Boyd Kingsley sits hunched in the front passenger seat, with his knees folded sharply and his head ducked down. He has a flat leather case cradled on his lap, and his fingers fiddle constantly with its buckles. He looks profoundly uncomfortable, but then, that seems to be how he always looks. Ettore can only see the side of his face – one slightly pendulous ear, a thin neck with rough skin like a plucked bird, wisps of colourless hair as fine as a child’s. He must be fifteen years older than his wife, at least. Ettore thinks of the way he engulfed Chiara in his arms when he first came to the farm, as if he hadn’t seen her for weeks, and it makes him slightly queasy. She’s his wife; of course he’s screwed her. He has every right, and Ettore has none. But once the thought of it is in his head he can’t get rid of it, and by the time they turn into the gates at dell’Arco, Ettore despises both men sitting in the front of the car equally; one rightly so, the other unfairly. He wonders if Chiara will come to see him with her husband in residence, and then curses his own stupidity. Of course she won’t. Perhaps she only used him in her husband’s absence, to flatter her, to fulfil her. Picked up and put down, like a toy. Whatever empathy he thought he sensed from her, whatever resonance there seemed to be between them, he might only have conjured out of grief and loneliness. Ettore’s jaw goes tight. The Masseria dell’Arco is not the real world, and neither is Chiara Kingsley.
Because he can’t say any of the things he wants to say, he says nothing. He walks inside with Leandro because he doesn’t want to be out on the farm where he might run into Ludo or Federico; he doesn’t know what he would do. The three men, Leandro, Boyd Kingsley and himself, go into the long sitting room on the ground floor of the masseria, where the high ceiling helps to keep it cool, and white voile curtains go some way to keeping out the flies. They sit down on an overstuffed sofa, decades old, and Ettore doesn’t listen as the others talk in English. When the women appear in the doorway he watches Chiara carefully, though it’s Marcie who makes all the noise, fussing him about his leg, and for news of Iacopo. He wants to see which of them Chiara will look at first – her lover or her husband; which of them she will look at the longest. He can tell himself that he doesn’t care, but it’s not true. She keeps her eyes carefully away from him, and as if she can feel him watching her, and his anger, she blushes. She greets her husband with the trace of a smile, and he clasps both of her hands to stoop and kiss her. She offers him her cheek. As they sit back down she glances up at Ettore and meets his eyes for a broken second. A darted glance like the sudden startling of a bird, but in it he reads desperation, and something else. Could it be joy he sees? Joy at his return? Something inside him unclenches. She picks a thread from her sand-coloured skirt, sweeps her hands along her thighs to smooth the fabric, and keeps her eyes down from then on.
Anna brings in a tray of cold drinks, with salvaged hailstones tapping at the glasses. As she puts it down she looks at Ettore with such a stiff, nervous expression that he immediately starts to wonder, and then guesses that this girl is how Federico Manzo knew he’d gone back to Gioia. Federico seems to have a way with women, even if he’s disfigured; he flatters them with extravagant words and gestures. Or perhaps he’s simply paying her. Ettore takes note not to trust the girl. He watches his uncle saying something in English that he punctuates with expansive hand gestures. Hard to believe that this man, in his new light blue suit with the waistcoat buttoned up in spite of the heat, this man with his chauffeur and his wife gleaming and laughing and dripping jewels, is the brother of his mother, Maria Tarano, who believed in curses and angels, and fought her poverty every day, and taught her children that money you didn’t need was a poison. By increments, Ettore feels less and less as though this man is his blood. My brother has forgotten who he is.
Ettore leans forwards abruptly, interrupting the conversation he has not been following.
‘Uncle, do you know what happened in Gioia yesterday? What actually happened?’ He speaks in the dialect; there’s incomprehension on all faces but Leandro’s. ‘Do you know that these squads are attacking ordinary people in their homes now? Do you know who is commanding them?’
‘Ah, Ettore.’ Leandro shakes his head and sighs in apparent regret, but his eyes are stony. ‘It’s a nasty business. You should remain here, out of it.’
‘Are the proprietors paying for their weapons, and the food in their bellies?’
‘I have made it my business not to enquire.’
‘I don’t believe you, Uncle,’ he says, and Leandro thumps his fist onto the low table in front of him – so hard that the glasses jump, so quickly that his arm barely seems to move. The others fall silent; Ettore feels their nervous eyes on him.
‘This is my house, Ettore,’ says Leandro, softly. He points one finger at his nephew for a moment. ‘You will not be a guest here, so you are an employee. If that’s the way you want it, so be it. But you will be respectful, or you will leave. Those are your choices. I didn’t drag my ass out of the New York gutter to come back here and be insulted by you. Do you understand me?’
‘Your driver put a gun to Iacopo’s head. Federico Manzo – he leads one of the squads. Have you chosen not to enquire about that as well? He was looking for me, and he put a gun to the baby’s head,’ says Ettore, through gritted teeth. Leandro says nothing for a moment. He sits back, sips his drink. His hands are completely steady; Ettore clenches his own to hide how they shake.
‘I knew he’d joined the fascists – most of the corporals have. But I didn’t know they’d marked you.’ His tone is soft now, dangerous. ‘I will speak to the Manzo boys.’
‘But you will not dismiss them?’
‘What good would that do? What control would I have over them then?’
‘I can’t work for that man, or near his son. I can’t be around them.’
‘Then leave.’ Leandro is composed again, his black gaze steady and implacable. ‘It’s my duty as your uncle to offer you what help I can, what help you will accept. But I will not be told what to do by you, Ettore. Do not insult me.’
Ettore rubs one hand across his mouth, grips his jaw hard between his fingers. There is so much he wants to say, so much he wants to shout. He wants to stand and kick the table over, and break every glass. He wants to roar. But he doesn’t. Marcie titters nervously, and they all begin to talk again; the stilted, self-conscious conversation of people who sense something grim in the room but can’t acknowledge it.
‘Why do you have these people here, Uncle? These English. Why do you keep them here at such a time? It’s not safe for anybody,’ says Ettore.
‘I have my reasons,’ says Leandro. ‘What makes you think they’re kept here?’
‘The woman speaks Italian.’
‘Ah! So she does.’ Leandro nods. ‘And she told you as much? I didn’t think the English spoke so openly. That’s not their reputation. Least of all this one, brave as a rabbit.’
‘Does her husband owe you something?’ says Ettore.
‘Owe me? Well, perhaps. Not in the usual way, maybe, but… Let’s just say there is something I need to find out from him, before I can let them go home. But don’t worry – they are quite safe here, I’m sure. My guards are loyal, and I keep their guns loaded; and if you like the money then stay on here as one of them. It’s that simple. But don’t make trouble, Ettore. And don’t make me tell you again,’ says Leandro. Ettore scrapes his hands through his hair, and feels the dust of Gioia on his scalp. He mutters a vague apology and leaves the room.