The Wedding Officer

11

DO YOU know why I’m here?”

The girl nodded. “Sì. You’re the wedding officer.”

“The Field Security Officer,” James corrected. He had already decided not to continue using the phrase “wedding officer,” which surely made it sound as if arranging other people’s matrimonies was the sole extent of his job. “I need to write an official report saying whether you are a suitable person to marry Private”—James glanced down at his notebook—“Private Griffiths.”

The girl, whose name was Algisa Fiore, was very pretty. He had to resist the temptation just to stare at her, drinking in the details of her face—those fragile cheekbones, that dark, glossy hair, those extraordinary eyes, so dark and huge. Now, as she gazed at him, the big eyes were full of happiness. “Do you know Richard?” she asked eagerly.

James admitted that he had not yet made Private Griffiths’s acquaintance. At this, a brief cloud of incomprehension crossed Algisa Fiore’s lovely features. “Then how will you know if we are suitable for each other? Never mind, I will tell you about him. I like talking about Richard. He is molto gentile,” she explained. “He loves animals. As I do.” She folded her long, pretty fingers over her knee, and looked at James as if daring him to suggest that a shared love of animals was not sufficient basis for a life together. “Really, you must try to meet him. I think you would get on so well. Everybody likes Richard.” One of the fingers had a ring on it, and she regarded it dreamily for a moment. “And he’s so brave. Once he killed three Germans with only his bare hands and a spoon.”

“I’m sure Private Griffiths is a wonderful chap,” James agreed. “But I’m afraid I need to ask you some questions of a more practical nature.”

“Ask me anything.” She lay back in her chair and began to play with a small silver cross that hung at her neck.

“Do you speak English?”

“A little.”

“What does this mean?” Switching to English, he said, slowly and clearly, “‘I’d like two lengths of curtain material please, and half a dozen slices of bacon.’”

Algisa Fiore laughed delightfully. “I’ve got absolutely no idea.”

“‘You appear to have given me the wrong change entirely.’”

She shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Does Private Griffiths speak Italian?”

“Not really.”

“How do you communicate?”

“He can make me understand what he wants,” she said with a faint smile.

James coughed. “What do you know about England?”

“I know it’s where Richard comes from.”

“Did you know, for example, that it’s a lot colder than here?”

“I know the women are ugly. At least, that’s what Richard says.”

James gave up. He was never going to get anywhere at this rate. What had Jackson said? “Basically, your job is to discover whether or not she’s a tart.” He looked around. Algisa Fiore’s apartment was small, bare, and spotlessly clean. “Do you have a job?”

Her big eyes were suddenly unreadable. “There aren’t any jobs in Naples anymore.”

“What do you live on?”

She blew out her lips. “I manage.”

“I’ll need you to be a bit more specific, I’m afraid.”

“I have an uncle in Sicily. He sends me money.”

Jackson, he recalled, had been particularly scathing about uncles. “May I have your uncle’s address?” James asked, his pen poised over his notebook. “Then, you see, I can check with him, and if his account matches yours, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

There was a long pause. Algisa Fiore tugged at the cross on her necklace, and tapped her foot in the air. “I can’t remember.”

“You can’t remember where your uncle lives?”

“He moves around a lot,” she said defiantly.

“Well, what was the last address you do remember?”

There was another long pause. He said gently, “Where does the money really come from, Algisa?”

She crossed her legs and smoothed her dress toward her knees before replying. “Soldiers,” she said at last.

“You take money from soldiers?”

“If they offer it to me.”

He wrote in his notebook, “A. F. all but admitted living off prostitution.” He stood up. “I’ll need to look around your apartment.”

“Of course,” she said, standing up too. The strap of her dress had fallen off one shoulder. “I’ll show you around.” She reached across him to open a door. Whether it was the honey-colored skin of her bare shoulder, or simply the unaccustomed proximity of a very beautiful girl, James felt a sudden uncomfortable stirring of desire.

“I’ll do it myself,” he said gruffly.

She shrugged. “As you wish.”

He made a quick tour of the apartment. It was so bare that it didn’t take long. But he noticed the bar of soap in the bedroom, and in the kitchen he found half a loaf of white bread and a small jar of olive oil. He wrote these details in his notebook. Returning to the main room, he found her waiting for him, quite naked, the first naked woman he had ever seen. She was holding the dress bunched in front of her so that it preserved a tiny scrap of her modesty.

“Oh,” he said.

She smiled at him, and the room lit up. “I think you like me.”

“That isn’t…” he began.

“You can finish interviewing me in there, if you want.” She indicated the bedroom with a tilt of her beautiful eyes.

“Please. You must get dressed. This really won’t help.”

She pouted, and let the dress drop to the level of her waist. “I’m sure you can think of something you want to ask me.”

“If anything, you see, it rather proves my CO’s point,” he explained, taking a step back.

“Aren’t I pretty enough?” She did a slow pirouette to show him what was on offer.

“You’re very attractive, but it’s completely out of the question—”

“We’re in Naples,” she said, coming closer. “Nothing’s out of the question.”

James took another step backward and found that his back was now against the wall. And then the dress had been dropped to the floor, her arms were snaking around his neck and her soft, fragrant breasts were pressing against his chest as she kissed him. For a moment he felt almost giddy with the physical presence of her. Then he recalled the advice Jackson had given him.

“Besides, I’ve got my own girl,” he said. “Sono fidanzato. I’m engaged to be married.”

The effect was remarkable. Algisa instantly stepped back, clapping her hands with delight. “But that’s wonderful. Tell me all about her. Is she pretty? What does she look like? Isn’t being in love the most wonderful thing?” She sat down again, evidently convinced that her problems were over.

James picked up her dress and handed it to her. “Here. You’d better put this on.”

Her eyes registered surprise, and then fear. “You’re not going to write me a good report, are you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then you can’t be in love,” she said bitterly. “You were lying.” She threw the dress to the floor. “I didn’t want it to be like this. None of us did. What choice were we given? I’ll be a good wife to him, I’ll make him happy. Can’t you help me?”

“I’m afraid I don’t make these rules. If you really want to marry each other, you’ll just have to wait until after the war.”

“What makes you think either of us will still be alive after the war?” It was said without self-pity, just the faintest of shrugs.

“I’ll see myself out,” he said, closing his notebook and getting to his feet. As he closed the door to the apartment he thought he heard her weeping.