‘Rosalba—’ he began, but his voice came out only as a croak.
She squirmed under him, running her fingernails up and down his back. His breath coming faster, he pretended to fight her off but – signed, sealed and delivered, a victim of love – he wasn’t over-enthusiastic about it.
‘Steady on,’ he said feebly. ‘Whoa!’
Lying back, half asleep, a dew of perspiration on his body, it occurred to Caccia that Rosalba had been quiet for a long time.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
‘I’m thinking about you.’ Rosalba lifted herself on to one elbow and stared down at him. Her large slanting eyes, jetty hair and smoky lashes had a deadly effect on him, and as she reached across him for a cigarette, her soft white bosom touched his chest. Her flesh was warm and Caccia drew a deep breath and moved uncomfortably. Then he noticed there was a strange look on her face, puzzled and suspicious at the same time.
‘Who are you?’ she asked unexpectedly.
‘Caccia, Arturo. At your service.’
‘Where do you come from? Rome, like me?’
Caccia decided that if she came from Rome it was better that he shouldn’t. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not Rome.’
‘Florence? You’re not from Florence. You don’t look like a Florentine. You don’t speak like a Florentine.’
‘No, I’m not from Florence.’
‘Then where? You’re not a Sicilian either, I think. Savoia? Trieste? It’s a Trieste way of speaking, perhaps, that you have. Or is it Naples? I think perhaps it’s Naples.’
His origins were something that had never been brought up before, but Naples seemed as good a place as any. ‘Yes,’ Caccia said. ‘I’m from Naples.’
She paused, studying him. ‘Where? The Via Roma area?’
‘No.’ The Via Roma area sounded as if it might be dangerous ground. ‘Not there.’
‘Near the funicular?’
‘No, not there either.’ Caccia was busy racking his brains. It wasn’t easy to answer because he’d never been to Naples and was just guessing.
‘I know where. Near the Piazza Vanvitelli.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Near the Piazza Vanvitelli.’
Rosalba beamed, her eyes suddenly bright. ‘Down by the harbour. Close to the sea on the flat land?’
‘That’s it. Near the Piazza Vanvitelli close to the sea.’
‘By the Porto Santa Lucia.’
‘That’s it exactly.’
‘Well, it isn’t then!’ Rosalba’s eyes blazed and her voice rose. ‘You’re lying to me, Arturo Caccia! Because the Piazza Vanvitelli isn’t near the Porto Santa Lucia! It’s up near the Castel Sant’ Elmo! At the top of a lot of steps! As high as you can get in Naples!’
‘Yes, well—’ Caccia was floundering.
‘Who are you?’
‘Caccia, Arturo. That’s me.’
‘I bet it isn’t. Why do you speak English from time to time?’
Caccia’s heart went cold. He couldn’t remember speaking any English.
‘You said, “Steady on! Whoa!” You didn’t notice, I think. But then I remembered. It’s something I heard on the London buses. When they say, “Tickets please. No standing on the platform. Pass down the bus.” I heard it often when the bus started with a jerk. The people who are standing say, “Whoa” and “Steady on.” These are English words.’
‘What’s all this?’ Caccia was beginning to feel twinges of alarm. ‘Bed’s a stupid place to ask questions.’
‘Bed’s an excellent place to ask questions,’ Rosalba snapped. ‘My mamma told me so. She always questioned my father when he’d been out late and she always knew what he’d been up to. Why did that man speak to you in English?’
‘Which man?’
‘The Arab. When you climbed into the car the first time you came back here. He said, “Jesus Christ, look sleepy.” Why did he speak to you in English? And why did he tell you you looked tired?’
‘He didn’t tell me I looked tired. He told me to—’
She gave him a shrewd glance. ‘You see? You understood what he said. You understand English well, I think. And why do you ride in cars with Arabs? Italians don’t ride in cars with Arabs. They kick them out. It is pride of race. What the Germans call “Rassenstolz”. And why do you speak Italian differently from me? Perhaps you come from the Argentine. There are many Italians in the Argentine. The patriotic ones came to fight for the Duce. The sensible ones stayed where they were. Are you a patriotic Italian from the Argentine?’
She was throwing questions so fast Caccia was bewildered. Snatching up Dampier’s revolver which he’d brought as usual and laid on the dressing table in case he needed it, she pointed it at him.
‘Why do you carry an English gun?’
‘That’s not an English gun.’
The revolver waved under Caccia’s nose. ‘I know about guns. I’ve been surrounded by soldiers for two years and I know what an English gun looks like.’
‘I got it from an Englishman,’ Caccia said desperately. ‘You know how it is. You capture them. You take their wristwatches and their guns.’
He managed to get the revolver off her but she was far from finished with him. Sitting up, stark naked, she lifted her hand and made a circle with her forefinger and thumb. ‘Why do you make this sign?’ she asked. ‘That isn’t an Italian sign for a beautiful girl. It is this.’ She closed her fingers to a fist and made a sign with her forearm that was obvious in any language.
‘There’s much that puzzles me about you,’ she snapped. ‘Why do you possess a wig? Italian soldiers don’t carry wigs in their packs.’
‘There are some funny things in the dump here,’ Caccia said weakly.
‘Are there football shorts also?’
‘Football shorts?’
‘Germans don’t wear football shorts. They’re too busy winning the war. Italians don’t wear them either. That oaf Mussolini never thinks they might want to play football. He dresses them in uniforms that are too big or too small or too out-of-date. Only the English and the Australians and the South Africans and the New Zealanders wear football shorts. They think more of playing football, I think, than fighting the war.’
‘I got them—’
‘—from an Englishman!’
