten the mood around here a little,’ says Marcie. ‘Ettore, do you think Paola would come for tea, and bring her little boy? I’m afraid I can’t ask your father – Leandro would hit the roof.’ She doesn’t wait for Clare to translate or Ettore to answer before she carries on. ‘Music, that’s what we need. An evening of music and a bit of fun, to cheer up poor Pip and stop you worrying so, dear Clare. I’m going to find a gramophone if it kills me. Where shall I find one? There must be one in Gioia we could borrow, or buy. And we could make the doctor bring his wife and daughter, and have dinner with us. What do you think, Clare? How old is Pip? I think their daughter is sixteen, or is she older than that now? Anyway, far closer to Pip’s age than any of us. They could dance together! Do you think his hand would be up to it? Perhaps in a couple of weeks when it’s had more of a chance to heal. Music! I haven’t heard any for the longest time. I used to sing as well, you know; as well as acting. I could sing us some show tunes if only there was a piano or something to accompany me…’
Marcie talks on while Ettore drinks his coffee cut almost half and half with hot milk, and eats slices of fresh white cheese on crusty bread. He eats more slowly now, without the panic and fixation of when he first arrived. Clare is suddenly reminded of something.
‘Marcie, has Pip said anything to you about the collars that the calves wear?’ she says, interrupting the vocal march of Marcie’s train of thought.
‘About their collars? Oh, aren’t they just vicious? I do hate the sight of them. Of course, they get taken off sometimes during the day, so they can drink, but not within three hours of milking or something like that. Poor little darlings! But no, Pip never said anything. Why?’
‘He said he might, that’s all. I told him it wouldn’t be up to you, necessarily.’
‘Oh, it isn’t up to me at all. Ludo is the man with the power, and he reports right to Leandro. Tell Pip not to look – that’s my advice. If you can’t bear to see it, don’t look. Ludo, Ludo – I do love the sound of that name, don’t you? Tell Pip not to go near the cattle, if it upsets him. I’ll tell him.’ She waves a hand. When she says the name Ludo, Ettore’s gaze hits her in an instant. Marcie looks over at him and smiles, but neither she nor Clare understands the black expression that fills Ettore’s face. He looks so bitter and so hard that nobody speaks for a long time afterwards.
Later on in the day, after Pip has had his acting lesson, or rehearsal – Clare isn’t sure which it is – with Marcie, Clare goes to find him in his room. He’s lying on the bed, on his side, reading. She sits down on the mattress near the small of his back, and knows he’s still angry when he doesn’t roll over or sit up, or turn his head to look at her. She isn’t sure what to say to him, so for a long time she says nothing. From outside the window comes the clanking of the cow bell, and the muted clatter of cloven hooves as the herd come in for the afternoon milking. Eventually Pip lowers his book and sighs.