It’s pouring by the time Clare arrives back at the front gates, and the young guard, Carlo, lets her in with an amiable grin and water drizzling from the brim of his hat. This is the warm, wetting rain she’d hoped for before; no thunder or hail, just a steady downpour connecting heaven and earth, which plasters her hair to her shoulders and runs down her calves into her shoes. The dogs crouch beneath their meagre shelters, looking out with mournful eyes. They hardly bother to bark at Clare any more, they’ve got so used to her scent. As she walks past the raised hump of the cistern in the aia she can hear the water thudding into it below ground level. She walks a slow loop around the masseria, listening to the sluice of water in the gutter, the music it makes as it rushes along stone gullies, unseen, beneath her feet. She pauses in the vegetable garden to hear it battering the almond tree leaves, and pattering on the broken love seat. When she looks up she sees some of the guards on the roof standing out in it as she is, letting it soak them. In England people would run out of this rain, not into it, but here it’s a rarity like snow at home – something almost miraculous. But it isn’t enough to make a stream run between the fields, even for a little while. After half an hour the rain stops, like a tap turned off with a single twist, and minutes later a bloated sun emerges from the clouds and everything starts to steam.
Federico is in the courtyard, drying the red car with a leather rag. At the sight of him Clare is even more affected than before – physically repelled, like there’s a hand on her chest, shoving her away. She takes an involuntary step backwards and keeps her eyes lowered after taking one look at his face beginning to smile. But there’s no way to go inside without passing him, so she folds her arms, looks at her feet and marches by. As she does she hears a noise – a hissing, low and rhythmic, full of startling menace. She glances up and it’s Federico, hissing at her through the gap in his twisted front teeth, and his smile has turned sour and leering, and his eyes are mocking, and she knows then, absolutely, that he saw. That he knows about her and Ettore. He doesn’t stop hissing now that she’s looking at him. He wants her to see. Clare turns away and hurries inside, revolted; humiliated at the same time.
She goes into the long sitting room on the ground floor and finds it empty. She climbs the stairs and goes out onto the terrace but there’s no sign of Marcie, or Pip. She checks the bat room; the door is open, the room bright and empty. Crossing to the window with the soft sound of her footsteps echoing, Clare looks down into the courtyard. She watches Federico polishing the car, his brows furrowed against the sunlight, his arm working in rhythmic circles. He’s rolled up his shirtsleeves and the muscles of his forearms are taut ridges, and she thinks of Francesco Molino – the way he curled against their kicks and blows, after his glasses flew off, the wrong shape of his collapsed eye socket. There’s acid at the back of her throat, hot and sour. She can’t believe Federico has this normal life, that he looks like a normal man, not like a monster; it seems an outrageous dissembling. She’s appalled to have been near him when he had such a secret, and she’s frightened of him now, not just uneasy; she wants to tell somebody, to denounce him somehow. But Ettore said that Leandro already knows, and she can’t think of anyone else to tell.
Clare feels unsettled and restless, and doesn’t want to be alone. She goes to Pip’s room but that, too, is empty. The room has been made up by one of the maids – sheets stretched tight, the carafe of water on the nightstand refilled and covered, his copy of Bleak House and the photograph of Emma neatly arranged. A soft wash of air nudges in through the window, fresh and warm after the rain, and Clare goes to stand at it, looking out through the back wall of the masseria. She sees Pip on the far side of the overseer’s trullo, standing with Ludo and Leandro. He is slighter than either of them, but almost as tall. He stands with his shoulders pulled back, in discussion about something and pointing to a lone olive tree not far away. Clare watches, curious, even though she doesn’t like seeing him in their company, until she sees that they are holding guns – Pip included. She catches her breath, turns at once and goes back to the stairs. She doesn’t want to recross the courtyard but there’s no other way, so she walks fast and doesn’t look at Federico. He stays silent this time; he keeps working, but she can feel his eyes following her.
By the time she reaches Pip he’s standing with his legs wide apart and his arm extended, squinting along it. The sight of the pistol in his hand gives Clare a nasty jolt, like he’s holding a live snake – she wants him to drop it and step away. There’s a splash of white paint on the trunk of the olive tree, and Ludo is at Pip’s side, steadying his hand, looking down along it, adjusting his aim. Leandro catches her arm to stall her as she hurries towards them.
‘Wait a moment,’ he says. ‘He’s about to shoot.’
‘I don’t want him to,’ she says automatically. Leandro hushes her gently, and keeps hold of her arm. After a moment Clare pulls it away, but she stays at his side. The sight of Ludo Manzo schooling Pip is almost as abhorrent as the sight of the gun. Stepping back, Ludo checks the target once more and gives a curt nod. His eyes are narrow and sharp; he doesn’t flinch when the gun goes off, and Pip’s arm jerks back wildly before he can stop it.
The bullet smacks into the stone of the wall two metres to the left of the olive tree, there’s a cloud of dust, a shower of grit, and Ludo grins. He says something and then chuckles, and Pip’s cheeks flame. He’s breathing hard, his eyes are wide with excitement.
‘Ludo says the first time he fired a gun he gave himself a black eye, so you did good, Pip,’ says Leandro, and Pip turns to smile at him. He seems surprised to see Clare there, but pleased as well.
‘Did you see that, Clare?’ he says.
‘I saw it,’ says Clare, but she can’t smile.
‘You don’t approve?’ Leandro murmurs.
‘He’s still a schoolboy. He doesn’t need to know how to fire a gun.’
‘You never know when it might come in useful,’ Leandro demurs. ‘Especially out here.’ Clare glances sharply at him, but Leandro walks forwards before she can ask him what he means. He puts a hand on Pip’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. ‘Now you know how it kicks, so you’ll know to be ready for it. Try the shot again. Squeeze the trigger gently, and brace your arm for the recoil.’
‘All right,’ says Pip. Clare draws breath to speak but doesn’t know what she wants to say. Pip is enjoying himself, and she doesn’t want to spoil it for him, but she thinks of the naked man grazing the stubble at Ludo’s feet, and the way he grinned then, too. She thinks of Federico leading a squad in Gioia, and of Leandro, refusing to let her leave. She’s surrounded by men of violence, and she doesn’t want the least trace of it to touch Pip, or linger on him, or shape him in any way. The brutality is like a poison, like a sickness, and the thought of Pip catching it is appalling.