The Italian Wife

  ‘Here, Alessandro, grab this one.’ Roberto threw the end of the second Maremmana’s tether to a lanky youth whose hands and feet looked far too big for him. ‘Bring her head round towards me. She’ll settle when this one does.’

  The boy dodged a sideswipe from the cow’s hoof and turned to edge the animal closer to the one Roberto was handling. Both animals continued to snort and stamp and toss their heads, and each time Isabella was convinced Roberto would be scythed to the bone. But no. Moment by moment he drew them under his control and to Isabella it again felt like a kind of magic. And totally without warning, desire surged through her. An emotion she had not felt for ten years. A stranger to her now. Yet it ran hot in her veins, the desire to touch Roberto, to lay a hand on him, to hold the quietness of him in the centre of her palm. But she didn’t move, not even one step across the five metres of straw and dirt that separated them.

  She watched Alessandro work alongside him, his lungs pumping nervously but his hands copying Roberto’s, soothing the animal in his charge until he could tether it to an iron ring set into the wall by the concrete manger. Isabella took her chance then to dart forward to tend to the man on the floor, clearly the boy’s father. Both possessed the same flat nose and big shapeless ears, but Alessandro stood taller already. Even she could see that these people weren’t farmers.

  ‘Are you all right, signore?’

  ‘Bastarda!’ he hissed, glaring at the larger of the cows. ‘They are monsters.’ His hands clutched his leg.

  Isabella unfastened her scarf from around her neck and tied it tightly around his thigh in an attempt to stem the flow of blood.

  ‘Let me help you up on your feet,’ she offered.

  With a grunt and a rough clearing of his throat to disguise his cry of pain, Gabriele slid an arm across her shoulders as she raised him to his feet. For several minutes they watched in silence at the way the cow was licking the back of Roberto’s hand.

  ‘I don’t know how the hell he does it. They won’t let me touch them.’

  ‘How long has he been helping you?’ Isabella asked.

  ‘Since we first arrived. Roberto is a decent man. He spotted us the moment we got here and has been coming over each day ever since to do the milking and yoke the brutes to the plough.’ He ran a hand across his mouth as if to silence his words, an admission of his own weakness, but left a streak of blood smeared there.

  ‘It’s dangerous,’ she said softly.

  They both knew she wasn’t talking about the Maremmanas.

  They spent the morning at the farm. While Roberto took the boy, Alessandro, out into the fields to teach him to plough, Isabella bathed and bandaged Gabriele’s leg. She told him he needed to go to hospital for stitches but he was having none of it.

  ‘Uniforms!’ he said and gave her a friendly slap on the bottom as she turned to pick up the scissors. ‘I am allergic to uniforms – whatever their colour. But thank you, Isabella, you have the gentle touch of an angel.’ He turned to one of the twins and said with a fond smile, ‘Now run into the kitchen, cara mia, and fetch Papa his medicine.’

  The child scampered off, followed by her twin. There were six daughters. Five of them were squeezed between the ages of four and nine years old, including two pairs of twins, and then there was a baby, only two years old and as close as a calf to Alessandro. He carried her strapped to his back even when he ploughed. Their mother had died when giving birth to this last child and the family was struggling without her.

  All the children were dirty. All were barefoot and all were thin, the kind of thinness that makes a face seem all eyes. Isabella wanted to help but she didn’t know the first thing about planting or ploughing a straight furrow or what on earth you feed a pig. So instead she rolled up her sleeves and showed the eldest girl how to bake a pane di Maria with the remnants of the flour in the pantry, then set the younger girls to scrubbing the tiled floors and cleaning up the yard. Afterwards she boiled up pans of water on the range and dipped each child in a tin bath.

  ‘Mille grazie,’ Gabriele murmured. ‘You are a kind person. My wife, my Caterina, was the beat of my heart. Without her I am no good.’ He curled his fingers around the thick brown bottle that the twin had handed him, took another swig and closed his eyes with a sigh, as though it brought relief. Isabella wondered what was in it.

  ‘What work did you do before coming here, Signor Caldarone?’ She was scrubbing clothes in the sink which was made of cement and crushed marble. ‘Obviously not farming.’

  He nodded with a wry smile and took one last mouthful of his medicine before ramming the cork back in. ‘I owned a bar in Turin. A fine bar it was too. You should have seen my Caterina in it, the way she laughed and flirted so prettily with the customers.’ His mouth spread in a smile of pride. ‘Men came from far and wide just to be served by her.’

  ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘I do.’ He thumped a fist against his chest. ‘When she went, the heart went out of me. Things turned bad then. There were no jobs up north. No one had money to spend in bars. Mine had to close.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it must have been hard.’

  ‘I was desperate, Isabella. Desperate to feed my family. Then I heard about this wonderful new town. So I used my last few lire to buy forged papers that said I’d worked on farms after I came out of the army. Crazy, I know.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘My last rooms in Turin were smaller than a coffin – no good for bambini. Here in this fine house we can make a fresh start. I thought – how hard can farming be?’

  ‘But what about the animals?’

  He scowled fiercely, scrunching his flat nose into a ball. ‘They are brutes!’

  Isabella laughed. ‘But Roberto is helping. You’ll manage and your son is learning.’

  ‘Si, our good Lord gave me Alessandro to help too.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few shreds of foul-smelling tobacco which he rolled into a spindly cigarette. ‘I only tell you this, Isabella, because you are kind to me. And Roberto says I can trust you.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes.’ His dark eyes brightened. ‘He likes you.’

  That pleased her.

  They were seated at the table in the kitchen, all Gabriele’s family gathered together. It was a moment of calm while Isabella and Roberto were enjoying the promised coffee.

  ‘Bene?’ Gabriele asked with a grin.

  ‘Si, molto bene, ‘Isabella smiled. ‘Thank you for…’

  She paused. She’d caught the sound of a car turning off the road. She could hear its engine growing louder as it carefully crossed the small bridge over the canal in front of the farm and roared into their yard.

  ‘Merda!’ Gabriele growled. ‘What’s this?’

  They all knew that cars didn’t come visiting out here for the fun of it. The older pair of twins were excited at the prospect of visitors and scrambled to the front of the house, but immediately let out a cry of alarm. Roberto was already on his feet, striding to the window. As he looked out, Isabella saw his whole body grow tense and when he turned back to those in the room his voice was sharp and full of warning.

  ‘It’s one of the ONC agents.And there are three Blackshirts getting out of the car with him. So it looks like he means business. Let’s hope he just wants to take a look around.’

  ‘Get rid of the bastards, Roberto,’ Gabriele begged. ‘Don’t let them in. If he has Blackshirts with him, he’s here to make trouble, and, God knows, I have enough of that already.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, Gabriele, but stay calm. Don’t let that tongue of yours provoke them or they’ll beat you into the ground.’

  Roberto’s eyes found Isabella and suddenly the air in the room turned dry and unbreathable.

  ‘Get the girls out of here into the bedroom, Isabella, before —’

  There was no knock. No warning. The mosquito screen was torn off its hinges and the interior door sprang open with a crash that set the baby whimpering in Alessandro’s arms. A man strode into the r
oom wearing a suit that was shiny and ill-cut and a large-brimmed Homburg rammed down tight on his bald head. He wore thick glasses, carried a clipboard that he brandished like a badge of office, and had the look of a man who enjoyed his job.

  ‘I am Signor Fernando de Lauro,’ he announced.

  ‘How can we help you?’ Roberto asked with studied politeness.

  ‘I have come to raise the question of Signor Caldarone’s competence in working the land and with the animals, because it is clear that…’

  ‘Get out of my house,’ Gabriele interrupted.

  ‘Signor Caldarone.’ The man didn’t raise his voice. It was obvious that he had done this many times before. ‘We have reason to believe that you have lied to the ONC.’ He took a step further into the room, bringing him closer to where Gabriele was sitting with his leg propped up on a stool. ‘We have reports from our agents that you are incompetent. They state that you are bungling the work required of a farmer and…’

  Isabella saw the colour drain from Gabriele’s face but he shook his head angrily. ‘Then your agents are filthy liars.’

  ‘Signore,’ Roberto stepped forward, ‘please excuse my friend, Signor Caldarone, here. His leg is hurt,’ he gestured to the bandaged limb, ‘so he is ill-tempered today. I think there is some mistake. As you will see if you care to look, the fields are being ploughed and young Alessandro has been working hard all morning.’ He smiled at the man. ‘Sit and have coffee with us.’

  Isabella wanted to reach out and steal some of his calmness. Her own heart was racing, yet she heard her voice say easily, ‘It’s true. The only reason Signor Caldarone isn’t working today is that his leg is injured.’

  De Lauro’s gaze skimmed coolly over each person in the room, lingering on every child, the thick lenses of his spectacles distorting the granite grey of his eyes as he continued to move forward until he was standing over Gabriele. The room seemed to grow smaller. The baby ceased whimpering.

  ‘You don’t call our agents filthy liars, Caldarone,’ he reprimanded in a cold voice. ‘It is not respectful.’

  ‘It is not respectful, Signor de Lauro, to insult my ability to do my job and feed my family.’

  ‘I intend,’ de Lauro hissed as he thrust his face right in front of Gabriele’s, ‘to teach you respect.’

  ‘Get out,’ roared Gabriele.

  Without warning de Lauro slammed the metal edge of his clipboard down on the bandaged thigh. Gabriele screamed. Instantly the three men who had been waiting outside burst through the doorway and their darkness crowded the light from the room. They were Blackshirts. With heavy shoulders and heavier hands. They needed no orders. They knew before they entered what they were here to do. Their truncheons flashed and the cups on the table shattered, a mirror disintegrated into a thousand fragments of light and a lamp was smashed, drenching the place with the stink of kerosene.

  Isabella saw Roberto seize the arm of one of the men but immediately a truncheon was jammed against his throat so that he could barely breathe. She leapt forward and punched the Blackshirt, distracting him, but she was thrown against the wall like a broken doll.

  The noise around her was deafening. Objects exploded with every swing of a truncheon, children were screaming, Gabriele was bellowing his fury. Isabella was shocked at the depth of her own desire to wipe these men in black shirts off the face of the earth. The beat of her heart was violent and intense.

  But she gathered the children to her and pushed them through the door to the stairs. She touched a cheek, wiped a tear, all the time aware of Roberto who had placed himself between the immobile Gabriele’s head and the swinging truncheons. In Roberto’s hair glittered diamonds of broken glass and his face was rigid with silent rage. In front of him stood the cheap suit, an expression of contempt twisting the man’s mouth as he waited for Roberto to make one false move.

  ‘Roberto,’ Isabella called.

  He looked like one of the Maremmana bulls, his eyes narrowed, his head thrust forward.

  ‘Don’t,’ Isabella breathed. ‘Don’t provoke them.’

  She took a step towards him. Her eyes met his and she stopped short. He shook his head. She hesitated. In the midst of all the chaos and brutal noise, the crashing and the screaming, he gave her the faintest of smiles. Not much, little more than a softening in his eyes, but still a smile. She didn’t know how he did it. But it altered something inside her. Something broke. She didn’t know what it was but she could feel its edges splitting apart, sharp and painful within herself, and she found tears suddenly stifling her throat.

  Quickly she turned away to where the baby was wailing in Alessandro’s arms against the wall.

  ‘Leave, Alessandro. Go to your sisters upstairs.’

  ‘No.’

  His dark eyes were too bright, whether from fear or anger she couldn’t tell. But it was clear he regarded himself as part of a man’s world now. She took the infant from his arms and walked out of the room.

  How do you mend what is broken?

  Isabella stood in the middle of the floor surveying the carnage. Nothing in the room was whole. Nothing undamaged. Not one single plate or cup or glass in the house was unbroken. The Blackshirts had done a thorough job. Chair legs snapped, table top splintered, the photograph of Gabriele’s Caterina in pieces.

  How do you mend a family that is broken?

  A child’s face frozen with fear. A young heart shredded. A belief in the rightness of the world in tatters. These things Isabella knew were over for these children and that frightened her, because what kind of world was Italy offering for the future?

  ‘Isabella, you’re bleeding.’

  ‘Am I?’

  Roberto stood beside her. He lifted her hand and she saw a gash on her wrist from a flying shard of glass. Her blood was trickling across his fingers and down on to the tiled floor like a scattering of scarlet coins.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she assured him.

  But he didn’t release her hand. ‘We have to count ourselves lucky that it wasn’t worse.’

  ‘Worse? Worse? How could this possibly be worse?’

  ‘They are coming back tomorrow to witness Gabriele ploughing, with or without an injured leg. That means he has twenty-four hours to learn to handle those cows convincingly.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘So how could it be worse?’

  ‘They could have hauled him into the yard right then and beaten him to death in front of his children.’

  ‘Don’t, Roberto. Don’t joke. They’d never do such a thing as that. Italy isn’t barbaric.’

  But she looked at his face, at the bruise on his throat, at the hard set of his mouth and the anger in his eyes. And she knew he wasn’t joking.

  ‘Isabella,’ he said gently, his thumb brushing the strings of blood from her fingers, ‘that’s what Blackshirts do. They make sure Mussolini’s rules are written in blood.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You, of all people, should know.’

  His meaning shimmered just beneath the quiet surface of his words.

  12

  ‘Come, Isabella, and eat my fish with me.’

  ‘No. Thank you, but I’m not hungry.’

  At least she spoke. Roberto regarded that as progress. She had been silent in the car as he drove them through the fading light back to town. Too silent. He had seen her shaken by shudders that caught her unawares and made her toss her head like a mare with colic, a pain deep in her gut. Her long hair, which she usually wore tied severely back from her face with a black ribbon, had escaped during the clean-up of the mess at the farmstead and hung loose in a cascade of dark curls around her face and shoulders. It meant she had somewhere to hide. Her cheeks were flushed and she kept her eyes away from him.

  Fingers of white mist were dragging themselves across the fields and crawling up on to the road, where they entwined together to create sinkholes that would swallow the car. They were both tired. Isabella and the girls
had worked hard all afternoon to remove signs of the attack and to mend what furniture they could, while Roberto had taken Gabriele and Alessandro out in the fields to practise handling the animals. The boy learned fast, thank goodness, but poor Gabriele had no hope of overcoming by tomorrow either his leg-wound or his ingrained fear of any animal larger than a dog.

  ‘Roberto.’

  He flicked a glance at Isabella in the passenger seat. He liked the fine high nose of her profile, but there was something about the way she said his name just then that made him certain that whatever was coming was not going to be good.