Caccia was staring at her like a rabbit mesmerized by a snake.
‘You have shared my bed,’ she said. ‘You’ve done to me things which should only be done to a wife. I’ve allowed you to because I thought you loved me. Tell me the truth! Do you learn all these things you know in the two months you worked as a waiter? And why only two months? You must be a very bad waiter, I think, to get the sack after only two months.’
Caccia tried to protest but she brushed his objections aside. ‘You know about Waterloo Station and Trafalgar Square with the statue of Admiral Nelson on top. You know about the Marble Arch, about Dean Street and Harrods and of this Uncle Bob they talk about. I didn’t discover so much in the time I was there. But maybe you are cleverer than me, eh, soldato? Perhaps you’re a spy!’
Caccia began to grow alarmed. She’d have him in front of a firing squad before long. ‘I’m not a spy!’ he bleated.
‘Then you’re a fascist agent and you’re about to arrest me and accuse me of saying dreadful things that I’ve never said, of insults that I’ve never uttered, all the things that people would like to say and daren’t about that fat-bellied goat, the Duce.’
Caccia was wildly reminded of the British sergeant who had once roared out to a neglectful soldier on church parade, ‘You silly bugger, take your ’at off in the ’Ouse of God!’
‘I’m not a fascist spy,’ he insisted.
‘A German spy?’
‘No!’
‘Then if you’re not a German or an Italian you can only be—’ She paused and stared at him, her eyes growing wide. ‘You’re—’ She stopped dead again and when she spoke once more she spoke in English, slowly and with emphasis. ‘You must be Inglese. You are Anglish? Of course! You speak Italian like an Anglish!’
She was looking scared, then the look changed to one of anxiety. Finally, when Caccia was just wondering when she’d call the police or her uncle, and which of them would shoot him with Dampier’s revolver, she suddenly began to look awed.
‘I have it!’ she said. ‘You’re one of these people who frighten our soldiers so much – what do they call them? – the Far Distance Desert Gruppo.’
She was actually smiling, excited and interested, and Caccia, who was quick to spot a green light if there was a glimmer of one around, was unable to resist.
‘That’s it—’ He, too, had switched to English now. ‘Long Range Desert Group. There are a lot of us about.’
To his surprise, she flung her arms round him and hugged him. ‘If I was a good Mussolini Italian,’ she said, ‘I should take your revolver and shoot a shot at you. But I am not and you have come to rescue me.’ Her grip loosened enough for him to breathe and she stared intently at him. ‘Why did they pick you? Because you speak Italian? Because you’re an Anglish Italian perhaps. Like my cousin’s husband?’
‘Yes.’ Caccia began to talk about his family and his words came out in a babble. ‘My grandfather was Italian. We still speak Italian.’
‘All the time?’
‘At home. Not in the shop.’
‘You have a shop?’
‘Yes.’
‘A big one?’
‘As big as Max Donatello’s.’
‘You know him! You know my cousin Cecilia’s husband?’ She clapped her hands delightedly. ‘Magnifico! Meraviglioso! What do you sell?’
‘Food. Italian food. Peppers. Sausages. Pizzas. That sort of thing.’
She was eyeing him shrewdly. ‘You have many brothers and sisters?’
‘Three sisters. All married. One to a feller who runs a restaurant in Dean Street. One to an importer. Food and that sort of thing. One married to a feller who’s got a warehouse.’
‘Food?’
‘Mostly.’
‘Your family has much food?’
Caccia grinned, at ease again. ‘We know what’s good for us.’
‘And you have no brothers?’
‘Just me. I was just starting to run the business when they called me up.’
‘And when the war is over’ – she sounded awed again – ‘the business will be yours?’
‘The girls don’t want it. They’ve got plenty of money and they never enjoyed serving in the shop.’
‘I would,’ Rosalba said fervently. ‘I would always enjoy serving in a shop. Especially a food shop.’ She flung her arms round him again and hugged him. ‘Come. Let us go and tell my Uncle Barbieri.’
Caccia backed away in alarm. ‘He’ll hand me over to the army!’
‘Not he! He hates the army. He served his time with the class of 1899. He fought on the Piave in the other war. He hates the Duce. He hates all Italian governments. They made him fight and they make him pay taxes when he doesn’t want to. He hates many people.’
‘He won’t want you to fall in love with an Englishman, then.’
‘He loves England!’ She flung her arms wide. ‘He speaks Anglish also! He worked in England. For many years. Many Italians did. Because we were allies in the last war. It’s only because Mussolini’s mad that we aren’t in this one. He always wanted to go back and when my aunt died he was going to. But it was too late. The war started. Come! He will look after you.’
‘Jesus!’ Caccia was finding things were moving too fast for him. ‘Hadn’t we better put some clothes on first?’
Barbieri appeared from the room behind the bar. He was wearing only a shirt, under which his vast belly stuck out, and he was scratching at his beard.
Rosalba flung a pair of trousers at him. By the time he’d put them on he was more or less awake. He suddenly became aware of Caccia.
‘What’s he doing here?’ he demanded.
‘He has been in my room,’ Rosalba said defiantly in English.
Barbieri’s eyes widened and he replied in the same language. ‘Teresa? This is Teresa?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘She has changed, I think.’ Barbieri made 36-24-36 movements with his hands.
‘No, no. He has not changed shape.’
‘Then I think Gaspare Gelucci must have been under a misapprehension for many years.
