He goes to find Ludo Manzo; he has no choice, if he wants to start work again. Federico will stay at the masseria as long as Leandro does, ready to drive him, and Ettore hopes he won’t find the two of them side by side. He couldn’t stand their gloating unassailability. In the end he has to ask where to find the overseer, and then sets off on a long walk to one of the furthest fields, where the last of the wheat still waits to be cut. He goes part of the way without the crutch, only using it again when his leg starts to cramp from the uneven, hobbling way he has to walk. The dust swirls in his wake then resettles slowly. He sees the corporals on their horses, and the small work crew labouring under their bored gaze; the rhythmic swing of scythes, the bent backs of the men tying the sheaves. This is the last of this work; soon the men will spend days and days feeding the threshing machines – on those farms that have them, on those farms that have fuel for the machines. Otherwise it will be done by flail, as it has been done for hundreds of years. By the end of July, the grain should be stored, or sold; the straw baled for animal feed. August is the ploughing month; blades dragged through the rocky soil behind mules, oxen, work horses, rare tractors. Then there’s sowing, weeding, rock-breaking, the repair of damaged walls. Then by the winter there is nothing at all; no way for the men to earn a wage. The hands of this timeless clock turn inexorably, and Gianni is right – they have fought and fought, and made only fleeting changes.
Ettore pauses when he sees how closely Ludo is watching a pair of young lads at work, one hand on the bullwhip coiled at his hip. It’s like no time has passed since those two lads were Pino and Ettore, checking the broken stones for ancient shells, with this same man nearby, a figure from a nightmare, trailing fear into the world when there was hardship enough already. He walks over to him.
‘Tarano. You’re back safely then,’ says Ludo, with his sharp twist of a smile.
‘Why wouldn’t I be safe?’
‘These are troubled times. But here you are, tucked back beneath your uncle’s wing.’
‘And in your care, Manzo,’ says Ettore sarcastically. The overseer laughs.
‘I’ve never been accused of caring for my workers before. Ask these feeble wretches.’ He nods at the toiling men. Ettore looks over them; thin and bent and dirty. He frowns, and studies each face. Not one is familiar, and there are subtle differences in their clothes and the shapes of their hats.
‘These aren’t Gioia men!’ he says. Ludo glances down at him.
‘You can tell that by looking at them? Jesus, you all look the same to me. We hired these in Basilicata. What’s a man to do, if the local men don’t want to work? The harvest can’t wait.’
‘You broke the strike? These are blacklegs?’
‘Was there a strike?’ says Ludo, all innocence. ‘I just thought you Gioia scum had taken a holiday.’
‘You… you can’t! The treaty… Leandro signed – all the landlords signed. The Chamber of Labour…’
‘Last I heard there was no Chamber of Labour any more.’ Ludo can’t hide his amusement. He rests his forearms on the pommel of the saddle, leaning forward to the comfortable creak of leather.
‘You may have the police with you, but Di Vagno will see the agreements honoured! You can’t run roughshod over the law-’
‘There’s only one kind of law here in Puglia, same kind there’s always been. The sooner you lot realise you’re beaten, the better.’ For a moment Ettore can’t speak, and because he can’t unleash his anger it threatens to choke him.
‘I want guard duty again,’ he manages to grind out.
‘Then fuck off back to the trullo and take the night shift. And keep out of my way.’ Ludo straightens up, turns away, dismisses him.
As Ettore approaches the archway of the masseria the red car slithers past him, too fast, billowing dust from its wheels as it skids into the bend. He squints through the clouds and sees young Filippo at the wheel, concentrating hard but grinning, and Leandro in the passenger seat, laughing, holding tight. They roar away towards the gates, which Carlo scrambles to open in time. Ettore is left with dust in his eyes and on his lips. He wipes his face, spits. Clare is alone on the terrace when he reaches the inner courtyard; just sitting, not reading or drinking. Ettore stands in the middle of the empty space, not caring who sees him, who wonders; he stands there in silence, alight with rage, until she sees him. Her mouth opens slightly in surprise, she leans forwards as though she might get up, but then she hesitates. Ettore lifts one arm and points up and behind him, to the window of his room. He waits until he sees her understand, then he turns away and goes indoors. He stays on his feet inside his room; he stands and faces the door and waits, and has no idea if she will come or not. But if she does not, he decides right then, he will never look at her again. Moments later, she slips in through the door without knocking and carries on towards him, not pausing until she is close enough for him to feel her nervous breath on his mouth. She’s so bold, so sure; her certainty surprises him, and it’s he who falters.
‘Where is your husband?’ he says. She puts her fingers on his cheek, low down, near his mouth, as if she wants to feel it move when he speaks.
‘I don’t care,’ she says.
After they have made love the things he must think about, the problems he must solve, drop back into Ettore’s mind like stones into water, each one sinking fast, each one ruining the perfect calm, the perfect clarity, the perfectly empty head that sleeping with this woman leaves him with. He doesn’t want to let them back in. He opens his eyes and stares at her white skin, and runs his stained fingers over it; he breathes in the smell of her sweat and her hair, the human smell under the fragrance of soap. Chiara is awake; he can tell from the way she’s breathing. He lies with his face resting on her chest, breathing in time with the rise and fall of her ribs, but when his thoughts get too much and he can’t stay still, he props himself up on one elbow and looks away, and feels her watching him. A breeze from the open window caresses his back; outside, the white light is softening to grey. The dairy cows are calling out to be milked, making their way nearer to the milking parlour, and then there’s the sound of an engine. It gets louder and louder, comes thundering into the courtyard below, and dies. Leandro and Filippo’s voices echo up to Ettore’s room, happy and relaxed, and he realises again that this is not the real world.
At the sound of the car and their voices, Chiara tenses.
‘I should go. Pip might come looking for me,’ she says.
‘I didn’t think you would still come to me when your husband was here,’ say Ettore. Mention of him makes her restless, and she draws in a long breath, fidgeting.
‘Yes, I will still come. I will still come. My… lie? My traitorness…?’
‘Betrayal.’
‘My betrayal does not feel like a betrayal. To be married to him… to Boyd, feels like the betrayal.’
‘But you are married to him. This is the betrayal.’ For some reason he wants her to acknowledge it. He wants her to feel guilty, because he does – now that the peace has gone, and thought has returned. But he likes what she says. He likes that he has the greater claim. ‘My uncle takes the boy driving?’
‘Yes, he’s teaching Pip how to drive. And Marcie is teaching him now to act. Between them he is kept quite busy. He doesn’t need me any more; not like he did.’