out the handwriting …'
'For the love of God …' threatened the Captain in Carabiniere Bacci's ear.
'I'm sorry, sir, I can't understand what she's saying …'
'Never mind what she's saying, just stop her and tell her—'
'Now then! I can't explain things to you if you're going to chat amongst yourselves—here you are, sign the book, go on, don't be frightened, you can write something in Italian. Carabinieri ! This is really nice !'
Fifteen minutes later the two men were out on the landing, their heads ringing with incomprehensible information. Carabiniere Bacci was sweating with embarrassment. The Captain was white with annoyance.
'I thought you said your English was good?'
'I'm sorry, sir, I just couldn't cope …' He had tried repeatedly to interject the purpose of their visit but his carefully constructed sentences elicited nothing more than: 'Speak a bit of English, do you? Well done. Of course, you're only a boy. I think everyone should learn a language as young as possible—my French mistress at school used to say …'
He had also tried in Italian, they both had, but even the Captain's stern effort had produced nothing more than, ' Si si! Si si!' She had had everything translated, of course, nice when the Italians took an interest, but after fifteen years in the country couldn't speak a word, didn't know why but there it was—too old to start, that was it, have to start young, not a word—well 'si', of course, that was one word, and 'no' was another, but that wasn't much, after fifteen years—and she'd only come out here for a holiday … Carabinieri !
They went down the stairs in silence. The guard on the ground floor saluted.
'And then what?' Marshal Guarnaccia was sitting up in bed, his fever somewhat abated. The little lamp was still lit and beside it, on the bedside cupboard, was a bowl with the remains of a light clear broth in the bottom of it, brought round by Signora Bellini, the gardener's wife, sister of the little cleaner who had found the body.
'The Captain went to interview Cesarini, the antique-dealer in his shop.'
'And you're sent home in disgrace, is that it?'
'The Captain wanted me to get something to eat, have a rest …' But Carabiniere Bacci was mortified, his exhausted face drawn and pale.
'And did you get something to eat?'
'I went in the meat-roaster's shop in the piazza and got a hot beef sandwich and a glass of wine.'
The Marshal could imagine him, unaccustomed as he was to such proletarian living, sitting delicately on a high stool at the counter in front of the rows of hissing, crackling chickens turning on the great wood fire, trying not to get a spot on his uniform and to evade the familiar jokes of the cheerful Neapolitan in his greasy apron.
'You should have gone to the Mensa—and I hope you're not thinking of sleeping downstairs in the office again?'
'I told the Captain I would, in case the phone rings in the night. You're not fit and he can't spare anybody. The Brigadier he sent is going off now.'
'You can't expect a corpse on your doorstep every night, damn it! I'm not all that bad, as a matter of fact— I feel a bit better for that drop of soup. The fever seems to come on for a few hours at a time and then go away for a few hours. As long as I'm all right to get that train tomorrow …' He was gazing across the room at a photograph that stood in the shadows on a marble-topped dressing-table; two plump little boys with eyes almost as large as his own. The Marshal's passion in life was his family, his ambition to get a posting at home in Syracuse. His wife couldn't leave his mother down there alone or move her to a strange city at her age … He sighed and leaned back on his pillows. 'Carabiniere Bacci …'
'Yes, sir?'
'You're a young fool.' He pondered on this fact for a moment in silence. 'But, nevertheless … you've got brains …'
Not knowing what to say to this, Carabiniere Bacci said nothing. The Marshal pondered at such length, with his eyes closed
'For the love of God …' threatened the Captain in Carabiniere Bacci's ear.
'I'm sorry, sir, I can't understand what she's saying …'
'Never mind what she's saying, just stop her and tell her—'
'Now then! I can't explain things to you if you're going to chat amongst yourselves—here you are, sign the book, go on, don't be frightened, you can write something in Italian. Carabinieri ! This is really nice !'
Fifteen minutes later the two men were out on the landing, their heads ringing with incomprehensible information. Carabiniere Bacci was sweating with embarrassment. The Captain was white with annoyance.
'I thought you said your English was good?'
'I'm sorry, sir, I just couldn't cope …' He had tried repeatedly to interject the purpose of their visit but his carefully constructed sentences elicited nothing more than: 'Speak a bit of English, do you? Well done. Of course, you're only a boy. I think everyone should learn a language as young as possible—my French mistress at school used to say …'
He had also tried in Italian, they both had, but even the Captain's stern effort had produced nothing more than, ' Si si! Si si!' She had had everything translated, of course, nice when the Italians took an interest, but after fifteen years in the country couldn't speak a word, didn't know why but there it was—too old to start, that was it, have to start young, not a word—well 'si', of course, that was one word, and 'no' was another, but that wasn't much, after fifteen years—and she'd only come out here for a holiday … Carabinieri !
They went down the stairs in silence. The guard on the ground floor saluted.
'And then what?' Marshal Guarnaccia was sitting up in bed, his fever somewhat abated. The little lamp was still lit and beside it, on the bedside cupboard, was a bowl with the remains of a light clear broth in the bottom of it, brought round by Signora Bellini, the gardener's wife, sister of the little cleaner who had found the body.
'The Captain went to interview Cesarini, the antique-dealer in his shop.'
'And you're sent home in disgrace, is that it?'
'The Captain wanted me to get something to eat, have a rest …' But Carabiniere Bacci was mortified, his exhausted face drawn and pale.
'And did you get something to eat?'
'I went in the meat-roaster's shop in the piazza and got a hot beef sandwich and a glass of wine.'
The Marshal could imagine him, unaccustomed as he was to such proletarian living, sitting delicately on a high stool at the counter in front of the rows of hissing, crackling chickens turning on the great wood fire, trying not to get a spot on his uniform and to evade the familiar jokes of the cheerful Neapolitan in his greasy apron.
'You should have gone to the Mensa—and I hope you're not thinking of sleeping downstairs in the office again?'
'I told the Captain I would, in case the phone rings in the night. You're not fit and he can't spare anybody. The Brigadier he sent is going off now.'
'You can't expect a corpse on your doorstep every night, damn it! I'm not all that bad, as a matter of fact— I feel a bit better for that drop of soup. The fever seems to come on for a few hours at a time and then go away for a few hours. As long as I'm all right to get that train tomorrow …' He was gazing across the room at a photograph that stood in the shadows on a marble-topped dressing-table; two plump little boys with eyes almost as large as his own. The Marshal's passion in life was his family, his ambition to get a posting at home in Syracuse. His wife couldn't leave his mother down there alone or move her to a strange city at her age … He sighed and leaned back on his pillows. 'Carabiniere Bacci …'
'Yes, sir?'
'You're a young fool.' He pondered on this fact for a moment in silence. 'But, nevertheless … you've got brains …'
Not knowing what to say to this, Carabiniere Bacci said nothing. The Marshal pondered at such length, with his eyes closed
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