shared. Poor cow, didn’t even have a home of her own. What kind of a man went on living under his mama’s roof after he tied the knot? Yeah, Mama had gone all hysterical when Vittore took Maria for a bride; there’d been tears, heart murmurs, all that crap – but a real man wouldn’t have caved in and thrown her a sop by promising to go on living here with her.
‘Hey, Maria,’ he greeted her, wishing she hadn’t come out at this precise moment. He had lots to do today, and he always found his brother’s wife incredibly dull. He liked vibrant, chatty women, and that wasn’t Maria at all. She was pretty and she had a dynamite body, all hot curves and that great fall of black hair, but she had no conversation whatsoever.
Then he saw her face, the bruise on her cheek, the eye-socket above it turning black. Maria clutched her robe closed at the neck, shrinking back against the door she’d just come through.
‘Wow! What happened to you?’ he asked, half-smiling.
‘Nothing,’ she said, her gaze averted.
‘It don’t look like nothing.’
‘I fell over, it was stupid of me. I hit my face on the fireplace.’
‘Ah. Well, be more careful. You want to put something on that, take down the swelling,’ said Fabio cheerfully, thinking that robe revealed more than it concealed, and he was right: she had a great body.
‘Maria!’ It was Mama, appearing in the kitchen doorway, her voice like the crack of a whip.
Vittore saw Maria literally shrink back.
‘Isn’t it time you got dressed? And what happened to your face?’ asked Bella.
‘She fell over,’ said Fabio, since Maria appeared to have been struck dumb.
‘That was careless.’ Bella made a shooing motion. ‘Go on, Maria, get dressed, I need a hand in here . . .’
As Bella bustled off into the kitchen, Fabio’s eyes met Maria’s. He thought she looked like a whipped dog. But she wasn’t his concern.
‘I’ll catch you later,’ he called over his shoulder as he headed out the front door.
‘Where’s Fabby?’ asked Bella, reappearing in the kitchen doorway a moment later.
‘He went out,’ said Maria.
‘That boy!’ tutted Bella, before turning impatiently to her daughter-in-law. ‘What are you doing, still standing there? Get some clothes on, hurry up.’
Maria retreated to her own small section of the house, closed the door and leaned against it. If only she’d married Fabio instead of Vittore – she wouldn’t be living in this place, that much was certain.
24
Naples, 1946
After baby Fabio’s arrival, the old safe Italy had been blasted into smithereens. The beginning of the end had come last year, when Mussolini, Il Duce, had been captured by the communists, the fucking partisans. Il Duce had been tried, killed and then his corpse strung up in Milan, with his mistress and colleagues hanging at his side.
The war was over now, but the devastation remained. Poverty stalked the streets, a poverty so extreme that even the fish in the aquarium, rare expensive species that had been kept safe for years, were hauled out and eaten. Orphans and scugnizzi – the children who lived in the gutters of Napoli – hustled into restaurants and were thrown hunks of bread if they were lucky, maybe a dollop of the soft cheese they made on Vesuvius, the one with lamb’s intestines added.
Astorre’s family had come through the war relatively unscathed. He had managed to avoid being drafted into the army, and he’d kept Tito, who was now a strapping twenty-one-year-old, out of it, too, though it had taken all his remaining influence and that of any contacts still breathing to achieve this. But with the partisans in control his position was dangerously vulnerable, even though he’d had the sense to withdraw from the deposed Fascist Party.
At any moment Astorre expected a heavy knock at the door, to be marched outside and shot, then deposited in a shallow grave. His only defence was to move his family out of their home in town to a hovel in the
‘Hey, Maria,’ he greeted her, wishing she hadn’t come out at this precise moment. He had lots to do today, and he always found his brother’s wife incredibly dull. He liked vibrant, chatty women, and that wasn’t Maria at all. She was pretty and she had a dynamite body, all hot curves and that great fall of black hair, but she had no conversation whatsoever.
Then he saw her face, the bruise on her cheek, the eye-socket above it turning black. Maria clutched her robe closed at the neck, shrinking back against the door she’d just come through.
‘Wow! What happened to you?’ he asked, half-smiling.
‘Nothing,’ she said, her gaze averted.
‘It don’t look like nothing.’
‘I fell over, it was stupid of me. I hit my face on the fireplace.’
‘Ah. Well, be more careful. You want to put something on that, take down the swelling,’ said Fabio cheerfully, thinking that robe revealed more than it concealed, and he was right: she had a great body.
‘Maria!’ It was Mama, appearing in the kitchen doorway, her voice like the crack of a whip.
Vittore saw Maria literally shrink back.
‘Isn’t it time you got dressed? And what happened to your face?’ asked Bella.
‘She fell over,’ said Fabio, since Maria appeared to have been struck dumb.
‘That was careless.’ Bella made a shooing motion. ‘Go on, Maria, get dressed, I need a hand in here . . .’
As Bella bustled off into the kitchen, Fabio’s eyes met Maria’s. He thought she looked like a whipped dog. But she wasn’t his concern.
‘I’ll catch you later,’ he called over his shoulder as he headed out the front door.
‘Where’s Fabby?’ asked Bella, reappearing in the kitchen doorway a moment later.
‘He went out,’ said Maria.
‘That boy!’ tutted Bella, before turning impatiently to her daughter-in-law. ‘What are you doing, still standing there? Get some clothes on, hurry up.’
Maria retreated to her own small section of the house, closed the door and leaned against it. If only she’d married Fabio instead of Vittore – she wouldn’t be living in this place, that much was certain.
24
Naples, 1946
After baby Fabio’s arrival, the old safe Italy had been blasted into smithereens. The beginning of the end had come last year, when Mussolini, Il Duce, had been captured by the communists, the fucking partisans. Il Duce had been tried, killed and then his corpse strung up in Milan, with his mistress and colleagues hanging at his side.
The war was over now, but the devastation remained. Poverty stalked the streets, a poverty so extreme that even the fish in the aquarium, rare expensive species that had been kept safe for years, were hauled out and eaten. Orphans and scugnizzi – the children who lived in the gutters of Napoli – hustled into restaurants and were thrown hunks of bread if they were lucky, maybe a dollop of the soft cheese they made on Vesuvius, the one with lamb’s intestines added.
Astorre’s family had come through the war relatively unscathed. He had managed to avoid being drafted into the army, and he’d kept Tito, who was now a strapping twenty-one-year-old, out of it, too, though it had taken all his remaining influence and that of any contacts still breathing to achieve this. But with the partisans in control his position was dangerously vulnerable, even though he’d had the sense to withdraw from the deposed Fascist Party.
At any moment Astorre expected a heavy knock at the door, to be marched outside and shot, then deposited in a shallow grave. His only defence was to move his family out of their home in town to a hovel in the
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