Sciafani first. They chattered in Italian, and I watched Kaz as he watched them, worry creasing his forehead once more. Banville poured himself wine, his grim eyes focused on me. Suspicion and secrets hung in the air, mixing with the smell of fresh bread, making me hungry and anxious at the same time.
'I don't speak the Sicilian dialect,' Kaz said to Sciafani. 'What were you talking about?' Sciafani shrugged, an entirely Italian gesture, lips down turned, shoulders and palms up, head cocked slightly to the side.
'Family,' he said. 'Who our fathers, uncles, and cousins are. Sicilians always seek to find what we have in common, what binds us to each other. It is all we have.'
'And what do you and the Ciccolos have in common?' Kaz asked.
'His nephew lives in my village, about thirty kilometers from here.' 'Village?' I asked. 'I thought you were from Palermo.'
'Palermo is where I have my medical practice. But I was born in a village in the mountains.'
'Which village?' I asked.
'Sciafani.'
'You're named after a village?' I asked.
'Um, no,' Sciafani said as he chewed on a piece of bread. He washed it down with a drink of wine and smiled at me. 'In the fourteenth century, the honor of the village name was given to my family.'
'What are you then, this fellow's lord and master?' Banville asked.
His dislike for me seemed to transfer to Sciafani automatically. He drained his third glass of wine, staring at Sciafani as he tilted his head back.
' Il signor Ciccolo is his own master, as is any Sicilian man. He would not be alive today if he were not. He is a good mafiusu, and knows his own worth.'
'He's in the Mafia?' I asked.
'No, no, he is mafiusu. It is not a gang of thieves, although that may be the case in America. To be mafiusu, a man understands who he is, and is ready to stand against all outsiders. We do not depend on others to give us justice. A man makes his own. In any clash with authority, Sicilians stand together; that is to be mafiusu, a man of honor. As I said, it is all we have. But do not worry. Il signor Ciccolo is a man of his word, even to one who speaks with a Tuscan accent.'
Kaz nodded, and ate the food in front of him. I tasted the wine, and it was harsh.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kaz and I sat alone. Banville had drunk too much and staggered off to sleep in the barn, where he was to keep watch on the truck. Sciafani was taken to the room of the Ciccolos' son, the bed of honor in their meager home. Signora Ciccolo brought out a candle in a glass chimney and set it between Kaz and me on the table. It lit most of Kaz's face, casting a deep shadow along the scar on his cheek.
'Tell me-'
'The doctor said it would be best if you remembered on your own.'
'You don't want to talk about the past?' I said.
'No. I do not.'
'My mission, though, you have to tell me about my mission, and this Harry Dickinson. What does it all mean? Why am I here?' I glanced around, whispering, as if there were spies and eavesdroppers surrounding us.
'The handkerchief was a message, a token. You were supposed to deliver it.'
'Who to?'
'Wait, Billy,' Kaz said, holding up his hand.
It was the first time he'd called me by name, the first sign of friendship from him, and it filled me with a startling joy. After losing all memory of friends, it was like a drink of cool water on a hot day, refreshing and reviving my soul.
'I will tell you a few things, and we will see if that helps you remember on your own. It is very important, and I don't want to set you back in any way.'
'Maybe we should ask the doctor?'
'No. It would be too great a risk. We don't know much about him, not even if he really is who he says he is.'
'You don't trust him?'
'No, of course not. He has a piece of paper saying he is no longer our enemy, but that is all it is. Paper. And Filipo treats him as someone to be obeyed.'
'Can you trust Filipo? How did you connect with him?'
'Let me start at the beginning,' Kaz said. He removed his steel-rimmed spectacles and cleaned them with a white handkerchief. He adjusted them carefully, looking a bit like the studious bookworm I had first come to know in London. Back when… when what? A memory of London, of headquarters in Grosvenor Square, the sound of footsteps on marble stairs…
'Billy?'
'What?' I snapped at Kaz, the thread of memory gone. 'Sorry.' I waved my hand at him to continue and took a drink of wine. I set the glass down and felt the wood of the table, worn smooth at the edges, patterns etched in the grain like the contours of the hillsides. It was very old, dark and stained with spills from meals served decades, maybe a century ago. I ran my thumb across the shiny surface and wondered at the years of talk, food, and drink it had witnessed, and who had made it, and how long ago.
'Billy, do you need to rest?'
I shook my head.
'It was hard not knowing, not remembering,' I said.
'But perhaps not as difficult as remembrance?'
I barely heard the words. It was a beautiful night. Through the grapevines I could see the twinkling of stars. The air had cooled and the wind brushed through the grove of orange trees, whooshing the leaves like waves lapping at the shore. It was pleasant here, as I was poised on the brink of recall, but terrifying too. I was like a child at the seashore, fascinated by the water but too frightened to go in.
'Let's find out,' I finally said.
'Harry Dickinson and Nicholas Cammarata. Do those names mean anything to you?'
'No. Banville said I knew Harry. Is that true?'
'Yes. He's a Royal Navy lieutenant, captain of a Motor Torpedo Boat.' Kaz watched me, looking for the lightbulb to go on, but I couldn't even find the switch.
'Nothing,' I said. 'The other guy?'
'Lieutenant Nick Cammarata, U. S. Naval Intelligence.'
'Zilch. Tell me more.'
'Lucky Luciano?' Kaz lifted an eyebrow, as if to dare me not to recognize this name.
'Sure, Mafia boss, serving time in a New York state pen. Prostitution charges, I think.'
'Correct. He was born Salvatore Lucania, in a village not far from where we are now: Lercara Friddi, about fifteen kilometers northeast of us.'
'So?'
'Luciano has been cooperating with your government, through the Office of Naval Intelligence, to provide assistance to the war effort. At first, he used his Mafia and union connections to keep watch on the waterfront docks, to prevent Axis agents from gathering intelligence or committing sabotage. After the SS Normandie burned at her moorings in New York Harbor, there were questions, and ONI began to rely more on Luciano's sources.'
'I remember that; it was right after the war started.'
'Right after America entered the war,' Kaz said. His family had been killed when the Nazis invaded Poland in 1939, so the war had already been old in 1942 when the Normandie burned and capsized in the Hudson River, and I had still been learning how to do an about-face in basic training.
'Of course,' I said. 'Go on.'
'When the invasion of Sicily was planned, ONI got Luciano to provide contacts in Sicily to assist our
