Death of an Englishman

  'That's us,' advised the Marshal's friend, who was a seasoned and ebullient traveller. He had seized everyone's water-bottles and forced a passing porter to fill them from the drinking fountain on the platform, saying, 'Do they think we're tourists who can pay a thousand lire a bottle for mineral water—do you know how much that would cost in two days?'

  'Express number 597, the 19.49, stopping at Roma, Napoli, Reggio Calabria, Siracusa and Palermo, is waiting at platform 10. Express number 597 …'

  'Waiting? Waiting for afternoon tea, no doubt …'

  'Passengers for Siracusa and Palermo …'

  People were still getting on the train, many of them standing, or sitting on their flimsy suitcases in the corridors. And all of them must have paid for seats.

  'Poor Italy,' agreed the talkative traveller, catching the Marshal's glance rolling in the direction of these unfortunates, 'you need patience, that's what you need. Look at that couple in the corner.'

  A diminutive pair, husband and wife, both grey-haired but it was difficult to tell their age.

  'You wouldn't believe how long they've been travelling to look at them. I only got on at Valenciennes but they've come down from Germany—he works there, I managed to find that much out—but they missed a connection somewhere and they hadn't the faintest idea what to do. I think they've spent at least one night sitting bolt upright, just like they are now, on some waiting-room bench. It's a hard life … and I bet you that when we put the lights out tonight they don't budge. They'll sit like that till they get to Reggio Calabria, that's where they come from, I got that out of them … Me, I like to make myself comfortable …'

  The Marshal didn't see how he was going to manage it. Their knees were jammed together and four large women separated them from the silent couple in the other corner.

  'And I know for a fact,' continued his friend in a whisper, 'that they've run out of food. I suppose they only brought just so much—they won't take any off me, I've offered …'

  The Marshal, too, had his loaf and a waxed paper full of black olives.

  'Express number 597 for Palermo is leaving platform 10. Eleven minutes late. Express number 597 …"

  'Could be worse … I suppose you're going to Palermo, same as me?'

  'Siracusa.'

  A man was pushing a rattling newspaper truck down the platform, calling out: 'Landslides in the South! Hundreds homeless for Christmas! Landslides …'

  The Marshal's hand went immediately to his breast pocket where his photographs were, but the man rattled past under their window shouting, 'Landslides! Landslides in Puglia, hundreds …' The Marshal's hand fell again. Doors were slamming all along the train. A whistle blew.

  'I want to show you something now.' His friend was opening up his wallet again as the train set off with a lurch, making the lights blink. But the Marshal's big eyes kept straying to the couple in the other corner. So many people lived on a knife edge, just managing to keep going, just managing to 'keep straight', but if anything went wrong, a missed train, a week without wages, for them it was a tragedy because they had no resources except their families who were as poor as themselves.

  The small, grey-haired man in the corner had that meek, patient expression … and his hair stood on end, too … his wife probably cut it for him. The sleeves of his suit were too short …

  The expression on Cipolla's face when he had left him …

  'Thank you, Marshal …'

  Why couldn't the two in the corner at least speak to each other? It was their dumb resignation that … and it was a threadbare suit too …

  'Is something the matter? Marshal? I haven't said anything that … ?'

  'No, no,' said the Marshal automatically, taking the proffered photograph in one hand and fishing out his dark glasses with the other. 'Nothing at all. It's just a complaint I have, an allergy. It's the sunshine starts it off …'

  And he bent over the photograph without noticing the other's amazed expression as he gaped from the Marshal's face to the window where the floodlit domes and towers of Florence were receding into the night.