‘So!’ He straightened up, grinning. ‘What have we here? Che è? Come si chiama, tesoro?’
He leaned against the wall, his arm outstretched, his hand flat against the brickwork, making it impossible for Caccia to bolt.
‘Cara mia! Carissima! Buona sera! Don’t be afraid!’
Caccia was afraid – very afraid – but for a very different reason from the one Schwartzheiss was imagining.
‘Non trovo più la strada! I’m lost. Non so parlare italiano. I can’t speak Italian.’
Caccia was crouching back into the darkness as Schwartzheiss’s face drew closer.
‘Parla tedescho?’
Caccia shook his head. No, he didn’t speak German. How the bloody hell, he thought, did he get out of this one?
‘Che bella ragazza. Dove va?’
Schwartzheiss, Caccia decided, had learned off by heart all the best phrases from a tourist’s phrase book.
‘Quanti anni ha? How old are you?’
The German had Caccia pinned against the wall now. His breath smelled of beer and Caccia guessed he’d been enjoying the evening in the German soldiers’ canteen and was after anything he could get. Caccia was in a panic. From his own experience, he knew exactly what the next step would be and he knew it mustn’t take place.
There was a distant burst of firing from the desert, a faint thud-thud-thud, almost too far away to be heard. But Schwartzheiss heard it as plainly as Caccia. His head turned and, as it did so, Caccia saw his chance. There was no time to fish the Webley out of the linen handbag so he brought up the handbag itself and swung it as hard as he could against the back of the German’s head.
As the heavy revolver inside clunked against his skull, Schwartzheiss dropped like a felled tree. Caccia stared down at him, startled by his success, and was just about to bolt for Rosalba when it occurred to him that Schwartzheiss had to be convinced there was no connection between the ‘girl’ he’d met and the nearby bar, or he’d come searching for his attacker as soon as he recovered consciousness. Dragging him into the shade of the trees, Caccia dropped him with his head among the bushes and, turning him over, fished in his pockets. He found a penknife, a notebook, a length of string, a grubby handkerchief and a large bundle of notes. Tossing everything aside but the money, which he stuffed into his pocket, he headed for the bar. When he woke up, Schwartzheiss would assume he’d been attacked and robbed. He might even, Caccia thought with some pleasure, come to the not very difficult conclusion that the ‘girl’ he’d waylaid had been a bait. He might even consider himself lucky not to be dead.
Reaching the bar, Caccia banged on the side door. Rosalba was waiting for him and it opened so sharply he almost fell into her arms.
‘Fate presto!’ he muttered. ‘Quick! Disopra! Upstairs!’
She didn’t ask questions and pushed him up the red-tiled steps at once. As they reached the top, Caccia twisting his ankle agonizingly in his haste as the high-heeled shoes he wore threw his foot over, they heard Barbieri’s voice.
‘Chi è la? Who’s that?’
Rosalba turned. ‘It’s Teresa, uncle. She doesn’t feel very well.’
‘Tell her not to be sick in my house,’ Barbieri growled.
‘Oh, it’s not that bad,’ Rosalba said. ‘She needs to lie down a little, that’s all. I’ll lie down with her and keep her company.’
Pushing Caccia into her room, she slammed the door and collapsed against it, her hands to her mouth to stifle her laughter.
‘He’ll not come up,’ she said. ‘Don’t look so scared. He sleeps in the room behind the bar in case anybody tries to break in and steal anything. Who’d want to steal anisette?’ She realized he was still leaning against the wall, frozen with fear. ‘What’s the matter? What happened?’
As he told her, her hand flew to her throat and, peeping through the shutters, she signed to Caccia to join her. Schwartzheiss had staggered to his feet and was stumbling away into the town.
‘He’ll think your boyfriend did it. It’s happened before. Arab girls have been known to lure soldiers round corners where there’s a man waiting. What did you hit him with?’
Caccia fished in the linen handbag and produced the revolver.
‘No wonder his head hurts. Did he try anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘Una fornicazione straordinaria, I think.’ She giggled. ‘He was in the bar. He tried to get me in a corner. I had to hit him with a bottle. He’s had a bad day today, I think.’
She stopped and studied the dress Caccia was wearing. ‘You look good,’ she said. Then she stared at him, suddenly alarmed. ‘You’re not one of them? There are men who—’
Caccia laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I was, would I?’ He fished into the handbag. ‘I brought you something.’
She stared at the small tube he put in her hand. ‘Rosetto? Lipstick?’ She flung her arms round him and clutched him tightly. ‘I haven’t had a lipstick for months.’
Snatching the wig from his head and throwing it on to the bed, he kicked off his shoes and slipped out of the dress. Turning, he found Rosalba curled up with laughter.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Le cami-mutande.’ She pointed to the football shorts. ‘The cami-knickers.’
He kicked his shoes off and, as she tossed a towel at him, wiped the lipstick and rouge from his face. Standing in front of her, wearing nothing but the football shorts and his socks, he reached for her. She turned in his arms and, kissing her, he started to unbutton her blouse. She put a hand on his chest. She had stopped giggling and looked scared.
‘No,’ she said.
‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’
‘I’m afraid.’ She looked at him with large worried eyes. ‘I’ve never done this before. My mamma always
