The Scarlet Thread (2 page)

“We all grew up in the same neighborhood,” he elaborated, in answer to a question of hers. “We come from the same background. That's important to us.”

He leaned over and poured some wine for her.

“He was only a boy,” he said. “No time to know what life was all about. After seeing him like that—both legs gone—I said to you it was better he died.”

“I understand,” Angela responded. “But I always hope against hope they'll get better, no matter what. I suppose it's part of being a nurse. You want to heal. Every time someone dies, it's a defeat.”

He looked at her. “You feel things, don't you? You feel from the heart.”

She smiled at him. “I think you do too. You were so upset this morning. It was hell when I first started nursing. I joined the hospital in North Africa, and there were so many casualties.… I used to cry myself to sleep. In the end, I just had to make myself accept it. Otherwise I couldn't have gone on. But you must have seen worse.” She felt guilty about complaining.

“I haven't been in combat,” he said quietly. “But before I'm through with my job here, I'm going to do my share. I've learned a lot since I joined the army. I learned to like some of the guys I trained with, to respect them. My family's very close. We weren't encouraged to make friends outside. Even at college I didn't get involved.”

Angela said, “What about girls?”

He grinned slightly. “The girls I went with, you didn't bring home to your family. But the army was different. You had to mix in, you were part of something bigger than your neighborhood or your city. I found it hard at first. Now I think it was good for me.”

“Are you from a big family?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “Just two of us. I have a brother, younger than me.”

“Your parents?” She hoped he didn't mind the questions. She wanted to know about him. They hadn't made small talk from the first moment they met.

“My father's a strong man. We love him, but even now, if he says something, we don't argue. Everyone respects him. He's done well for us all.” His expression softened. “My mother—she's very special. She's a good woman. She couldn't do a bad thing or a mean one. I don't know how I'm going to write her about Scipio. And then there's his own mother.… I promised to take care of him, but what could I do? Maybe if I wasn't stuck with this goddamned job …” He looked down, frowning.

On an impulse, Angela reached over and briefly touched his hand. “You weren't even in the same unit. Nobody could blame you. His family will understand.”

“Of course they will,” he said. “A man is born to die. We're brought up to accept that. Now why don't we talk about something else? I'm going to have some Strega. Will you try some?”

“Thank you, but I have to be on duty first thing in the morning. I have to have a clear head. But isn't it impossible to get?”

Steven half turned from her and signaled the proprietor. “I think he'll have a bottle somewhere,” he said. And he was right.

They talked on, and the candle on the table burned down and had to be replaced. There was no sense of time. She told him silly incidents in her nursing career to make him smile. He didn't laugh much. He was a very intense man. He had the darkest eyes she'd ever seen, but they were fine and expressive, set well apart. His face was striking, with a handsome high-bridged nose. It was an arresting face, not easily forgotten.

He spoke softly, in a measured way, as if American was a language he had taken pains to learn properly. And sitting opposite him in the dimly lighted café, Angela felt a strange power coming from him, a power of personality and, above all, an overwhelming sensuality that made her tremble.

She hadn't meant to stay so late, but they went on talking, and the time passed quickly. It was close to midnight when he drove her back.

“I'll come tomorrow,” he said. “The same time?”

“I get off at three tomorrow,” Angela said. “It's my rest day.”

“We could go into the country if you like,” he said.

They stood by the jeep, not touching, the air vibrating between them.

For something to say, she asked, “What about petrol?”

“I can get enough,” he said. “I'd like to show you this part of the island. It's very beautiful. Do you like mountains?”

“I don't know,” Angela answered.

“We can take a drive,” he went on. “I'll bring some food and a bottle of wine. Would you like that?”

“It sounds wonderful,” she answered. She held out her hand. He took it and came closer to her. “Thank you for dinner,” she said.

“Thank you for coming. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes.” He still held on to her hand. “Good night,” Angela said, and he let go. She glanced back as she turned the corner of the nurses' quarters, and he was standing there, watching her. She waved, and he made a gesture in return. The back door had been left unlocked by Christine, Angela's roommate. Angela closed and locked it. She hoped Christine would be asleep. For some reason, she didn't feel like answering questions about the evening.

But Christine was awake. She was a professional nurse, three years older than Angela. Theirs was an odd friendship, for they were opposites. Christine made no secret of her liking for men and her enjoyment of sex, and it had been a long time since she cried over a death in the ward. She thought of Angela as sweet-natured and in need of someone to look out for her. It was time she had a boyfriend. She took life much too seriously.

“You must have had a good time,” she said. “It's after twelve. What did you do?”

“We had dinner and we talked.” Angela undressed quickly. “Thanks for leaving the door unlocked.”

“What's he like?” Christine persisted. “Typical Yank? Make a pass at you?”

“No.” Angela smiled at her. “Not typical at all. We shook hands, believe it or not. It was rather old-fashioned.”

“But you enjoyed it,” her friend insisted. “You look as if you did. Seeing him again?”

“Tomorrow,” Angela answered. She got into bed and settled down.

“That's quick,” Christine remarked. “What's his name?”

“Steven Falconi,” she murmured. “We've got to be up at five-thirty, and I'm dead tired. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

“I'm seeing my new fellow tomorrow,” Christine said. She switched the light off. “I'll ask him if he knows him.” Christine tended to mother her younger friends.

Angela had met Christine's latest boyfriend the month before. He was married, but all the nice ones were, Christine maintained. A lieutenant colonel, no less. Very generous and good fun. There were nylon stockings in her drawer and supplies of chocolate and whiskey for the asking.

His name was Walter McKie, and he was some big wheel in the military administration in Palermo. Details like that didn't interest Christine. She was intent on squeezing what fun she could out of the war, and one day, when it was all over, she might hook someone and settle down. But until then she played it strictly for laughs. Naturally, Christine was a very popular girl and never lacked admirers.

She wondered about this American. Christine tried to imagine any of the Americans she knew behaving in an “old-fashioned” way. There had been a distinctly star-struck look in Angela's eye when she came in. Christine had never seen it before, and there had been several young officers in Tripoli who had taken her out and one who had obviously fallen for her.

Angela lay awake in the darkness long after Christine had fallen asleep. It had been a strange evening. It wasn't something she could explain to Christine. She didn't fully understand it herself. But no man had ever made her feel like this before. There'd been a brief affair in Tripoli with a young Scot she had felt sorry for and persuaded herself that she loved. But he was a shadow, though he was her first lover, a fleeting memory of sentiment and transient sex. It wouldn't be the same with this man, if she ever let it get that far. She couldn't stop thinking about him, and about the trip into the mountains. It would be dawn soon, time to get up and begin the early round of the ward. She slept at last and seemed to be shaken out of sleep almost immediately. The red Sicilian sun was creeping up over the edge of the horizon.

They couldn't drive beyond a certain point. Not even the jeep could hold the twisting track up the mountainside. So he found a place with some shade. He'd brought food and wine.

He was always watching her; whenever she looked at him, he was considering her with that deep stare.

Finally, she said, “Why do you look at me like that?”

“You're beautiful,” he said. “I like to look at you. Does it bother you?”

They were sitting in the shelter of a rock. She drained the last of her wine. “Yes, it does. I feel as if I've got a dirt mark on my face. And I'm not a bit beautiful. You don't have to say that.”

“So what are you, then? What do other men say to you?” he asked as he took her empty cup and filled it.

“I don't want any more,” Angela said. “It's too hot; I shall only go to sleep.”

“You haven't told me,” he reminded her. “What do other boyfriends tell you?”

“I haven't got any boyfriends,” she answered. “You're the first person I've been out with since I left Tripoli. In the family they say I'm not bad-looking. That's about it.”

“That's English understatement,” he said slowly. “Tell me about your family, Angela. Where do you live? What kind of people are they?”

“Oh.” She stretched and sighed. “It seems so far away. A million miles from this bloody war and all the misery. My home's in the country. A place called Haywards Heath, in Sussex. It's very gentle countryside, not dry and fierce like this. We haven't any mountains, only smooth rolling hills. It's green and cool, and everyone complains if it rains and worries about their gardens if it doesn't. My father is a doctor; so was my grandfather. He lived in the house and practiced in the town. My mother was born in India; her father was in the Indian army. We're very ordinary, Steven, nothing special about us.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“I had a sister, but she died when she was little, before I was born. I had one brother, Jack. He was in the RAF. He was killed. We were very fond of each other. I was closer to him than to either of my parents.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Why did you choose nursing? Because of your father?”

“No, not really.” She paused. “It was mostly because of Jack being killed. I didn't want to go into the Waaf or the Wrens; I didn't want to be a wireless operator or a driver or anything connected with the fighting. I wanted to help, not hurt anyone. Not very patriotic, am I?”

He watched her for a moment. “It's a lousy war, but it'll be over someday soon. And then you'll go back home and forget all about this.”

“And so will you,” she said. “Isn't Falconi an Italian name? You speak it fluently.”

“Sicilian,” he corrected. “That's not the same thing. We're not Italians. We're descended from many different peoples: Arabs, Moors, Greeks, even Normans. Sicily was always being invaded. There's some Italian in us, but we're not the same people, not the same culture. My family came from a little village not so far from Palermo. Just in the hills to the north. My grandfather moved to America. We all speak Italian among ourselves. We keep the old traditions, go to church, eat pasta.” He looked down at her and smiled. “Not like Haywards Heath,” he said.

“Do you feel American?” Angela asked him.

“I'm a citizen. My father took out papers. I went to an American school and an American college. I graduated; I played football for the college; I joined the army. I'm American. But maybe Sicilian too.”

They sat in silence for a while as the heat shimmered around them.

Angela said, “I've changed my mind. I'll have some wine if there's any left.” It was heavy, and it didn't help her thirst. She tilted the cup and let the red stream out across the ground.

“Do you know what you're doing, Angelina?” His low voice resonated against her, making her lean closer to hear every next syllable. “That's a libation to the gods. We give something back of the good wine to the gods of Sicily so they won't ruin our harvest. Sicily has lots of gods, did you know that?”

She shook her head. The wine was soaking into the ground like blood.

“It's a pagan country,” he went on. “The Church tried to civilize us by driving out the gods the Romans and Greeks had given us, but we kept them hidden. They're still here, all around us. Can you feel them?”

She didn't answer. She let him take her and pull her close and begin to kiss her, slowly and then fiercely. The ground was hard, and the rock dust clung to them as they lay entwined on the baking earth. Their passion swayed them to and fro out of the shadow of the rock above, and they made love, coming to their climax together in the molten glare of the sun.

As he dressed her in the shade, he said softly in Italian, “
Io ti amo, amore mio
,” and held her close to him.

“Do you?” she asked him. “You don't have to say it.”

“I love you,” he said in English. “Say it to me in Italian.”

She stumbled over the words, and he repeated them until she followed him. “
lo ti amo, amore mio
.”

It was the second time they were together and the first time they made love.

They spent every free moment together. He had hired a little room above the café where they had eaten dinner that first evening. It was bare and sparsely furnished, but there was a big brass double bed and a key that locked the door. They made love with a fierce abandon that amazed her, and yet he was always gentle. He was given to sudden changes of mood. Once he covered her naked body with fresh flowers, then removed them one by one until she lay exposed and longing for him. At other times he was urgent and demanding, begging her to love him, love him quickly.…