Grumbles.
Fabio went on. “How about those tourists?”
Giuseppe sat up to glare at him. “Which ones? Why would tourists want to burn Santa Lucia?”
“You know,” Fabio said. He stood and, backlit by the lantern light, he put one arm on his waist while jutting out his hip, and lifting his other hand to dangle his wrist provocatively.
“Fabio, don’t be crude,” Patrizia chided. She swiveled her head from side to side and startled, seeing Edo standing, rigid, in the moonlight reflecting off the castle wall.
Edo took a beat before pushing past his fellow impromptu fire fighters, headed for the steps. Trevor glared at the townspeople, pausing as if to consider saying something, then setting his jaw and following Edo. Marcello, changed now out of his vigili uniform, muttered to himself between gritted teeth before following Edo and Trevor down the stairs and into the bar.
One of the speakers whistled a deescalating swirl, “Nice going, Fabio.”
“Well, how was I supposed to know that finocchio would be out here fighting the fire?”
The word sailed above the men and women. Innocent enough in the market, when one asks for fennel, here it was not innocent at all. The insult flew, sending shivers through the streaky moonlit air, clouded with smoke that heaved like a live beast.
Patrizia shook her head, “He was one of the first here. Maybe that’s why you missed him.”
A voice from the left, disengaged by the darkness, “Why would Edo do this, anyway, Fabio?”
“I never said Edo did it! I said those people! We all know what they’re like. No morals.”
“You have known Edo since the two of you were boys.” Patrizia countered.
“What did I just say? I’m not accusing Edo, just the other homos.”
Patrizia straightened her jacket and smoothed down her skirt. “If you ask me, that makes no sense.”
Fabio grunted. “Anyway, okay so maybe it wasn’t them. Maybe I was right the first time, and it was the Africans.”
A groan rose up from the area closest to the orchard. Giuseppe measured his voice, “It was the wind. Why borrow trouble?”
Grumbling broke out around Fabio, as he raised his voice to be heard. “We have to watch our backs. All kinds of strangers and nutcases make their way through Santa Lucia.”
Patrizia stood. “I don’t think of our neighbors as nutcases. Or strangers.” The cords of her neck tightened as gestured toward her follow villagers, “All of you? Are you listening to this? Is this okay with you?”
Murmuring voices.
Fabio laughed, “You are so naive.”
Patrizia stepped to Fabio, slamming the side of her right hand against the palm of her left. “Vaffanculo.”
She stormed off to where the arbor once stood.
Giuseppe sat open-mouthed, having never heard Patrizia swear mildly, let alone the mother of all expletives. He leapt up and followed her, hoping she would ignore the guffaws. He caught up to his wife standing at the edge of the castle. She wiped her eyes furiously, and stammered to her husband, “I can’t believe they’d say those vile things.”
Giuseppe ran his hands up and down his wife’s arms. “Hey, it’s Fabio. He’s alright, but he’s quick to anger, and quicker to accuse.”
Patrizia faced Giuseppe by the yawning castle doorway, her chin trembling, “I know. But still. When does it stop? And when do other people call him on it? Why is everyone just staying there as if he’s right? Why aren’t they moving?” She gestured angrily at the assembled people sitting, lying, or standing in the dark, continuing to mutter to each other with intermittent chortles and barks of protest.
Giuseppe considered. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re just tired. Maybe they are scared to disagree. But you know those people, Patrizia, you know them. You know there can’t be more than one or two that agree with Fabio.”
“But those one or two are rotting away the core of our town, like moldering grapes in a wine barrel.”
Giuseppe ran a soot-covered hand through his hair.
Patrizia sighed, “Come on, let’s go home. We’ll stop by Birbo on the way and see if Edo is okay.”
As she turned her body, her movement released the moonlight that had been building at her feet. It flowed into the recess of open room and her sight was caught by a blur on the floor. Patrizia stopped suddenly and pointed, her other hand stalling her husband. “Do you see that?”
Giuseppe peered in, and, unsure of what the rumpled shape on the stone floor could be, stepped closer. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He swept forward, shouting over his shoulder.
“Call an ambulance!”
“Oh my God, Giuseppe. Is that a person?”
“Patrizia, go! Go now! Call an ambulance! No, wait! Get someone to meet me at the bottom of the stairs!”
“Okay, okay.” With one last quick glance into the darkness, she ran from the door of the castle.
“Quick! Someone! Help!”
The people assembled on the lawn of the castle rose in unison and turned their heads toward Patrizia.
A voice called from the center of the group, “Cos’è succede? What’s going on?”
“There’s someone. Someone hurt or, or . . .” Patrizia couldn’t say the word dead, “unconscious, not moving. We need someone to drive to the hospital!”
Sauro the baker stepped forward, “Who is it?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Someone small.”
“A child?” several voices gasped.
“I think so, I don’t know. Please, who can drive us?”
Giovanni, his alimentari apron charred in places, plunged his hands into his pocket and pulled out his keys. “I can. I left my Ape in the piazza in case we needed to haul anything from the shop. I’ll get it. Is Giuseppe here?”
“Yes! He’s with . . . Please go now! I’ll get Giuseppe to bring . . . to meet you at the bottom of the stairs.”
Giovanni gave a tight nod and fled down the steps. Instantly, chatter broke out among the group. Conversation fragmented as the silhouette
