supplication.
But all of them only stood there, staring. Suspicious, hostile, wondering. I had frightened their children, I had brought commotion into their quiet. Also the filthy, scarecrow figure I made by then cannot have looked quite human, and there is a terrible, world-wide delusion that that is just what foreigners are. Not quite people, not like oneself, ourselves.
I tried to pull myself together, to speak calmly. “Does anyone here understand English? Even a few words of it? I need help— aita. Por favore —please!”
Everywhere in Florence there had been people who spoke English. I had been told that even in the smaller towns, there was always someone who had been to America, or who had worked in the cities, and picked up a few words of it. Mrs. Harris must have been wrong; even in this tiny mountain hamlet, there must be someone who could understand that I was in trouble, needed help.
But they only stood and stared. Some eyes narrowed a little, puzzled; that was all.
I tried again. “My husband is hurt. Mio marito— aita. And someone is following me. I’m afraid. Afraid!”
I shouldn’t have said that last; it let the note of panic creep back into my voice. Made me seem outside reason again, like a wild animal that would be dangerous if it could.
I said loudly—why is it always so easy to behave as if foreigners were deaf? “Mio marito! Aita! Aita! (My husband! Help! Help!)” If only I had known some word for “hurt” or “injured.”
Still no answer, only that wall of watchful faces. I wanted to batter it with my hands, as I might have battered a real wall. I had tried so hard to reach them, and now that I was here among them, I could not. The gulf of language yawned between us, impassable.
I lost control of myself and screamed at them. “English! English! English! Go get somebody who understands it! Please. Please!”
Still they only stood there, their faces hard, uncomprehending, like those of people on a frieze. To them I was only making unintelligible noises, as a maddened animal might.
The voice came from behind me then, speaking Italian. Quietly, reassuringly—I could not understand the words, but I understood the tone. Something else about that voice, a man’s voice, made my heart stand still. I could not believe my ears.
All those carving-like faces were breaking up into humanity, into smiles and friendliness. They were moving, the people were making way for someone who was coming. I swung round to see.
I couldn’t believe my eyes either. He couldn’t be there; it must be someone else. He was very near; some people were smiling at him and speaking to him. Plainly they knew him; and I didn’t have to know their language to know what they were thinking: Here is someone who will know what to do.
He was beside me now, he smiled and spoke to me, he tried to lay his hand on my arm, but I jerked away from him.
He said in English, very gently and kindly, as if he were saying the friendliest thing in the world, “Did you think you could get away, you fool? Outwit me here, in my own hills?”
I suppose I did the worst possible thing then. I shrieked, neither in English, nor in Italian. The cry came from a level of consciousness too deep, too primitive, for language.
He grabbed me. I was in his arms, twisting, scrabbling, scratching, trying to claw his face. I must have looked completely mad. No villagers anywhere in the world would have tried to stop what he did then.
Floriano’s fist darting towards my jaw and Floriano’s beautiful, smiling face behind it, those were the last things I saw before the world went out in a shower of stars.
Chapter VII
arkness, creaking, jolting darkness. Something pricked me when I moved; whatever I was lying on was rough. Where was I?
Then Floriano’s beautiful face burned through the darkness, vivid as if it were still there before me. Telling me again what it had told me in that last terrible moment. I bit my lips until they
But all of them only stood there, staring. Suspicious, hostile, wondering. I had frightened their children, I had brought commotion into their quiet. Also the filthy, scarecrow figure I made by then cannot have looked quite human, and there is a terrible, world-wide delusion that that is just what foreigners are. Not quite people, not like oneself, ourselves.
I tried to pull myself together, to speak calmly. “Does anyone here understand English? Even a few words of it? I need help— aita. Por favore —please!”
Everywhere in Florence there had been people who spoke English. I had been told that even in the smaller towns, there was always someone who had been to America, or who had worked in the cities, and picked up a few words of it. Mrs. Harris must have been wrong; even in this tiny mountain hamlet, there must be someone who could understand that I was in trouble, needed help.
But they only stood and stared. Some eyes narrowed a little, puzzled; that was all.
I tried again. “My husband is hurt. Mio marito— aita. And someone is following me. I’m afraid. Afraid!”
I shouldn’t have said that last; it let the note of panic creep back into my voice. Made me seem outside reason again, like a wild animal that would be dangerous if it could.
I said loudly—why is it always so easy to behave as if foreigners were deaf? “Mio marito! Aita! Aita! (My husband! Help! Help!)” If only I had known some word for “hurt” or “injured.”
Still no answer, only that wall of watchful faces. I wanted to batter it with my hands, as I might have battered a real wall. I had tried so hard to reach them, and now that I was here among them, I could not. The gulf of language yawned between us, impassable.
I lost control of myself and screamed at them. “English! English! English! Go get somebody who understands it! Please. Please!”
Still they only stood there, their faces hard, uncomprehending, like those of people on a frieze. To them I was only making unintelligible noises, as a maddened animal might.
The voice came from behind me then, speaking Italian. Quietly, reassuringly—I could not understand the words, but I understood the tone. Something else about that voice, a man’s voice, made my heart stand still. I could not believe my ears.
All those carving-like faces were breaking up into humanity, into smiles and friendliness. They were moving, the people were making way for someone who was coming. I swung round to see.
I couldn’t believe my eyes either. He couldn’t be there; it must be someone else. He was very near; some people were smiling at him and speaking to him. Plainly they knew him; and I didn’t have to know their language to know what they were thinking: Here is someone who will know what to do.
He was beside me now, he smiled and spoke to me, he tried to lay his hand on my arm, but I jerked away from him.
He said in English, very gently and kindly, as if he were saying the friendliest thing in the world, “Did you think you could get away, you fool? Outwit me here, in my own hills?”
I suppose I did the worst possible thing then. I shrieked, neither in English, nor in Italian. The cry came from a level of consciousness too deep, too primitive, for language.
He grabbed me. I was in his arms, twisting, scrabbling, scratching, trying to claw his face. I must have looked completely mad. No villagers anywhere in the world would have tried to stop what he did then.
Floriano’s fist darting towards my jaw and Floriano’s beautiful, smiling face behind it, those were the last things I saw before the world went out in a shower of stars.
Chapter VII
arkness, creaking, jolting darkness. Something pricked me when I moved; whatever I was lying on was rough. Where was I?
Then Floriano’s beautiful face burned through the darkness, vivid as if it were still there before me. Telling me again what it had told me in that last terrible moment. I bit my lips until they
Similar Books
