Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

“ Per entrare in Italia ,” he said, “ deve avere il carnet. Nessuno di questi documenti é un carnet. ”

“What in hell is a carnet? ” Julia asked Millie.

“I’m sure I don’t know. Tell him we’ll get it in Stresa, whatever it is. Tell him we’re in a hurry, Julia.”

“ Non teniamo una carnet ,” Julia said. “ Lo prendiamo a Stresa. Per piacere, abbiamo fretta. ”

The border official shook his head. “ Lo deve ottenere qui. Non a Stresa. Non potete lasciare Domodossola senza il carnet. ”

“ Ma dove lo potere avere? ” Julia asked.

“ Seguitemi ,” the man said. He motioned with his hand, directing Julia to pull the car to the side of the road, where she saw one sign hanging over a customs office and another sign for the Italian military police. She drove to a place marked DIVIETO MACCHINE CTVILI and parked the car alongside a motorcycle.

“Stay here with the luggage, Millie,” she said. “They won’t let us leave Domodossola until we get this carnet , whatever it is.”

She stepped out of the car. The official was waiting for her.

“ Venite ,” he said, and he led her into the customs office. A man sitting behind an old desk looked up when they entered. The office was dim and cool. The shutters on the single window set in the stone wall were closed, blocking the rays of the sun. The men held a conversation in rapid Italian, the only word of which Julia caught was carnet . The man behind the desk kept nodding his head. The other went on at interminable length about the carnet . It seemed they would never get it settled.

Finally, the man behind the desk said, “ Si, va bene. Portatela all’ Automobile Club. ”

“Do either of you speak English?” Julia asked.

The man behind the desk looked up and smiled. The smile was evil, Julia thought, a horrid evil smile. “ In Italia ,” he said slowly, “ parliamo italiano. ”

She knew he understood English, because he had answered her question. Slowly, precisely, controlling her anger, she said in English, “And in Italy you have apparently forgotten whatever manners you ever had. How do I get this carnet? ”

The man behind the desk continued smiling. He did not answer Julia. The other man said, “ Seguite ,” and she followed him out into the sunshine again. A tall blond man in an army uniform was coming out of the military-police barracks next door. He smiled at Julia and said, “ Ah, buon giorno, signorina. ”

She did not recognize him at first. Somehow, she’d thought the soldier on the mountain was an officer, but she saw quite clearly now the corporal’s stripes on his sleeves and was a little disappointed, though she couldn’t understand why. Too, the man on the mountain had seemed heavier inside his rubberized poncho, and this man who walked toward her now, smiling, was rather thin, and somewhat older than she’d originally estimated, thirty-three or thirty-four, perhaps even her own age. His hair was a muddied blond and this, too, came as a surprise because he’d been wearing the black helmet on the mountain, and yet surely she had noticed that his eyebrows were blond too and that his eyes... the eyes. The eyes were the same. Blue, an intense blue, smiling with the rest of his tanned face. It was a face she knew. She turned to him desperately and said in rapid English, “Oh, hello, how are you? Can you help me, please? I seem to need a carnet , but no one will tell me what it is, and they’ve been leading me from place to—”

The soldier held out his hand. “ Piano, piano ,” he said. “My English is not good.”

She explained again, slowly this time. He listened intently, his head cocked to one side. He pushed a strand of hair off his forehead, revealing a white streak of flesh that the sun had not touched. She kept talking, fascinated by the suddenly exposed skin, as if she had stumbled upon a secret vulnerable corner of the man. The border official seemed weary of the exchange. He leaned against the whitewashed wall with the black FORBIDDEN TO CIVILIAN CARS lettered boldly on it, one hand resting on the butt of the pistol at his waist. The corporal nodded as Julia spoke, making his laborious mental translation. Then he said, “A carnet is a paper, it tells, descrivere , describes? si , your automobile, and that you are not bring to Italy for to sell. Capisce? ”

“Yes, si , but no one told us about it. The Paris agency...”

“ Si, ma é necessario . Is need. It is law.” He shrugged.

“ Si ,” she said, and she nodded, distressed.

“ Si , but is easy. To get this. The Automobile Club... ah... come si dice rilasciare? Issues? Fixes? They fix for you.”

“But where is the Automobile Club?”

“ In città . In town. He will take.” He pointed to the border man.

“Could...?” Julia hesitated. “Are you very busy now?”

“ Signorina? ”

“Well... are you stationed here?”

“ Pardon? ”

“Well... could you come with us? To the Automobile Club? I’ll never be able to explain all this in Italian.”

The corporal nodded. “Ahhh,” he said. “Ahhhh.”

“Could you?”

“ Cosa? ” the border man asked.

The corporal translated Julia’s request.

“ Allora, andiamo ,” the border man said. “ Stiamo sciupando tutto il pomeriggio. ”

“Will you come?” Julia asked.

“ Si, signorina. Al suo servizio! ” He snapped a salute at her, and then smiled, and the three began walking down the street together. From the car, Millie called, “Julia! Where are they taking you?”

“To the Automobile Club,” Julia called back over her shoulder.

“The what? What did you say?”

“It’s all right, Millie. I’ll be right back.”

There was something comical about the procession, and she could not resist smiling. She walked between the two uniformed men, trying to match her strides with their own. The border man walked with a stiff precise cadence, as if he were leading her to a wall to execute her. The notion delighted her. When they raised their rifles, she would say, “To hell with the blindfold!” The corporal, walking with a rather lazy lope, noticed her smile, but said nothing. There was a curious air of inactivity to the town. No one seemed to be employed, the entire town seemed to be out in the main street, idling, gossiping, the men standing in dark trousers and intensely white shirts, or the green army uniforms with their funny tasseled hats, the women barefoot most of them, but wearing brightly colored dresses as if they had got ready for a ball and forgotten to put on their heels. Here and there, a few of Mussolini’s Black Shirts lounged against the walls. The sunshine caught the town in its lazy posture, caught motion suspended, caught bicycles leaning against walls, reflected from silvered spokes, caught water running in the gutter, caught wrought-iron balconies overhanging the main street, caught the brightly colored cart of the ices peddler, and the young soldiers standing beside it in green, and the two adolescent girls in bright skirts and white blouses, barefoot, giggling, the town had been frozen by sunshine. The boots of the border man and the corporal thudded on the cobbled street, bracketed the feminine chatter of Julia’s heels.

“My name is Renato,” the corporal said suddenly, in Italian. “Renato Cristo.”

“How do you do?” Julia said in English. “I’m Mrs. Arthur Regan.” She paused. “Julia Regan.”