Page 56 of Daughter of Genoa
‘Of course,’ I said. I was in a daze.
‘It’s probably best if you deal with it. Save me knowing anything I don’t need to know.’
She was already rummaging in the drawer where the matches were kept. I turned my head away. I couldn’t bear to see it destroyed: the card Massimo had made for me, the card that was to assure my future. He’d taken the photograph himself with a Ferrania box camera, the kind we used to have at home. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t. You do it, please. I trust you.’
‘Very well,’ Silvia said. I heard her rip the card into pieces. ‘I’m doing this without looking,’ she said, ‘just so you know—’ and then came the sound of the struck match and the flare of sulphur; there was a smell of paper burning and of something else, something sharp and unpleasantly chemical, before she turned on the tap to wash away the ashes. ‘There,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I had to do that. But I know you understand.’
‘I do,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
‘And now we’d better get moving,’ Silvia went on, her voice softening. ‘I know it’s terrible to say goodbye to him. I’m sure you’re feeling quite dreadful, but just stick it out for a few hours and we shall be home – or what Bernardo calls home – and you can weep as much as your heart requires. All right?’
I looked at her. She was standing and watching me, tilting her head in that way people do when they’re being sympathetic, and she was wearing her ordinary cotton skirt and blouse with a light coat and a pair of somewhat battered, comfortable shoes, her favourite big handbag slung over her shoulder. She looked just like she always did; and that was a problem, I realised. That was a very big problem indeed.
‘You’re not going like that,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’ Silvia looked down at herself, confused. ‘Have I got a stain? Cat hair? What is it?’
‘You look likeyou. Not that it’s a bad thing in itself,’ I added hastily, as her eyes widened. ‘But why would you and Bernardo be travelling with some unrelated Sicilian woman? Because that’s what I am, according to my papers. What will you say if the Germans stop us? We need some kind of story.’ My mind was coming thankfully alive, ticking through the possibilities. ‘I think I need to work for you. I could be a cook, or a… a maid. Yes, a maid. Can you dress up, do you think? Look the part of my employer?’
‘Oh. Yes, I suppose I can dig something out… I do have some nice things, though I really never wear them. I don’t quite feel like myself when I do. But then I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it? A bit of play-acting.’
‘Exactly. If you can bring yourself to be the imperious lady, order me about…’
‘…then you can just stay quiet, keep your head down and your mouth shut, and nobody will wonder about it. And it’s probably as well you do.’ Silvia shook her head. ‘I don’t think you’d pass for Sicilian, not for a moment. You sound about as Genoese as it’s possible to sound. But you’d better change, too,’ she said, eyeing my favourite blue-and-yellow dress. ‘You’ve got that white blouse, haven’t you, and there’s that grey skirt you hate. I should think that would do nicely for a uniform.’
‘Yes. Let’s both go and change – you tell Bernardo to do his best, too, and I shall meet you downstairs in a couple of minutes.’
‘It’s a plan,’ Silvia said.
When I was alone in my room, the reality of leaving Massimo came rushing in, and I had to pause for a moment and steady myself against the washstand. But I made myself force the feelings down, and concentrated on putting together my ‘uniform’. By the time I had got dressed, checked over my suitcase and taken another moment to compose myself, Bernardo and Silvia were waiting for me downstairs in the shop. The sight of them startled me so that I almost laughed.
Silvia was dressed as I’d never seen her before, not even for going to church. She had on an elegant summer suit with an extravagant brooch on the lapel; her hair was pinned up under rather a rakish hat, and she was wearing high-heeled shoes. As for Bernardo, he looked quite different in his three-piece suit with a fine silver pocket watch. Even his moustache looked polished and groomed. Tiberio’s basket sat by the door – I wondered if he, too, had been given some kind of adornment, an elegant collar or even a miniature necktie.
‘Let’s get going,’ Bernardo said, taking my suitcase from me and hefting the cat basket in his other hand. ‘If we walk smartly, we should be able to catch the next train up to Turin. The less hanging around we have to do, the better.’
‘Quite right.’ Silvia ushered me through the door and turned to lock up behind us. ‘We’ll take the steps. That will bring us practically to the back of Brignole station – see?’ She pointed to the steep, winding stone stairs that led off down the hill, just across the street, and then to the great, damaged roof of the station a little way off. ‘It’s much quieter that way. You just stick with me.’
‘All right,’ I said, and she took my arm and tucked it through hers. I was pathetically grateful. The last time I’d gone further than the air-raid shelter was when Vittorio had brought me here, the morning after the bombardment. Weeks, months ago now. I felt exposed, standing there with the sun shining down on me; no safe enclosing walls, no place to hide.
‘Come on then,’ Silvia said. ‘Sooner we’re off, sooner we’re there. Awfully commonplace, I know, but it’s true.’ From his carrier, Tiberio let out a soft meow, as if to agree.
I nodded and took a breath, the deepest breath I could manage. We crossed the road and began the long, steep climb downwards, among the ruins of Genoa.
*
Brignole station was full of people. I’d anticipated that, but I hadn’t anticipated how it would feel after a period of relative quiet. The crowds surging around me were unbearable, jostling against me, shouting – so it seemed – directly into my ear. No matter how firmly I told myself that this was good, that there was safety in numbers, I had to struggle with the urge to break away and run outside into the open air.
‘Stay strong, dear,’ Silvia said in an undertone. ‘Bernardo will be back with our tickets in just a moment, and then we shall be in a nice, civilised train compartment and all will be well with the world.’
But all wasn’t well. There was a soldier bearing down on us, a German. He was fair and red-cheeked with an angry scattering of pimples along his jawline, and I hated him – I hated all German soldiers, but I hated him specifically because I was quite sure that he’d picked us to intimidate, two harmless women standing there in the middle of the concourse with a suitcase and a cat in a basket. He stopped right in front of us, far too close, and held out his hand as if demanding tribute.
‘Papers,’ he said.
‘Well,really,’ Silvia said, drawing herself up. ‘A little courtesy wouldn’t go amiss.’
I was afraid for a second that the gamble wouldn’t come off; that the German would be provoked by Silvia’s show of indignation. But he wasn’t provoked, or didn’t seem it. He merely rolled his eyes and said: ‘Papers.Bitte.’
‘That’s better.’ Silvia opened her bag and brought out her identity card. She turned to me and gave me a sharp nudge with her elbow. ‘Come on, stupid girl. Show the young man your papers. You simply cannot get the help,’ she said to the German, who raised an eyebrow; I couldn’t tell whether he understood her, or had merely picked up on her tone. ‘Youri-den-ti-ty-card,’ she said, enunciating the words practically in my face as I rummaged in my own bag. ‘Honestly, I despair. I ask the agency for a housemaid, one fit for a respectable home, and this is what they send me. I shall have to send her back, ask for something with a brain in its head. These Sicilian girls are no good. And about time,’ she pronounced as I finally located my papers – they seemed to have slipped to the very bottom of my bag – and presented them to the German with shaking hands. ‘You’re hopeless, that’s what you are, Marta. Quite, quite hopeless. I really must apologise for her, young man. She’s making your important work very difficult, I’m sure.’
