A Season for the Dead

Forty-One

She stood outside the main door, beneath the vine veranda, marveling at the evening. The heat of the day had dissipated. Fireflies now danced through the twisting shapes of the olive trees that crouched on the moonlit horizon. They were all quite drunk, even Marco. The champagne had been followed by white wine, then red. It was as if the house had infected them with its spirit, as if its rich, hidden memories had woken from some dream and come to inhabit them. The coming day would exorcize these happy ghosts. She knew that had to happen. Still, Sara Farnese was grateful for the fleeting gift they had each received at Marco’s prompting. The timing was welcome. The nightmare of the city was still real. There were hardships and trials ahead but they were not insurmountable. There was hope. There was the possibility of redemption in the light which shone in all their faces that night.

Bea took Marco to his bedroom and did not emerge again. Nic, perhaps to cover his embarrassment, had dragged the sleepy, stiff Pepe out for a final walk around the grounds. Sara could hear him talking to the men at the end of the drive: slow, lazy chatter, not the whispered, feverish talk men had when things were going wrong. They all deserved a respite from Gino Fosse. It wouldn’t last. That was impossible. Yet even the shortest break seemed like a miracle. It gave her space to think, to breathe. Here, beyond the grip of the city, safe in the cool darkness of the farmhouse, surrounded by people who didn’t judge her, didn’t look at her as if she were a different kind of creature, Sara felt briefly content in a way she did not wish to analyze.

Hadn’t Marco himself said it? Nothing stayed the same. The world was in flux, always. This was its gift; this was its burden too.

She stepped onto the dry, hard ground and kicked at it with her shoe. It was impossible to believe anything could grow in such conditions. She knew nothing about gardening. Bea was probably just as ignorant. But with Marco’s guidance, which would, she felt sure, be exact and exacting, something would take root here. It would become fertile and one day bring forth produce, though she knew she would never be there to witness it.

Nic stepped out of the darkness, from behind one of the few living things near the house, an old, wizened almond tree. The leaves rustled lightly in the breeze. He looked happy. She was glad, for him and for Marco. Something had passed between the two men, some unspoken pact, that night. There had been no news from the policemen at the gate. Perhaps the distant city was quiet. Perhaps Gino Fosse slept easy, the demons gone from his head, if only for a little while.

The dog stepped forward, cocked a leg and peed profusely on the trunk of the tree. They laughed. “The wisdom of dogs,” Sara said.

Pepe came to sit tamely at their feet. “Or the ignorance,” Nic answered. “He doesn’t know what lies ahead. He doesn’t understand what there is to anticipate.”

“And because we do that makes us wiser?”

“I think so. But not happier perhaps.”

The dog’s eyes closed behind dry, wrinkled lids. He looked like Marco, she thought: gray and wasting.

“It’s not enough for them to be alive,” she said, patting the old fur. “They need to live. Happy birthday, Pepe.” The dog stared at them both, then fixed its gaze on the door with a firm deliberation.

An awkward silence fell between them. Sara turned and let them in.

The dog ambled across the threshold, found its bed in the kitchen and curled its frail body into a lazy apostrophe. She watched the animal settle, knowing Nic couldn’t take his eyes off her.