Last Voyage of the Valentina(31)

Brendan curled up inside Jack’s pocket, burying himself at the bottom as he had been taught. Suddenly Thomas noticed a beautiful girl with long black hair and large, timid eyes. In her arms she held a wicker basket. He couldn’t help being drawn to the brown swell of her breasts, exposed by the low décolletage of her dress. She stood in the crowd yet seemed to have a space of her very own, as if she remained a little apart. Her loveliness was such that her image seemed more pronounced than the rest. The faces around her merged into one, but hers was clear and perfect like the evening star in the night sky. She was smiling, not the broad, bovine smile of the townsfolk, but a gentle curling of the lips that reached her eyes and caused them to narrow slightly. A mere whisper of a smile. So subtle that it made her beauty almost hard to swallow, as if she were a figment of his imagination and not real at all. It was then that Thomas Arbuckle lost his heart. There on the quayside of the small fishing town of Incantellaria he let it go willingly. He turned to greet the mayor. When he searched for the girl again, she was gone.

The sindacco shook hands formally and welcomed them in Italian. He did not notice Brendan pop his little red head out of Jack’s pocket as if sensing that they were in Allied territory and free from superior officers who would object to his presence. Without taking his eyes off the mayor, who was excusing his poor English, Jack pushed the squirrel back into the dark. Thomas tried not to search the crowd for that beautiful girl. He reminded himself that he had business to do and, if he were cunning, he could extend that business until he found her again.

The mayor was a handsome man with black hair and skin the color of toffee. He was short in stature and held himself erect in order to appear taller. His slim physique belied his age, which must have been around fifty, and he wore a pair of round spectacles on a slightly aquiline nose above a neat mustache. His uniform was clean and pressed and Thomas noticed his nails were pink and manicured as if he spent more time in the salon than on the streets or behind a desk. He was clearly a fastidious man and full of pomposity; now that the Germans had gone, he was the most important man in town.

The carabiniere raised his hand in imitation of the naval salute and his mouth twisted into a self-satisfied smirk. “Lattarullo at your service,” he said, aware that he was upstaging the mayor. Thomas saluted back. His Italian wasn’t perfect but he had had a good grounding at school and plenty of practice in the last couple of years, although his use of verbs relied heavily on the infinitive. Lattarullo already irritated him. He was a stereotype. Fat, lethargic, and most probably incompetent. They were all open to bribes, as corrupt as the mafia itself, and there was little that could be done about it considering the pittance that was their wages. In times of war, when civilians were barely surviving, it wasn’t a surprise that the black market flourished, mostly on stolen Allied supplies, and that the local civil services were gaining from it. It was a losing battle the advancing armies didn’t have time to fight.

Thomas explained why he was there. They had information of an arms dump left by the retreating German army. He had been sent to investigate, to make sure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands. He asked to be escorted to a disused farm called La Marmella. The mayor nodded in acknowledgment. “Lattarullo will take you into the hills. We have a car,” he said proudly, referring to the only one in town. Everyone else, besides the marchese, traveled by horse and cart, bicycle or on foot. The marchese, who lived in splendid isolation in the palazzo on the hill, had a grand old Lagonda, in which he would send his servant into town to buy supplies whenever he needed them. The marchese himself was a very rare sight. He didn’t even attend church; instead, he had his own private chapel on his estate at which Padre Dino, the local priest, would administer communion   once a month for a small fee. “I hand you over to Lattarullo,” continued the mayor. “If there is anything else you require, please don’t hesitate to ask. It is my duty as well as my personal pleasure to make your stay as enjoyable as possible. Good day to you.”

“It really does sound like a holiday,” hissed Thomas to Jack as the mayor turned on his well-polished heel. Lattarullo scratched his groin and shouted into the crowd to let the officers through. The two tall men in their naval uniforms cut more than a dash in that small town. Jack strode behind, his eyes searching the faces for beautiful young women, of which there were one or two whose inviting eyes caught his attention and held it for a moment, before he was whisked off in the official car that gurgled and coughed like an asthmatic geriatric.