The Wedding Officer

40

HE STRODE out of the restaurant and jumped into the jeep, disturbing the gang of scugnizzi who were in the process of carefully removing the headlamps. As he sped off, metalwork tinkled on the road.

The roads might be open, but the landscape was still eerily dead. Ash swirled around his wheels as he zigzagged up the mountain. Here and there great blackened swathes through the woods showed where the lava had done its worst.

When he got to Fiscino everything was very quiet. He pulled up outside the ruin of the osteria and turned the engine off. There seemed to be absolutely no one about.

“Hello?” he shouted. Then he saw a face he recognized at one of the neighbors’ windows. “Marisa,” he called. “It’s me, James.” She came to the door. “Where’s Livia?”

“She’s not here.”

“So where is she?” She hesitated, and he said, “I have to speak to her.”

“She went to Alberto Spenza’s house.”

“The gangster? What’s she doing with him?” She hesitated again, and he said impatiently, “Never mind. How do I get there?”

After a moment she pointed to an opening in the woods. “Take that path, and follow it for about a mile.” Then, in a rush, she said, “She went there yesterday, and she hasn’t come back. I’m worried about her. I’ve been seeing her—seeing her somewhere dark.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll find her,” he said, setting off at a run.

Behind him, Marisa nervously twisted her fingers, wondering whether she had done the right thing.

He jogged down the track until he came to a farmhouse. There was a gleaming red Bugatti parked in the barn, and the front door was open. “Livia?” he called.

There was no reply, so he stepped inside. A smell of stale cooking wafted from the kitchen. On the table were the remains of a meal—and what a meal: The table was littered with the most astonishing luxuries. He saw a dismembered half-eaten lobster and what looked like open tins of caviar, carelessly scattered around. A bottle of Mouton-Rothschild lay on its side, almost empty. Two half-full glasses stood by two empty plates.

“Livia?” he said again.

There were sounds coming from upstairs. A creaking bed. A woman’s cry, either of pleasure or pain. He ran upstairs and kicked open doors.

There were two people in the bed, the fat man and a woman. He saw a mass of dark hair, a naked back, and a dress thrown over a chair, but the woman straddling Alberto Spenza was not Livia.

“Get up,” Alberto said to the woman. Obediently she moved to one side. He wrapped himself in a sheet and lumbered to his feet.

“Where’s Livia?”

Alberto crossed to the window and glanced out. “So you came alone,” he commented. “That was rash.”

With a snarl James advanced on the Italian. “Tell me where she is, you bastard, or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what? I have the ear of influential people. What do you think, that one girl is more important to them than their war on tyranny?” He smiled mirthlessly. “But if you have really lost something of value to you, you could always ask at the police station. Perhaps someone has handed it in.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She won’t be coming back. But if you do ever find her, you might like to give her this.” He picked up the dress and threw it to James. He recognized it as Livia’s.

“She was a good fuck,” Alberto said conversationally. “I hope the Germans appreciate her. And you, my friend—I hope you enjoy having more horns than a dozen baskets of snails.”

With a curse James ran toward him, and found himself looking down the barrel of a pistol. For a long moment they stared at each other. Then, without another word, James turned and left.

The Italian called after him, “Careful as you go through the front door. Those horns might hit the lintel.”

Seething and humiliated, he retraced his steps up the track to Fiscino. He could guess something of what Alberto had done now, although he still couldn’t imagine how or why Livia had let herself get mixed up with him. And what had he meant about the Germans, and the basket of horns?

Marisa was waiting for him. “Well?” she said anxiously. “Was she there?”

“No,” he said curtly. He threw down the dress. “Only this. Marisa, I think you’d better tell me everything.”

When she had finished he closed his eyes. “Why didn’t she tell me all this?”

“How would you have reacted if she had?”

It was a good question. Although he was moved by the enormity of the sacrifice Livia had made, another part of him was appalled that she had been able to do it at all.

“I suppose there’s absolutely no doubt,” he said, “that she slept with that brute?”

She hesitated. “I could lie, and say that perhaps she didn’t. But we’d both know it isn’t true. She did what she had to do.”

He took a deep breath. At the thought of Alberto and Livia together—doing not just what James and Livia had done together, but all those things that they had not yet done—he felt sick. A basic, primal jealousy boiled in his veins.

“James,” Marisa said quietly, “it’s you she loves. Whatever she did, she never stopped loving you. You have to go on believing that.”

The sound of truck engines drifted up from the road. Three big army trucks were driving up the hill, very slowly, as if lost. When they got to the cluster of houses that was Fiscino, the first one turned around. But instead of going back down the hill again, as James had been expecting, it began to reverse toward the osteria.

James watched, puzzled. The truck stopped, and a soldier jumped down from the cab, but he was simply guiding the truck closer to the damaged building, shouting instructions to the driver.

“What are you doing?” James called.

“Hold on,” the soldier yelled, banging the side of the truck. He turned to James. “Captain Gould?”

“That’s right,” James said, mystified. “What’s going on?”

“We’re in the right place, then.” The soldier saluted. “Private Griffiths, Royal Engineers. I heard you on the radio, sir.”

“The radio?”

Griffiths nodded. “That speech you made when the general came.”

“Oh—but that was in Italian—”

“That’s right—I’m pretty fluent, now. I was listening with the wife, anyway, so she helped me out. You’ll remember the wife, sir. Algisa Griffiths. Though her maiden name was Fiore.”

James stared at him. “Private Griffiths. Of course—you once killed three Germans with your bare hands and a spoon.”

Griffiths looked a little embarrassed. “Ah. That was a slight error of translation, actually. There was a spoon involved, but there was also a machine gun, only I didn’t have the word for machine gun at the time.”

“But what on earth are you doing here? And who are all these other people?” More and more soldiers were jumping down from the trucks.

“Well, that’s Corporal Taylor,” Griffiths said, as another man stepped forward to shake James’s hand.

“Gina’s not here, of course,” Taylor said. “She’s looking after little James, but she sends you her best. Very pleased to meet you at long last, sir.”

“That’s Bert, Violetta’s husband. And over there’s Jim—he’s brought Silvana with him…Magnus and Addolorata…Ted and Vittoria…”

“But what are you all doing here?”

“We heard you say that you and your girl had been having a spot of trouble. So we put the word out and—well, we thought we’d come and see if you needed a hand. Ah, there’s the timber.” A second truck had backed up to the osteria, and men were sliding out lengths of wood. Private Griffiths surveyed the wreckage of the kitchen with a practiced eye. “Looks worse than it is. I used to be a builder, before I joined the Engineers.”

James sighed. “You’re very kind, but my girl isn’t here.”

“Well, you’d better go and sort it out with her, hadn’t you? You can leave this lot to us.”

James hesitated. “Can I ask you a rather personal question? As a married man?”

“Of course.”

“I think you know that Algisa—well, before she met you, there were—” He stopped, unsure exactly how to put this.

Private Griffiths said calmly, “She went with soldiers, sir, and that’s the truth of it. And I’m very glad she did.”

“Glad? Why?”

“Because if she hadn’t, she’d have starved,” he said simply. “And then I’d never have met her.”

“Was it—difficult for you?”

“It was hell. But not half as difficult as living without her would be. At the end of the day, that’s all that matters, isn’t it? What we feel for each other.”

“Yes,” James said. “Of course.” He put out his hand. “Thank you, Private Griffiths. You’ve been a great help.”

He turned and hurried back to the jeep.

At the Questura, the main police station, he was shown into the presence of the chief of police. James explained why he was there. The man called for the relevant files and looked through them lugubriously. Eventually he turned a file around and pointed. “It’s written here,” he said. “There seems to be no doubt. Livia Pertini. Arrested in the act of soliciting, and examined by a doctor the same afternoon. She was taken to the camp at Afragola to join the other girls.”

James’s blood ran cold. “So where is she now?”

The policeman glanced at his watch. “I should imagine they will already have left by boat for the journey north.”

“We have to stop them. There’s been a terrible mistake.”

The chief of police folded his hands over his stomach. “Are you her boyfriend?”

“Yes, as it happens.”

“Ah.” The chief of police nodded thoughtfully. “You were not aware that she was supporting herself in this way. This happens.”

“She is not a prostitute. Nor is there any question of her being diseased.”

“If you say so. But it’s out of my hands now, it’s a military matter.”

“There has been corruption. I demand a full investigation.”

The chief of police gave him a hard look. “Be careful what you accuse us of,” he said mildly. “Unless your proof is absolutely cast-iron.” After a moment he nodded. “I thought not.” He started gathering the papers together. The interview was clearly at an end. “What will you do now?” he said conversationally.

“As a matter of fact,” James said, “I’m going to go and fetch her back.”

The chief of police smiled. “I don’t think you understand. She is being taken behind the German lines.”

“I understand perfectly.” James stood up. “And however long it takes, I promise you I will find her.”

She had been taken to a cell, still shouting, and pushed inside. The door slammed shut. Livia had hammered on it, calling them dishonest sons of bitches and vermin, but her only answer was a laugh on the other side of the door and the sound of footsteps walking away. She yelled some more.

“There’s no point,” a voice behind her said. She turned. Three young women were sitting on a bench under the cell’s only window. They were all around her own age, dark-haired and pretty. The one who had just spoken said, “They won’t come back. Renata tried to bribe them, and even that didn’t work.”

The youngest of the three nodded and said, “I told them they could have a free go, and I’d give them a thousand lire each as well. But they took the money anyway, and they were too scared to go with me because of the infection. Where did they arrest you?”

“Nowhere,” Livia said. “I refused a camorrista’s offer of marriage, and he didn’t like it. I need to talk to someone in authority and get myself examined by a doctor. They’ll soon discover it’s all a lie.”

“They won’t let you see a doctor now,” the third girl said. Her voice was very quiet, as if she were terribly shy. “They think we’ll do or say anything to avoid being sent north. Once you’ve got the certificate to say you’re infected, that’s it as far as they’re concerned.”

After a couple of hours the door opened and they were escorted onto a truck by a carabiniere who refused to answer any of their questions. Then they were driven out of Naples. Eventually the truck arrived at an army compound near the sea. Soldiers stared at the four women as they drove through the camp, but there was no humor or curiosity in their glances, only appraisal. Livia got the impression that they all knew why the women were there, and that they were not the first the men had seen passing this way.

Sure enough, they were taken to a makeshift prison block which already contained a dozen or so women in four separate cells. The four new arrivals were put in a cell, where a British officer visited them and calmly told them what they would have to do.

“Basically, when you get to Rome you’ll be taken to the German military brothel, where you’ll sleep with as many Germans as possible. You won’t have a great deal of choice in the matter, because we’re going to give you identity papers but no money. You’ll have to earn what you need. But presumably you’re used to that.”

“What will happen if the Germans realize we’re infected?” one girl asked.

“You can assume they won’t be too happy about it.”

“This is outrageous,” Livia protested. “We’re women, not weapons. You must at least give us access to medical treatment.”

“Actually, you’re criminals,” the officer retorted. “Prostitution being a civil and military offense.” He threw some bags onto the floor. “We’ve taken the liberty of packing some things for you. Can’t have you looking a mess when you get to the Eternal City, can we? We’ll be leaving by boat in a few hours’ time.”

“There’s been a terrible mistake,” Livia said. “I’m the friend of a British officer, James Gould. You must get a message to him.”

“Every girl in Naples is the friend of a British officer,” the man said. “And if you think I’ve got nothing better to do than pass on messages, you’re mistaken. Your officer friend will be much better off without you.” He turned and left the cell, locking the door behind him.

One of the girls opened the bags. They contained dresses, hats and shoes, but little else.

“This is ridiculous,” Livia fumed, kicking one of the bags.

“What did he mean, a German military brothel?” the girl with the very shy voice asked.

“The Germans do things differently from the Allies,” the girl called Renata said. “You’re not allowed to stop men on the street. You have to go to a place that’s run by the army. There was one in Naples, when the Germans were here.”

For the first time Livia realized just how bad her predicament was. She was not only going to be taken behind the German lines, but she was also going to be taken to a brothel. What would happen if she refused to do what was expected of her? She said, “Presumably we can tell the Germans we’re sick. They won’t want us in their brothel then.”

“No, but then they send you to a prison camp,” Renata said. “They don’t treat women with infections, only soldiers.”

As the night went on the girls told one another their stories. None of them had been prostitutes before the war. The girl with the shy voice, a nineteen-year-old called Adelina, had fallen in love with a German officer. “No one told me I shouldn’t,” she whispered softly. “After all, we were on the same side then, and Jurgen had nothing to do with the SS or with Hitler. We would have been married by now if the Germans hadn’t withdrawn. But after they left, everyone in the village said I was a slut for going with him. No one would give me food or work, so I had to earn money this way instead.”

Bianca had been raped by the Allied soldiers who liberated her village, a group of Moroccans from a Free French regiment. “They did it to all the women,” she said. “But I was the only one who was engaged. When my fiancé found out he said he’d have nothing to do with me. No one else would help me after that, so what choice did I have?”

Renata was the youngest, but she was from the Neapolitan slums, and after the war started she had become a whore because there were no other jobs available. She had heard about the rastrellamenti, and knew that they could be avoided by getting a proper job, but she was the only breadwinner in her large family, and a waitress’s wages weren’t going to keep them all in food. When she’d been caught, she’d assumed she could bribe her way out of trouble—but by that time the carabinieri wanted to get the operation finished with.

Livia listened to them recounting their stories—so matter-of-factly, without self-pity or false sentiment—and felt a strange kind of anger, different from any she had ever felt before. It was not like the explosive fury she had felt when Pupetta was killed, or the terrible hopelessness she had felt when her father lay dying. Instead, she felt a deep, passionate conviction that none of them should be there, anymore than her; that this war—which, according to James and others, was a good war, a war that had to be fought—was nevertheless being fought in the wrong way, by generals so determined to win that they had forgotten how to be compassionate and fair. People were often good, and did good things, such as the things that had been done to help after Vesuvius erupted, but as soon as those same people were given any authority or power, they abused it, or ignored the human consequences of their actions. And the people who ended up suffering most were always the women, because they had no authority or power to start with.

The solution, of course, was for women to somehow achieve power for themselves. But she couldn’t see how that would ever happen, not in Italy.

She saw now that this war, which she had thought was being fought between the forces of fascism and the forces of democracy, was actually about a whole series of different conflicts. There was the conflict between those who wanted women to stay at home, and those who thought that women should be able to work. There was the conflict between those who wanted young people to show more respect, and those who wanted old people to show more tolerance. There was the conflict between those who embraced the Americans, with their movies and their slang and their gangsters and their jive, and those who wanted Europe to be more European. There was the conflict between those who thought that ordinary people should know their place, and those who thought that ordinary people needed to be set free. There was the conflict between those who thought that government meant public service, and those who thought that government should have more power. But most of all there was the conflict between those who wanted everything to go back to the way it was before, and those who wanted everything to change, and in that conflict—a conflict whose battles were yet to be fought, and whose armies were still massing their troops—she knew which side she was going to be on.