‘I . . . How?’ I ask, raising my chin. I don’t say, Why?
He nods towards the commander’s hut. ‘Major Bates gives me new job. I tell him which Italians can help on island. I can help you.’
‘Thank you, but I don’t think you’ll be able to.’ I turn away.
He reaches out, catches my sleeve. I stop, frozen.
‘I try,’ he says, then releases me.
As I walk away, he calls after me. ‘Your name? You have not tell me.’
I turn back to face him. The wind snaps my hair into my eyes, so he is framed, for a moment, in a twisting roil of red.
‘Dot,’ I call. Then, ‘Dorothy.’
‘Dorotea.’ He smiles. ‘I am Cesare.’
My name on his lips sounds like music, like bells, like something beautiful, like something I’ve never imagined for myself. Door-oh-tee-ah.
And the lilt in his name, which I find myself repeating with each step as I walk back to the bothy. Che-sa-ray. Che-sa-ray.Cesare
Before he hobbles back into the office, Cesare takes the card out of his pocket – he’d pretended to lose it so that he could limp after the woman.
He holds it up to the major as he opens the door. ‘Thank you. It falls from my pocket when I come here.’ He gabbles the lie anxiously.
Major Bates is hunched over some papers and barely looks up. ‘I need you to read through this list of names the guards have given me – they’ve indicated those prisoners they feel are responsible enough to work in Kirkwall and those they can spare from the quarry and other work. You must cross out the name of any man you don’t think will be trustworthy, and underline any man you think will do a good job.’ He hands Cesare a pencil.
‘And if I do not know the man?’ Cesare says.
‘Well, then, make it your business to know him. The men’s hut numbers are next to the names. You’ve time to talk to them – in the mess hut, for instance, or I can give you dispensation to go between the huts in the evenings, before lights out.’
Cesare nods, dizzy at the prospect of sudden freedom.
Major Bates raises an eyebrow and, as if he’s read Cesare’s mind, says, ‘It’s hardly a risk that you’ll try to run, given the state of your foot.’
Cesare shakes his head. ‘I will not –’
‘Ha! I’m jesting, man.’ Major Bates reaches out to clap him on the arm, recoiling at the last moment from the circle of material that is the colour of blood, wiping his hands on his own trousers.
He turns back to his desk. ‘Best get on with it, then. You can talk to the first group of men tonight in the mess.’
The mess hut is crowded and filled with the smell of old cabbage and something metallic and meaty, but it is warm, at least. Cesare limps past the tables of men, who are tearing into bread and dipping it into stew that looks like dishwater. All of them are visibly thinner than when they arrived – Cesare’s hip bones grate against the flimsy mattress when he lies down at night – and the food, grey and tasteless as it is, is usually devoured before the men talk to each other. The major has told him that they are expecting a shipment of more food and supplies any day.
Cesare’s stomach clenches and he tries to hold his shoulders back and his head high, but doesn’t attempt to conceal his limp. If he walks too confidently, the men may accuse him of shirking his work, but if he seems weakened by his injury, some may see him as easy prey – prisoners and guards alike. Many won’t know how he was hurt; several will assume a guard has beaten him. He tries to lock eyes with one of the taller guards, Sergeant Hunter – an Englishman who has a reputation as a bully. He has to hope that will be enough.
He picks up a tray of bread and stew, finds the table with the other men from his hut and slides along the bench.
‘How is Gino?’ Antonio asks. He is holding his spoon awkwardly and it is clear, as he eats, that his arm pains him. Some other injury from a guard.
‘He is enjoying the rest,’ Cesare says.
‘And you?’ Marco says, from across the table. ‘Are you resting? You haven’t been back to the quarry. Maybe we should all drop rocks on our feet. Leave others to do the work.’ His voice is hard.
‘I am not resting,’ Cesare says. ‘I am working in the office.’ And he unfolds the piece of paper the major had given him. It is covered with names, some typed, some scrawled.
The men lean forward.
‘What’s that?’
‘Why’s my name there?’
‘Why do you have our names?’
Marco snatches the piece of paper. ‘What is this?’ he demands. ‘You’re giving our names to Major Bates?’
‘No, no!’ Cesare grabs the piece of paper, smooths it. ‘These are for other jobs. Not in the quarry. These are the names of men who will be helping in Kirkwall, on the big island across the water. They need men who have experience of farming. Animals, fencing, planting.’
The men are leaning forward now. Marco has pushed his plate to one side. Antonio wears an uncertain smile. ‘You mean,’ he says, ‘we can get out of that quarry?’
Cesare nods. ‘If you behave well with the guards, don’t get into trouble. Now,’ Cesare grins, ‘who has farming experience?’
The men’s faces light up and they begin to laugh, quietly at first, then louder as, one by one, they raise their hands.
‘Me!’
‘I grew up on a farm.’
‘I built all our fences.’
Cesare chuckles and begins underlining names.
‘Hey,’ a voice shouts. It’s one of the other guards – a mean-looking man called MacLeod, who’s already renowned for being free with his baton and, occasionally, his boots. There are rumours that he broke a prisoner’s ribs. ‘Hey, what’s that?’
He strides over and wrenches the piece of paper from Cesare’s hand, so that the corner
