He frowned and looked away. “There’s no such thing as an unimportant war.”
“My mother’s uncles and my grandfather all died in the Great War.”
“Fighting against Italians?” He was pensive.
“They fought in Galicia, I think.”
He sniffed.
She tried again. “Anyway, when I’m in Bolzano, maybe you can take me to one of these youth-group rallies? I mean, to the girls’ part, and just show me around?”
“My aunt Christina would,” Marco said. “You would like my aunt Francesca more though. She should have been an actress, the way she carries on. A real drama queen, that one.”
He would introduce her to his aunts? Was this the invitation? “When I’m in Bolzano, the first thing I’m going to do is spend days and days in the cinema.”
“Have you ever seen a film? Here?”
“Of course.”
“What have you seen?”
She’d only seen two because the adults never came, so the podestà never made the effort again. “We saw Naples in Green and Blue.”
Marco’s face was blank. “They must send the rejects up here.” A little laugh, cruel. “I like the military movies, like Aldebaran, or the American films from Hollywood. I saw a movie with Cary Grant and Myrna Loy called Wings in the Dark. It’s about an aviator who wants to develop new technology for landing airplanes at night. Myrna Loy was a stunt flier.”
“Just imagine!” Annamarie leaned back and, when her hand slid down the side of the branch, almost lost her balance.
“Watch out!” Marco grabbed her by the arm. “You’re not trying to pull a stunt like Myrna Loy, are you? You need a plane, not a tree.” He let go but did not look away. “I guess you wouldn’t make a bad actress. They really don’t need much talent, not from what I saw. They just need to look good.” He shrugged and winked at her. “And you got potential, doll.”
She swung her legs, holding tight to the branch. What was she supposed to say to that?
“Yeah, if you had your hair and your makeup done and, you know, one of those dresses that show a little more of you, you’d get discovered soon enough.” His smile was crooked. “You’d have to learn how to kiss like they do for the screen. I bet you wouldn’t know how to do that.”
She struck out and punched his arm. “Why would you say that?”
“Have you?” He laughed. “Have you ever kissed a boy?” He rubbed his arm where she’d hit him. “See?”
“See what?”
“That’s how the girl gets the guy to kiss him. She pretends to be offended, and then she slaps him and pouts and so he—”
Marco grabbed her and pulled her to him, his face very close to hers. He pressed his lips to hers and held them there, his eyes closed.
When she turned away from him, she heard him brushing himself off.
“They close their eyes in the films,” he said.
“It’s getting dark.” He was sitting closest to the trunk. If it weren’t so high, she could jump from the branch. “We should go.”
“You could just close your eyes.”
His next kiss was softer. This time, he put a hand on her thigh, and her skin prickled all the way up to her middle. She pulled back, but he put his arm around her and pressed his mouth to hers again.
Then he was at her earlobe, and his voice was thick. “This isn’t how they do it in the movies. This is how it’s done in real life. And now, in the movies, is when he says he loves her.”
She did not move.
He pulled back and took his hand away. It was dark, and when he slid down the trunk, he was like a shadow. She had to follow him.
Later, on her way home, a nightingale sang, and she remembered the sound of it while Marco and she had kissed. On the edge of the farm, she leaned against the walnut tree and put her hands onto her thighs. She pressed and squeezed them like Marco had and gradually moved them upwards, like he had, and swam in the sensations again.
After she’d braided her hair once more, she walked to where the windows of the Stube were lit up. She looked in. Her family was there, as if nothing had changed. For her, everything had.
Chapter 5
Graun, April 1937
T he ticking of the cuckoo clock in the inn’s empty dining room grew louder with just Angelo left at his breakfast. It said five after eight. Marco was very late, and Angelo was about to get up and drag his son out of his room, when the boy walked in, looking as if he had not slept all night. He watched as Marco took the seat across from him, poured himself a coffee, and spread butter and jam on his roll before sniffing at the plate of cheese. His grimace almost made Angelo laugh.
More than ever, Marco looked very much like a younger version of Angelo: the dark hair, the dimpled chin, the edges of his features more chiselled, as if a sculptor had worked overnight to define the young man who was emerging from beneath. It was Chiara’s eyes Marco had, the colour most definitely a d’Oro feature. When Marco turned his head, Angelo saw a smudge of shaving cream up near his ear. He reached over the table to swipe at it, but Marco ducked away in time.
“You’re really going to look the apprentice if you don’t pay better attention,” Angelo joked. “Except that it’s white behind your ear they’ll see, not green.”
Marco rubbed it off, then looked at him as if he were seeing him for the first time that morning. “You’re all dressed up with nowhere to go.”
“I have a meeting with the prefect at half past. Why are you so late?”
Marco shrugged,
