for the salad passed to him, but she pretended that she did not understand him. She let small Mario, next to her, pass the brat the oil. She wondered what was his life and what would be his future, the teenage boy who was the son of her target. She wondered whether he was already addicted to the power of his father, or whether he could walk away from that power and make a different life. She wondered if he would ever hold hands with children and dance around his father…
Beyond small Mario, on Charley's side of the table, was the teenage girl, self-conscious with her weight but scooping food into her mouth, then an empty place, then Franco… Franco watched her. Each move she made was watched by Franco. He had small, fine hands with pared nails. She would have shivered if the hands of Franco had touched her… Next was Carmelo, the simple brother, who lived with his ageing parents, and then there was
Angela… Angela was politeness. Angela was beautiful. Angela was the crowned queen. Angela played a part as much as Charley played a part. Angela asked after Rosario's health, talked with the old contadino beside her as if his health mattered to her, and talked about the rabbits that he bred as if his rabbits were important to her.
Next to Rosario, at the head of the table, was the empty chair.. . She had gained access, she was the little dog's body, she had power over all of them…
'Are you not going to eat, Charley?'
She was far away. She had won the access, had taken the power, she was with Axel Moen on the cliff and by the river and in the cathedral
…
'What? Sorry…'
Small Mario pulled a face at her, like she was a cretin. 'Are you not going to eat?'
Franco watched her. His gaze lanced her. Too wrapped in her own thoughts. To think of Axel Moen was a mistake, to make a mistake was to invite suspicion. She stood.
There was a murmur of conversation along the length of the table. She went to the buffet counter. God, how long, how bloody long…? She must eat, not to eat was to make a mistake. There was a ripple of applause behind her. She did not turn. She smelt the tang of the smoke from a small cigar. There was a shout of congratulation behind her, and the hammering of cutlery on the table. She did not turn. There was a growl from an old throat, Rosario's throat, of pleasure. She put squid on her plate and salad and sliced ham. She turned to go back to her chair. The plate shook in her hand. She could not control the shake of her hand. Her plate clattered down onto the table, and he looked at her, as if then he noticed her.
He was at the far end of the table.
He was bent over his mother. His opened fist rested on his mother's shoulder, and he looked down the length of the table to her. For a moment there was a frown. She saw Peppino's lips move, did not hear what he said, what Peppino explained. Charley sat.
There was another man, and she heard the name Tano used by Franco, and there was a sour spark between them. At the buffet counter, behind her, was the presence of Tano, and the lotion scent of his body. The plate of food was in front of her, and she did not dare to eat because she did not think she would be able to control her knife and her fork.
He left his mother and he went to his wife. There was a grim sadness in the wife's face, and a steadfastness, and she offered her cheek to him. He kissed his wife's cheek. He went to the teenage girl and to the teenage boy and they kissed him with formality, as if they kissed a stranger. He went to his place at the head of the table, and in the silence Tano laid a filled plate in front of him. He looked around him. The silence cut the room.
Tano filled his glass. He drank from the glass, he banged the glass down onto the table.
He shouted…
'Piccolo Mario – come to your uncle!'
The big smile played on his face. The room exploded with laughter. The little boy catapulted from his chair and ran the length of the table and jumped onto Mario Ruggerio's lap. He started to eat, spearing his food with his fork, fondling the child.
Tano spoke to Franco, pointed to her, and Franco shrugged and gestured towards Peppino. She saw the chilled smile on Angela's face as her child was touched. The talk bayed around her.
There was a magnetism about the eyes of the man.
She thought the presence of the man was all in the eyes.
They were wide, deep-set eyes that were clear blue in colouring. There was a tiredness in the bulged flesh under the eyes, but the eyes glistened with alert life.
The eyes roved over the table. The eyes caught Charley. If she had had her knife in her hand, she would have dropped it. She was a pheasant in a car's lights. She was a mouse that a stoat closed on. When the eyes caught hers, Charley looked away.
He terrified her.
Such a small man, except for the eyes. Such an ordinary man, except for the eyes…
The baby cried.
He wore a well-cut suit and a white shirt and a simple tie of deep green.
The baby's scream grew.
Eating, he made a play of one-handed boxing with small Mario, and the child squealed in happiness, and there was soft sentiment at the mouth of Mario Ruggerio, not in the darting eyes…
The baby howled.
Charley did not know whether she could stand, whether she could walk. The fear held her. Angela looked at her, flicked her fingers and pointed to the carrycot. Peppino looked at her, savage, and gestured to the baby. She pushed herself up. She steadied herself against the table… She did not know whether they listened, whether they were close by… He was so small and he was so ordinary and his face was pasty, dull, and the hands that played with the child were roughened. She staggered to the carrycot. She knelt. She lifted out the baby. She held the baby. She picked up the bag with the baby's feed. She went, sleepwalked, towards the door to the kitchen.
'Please…'
She stopped.
The voice was tyres on gravel. 'Please may I see my nephew?'
He whispered in the little boy's ear. Small Mario slipped from his knee. The boy had the sulky look of a rejected lapdog.
The voice was waves on shingle. 'Please bring my nephew to me.'
She walked towards him. She was dazed. The steps were automatic, robotic. His eyes never left her. She trembled as she moved closer to him. She went past Francesca and past the teenage girl, past the empty chair, past Maria and Peppino and Agata Ruggerio.
She held the baby tight against her body, and the baby was quiet. His eyes never wavered from hers, she was mesmerized by his eyes, clear blue. She was close to him.
She smelt the stale scent of the cigars. He held out his arms, and she went past his wife.
He reached out with his arms. The big hands brushed against her arms and he took the baby Mauro. He smiled. There was a titter of appreciation around the table. He smiled an aged gentleness. The softness came to the old face, the lines of his face cracked in pleasure. What she noticed, he held the baby but his eyes never left hers.
'And you are the English bambinaia? You are Carlotta?'
'They call me Charley, that's my English name.'
'You are very welcome at our small celebration. We are not used in our family to a person such as yourself, but Angela brings to our family new horizons. Angela is the first of our family to have required a bambinaia. But we are humble people, and my mother did not have the money for someone to come into the midst of her home to look after her children. My wife, she has reared our son and our daughter, she has been able to do that without paid help in her house. But Peppino is a great success and we are all proud of his success. We measure the degree of his success that he can afford a bambinaia to help Angela with her children.'
The head of the baby was thrown back and the baby screamed, piercing.
'Why does the baby cry?'
'For his feed, it's the time for his feed,' Charley said.
The big hand, so carefully, brushed the fine hair on the baby's head. Charley did not dare to look at Angela. The broad fingers made little loving patterns on the baby's scalp.
