We knocked on the door. But not even a dog barked. The place seemed lifeless in the heat. We went on round the back where a dirt track wound along the banks of the stream to the Mancini farm just visible in its screen of trees about a kilometre away.
A rough vegetable patch sloped to the tree-lined banks of the stream. The sound of water was now mingled with the shriller sound of women’s voices. We continued down the dusty path until we could see the yellow pebble bed of the stream. A grey-haired peasant woman was kneeling down on an outcrop of shingle rubbing at clothes in the thin trickle of the stream.
Near her was the girl we had seen with the bullock cart, Her fair hair was tumbled over her eyes and she was washing the grey film of dirt off her feet. She had the drab skirt of her dress drawn up to her thighs and her limbs were whiter than those of any Italian girl I had seen.
She was laughing at a small sheep-dog that ran in and out of the water, barking for her to throw it stones.
Boyd and I stopped involuntarily on the bank and stared at her. But then the dog saw us and ran barking at the bank. She looked up and saw us — and the spell was gone.
I dropped down to the bed of the stream. She smoothed out her dress hurriedly and came hesitantly towards us. ‘Monique Dupont?’ I asked.
She stopped then and frowned in a puzzled way.
I repeated the question. ‘Are you Monique Dupont?’ I asked.
She opened her mouth as though to speak and then stopped it with her hand. Her eyes widened. She seemed incapable of speech.
I had no doubt in my mind then. And to tide her over the first shock of being enquired for, I told her briefly how her mother had written to me and how I had traced her from Naples to Itri and on to Percile. I spoke in English. And because her eyes remained wide and wondering, I knew that she understood. ‘You are Monique Dupont, aren’t you?’ I asked again.
She nodded and her lips framed a ‘Yes.’ She was standing very rigid, her whole body tensed so that her damp dress clung to her body making it clear that it was the only clothing she wore. Then suddenly her face crumpled and she began to cry. She sank down on the pebble bed, making no attempt to hide her face, but staring straight at me and crying silently so that the tears streamed down her cheeks without uttering a sound.
It was horrible.
I had never seen anyone cry because a miracle had happened before. She was crying because she was happy. It made me realize, more than words could have done, all that she had suffered.
I went over and sat down beside her on the shingle. She was sitting in a patch of sunlight and the pebbles were hot to the touch. But I didn’t notice it. I didn’t notice anything but that brown elfin face with the wide full mouth that was quivering now and the grey eyes that no longer looked hurt but were shining through a smother of tears.
I didn’t say anything. But at length she broke the silence. ‘I had almost given up hope of anybody coming. I prayed and prayed. And now you’ve come and everything is all right. I don’t know who you are, but thank you very much for coming.’ She spoke in English, haltingly as though it were a forgotten language. ‘What has happened to Daddy and Pierre?’
I told her and she nodded her head slowly. ‘But Mamma — she is all right, yes?’ I let her know as much as I thought she needed to know. Then she said something which hit me like a jab in the stomach. She said simply, ‘It will be lovely to see Mamma again, and England and France. I thought nobody would ever come for me — I prayed each day, many times.’ She was laughing through her tears.
I did not know what to say. Stuart would be furious. It would complicate everything.
She scooped up a handful of water and washed her face. As she dried her face on the hem of her dress, she was looking at me shyly, her grey eyes big and very bright. I just could not leave her here.
‘I was told you were naturalized,’ I said. ‘Is that correct?’
She nodded. ‘It doesn’t mean anything though. He made me sign. He said I could not stay unless I became an Italian. I did not see how signing a piece of paper made me an Italian. I am not like an Italian at all.’ She stared at me and I was silent. Her eyes gradually lost their brightness. ‘Does that make it difficult?’ she asked. ‘Can’t an Italian leave Italy?’
‘Look, Monique,’ I said. ‘I didn’t come to take you back to England. I came just to find out for your mother whether you were still alive and if you were all right.’
Her eyes dropped then, the long lids closing over them so that her face was a mask. She did not say anything for a moment and I knew that it was because she could not trust herself to speak. ‘I am sorry,’ she said at last. ‘I was being stupid.’ She sat for a moment clutching at a handful of pebbles so that the knuckles of her small brown hand, delicate as a pianist’s but ingrained with dirt and scarred with work, showed white through the tan. ‘Is it possible that it be arranged?’ Her voice trembled.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ I promised. I dared not commit myself further. I had no idea what the legal difficulties might be. ‘This man Mancini,’ I said, thinking of the scene by the ford. ‘The priest told me he was your guardian?’
She nodded. ‘He made Aunt Maria do it. He was determined to have me tied to him legally as well as through need. He said that if she didn’t agree, he’d turn me out and I could sell my body for the food I’d need.’
‘But why did he want you tied to him legally?’ I asked.
She flung back her hair from her eyes with a toss of her head and looked directly at me. ‘Because he’s a beast,’ she said.
‘You mean he beats you?’ I asked.
She laughed at that, and it was not a nice laugh in a young girl. ‘Yes, because he beats me. But he does not beat me because I have done something stupid or wrong. He beats me because he likes beating me. He wants me. But he won’t take me by force. To force me to lie with him would weaken his sense of power. He’ll only have me when I crawl to him on my hands and knees and kiss his feet and swear to be his slave, body and soul.’ The words poured from her, her face white and her voice scarcely above a whisper.
‘I have to tell you this,’ she went on, ‘so that you can realize how much it means to me to get away from Percile. He told me this the first time he beat me. He had me wait at table. And as I was serving him — there in front of his wife, he touched me. And when I drew back, he flew into a rage and sent me to my room. Then he came and flung me on the bed and beat me with a bamboo cane. I’m sorry to tell you, but — I’ve nobody else to tell. His wife — have you seen her? She hates me, poor thing. He has made life unbearable for her. He has had so many-girls in the village. And the priest ignores it because he is very dependent on Mancini for his living.’
‘Has he beaten you since then?’ I asked.
She nodded. “The least thing will send him into a rage. He hates me because I refuse to do what he wants. The last few times he has hit me standing until I have stripped off my clothes. Sometimes he waits a long time before beating me; just standing and looking at me. But he has never touched me since that first time.’
–
I sat for a moment, completely stunned by what she had told me. The sunlight seemed strangely brittle as a backcloth to the dark thread of her story. It seemed incredible. I was almost prepared to believe that she had made it up in order to persuade me to get her away from Fertile. Then I looked at her face again and saw those grey eyes fixed on me, unhappy because she had told me something that was shameful to her. And I remembered the impression of the primitive that Fertile had made on my mind.