Nicolette shrugged. “Fine. Just don’t touch anything.”
Conti nodded but didn’t meet her eyes. As the three women picked their way down the slick linoleum floors of the hallway, Dorothy heard him call after them, “Spero che cadete e vi spezzate il collo.”
“The Italian language is beautiful, isn’t it?” she said to the other two.
She didn’t understand what he’d said: I hope you all fall and snap your necks. Just before he closed the door to mop the last bit of floor tile, he reached up and pocketed two brown glass bottles of morphine.
Chapter Eight
Nicolette had left the hospital and was riding her bicycle through the smudged dawn to Clerkenwell, tiny black hat perched on her head, pink cape flying behind her. Once she reached the steep and narrow streets of the Hill, she dismounted. With the bomb craters and rubble, it was too rough to ride, so she navigated the twisting streets on foot, pushing the bicycle.
While Clerkenwell had once been the neighborhood of Dickens’s Fagin and the Artful Dodger, it was now the unofficial “Little Italy” of London, known by the Britalians who lived there as Il Quartiere, or the Quarter. It was a working-class neighborhood, full of modest buildings with bleached white doorsteps and scrubbed windows. The sandbagged newsstand displayed the morning’s papers, and Nicolette stopped to look.
She picked up a copy of The Daily Enquirer and began to page through. Italian troops continued to evacuate from the Soviet Union. Alfred Hitchcock’s film Shadow of a Doubt was opening soon. And, of course, there was a new piece by Boris Jones: ANOTHER SUITCASE OF BONES! Police Have No Leads as Jimmy Greenteeth Terrorizes City.
The newsstand’s owner frowned over his half-moon spectacles, trimmed eyebrows knitting together. “Are you going to read it ’ere or buy it, ma’am?” He was a small man, with cottony white hair escaping from a tweed cap, and his English was tinged with rolling Italian r’s and long vowels.
“I’ll take it,” she said, handing over a coin. She folded the tabloid paper and tucked it under her arm before she resumed pushing her bicycle along.
The early morning hush was punctured by the sounds of hammering and lilting male voices speaking Italian as buildings were being repaired. There was the underlying cluck of chickens kept in back gardens and the occasional goat’s bleat. Children were already up and out of the flats, playing Guardie e Ladri—Cops and Robbers.
Shops lining the main streets sold plaster statues of the Resurrected Jesus, the Madonna, and St. Joseph. There were offices of terrazzo specialists, as well as glassblowers, plasterers, and mosaic ceramicists—empty now because of war work. Gasparo’s Sweet Shoppe had closed due to sugar rationing, with a sign declaring, BACK SOON AS WE BEAT HITLER! But the Lombardi Club, with its bocce lanes and bathtub grappa, was still doing a brisk business. The barber had a sign covering Barberia Italiana that assured: “This firm is entirely British.”
A frail, bent-over woman dressed from head to toe in black called, “Sto arrivando! Sto arrivando!”
Another, leaning heavily on her cane, snapped, “Aspettami, arrivo!”
As the bells of St. Peter’s tolled, a bobby with a buttoned blue tunic and black bowler hat with chin strap stopped in front of the two women. “Speak English!” he bellowed. At worst, Italians were considered by the English to be halfway between Caucasian and Negro—racially inferior, primitive, and prone to crime and vengeance over trivial slights. At best, they were thought of as a superstitious, ignorant, emotional, and melodramatic people, obsessed with food.
“My mother is old,” the younger of the two said in a perfect cockney accent, only her rolling r’s giving her away. “She used to speak English, but now she’s forgotten it. She’s ninety-seven, after all!”
The officer was unmoved. “Well, she’s in England now—the least she can do is speak English.”
Nicolette pushed her bicycle up to the officer. “They aren’t talking to you, sir. And, as you can see, they speak English perfectly well.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I could report them. Maybe they’re spies!”
“A nonna and her daughter on their way to morning mass?” She shook her head.
The officer, his face red, was about to retort but then took a long look at Nicolette—English and respectable—and decided to move on.
“I’m sorry,” Nicolette told the women.
“It’s all right,” the younger reassured her. “Thank you.”
“Grazie,” the older woman offered.
“Prego,” Nicolette replied, moving off. There was a young man sitting on a folding chair in front of his stoop, smoking a cigarillo. Crutches leaned against the armrest, and his trouser leg was neatly tailored to fit around the stump. The sharp scent of tobacco cut the thick morning air. “Good morning, Mr. Russo!”
He nodded and smiled up at her. “Good morning, Mrs. Quinn.”
“I have something for you.” Surreptitiously, she drew a vial of morphine from her pocket and handed it to him.
“God bless you, dear.” As there was no doctor in Clerkenwell, she’d taken it upon herself to be the de facto medic of the neighborhood.
“Make it last,” she warned him. “I don’t know when I can get more.”
Finally she reached her building, leaned her bicycle against the wall, and straightened her hat. A sign on Café Mela Rossa’s door read PLEASE HAVE IDENTITY CARDS FOR INSPECTION. When she pushed it open, the silver bells jangled, and her nostrils flared as she inhaled the aroma of yeast and soft rising dough. She was greeted by Maria Tucci, the matriarch of the family, who worked at the restaurant, her large brown eyes rimmed in kohl, an enamel cross at her neck. “Buongiorno, Mrs. Quinn.”
“Good morning, Maria,” Nicolette said, her own eyes pink from lack of sleep. “I’d like a cup of tea and my ‘pig food,’ if you please.”
It was a joke between them, for while the Tuccis thought of oatmeal as food fit only for barnyard animals, Maria would always make a special bowl for her landlady’s breakfast. “Tea and pig food, coming right up!” Maria replied, throwing a dish towel over one shoulder and walking back to the kitchen, round hips swaying. “With apples and cinnamon, just the way you like!”
Nicolette owned the property, a three-story building with a storefront. She had inherited the building upon her mother’s death, renting out the storefront and the upper-floor flats, and choosing to live in the garden apartment.
The Ward Sister sighed as she sat at one of the tables by the windows, a shaft of light falling upon her papers. One of the panes was covered by plywood; it had been smashed in an anti-Italian riot on June 10, 1940, the day Italy declared war on Great Britain.
Opening the newspaper, Nicolette settled in, spreading her cape in a circle around her. But before she began reading, she opened one of the taped windows. A few of the other patrons glared. She knew they feared drafts—the colpo d’aria, or punch of air, was considered dangerous, causing anything from a cold to paralysis. But she was a nurse and insisted on proper ventilation.
On the back walls were framed official photographs of King George and Winston Churchill, as well as one of Pope Pius XII, which Maria had insisted on hanging. In a corner was a makeshift altar, a small table holding a plaster statue of the Madonna, wrapped in a blue cloak, along with a small funeral card of St. Joseph, a dried palm leaf, and a small chipped porcelain cherub.
A young, sleepy-faced woman sat at a rickety table in the window, nursing coffee and reading The Catholic Times. In the back corner, a group of four white-haired men drank espresso and played Terziglio with worn cards. Over the wireless, a soprano singing “In questa reggia” from Turandot could be heard. A young veteran, his face mottled with scars, was sipping cappuccino from a ceramic cup. In front of him was the morning’s project: removing the leftover tobacco from the stubs of old cigarettes, pouring it out onto fresh paper, then rolling it into a ne
w one.
When Maria brought Nicolette’s oatmeal and tea, the nurse looked up at her. “Do you have time for a reading?” she asked.
Maria’s face fell and her hand went to touch the cross, but she replied, “Of course—let me get my cards.” She returned with her well-worn deck, the Spanish-style tarot cards used throughout southern Italy, their bold artwork reminiscent of woodblock prints. Maria sorted the cards, then tapped three times on the deck before she shuffled the cards, to “clean” them. When she was finished, she asked Nicolette to choose three cards: one for the past, one for the present, and one for the future.
Outside, the children had begun to congregate before school. From the open window came the sweet sound of their voices:
Sing, sing, oh, what can I sing?
Mary Ann Cotton is tied up with string.
Where, where? Up in the air,
Sellin’ black puddings a penny a pair.
Nicolette’s hand hesitated over the deck spread out on the table, then she chose three cards quickly. She handed them to Maria, who placed them in a row in front of her. The past was represented by the reversed High Priestess, the present by the Devil, and the future by the Three of Swords. Maria’s face paled as she interpreted the inauspicious meanings.
Nicolette looked around, then whispered, “You know I don’t care about the silly cards. Am I still expecting a guest?”
Maria scooped the cards up and began to shuffle again. “Yes, he’ll be there on the ninth.”
“Remember—he’ll need as much cash as possible, jewelry sewn into his clothes, and all the photos for his documents. I’ll give him his necessary vaccinations and finish up the paperwork, and then someone will arrive to pick him up and take him.”
Maria nodded. “Is that all?”
“Yes.” As Nicolette turned back to her tea, Maria left, again hastily making the sign of the cross.
The young woman sitting near the window put a few coins down on the table, then picked up her newspaper and handbag. She approached Nicolette. “Mrs. Quinn,” she said in a low voice. “I hope you don’t mind—but I wanted to show you this.” From her pocketbook, she pulled out a letter. The stationery was from the Alvear Palace Hotel in Buenos Aires. She passed it to the nurse. Made it through Marseilles and Casablanca, the spiky handwriting read. Now in Argentina. Come meet me here as soon as you can. All my love, Angelo.
Nicolette handed the letter back and appraised the girl. “When do you want to meet him?”
“I have my fifth-grade class to think about. I want to make sure there’s a good substitute teacher before I leave.”
“Don’t wait too long, love,” Nicolette warned her in sugary tones. “I hear the ladies in Argentina are molto belle.”
Chapter Nine
A high-pitched scream pierced the early morning air.
Maggie froze, then ripped off her satin sleep mask, blinked and focused. She looked at her clock—it was a little before seven.
There was another cry, wild and ragged, coming from down the hall. She reached for the kitchen knife she kept hidden under her mattress. Her nerves were taut as she strained to hear something, anything, more. There was the sound of wailing and then a male voice shouting in anger.
The noise was coming from Chuck’s room. Knife in her right hand, Maggie tiptoed barefoot down the hall with cold feet and banged at the door with the left. “Chuck? What’s going on in there?”
Through the closed door, she heard choking gasps and cries, then another shriek and a crash. She tried the knob, but it was locked. Again, she banged a fist against the thick wood. “What’s going on?” She rattled the brass knob. “Chuck? Are you all right?”
Maggie heard a muffled “I’m fine—we’re fine.” There was more conversation, some movement, and then the door burst open. Nigel, tie askew, jacket unbuttoned, and laces untied, pushed by, causing Maggie to stumble backward and catch herself against the opposite wall. His eyes didn’t meet hers as he turned to stomp down the stairs. The noise woke Griffin, sleeping in the nursery across the hall, and the boy began to cry.
Hiding the knife behind her back, Maggie went to Chuck. She was pulling a blue polka-dot bathrobe over a negligee and smelled of sleep, sex, and last night’s gin. She pushed past Maggie to get to her son, reaching into the cradle and picking up Griffin. “It’s all right, darling,” she cooed, pressing back sobs. “Everything’s all right. Everything’s all right…”
Both women jumped at the sound of the front door slamming, and then silence. Eventually, Griffin began to settle. “Is everything all right?” Maggie asked gently. “Are you?”
Chuck turned to face Maggie, holding her son in her arms. Her curly chestnut-brown hair was wild, as were her eyes. “I said I’m fine.”
Maggie was unconvinced. “I heard screaming—”
Chuck’s consonants were clipped. “Nigel had a nightmare. That’s all.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Maggie saw Chuck wasn’t ready to talk. “I’ll get dressed and go downstairs and make some tea,” she said.
Chuck nodded, looking relieved to change the subject. “Let me get His Nibs settled back down and I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
Maggie returned the knife to her mattress, hands shaking. She pulled on her old tartan flannel robe and pushed her feet into fuzzy slippers. Outside, the hazy sun was higher in the mackerel sky, the air cold, the grass and shrubs of the garden covered in a fine mist. She closed the window.
The morning light reflected off the russet fur of Reynard, the taxidermied fox her friend Quentin had given her after their stay in Scotland. “What a morning,” she muttered. The fox merely regarded her with his glassy black eyes. It had been a rough night as well. Despite the gin, or maybe because of it, Maggie had remained awake far past midnight, turning restlessly from side to side, wanting to sleep, to sleep and not to dream. Her tossing had driven away K, who left to prowl downstairs. But toward morning she had fallen into a restive slumber, visited by her half sister, Elise, in strangely vivid dreams. Elise had grasped her hand and tried to pull her from bed. “It’s not safe here,” she’d whispered. “It’s not safe for you.” But all Maggie had wanted to do was sleep. When Elise had persisted, she’d cried out, “Leave me alone!”
A few birds chirped in the trees now, and from below Maggie could hear the clucking of Chuck’s brood of Black Rock chickens. She threw open the window, suddenly desperate for fresh air. She rested her hands on the ledge, puddles of dew pillowing her palms like blisters.
Finally, she crushed out the cigarette and went to the bathroom to check on the stockings and underthings she’d washed out in the sink, then hung to dry the night before. Bloody hell, she thought. Everything was still soft, damp, unwearable. If the weather doesn’t break, they’ll start to mold and mildew soon. She looked in the mirror. Her hair was still in the tight braids she’d worn the night before—a little frizzy now, but presentable.
Maggie groped her way down the stairs in the dark. In the kitchen, she took down the blackout curtains, revealing windows crisscrossed with thick tape. Outside was a jungle of overgrown shrubs and the now-unused Anderson shelter, made of rounded corrugated metal and covered in earth and the last of the winter’s snow. And then there were the victory gardens Chuck had planted and tended. The earth had been turned, the previous year’s stalks cleared away, and neat rows dug. Recently, Chuck had also built a red chicken coop and brought in three hens—LaVerne, Maxene, and Patty—named after the singers in her favorite group, the Andrews Sisters.
Maggie walked to the stove and turned the burner on, orange flames springing up under the dented kettle. K, who’d been sleeping in Chuck’s oval-shaped wicker shopping basket, rose and stretched his spine in an arch, then jumped down and strode over to Maggie with a loud “Meh!” He began to purr, rubbing his carroty head with its one s
carred ear against Maggie’s leg.
“You know you’re not supposed to be on the countertop, Fur Face,” she said, bending down to stroke his head and then scratch under his chin. “Or in the shopping basket. Chuck just made a new lining, after all.”
“Meh,” K pronounced again, his purrs rumbling even louder.
“Well, don’t let her catch you, then,” Maggie admonished, giving his head a final pat. “I’ll fix your breakfast.”
She put down food for the cat. When the kettle began to whistle, she turned off the burner. She set the Brown Betty teapot and two mugs on the scarred kitchen table. Then she sat, waiting in the chill air for the tea to steep. It was quiet, with the sound of the wind blowing through bare branches, birdsong, and the cat eating. Most days Maggie would have found it peaceful, but the silence was unnerving after the events of the morning.
Nicholas Reitter’s execution is scheduled a week from today, she realized. He has a hundred and sixty-eight hours of life left. She looked up at the black hands of the kitchen clock. It was exactly seven. She corrected herself. If the execution is at noon, he has a hundred and seventy-three hours left. Ten thousand three hundred and eighty minutes. Six hundred twenty-two thousand and eight hundred seconds….What a strange and morbid sort of math problem to be doing. I used to think numbers were dispassionate, emotionless even, she thought.
Taking a wrinkled apple from the bowl and biting into it, she turned on the wireless for distraction, hearing only static. Twisting the dial, she finally found music—Harry James’s Orchestra playing a fox-trot and Helen Forrest singing, “He’s My Guy.”
The trumpets swooned as Maggie poured her tea. She blew on it, her heart still thumping. Looking around the kitchen, she was struck by all the food and cooking terms related to anger: Someone “simmers” or “stews” before “boiling over.” Someone needs to “cool off” or “put a lid” on it. Arguments leave a “bad taste in the mouth.” People “bite their tongues,” “eat their words,” and “swallow their pride.”
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