They have mixed a small quantity of cement in a bucket, taking turns to stir and mix it with a stick. Cesare watches as Gino beats too enthusiastically, tipping the bucket and splattering cement over Marco’s boots. Cesare expects Marco to shout and rage, but he laughs, cuffs Gino over the head and, with his forefinger, wipes some of the cement off his boot then smears it onto Gino’s. It is the same cement that they have been using to build the barriers, the same thick grey sludge that, along with the rock from the quarry, has bent their backs and made their muscles ache for months.
But here, in this building that will belong to them, the cement has become something to laugh over, something to share. In the corner of the chapel, two of the men, Vincenzio and Alberto, have started to press a layer of cement against the rusting metal of the inside wall. Cesare has told them already that this will not be necessary, that Major Bates has promised he will find boards coated with plaster, enough to cover the inside of the chapel. ‘There will be a shipment in the next two weeks,’ he’d said, not meeting Cesare’s gaze.
Since Cesare’s time in the Punishment Hut, the major’s eyes always slide from his, and while he is eager to provide material, he doesn’t want Cesare in his office for long. His expression, as Cesare turns to leave, is one of pained relief. While Cesare lies awake in his hut at night, it has occurred to him that the war is horrific for everyone. The captors are almost as damaged as the captives. No one will leave this place unscathed.
Now the two men in the corner are laughing while they try to make the cement stick smoothly to the metal wall, while the others are gathered around Cesare, watching as he sketches an outline of how he envisages the outside of the chapel.
‘So,’ he says, in Italian, ‘we will place the two huts together and we will layer concrete over them. From the front, it will look just like a stone chapel. But you must think how you want the inside to be, and how we will make these things from scraps.’
‘We will need an altar,’ says Marco, ‘and an altar rail.’
‘A font,’ says Gino, ‘and candle-holders,’
Cesare writes it all down, then calls to Stuart, who is dozing in the corner. ‘We will have how much metal?’
Stuart stirs. ‘Plenty. Plenty of metal, plenty of concrete.’
Cesare nods, imagining a finely wrought metal screen to separate the ornate sanctuary and altar from the rest of the chapel. That is where he will paint his picture of the Madonna, as the central figure behind the screen. To anyone entering the chapel, the delicate metalwork will seem to protect the figure of the Blessed Mother. She will appear enclosed and untouchable.
If he can get paint, of course – Stuart is still doubtful about this.
As the men continue to talk, Cesare sketches a quick outline on paper. He captures the curve of her jaw, the upward tilt of her mouth as she smiles. But it is impossible to draw her eyes. Maria should look self-possessed, serene. Her eyes shouldn’t carry the intensity he sees every time Dorotea looks at him. The expression that is so close to hunger.
As he finishes the drawing, leaving the eyes blank and expressionless, he makes a decision: if she does not return to the camp tomorrow, he will slip away from the chapel and look for her. He will go to her bothy alone and he will find her. He will speak to her. He will try to tell her how often he thinks of her, how he can’t stop wondering about her, wanting her.
But how is it possible to say such things without frightening her away? How is it possible to talk about want and need, when those words, in any language, sound like demands?
Cesare knows he won’t sleep tonight: he will lie awake, trying to find the right words. Although perhaps the right words don’t exist in any language. There’s no name for this feeling, just as there’s none for the sensation he has as he dips his brush into paint and runs it over canvas.
Still, he has to find a way to tell her, somehow.Constance
I am woken by watery winter sun creeping under the bothy door, carrying the faintest promise of spring. We have stayed here for three nights, Dot and I, and each night my sleep has been more restless. Each night I lie awake, listening to the laughter from over the hill – the knocking and banging and scraping from that chapel. If I fall asleep, briefly, then the sound turns into the slow, repeated clud of a shovel on rock, a grinding rasp, like a wooden box scraping past stone.
Dot has lain awake too, sighing. Occasionally, if there is the sound of laughter, she sits up. Sometimes, when she thinks I’m asleep, she creeps to the door, pulls it open a crack and stands staring out into the night. I watch the silhouette of her back. She looks so vulnerable, so alone.
We don’t talk about the men or the chapel during the day. We round up the sheep and the chickens. We sweep out the grate and gather scraps of driftwood. We cut and gather blocks of peat to burn.
Twice, in the quiet, firelit evenings, Dot has said, ‘I should check on the men in the infirmary.’ And by infirmary, she means chapel, and the man she wants to see is Cesare. I’m no fool and someone has to keep her safe.
‘Not yet,’ I’ve replied, both times. ‘The camp gives me nightmares.’
And she nods, smiles at me, but I can feel her retreating from me, hour by hour. I want to tell her to come back. I want to tell her that I’m keeping her safe.
But if I do, I’m
