The Girl on the Via Flaminia by Hayes Alfred

had become an enemy. And yet, he was no enemy, certainly not hers, certainly not anyone’s in this house, not now, after having come this distance and through this cold. And yet she accused him, or seemed to accuse him. He had packed a bag and he had brought food and he had walked across the bridge. “Be grateful,” he said, trying not to be angry. Not now, at least. “If we hadn’t walked up here from Salerno,” he said, “you’d still be doing the tedeschi’s laundry . . .”
    â€œPerhaps,” she said, “it would have been better!”
    â€œWould it?”
    â€œYes!”
    â€œI’ll invite the Jerries back,” he said, being ugly about it now.
    â€œWe don’t want either of you,” she said.
    â€œNo?”
    â€œNo!” she said.
    â€œPerhaps it was easier,” he said, “sleeping with a kraut . . .”
    â€œThat’s a lie!” the girl said.
    â€œDon’t tell me,” he said, “you ate bananas out of the banana trees while the Jerries were here.”
    â€œWe fought them,” she said, furiously, “we fought them!”
    â€œWhere?” he said. “In bed?”
    She came across the room to where he stood, holding the bar of chocolate, and she slapped him, and not thinking, feeling the cold impact of her hand on his check, he slapped her as quickly, and as he did so he could hear his own voice saying very evenly, not like his own voice at all, “Baby, I told you: you lost this war.”
    She turned and went toward the door of the bedroom. The bar of chocolate had broken in his hand. He already regretted slapping her. He tried to stop her. He did not want her to go. More than anything else now, he did not want her to go out of this room.
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    He had put his back against the door.
    She tried to get by him, and to open the door.
    â€œThere’s nothing outside,” he said.
    â€œLet me go, please.”
    â€œBut there’s nothing outside,” he said. He did not move away from the door. “God, you Italians have a temper,” he said. “Do you always blow a fuse like that?”
    The lights in the bedroom began to flicker. The lamp with the fringed shade on the small table next to the bed and the lamp on the table where he had placed his musette bag dimmed and grew bright and dimmed again. “I think,” he said to the struggling girl, “we’re having powerhouse trouble again. Why don’t you people get your city fixed up?”
    â€œAsk Admiral Stone!” she said.
    â€œYou don’t happen to have a candle, do you?” he said.
    â€œNo!”
    â€œWell, we’re going to need one,” he said, and the lights went down and faded out, and they were in darkness. In coldness and in darkness, like all the city.
    She had moved away from him in the darkness. She was somewhere in the room. He could not tell where she was. He was afraid to abandon the door. The sense of being lost increased. He could feel the darkness changing him. Outside, in the hallway, he could hear the old man’s voice. Ugo was calling, “Adele, the lights!”
    â€œSì, sì, I know,” Adele answered. He could hear her voice. They were all excited and confused. “I am bringing a candle. Madonna, what a life!”
    â€œSignor Roberto!” the old man called.
    He shouted back: “The lights are out here too!”
    â€œEh, Madonna! Scusi,” the old man said, as though he were responsible for the failure of the power. “I will bring a candle.” He could hear them in the hallway moving about looking for candles and for matches.
    â€œLisa,” he said, into the darkness.
    There was no answer.
    He could hear the sound of his own cold breathing.
    â€œI’m sorry about the slap,” he said, into the darkness.
    She did not answer.
    â€œLisa,” he said, “can you hear me? I’m sorry. And