Last Voyage of the Valentina(32)

They bumped over the narrow cobbled streets, avoiding the odd cat that leaped back into the shadows again, unused to such a noisy vehicle. The road began to rise and wind as they left the quiet cove for the hills. Thomas wanted to ask about the girl he had seen on the quayside. Lattarullo was sure to know who she was. She had stopped time with her loveliness and held it there, quite still, so that nothing had moved around her, only the breeze wafting her long hair like threads of fine silk.

Lattarullo chatted all the way up the narrow, dusty track. He took great pleasure in his own importance, relating stories of his heroism against marauding bandits. “I have seen Lupo Bianco,” he said in a low voice. “I looked him straight in the eye, long and hard. He could see that I am a fearless man. Lattarullo is afraid of no one. Then, you know what he did? He nodded at me with respect. With respect! You have nothing to fear of Lupo Bianco while you are under my protection.”

Thomas and Jack knew all about Lupo Bianco, “White Wolf”: it was thanks to him and other powerful men that the Allies had successfully landed in Sicily. However, they were playing with the fire of hell, for Lupo Bianco was a murderous criminal. Both feared and admired, he was discussed in hushed voices, as if the very walls had ears and could inform against them. Of course, Lattarullo claimed he had never supported the Germans. Mussolini had been a big fool to take Germany’s side. “If Mazzini and Garibaldi could see their country now, they’d turn in their graves,” he said with a heavy sigh and Thomas knew that Lattarullo would scamper just as quickly to the other side if the war turned to favor the fascists.

They passed fields of olive groves and trellises of vines where the soil was arid, parched in the heat of the Italian sun, a small farm where skinny goats stood in the shade, sniffing the ground for blades of grass, and the odd, starving mongrel. Ragged children played with sticks and stones, and a haggard-looking mother washed clothes in a tub with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her face red and sweating with exertion. Thomas resolved to bring his pastels and paper next time he came ashore to record with his artist’s hand what he saw as charming pastoral scenes. He had kept a pictorial record of his experiences. But his heart ached for the people whose innocent lives were blighted by war and his thoughts turned once again to the mysterious girl. He’d draw her too. So beautiful was she against the ugliness of war.

They found the munitions dump. It wasn’t as big as Thomas had expected. Most of it stolen by the local Mafia, no doubt. Only hand grenades, machine guns, and other small arms hidden in an abandoned barn. Hardly worth the bother. With the enthusiastic help of Lattarullo, they loaded some of them into the back of the car.

While they stood, hats off, wiping their wet brows, Lattarullo suggested they stay. “Have a wash, something to eat, a glass of Marsala. I can bring you women too, if that’s what you want. Trattoria Fiorelli is the best restaurant in town.” He did not mention that it was the only restaurant in town.

“Something to eat would be nice,” Thomas replied, ignoring Jack, who was indicating with the frantic widening of his eyes that the women would be nice too.

“Do you want to catch the clap?” he hissed when Lattarullo was out of earshot. “How many soldiers do you think have been there before?”

“There must be some clean ones, surely,” he pleaded.

“It’s up to you, but I’m staying well clear.”

“My hand needs a break,” Jack chuckled, waving it in an unmistakable gesture. “I saw a couple of girls on the quayside when we arrived. They were panting for it, I could tell. Probably on the game. Might try my luck. I always scored in the Four Hundred.” For a moment he could taste the smoke and perfume of the Four Hundred club he had patronized in London before the war. Thomas thought of those dark, mysterious eyes and his heart twisted with anxiety. He hoped she wasn’t on the game. He’d rather she was married and out of reach than pursuing that shameful degradation. Brendan popped his head out of Jack’s pocket again, as if in protest at the suggestion of whores.

“As you wish. We could stay a while. Why not? We all need to stretch our sea legs.”

“And these women need a bit of sea cock!” Jack added with a grin, squeezing his groin.

Lattarullo drove down the dusty track, the arms rattling in the back like a tool box every time the car hit bumps and stones. Suddenly there was a loud hooting, the screech of brakes, the flash of white and glint of metal, and Lattarullo shouting “Madonna!” in panic as he swerved off the road. A white Lagonda purred sedately to a halt. The skinny driver stepped out and dusted himself down, his face twisted with disgust. His immaculate gray uniform and cap did nothing to hide his emaciated, aged body, which would have looked less incongruous had it been laid out in a coffin. Lattarullo staggered on to the track, his face red with fury. He let out a round of profanities. The chauffeur simply looked at him as if he were an irritating beetle that had scuttled into his way. He sniffed, closed his eyes, and shook his head. Then he turned, climbed back into his car, and drove away. His nose barely reached over the steering wheel. It was clear from the way he squinted that the sun had momentarily blinded him, causing him to stray into the middle of the road.