Adam Foulds - In the Wolf's Mouth

Teresa didn’t say anything.

‘You remember our wedding day?’ he said.

‘Yes. Of course.’

He looked over the top of her head, remembering.

‘Where is the photograph? You still have it?’

‘I have it. It’s put away.’

‘Well, get it out. We’ll put it up. I’ll get a new frame. You don’t know what it means to me. You don’t know how happy I am to be back even if we’re only halfway there. Things are going to be like they were before.’

‘You look young when you’re happy,’ Teresa said. ‘You look like you used to.’

‘I feel like I used to. Where’s Mattia? I want to talk to him.’

‘I don’t know. In their room, maybe.’

Cirò climbed the narrow staircase and opened the door to the room with two mattresses on the floor and three half-naked children, forbidden to play outside so soon after the death of their father. They were fighting, tussling, a litter.

‘Where’s Mattia?’

The eldest, a boy of about nine, said, ‘I don’t know.’

‘You do know.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Where is he?’ Cirò took one pace towards the boy.

‘He went out.’

‘So you do know. Go out and get him for me. Go on.’

The boy wriggled past him and pattered down the stairs on his bare feet.

Cirò looked at the two who were left. ‘Who wants a coin?’

‘Me!’

‘Me!’

Cirò produced one from his pocket and flipped it spinning into the air. He left them fighting for it.

A youth in the doorway of the house. Sullen, waiting, one arm up on the door frame.

‘Look at you,’ Cirò said. ‘You’re strong. Look at those arms. Like Jack Dempsey. Shall I call you Jack?’

‘Don’t care.’

‘What should I call you?’

‘Don’t call me anything. I don’t care.’

‘Really? What about Shit-the-bed? What about Little Dog? You don’t care, you don’t care. I’ll call you what I want.’

‘Doesn’t matter to me. What do you want me for?’

Cirò walked over to the boy and took hold of his shoulder. He gripped until Mattia looked up. Mattia said, ‘I know what you are.’

‘You don’t know anything, Jack. You’re a kid. I’m your mother’s husband. That’s who I am. I’m your father. I want to help you.’

Cirò let go and Mattia went and sat on the stool by the hearth.

‘I’m sorry about what happened to your father.’ Cirò received a flash of the boy’s dark eyes, fierce through their pretty lashes. ‘You know, even though he died in an accident, it’s like really he died in the war. That’s how you should think of it. He was killed by the bastard Fascists.’

‘I know what killed him.’

‘I know you do. He was a war hero. He died for Sicily. You should be very proud of him.’

Mattia sat hunched forwards, his hands under his thighs.

‘To die for Sicily. Things will be better now. That’s what we all want. My friends and me, we want better things for Sicily. You don’t know this yet. We weren’t allowed to be here for so long. It’s a life, Mattia, a way to make a living. You could have it. Actually, you know what you could have?’

‘What?’

‘Something I got for you in Palermo.’

‘For me?’

‘Sure.’

Cirò left the room. He returned with an object on his upturned palm: an unopened bar of American chocolate. The brown paper and silver foil were pristine. ‘Here.’

Mattia took it from him and looked down at it. ‘The whole thing?’

‘The whole thing. I can get plenty more.’

‘When?’

‘What do you mean, when? Whenever you want. If you want some, eat it.’

‘Now?’

‘Jesus, if you want it. What’s the matter with you?’

Mattia carefully opened the paper envelope, breaking the contact of its adhesive without tearing, then tore the foil wrapping and snapped off three squares and put them in his mouth. Lushness of sweet flavour, a slow melting into a thick fudge that coated his teeth and tongue. His eyes closed and opened again. He chewed, folding the wrapper tightly shut, keeping it all as neat as a pressed shirt.

‘Why don’t you give that to your mother? She can hide it from the little rats. Then come with me. There’s something you should see.’

Mattia nodded, swallowing like a bird, ducking his head and rising.

They stepped outside into early dusk, the walls of the buildings glowing, a drift of pink in the sky and swifts screaming in rapid circles over the church. Cirò led the boy down to the left, out of Sant’Attilio, past the others on the street. Albanese greeted an old uncle of the Battista family. The old man looked at him wonderingly, hopefully. Cirò passed on. The Battistas had been friends of the Albaneses. He must have been wondering if what he’d heard was right, that it was all coming back.

Mattia felt very awake after the chocolate. The evening breeze vibrated over his skin. He wanted to run but instead walked beside this inescapable man. They walked in the direction of the Prince’s house. When they got to Angilù Cassini’s house, Cirò said, ‘Wait.’

‘Yes?’

‘Sshh. You see this house?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know who lives here?’

‘Angilù Cassini.’

‘Angilù Cassini? Angilù? He was just a little shepherd when I left, out fucking his goats in the mountains. Angilù Cassini?’

‘Yes. He works for the Prince, on the estate. He does everything.’

‘Does he? You’re a good boy. You should work for me, you know. Work together. Two leaves of the artichoke. You want that?’

They were both quiet. Cirò looked up the avenue of olive trees to the front door. It was a strange feeling for Mattia, spying like this. It felt like something was going to happen. The quieter they got, the more it felt like that. Eventually, Albanese said, ‘He has children?’

‘Three daughters.’

‘No sons? Doesn’t surprise me. Probably none of them are his. You know the girls?’

‘Sure.’

‘Hey, you haven’t? Jack, don’t tell me you have … already? Those innocent girls.’ Cirò laughed, looking at Mattia’s pained frown. ‘I’m only kidding. You know who used to live here?’

‘Who?’

‘Me. Me and your mother. This is where we lived when we got married. I was the landlord of the estate. You didn’t know that? Big, isn’t it?’

‘It’s big.’

‘These trees. I used to make the oil from these olives. My house. My house until the Fascists. Our house. You want to live here? A room to yourself?’

‘It’s big.’

‘And when I’m gone meeting Jesus somewhere, it would be your house. You’re the oldest. You and your wife.’

Something outside made the dog bark. Cesare always barked in threes with short, absolute silences between. Cesare set off Sal’s dog two hundred yards away. It answered with its hoarse single responses, like frightened coughs. Together they roused several other dogs at different distances, a cacophony of paranoia and display that went on until they tired and relaxed slowly back into silence. Angilù didn’t like to hear it. It brought the night to bear, made him feel the space outside, when he just wanted to sit with his family and eat his soup, all of them in the single circle of lamplight. Angilù had too much to think about.

The end of the war was worse than the fighting had been. You could hide from that and you knew it would end. Now, Cirò Albanese was back. This was definite. Everybody knew. And if Albanese was back, Angilù could lose everything. Life on the estate was threatened. Angilù and the Prince had right on their side, they had goodness, good sense at least, but what was that against Albanese and his friends and the old, broken law? What he should do was to speak to the English as soon as possible and explain that he’d been living there for twenty years, that the Prince owned the property and he wanted Angilù there. It had taken Angilù some time to feel that he belonged there. At first the house was too big for him and his wife. They lodged in its corners. They huddled together. It was only when they had children, after long years of thinking they never would, that they began to inhabit the place. Anna was born and her yells filled the whole house and she survived and the place was theirs. It always had been theirs of course. The Prince had given it to them.