Just One Evil Act

and she’d begun to name the villages for Carina. Solemnly, Carina repeated each name. She was changed from that earlier day in the cellar. She was more hesitant, more watchful, perhaps more worried. But that could not be helped, Domenica decided. Some things took precedence over others.

That was when she saw the car flashing rapidly in and out of the trees far below, climbing ever higher on its way to the villa. She recognised it even at this great distance, for it was bright red and its top was down and she would, of course, have known the driver anywhere on earth. His coming, though, represented danger. For bringing Carina to her also meant he could take her away. He’d done so before, had he not?

“Vieni, vieni,” she said to the child. And lest Carina misunderstand her, she clasped her hand and scooted her along the narrow terrace and down the path. They went across the wide lawn at the back of the villa. They hurried in the direction of the cellars.

Above on the building, the thick curtains on one of the windows twitched. Sister Domenica Giustina saw this, but what was inside the villa was no worry to her. What was outside the villa presented the danger.

She could tell Carina was not happy to descend to the cellars once again. Sister Domenica Giustina had not attempted another time to bring her to the murky pool within this place, but she could tell the child was afraid that she might. There was nothing to fear in that pool, but she had no way to explain to Carina why this was the case. And now she had no intention of taking her to that part of the cellars at all. She merely wanted her to remain near the first of the old wine casks.

“Veramente, non c’e nulla da temere qui,” she murmured. Spiders, perhaps, but they were harmless. If one feared anything, one should fear the devil.

Thankfully, Carina understood at least something of what Sister Domenica Giustina said, and she seemed relieved when she apparently realised that Sister Domenica Giustina’s intentions were to take her no farther into the cellars than the second room. She hunkered between two of the ancient wine casks there, her knees pressed into the dusty floor. Still, she said in a whisper, “Non chiuda la porta. Per favore, Suor Domenica.”

She could do that much for the child, of course. There was no need to close the door as long as Carina could promise to be silent as a mouse.

Carina made that promise. “Aspetterai qui?” Sister Domenica Giustina asked.

Carina nodded. Yes, of course. She would wait.

By the time he arrived, Sister Domenica Giustina was among her vegetables. She heard the car first, its engine purring and its tyres rolling sonorously over the sassolini. She heard its engine stop, its door open and then close, and then in a moment his footsteps as he mounted the stairs to the small habitation above the barn. He called her name. She rose from the dirt, carefully wiping her hands on a rag that hung from her waist. Above, she heard two doors slam and then his footsteps coming down the stairs. Then the garden gate creaked and she lowered her head. Domenica, humble. Domenica, subservient to any wish that he might have.

“Dov’e la bambina?” he asked. “Perche non sta nel granaio? ”

She said nothing. She heard him cross the garden, and she saw his feet when he stopped before her. She told herself that she had to be strong. He would not remove Carina from her care, despite the child’s not remaining above the barn as he had instructed.

“Mi senti?” he said. “Domenica, mi senti?”

She nodded, for she was not deaf and this he knew. She said to him, “La porterai via di nuovo.”

“Di nuovo?” he repeated, incredulous. Why, he seemed to be asking, would he ever remove the child from her care?

“Lei e mia,” she said.

She looked up then. He was watching her. On his face, it seemed a calculation of her words was being made. Knowledge appeared to be breaking over him, and he seemed to confirm this when he put his hand on the back of her neck, said, “Cara, cara,” and drew her closer.

The heat of his hand on her flesh was like a brand that marked her forever his. She felt it throughout her body, even to her blood.

“Cara, cara, cara,” he murmured. “Non me la riprendero piu, mai piu.” He lowered his mouth to hers. His tongue probed and caressed. Then he lifted the linen shift she wore.

“L’hai nascosta?” he said against her mouth. “Perche non sta nel granaio? Te l’ho detto, no? ‘La bambina deve rimanere dentro il granaio.’ Non ti ricordi? Cara, cara?”

But how could she have kept Carina hidden within the cold stone barn as he had demanded she do? Domenica wondered. She was a child, and a child must be free.

He rained tender kisses against her neck. His fingers touched her. First here. Then there. And the flames seemed to eat at her flesh as he lowered her gently to the ground. On the ground, he entered her and he moved within her with mesmerising rhythm. She could not abhor it.

“La bambina,” he murmured into her ear. “Capisci? L’ho ritornata, tesoro. Non me la riprendero. Allora. Dov’e? Dov’e? Dov’e?” And with each thrust, he said the words, Where is she? I brought her back to you, my treasure.

Domenica received him. She allowed the mantle of sensations to cover her until they peaked at their completion. She did not think.

Afterwards, he lay panting in her arms. But only for an instant before he rose. He adjusted his clothing. He looked down upon her, and she saw his lip move in a twist that did not speak of love. “Copriti,” he said between his teeth. “Dio mio. Copriti.”

She lowered her linen shift in compliance. She looked up at the sky. Its blue was unbroken by a single cloud. The sun shone in it, like God’s grace falling upon her face.

“Mi senti? Mi senti?”

No, she hadn’t been listening. She hadn’t been there. She’d been in the arms of her beloved but now—

He jerked her upright. “Domenica, dov’e la bambina?” He barked the words.

She scrambled to her feet. She looked to the earth where, between the rows of fresh young lettuces, the mark of her body flattened the dirt. She gazed at this in confusion. “Che cos’e successo? ” she murmured, and she looked at him. She said insistently, “Roberto. Che cos’e successo qui?”

“Pazza,” he responded. “Sei sempre stata pazza.”

From this, she knew that something had indeed occurred between them. She could feel it in her body, and she could smell it in the air. They’d mated in the dirt like animals, and she’d stained her soul yet another time.

He asked again where the little girl was, and Sister Domenica Giustina felt the pain of this question like a sword piercing her side to take the last of her blood. She said to him, “Mi hai portato via la bambina gia una volta. Non ti permettero di farlo di nuovo.”

She repeated herself, insistently this time: He’d taken the child away from her once. He would not do so again.

He lit a cigarette. He tossed the match to one side. He smoked and said, “How can you trust me so little, Domenica? I was young. So were you. We are older now. You have her somewhere. You must take me to her.”

“What will you do?”

“I mean no harm. I want to know she is well. I have clothing for her. Come. I’ll show you. It’s in the car.”

“If it is, you may leave it and go your way.”

“Cara,” he murmured. “This I cannot do.” He glanced beyond them where through the magnificent camellia hedge the villa loomed, silent but watchful. “You do not wish me to remain here,” he said. “That would not be good for either of us.”