The Wedding Officer

14

LIVIA WROTE to Enzo’s family in Naples telling them what she had learned about his fate, but there was no reply.

Once Pupetta had been eaten, the Pertinis had to face the fact that there was almost no food apart from the mozzarella that they made each day from Priscilla’s milk. In normal times, such cheese would have sold for enough to buy them the other basics they needed—flour, salt and so on. But without any way of transporting it, they had to eat it themselves or see it wasted. Sometimes there seemed to be simply no point in enduring hours of backbreaking work just to produce something that would be left to go rancid, but Priscilla still had to be milked or her udders would hurt.

The lack of a tractor preyed on Livia’s mind almost daily. With a tractor, they could get their cheese to market. With a tractor, they could work the fields, and recoup some of their losses.

Alberto waited a week after the news about Enzo came through, then resumed his campaign with renewed vigor. As if to mock their lack of transport, he arrived one afternoon in a magnificent new Bugatti. When he had eased his vast bulk out from behind the wheel, he presented Livia with a loaf of white bread—the first she had seen for years. She wanted to refuse it, but the thought of her father and Marisa reminded her that she was no longer in a position to be so high and mighty. So she swallowed her pride and reached for the loaf, determined to accept it with good grace. Alberto smirked triumphantly. She said sharply, “I want to be clear with you, Alberto. I’ll take your bread because I have no choice, but I’ll never share your bed.”

The smile on his face didn’t falter: For a moment he pulled the bread away, out of her reach, the way a boy might tease a younger sister by withholding a toy. Then, seeing her hand follow it involuntarily, he laughed and let her take it.

“One day you will realize you have no choice about that, either,” he said in a low voice. “It’s no different from catching a robin. First you lay a trail of breadcrumbs, to get it used to eating from your hand. Then—pfft.” He mimed closing his fist.

“Alberto,” she said wearily, “why me? Surely you must be fed up with this by now, and there must be a dozen girls you could have without nearly so much difficulty.”

He put his face even closer, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. His hand slipped around her waist. “Of course there are. But I’ve decided I want you, and what’s more everyone else around here knows it. If I don’t succeed now, I’ll be a laughingstock. And in my line of work, being laughed at could be fatal. I have to have you, Livia.” His big, fleshy lips and bristly mustache pressed against her ear, his tongue darting in to caress her lobe lasciviously. She shuddered, and she could tell from the way he grunted that her revulsion was almost more exciting to him than her acquiescence would have been. Marisa’s right, she thought: He doesn’t want me to desire him, he wants to conquer me. She thought of the soldier who had held her wrists in his hand as Pupetta bled to death, the way he had been aroused by her struggles, how even the officer had become excited by watching. What was it about some men and war, that they loved so much this sudden power they had? And now that they had tasted it, would they ever be prepared to let it go?