by Caroline Lea
‘Oh!’ I turn it over, not knowing what to say. ‘It’s . . . sharp.’
He laughs. ‘I pick it up on the beach before. It is part of a ship, perhaps. Or a bomb. I will melt it and make it a better shape in the forge, if you like?’
‘Thank you.’
He takes it back from me and tucks it into his pocket.
The hour is late, the air cold and I worry about Con, so Cesare and I hurry the remaining distance back to the camp. The sun sits low on the horizon – in midsummer there is no such thing as true darkness – but the strange light makes weird shadows and we stumble more than once. There are no jokes this time.
There is a faint glow from the chapel, but inside it is silent and still, as if the building itself is praying. I never grow tired of the feeling of worship in this place. It is partly the closeness of the wind and the sea and partly the way that every painted brushstroke and every curve of metal seems made from hope.
Cesare and I are both panting and I have gorse scratches on my legs.
‘I must go back to the camp,’ Cesare says, kissing me quickly.
I watch him walk down the hill, until I can no longer see his shadowy shape moving through the gathering darkness.
Then there is a hand on my shoulder. My blood jolts and I whirl around, hands raised, ready to claw at whichever guard –
It is Con. Her face tear-streaked and pale.
‘Heavens, Con! What’s wrong? You scared the life out of me.’
‘Sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just – I think I saw him. I think he’s out there, somewhere, waiting for me.’
She doesn’t have to tell me who he is.
My throat is dry and I pull her close. Her body feels thin and frail, smaller than mine, somehow, more fragile, even though we are exactly the same height. I can feel her fear, can feel her panicked heart. I wish she would talk to me about it, but every time I try to ask her to tell me exactly what happened, her face closes. I can’t help thinking she must have done something terrible that night on the beach. I can’t help suspecting – only sometimes, and only for a moment – that what people say is true, that she led him on, then attacked him. Why else would she refuse to tell me what happened? And I hate myself for thinking this of my own sister, for doubting her, even for an instant.
I squeeze her hand. ‘Do you think . . . Are you sure it was him?’
‘I’m not mad, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Her voice is hard. ‘I’m not imagining things.’
‘I didn’t say you were.’ I feel a stab of guilt. ‘Come on, let’s go back to the bothy.’
‘Can we just . . . Can we wait here for a while? Until we know he’s gone. Until we’re sure?’
‘Of course.’ I sit next to her on the cold chapel floor, pulling open the bag of wood and tiles that Cesare and I had gathered from the ship. ‘We can start laying these tiles in a pattern on the floor. We’ve no cement, but we can see what they’ll look like.’
She takes the tiles gratefully from me. Gradually her hands stop shaking and her breathing steadies.
As she sets down a tile, she says, ‘Does Cesare . . . He doesn’t ever hurt you?’
‘No. Never.’
There is an awkward silence and I wait for her to ask something else.
We lay out the tiles in diagonal lines, creating an inverted arrow, which will draw people towards the altar and towards that picture of Mary holding Baby Jesus – the picture that looks so like Con’s face, so like my own.
As Con lays the last of the tiles, she says, ‘I won’t let Angus hurt me again.’ It’s the first time in an age that I’ve heard her say his name.
Nor I, I think, and I clench the tile in my hand so tightly that it leaves a thin red line of broken skin.
It must be three in the morning when we walk back at last to the bothy, the land filled with the strange blue glow of the midnight sun.
Con’s breathing is easier and she smiles at me in the pale light. Sometimes I have a painful glimpse of the person I’ve lost, of the sister who I feel I’ll never see again. I miss her so much – it’s like a knife twisting in my chest. And I have to remind myself that she’s recovering, still. I have to remind myself that most injuries heal, in the end.
Outside the door of the bothy, my foot brushes against something. I bend down and pick up what feels like a stone, except that it is warm.
I hold it up to the ghostly, cloud-strewn sky.
He must have gone straight to the forge, rather than walking back to the camp.
‘What is it?’ Con asks.
It is part of a bomb, or part of a foreign ship that was ripped away and washed up on this beach. It is the best gift I’ve ever received.
Cuore.
‘It’s a heart,’ I say.
August 1942
Cesare
Late one afternoon, towards the end of August, Cesare puts the final touches to the painting of Maria over the altar. She is nearly perfect. In the end, he decides to have her eyes downcast – this makes it easier for him to shape Dot’s high cheekbones and the upward curve of her lips, without having to capture the hunger in her eyes when she looks at him.
As he paints, he remembers the feeling of her breath against his ear. The warmth of his name, exhaled into his mouth.
He imagines her working in the small hospital in Moena, if she wants to – hadn’t she always said she wanted to be a doctor? It would be possible, surely. He imagines her walking with him in the mountains, swimming alongside him in the lakes. He will show her the church, where he painted the beautiful ceiling. He imagines introducing her to his parents.
Dorotea. Mia moglie. My wife.
His mother will gasp and take her hands. He imagines Dorotea at the table he sat at when he was a boy; he imagines her eating strong cheeses and soft bread, which she will dip into olive oil. He imagines her laughing, and drinking his father’s red wine.
He refuses to let himself consider that Moena may be gone. The hospital, the church with its ceiling. The table he knows so well. His mother. His father. If he thinks of it, he feels sick and enraged. He doesn’t sleep or, if he does, his dreams are bloody, muddled and vengeful.
Footsteps behind him. Cesare turns, brush in hand, half expecting it to be Dorotea. This happens sometimes: he will be thinking of her, and then she will appear, as if she has felt his thoughts calling to her. Sometimes, they finish each other’s sentences; his English is improving all the time, and he has begun teaching her Italian.
But it is Angus MacLeod, now, standing behind Cesare in the chapel. He is sweating. Through the painted glass of the chapel window, coloured sunlight glints on his forehead, his nose, his unshaven cheeks. He licks his lips.
‘What is it?’ Cesare asks, his heart beating faster. He has only a paintbrush in his hand, and would be no match for MacLeod’s baton and muscle. No match for his gun. His eyes are red, as if he has been crying, but surely that can’t be right. Perhaps he has a fever. But then why come here, to the chapel? Through the whole process of building, MacLeod has kept away, having been warned and threatened by Major Bates.
‘If you are ill,’ says Cesare, ‘you must go to the infirmary.’
‘How did you do it?’ Angus says.
Cesare looks around at the chapel, at the intricate rood screen, at the images that fill him with reverence, as if he hasn’t created them himself, as if he decorated the entire chapel in a dream.
‘I have painted much before,’ he says. ‘In Italy –’
‘Not the bloody chapel, damn you!’ MacLeod snaps, his curses cutting through the jewelled stillness of the place. ‘How did you get . . . her?’
Someone must have been talking. One of the other prisoners, perhaps, or a guard. He and Dorotea still try to hide their visits to the concealed cave, but everyone knows of their relationship, or so Cesare had thought. Gino teases him about her all the time, and even Stuart the guard refers to her, with a wink, as ‘your lady friend’. But somehow, it seems, everyone has kept it from MacLeod until now.
‘How?’ he demands again.
Cesare decides he must be honest. There is no point in feigning ignorance or lying – he still remembers the thud of MacLeod’s baton on his back as he dug in the quarry. He has no doubt that this is a man who, even in his right mind, would be capable of murder. And MacLeod does not seem in his right mind now. There is a wildness in his bloodshot eyes; a muscle near his mouth twitches, as if he might laugh or weep.
‘She loves me,’ Cesare says, and for a moment, he can feel Dorotea’s breath against his cheek, whispering the words in his ear.
MacLeod’s lip curls. ‘Loves you? She can’t. Look at your face, your skin – you don’t even speak the same language.’ He gestures at the chapel. ‘Wrong bloody religion too. She can’t love you. You’ve tricked her, somehow.’
Cesare swallows. How many paces to the chapel door? How much time and distance to outrun a bullet?
Quietly, he says, ‘I love her too.’
He waits, muscles tensed, for MacLeod to raise his baton, or reach for his gun. Cesare could shove him backwards into the metal rood screen, perhaps. Or he could try to reach for the gun himself, try to grab it.
But then he sees MacLeod’s eyes fill with tears. He steps closer, staggering a little, as if drunk. ‘You think I don’t love her sister? I’ve loved her for –’
‘They are not the same,’ Cesare says, half smiling.
This is a mistake, because MacLeod lunges for him then, wraps his hands around Cesare’s head and pulls him in close, so that their foreheads clash painfully. MacLeod seems not to notice. His breath is sour with drink.
‘I know that, you fucking Eyetie. I know they’re not the same. But I’ve tried with Con. I took her out, after their parents disappeared. I was there to support her. I listened to her go on about how guilty she felt. And I still loved her. I gave her a necklace. And I’ve been watching her, making sure she’s safe. God!’ He pushes Cesare away. ‘Perhaps she’s trying to taunt me. Leading me on, still. I’ve heard of girls doing that – pretending not to care. Perhaps Dot will do that to you, eh? Ever think of that? Perhaps she won’t talk to you next month . . .’ He scrubs his hands across his face, sniffs. ‘Oh! I’ve just remembered.’ He laughs suddenly, the sound high-pitched as he stumbles, then fixes Cesare with his red-rimmed eyes. ‘You won’t be here next month. The barriers are nearly done. By the end of September, they’ll be finished, and you’ll be sent off to some camp. Major Bates said they’re thinking of Wales. Never mind. I’m sure Dot will find a way of keeping herself warm until the war’s over.’
He leers and Cesare has to remind himself of the baton, of the gun, of the Punishment Hut. He breathes out, slowly. He grips the paintbrush until it snaps. He imagines stabbing it into MacLeod’s eye socket. He breathes in.
MacLeod watches him, smiling, waiting. Cesare stands very still.
‘I’ll look after her for you,’ MacLeod says.
Then he turns and walks from the chapel, a slight stagger in his step. Cesare forces himself to remain still; he fights down the white-hot fury that surges through his veins. He reminds himself that MacLeod won’t be able to touch Dorotea – she’d never go anywhere near him.
But, still, Cesare will be leaving. He has not much more than a month left with her.
Five days later, lying in the cave, he is distracted and restless. He has walked the usual path in silence – he could walk it in his sleep – and, now, with Dorotea’s head resting on his bare chest, he still says nothing. Twice, she has asked him what is wrong – the first time, she’d poked him teasingly in the ribs; he’d glared at her, then felt guilty at the hurt in her face. But he still can’t tell her about MacLeod’s threats. He can’t tell her that he will be leaving so soon – even if she has her suspicions.
Today, she had looked out towards the barriers – at the few shrinking gaps, where the tide still surged – and she’d said, ‘It won’t be long.’
He’d said nothing. He knows his mood is ruining the little time they have left, but he can’t shake himself out of it.
Will she wait for him? Will she follow him to Moena, one day, as she’s promised? Or will she stay here with Con, who seems so much brighter and happier these days? She has talked about working in the Kirkwall infirmary after the prisoners have left. Cesare can imagine Dorotea staying with her sister – or, at least, he can’t imagine her leaving.
‘I should go.’ She sighs, standing up. Her face is tense and he wants to hold her, to kiss her. He wants to apologize, but then he would have to explain, would have to talk about leaving.
He watches her pulling on her dress, watches the elegance of her movements, her long pale limbs. Why would she wait for him? MacLeod is right – she deserves something more than an Eyetie.
Her hand, he notices, is curled around something.
‘What is that?’ he asks.
She opens her hand. In her palm is the metal heart he’d made for her. He’d pulled it hot from the forge and lifted it from the bucket before it was fully cooled. The skin of his right palm is slightly smooth, a scar the shape of half a heart or in the curve of a question mark.
‘You like it?’ he says.
‘I carry it everywhere,’ she says.
Something inside him crumbles. How could he have doubted her? He curls her fingers around it and kisses them.
‘I’m sorry I am a bastardo today.’
She strokes his cheek. ‘You are worried about leaving?’
Grateful to her for understanding, he nods.
‘You should be,’ she says, kissing his mouth. ‘I have your heart.’
He laughs, returns her kiss. He’s never known anything like the love he has for her. The closest feeling was when he was painting the chapel. It’s a sense of reverence. A feeling like worship.
He kisses her again and then she pulls away.
‘I have to go. Con will be worried.’
He nods, kisses her once more. ‘You go. I’ll follow. Ti amo.’
‘I love you too.’
And she is gone.
He dresses slowly, enjoying the soreness in his limbs, the smell of her body on his; he is always reluctant to swim afterwards, but Dorotea insists that he practise, teasing that she won’t always be there to rescue him. Now, the thought of her not being with him is too painful, so he is grateful for the way the cold sea clears his thoughts. His swimming strokes are basic – Dorotea laughs that he looks like a dog – but at least he won’t drown. He dries himself quickly and walks back along the route to the chapel, trying not to look at the near-finished barriers. There are rumours that it’s possible to walk across some parts of them now. Perhaps, after he has gone, Dorotea will be able to walk back to the old house that she’d spoken about, in Kirkwall – she says she misses it. Perhaps she’ll try to buy it back. Perhaps she will find an Orcadian man to live with and they will have children, while he is miles away in Wales or somewhere else. Perhaps –
Stop!
There is a darkness creeping down from the sky and a few stars glimmering. It’s still warm at the moment, but he hasn’t forgotten the winter chill. Will it be as cold in Wales?
He is nearing the chapel when he hears a cry. High-pitched, then quickly cut off, like the calls of foxes he remembers echoing over the Moena hills. But there are no foxes on this island. The cry rings out again and, for a moment, he thinks of the stories Dorotea has told him about this place. The beasts that come in from the sea. The skinless creatures that breathe over the land, and the selkies, who cast off their skins and, underneath, are the most beautiful women anyone has ever seen.
The hairs rise on the back of his neck. The shout again – a woman’s voice, certainly, and then a man’s growl, afterwards.
The sounds are coming from behind the forge.
When he rounds the metal hut, there is a shadowy figure with many limbs writhing against the wall. He cannot, at
first, make sense of what he is seeing. And then, all of a sudden, he can.
A man – a guard – is pressing a woman against a wall. He is trying to hitch up her skirt. The woman is batting at the man’s face, but it seems to make no difference. Cesare cannot understand why the woman is silent, and then he sees that the man is holding her by her throat.
He doesn’t think, but barrels into the man, fists swinging. The man is knocked off balance and sprawls flat on his back. The woman doubles over, gasping, her long hair falling over her face. And she steps into the moonlight, choking, hands at her neck.
Dorotea!
Everything happens so quickly that it is only afterwards he can piece together the fragments, and even then, he is unsure of what exactly happened. It is a series of images, each like a photograph branded onto his memory: Dorotea coughing and retching, her hands at her throat. His own hand, reaching out for her – numb, as if it is not his own, as if this is not happening. The man launching himself at Cesare, landing punch after punch on his chest, face, skull. Cesare’s ears ringing with the sound, but, through the sound and the pummelling fists, the awareness that the man sitting on his chest is Angus MacLeod.
Then a final thud, which Cesare does not feel . . . and Angus slumps on top of him, as if, in the midst of punching, he has fallen asleep.
And, standing behind Angus, with a baton in her hand, is Constanza. She raises it to strike again, to bring it down on Angus’s skull.
‘Fermare!’ Cesare shouts, and then Dorotea cries, ‘Stop!’
Time slips back into itself, like a joint into a socket. Cesare crawls out from beneath MacLeod’s unconscious body and checks his pulse.
Alive.
Then he stands and pulls Dorotea to him. She is weeping.
‘He was just . . . He was there. I couldn’t –’ She chokes.
He strokes her hair. ‘You are hurt?’ He examines her throat, where there are faint bruises emerging, but no other marks. ‘He hurt you?’
And he takes the baton from Con and stares at Angus’s body. He lifts it.
‘Stop!’ Both women speak at the same time.