Oh, these words, she thought, she who had learned poetry. She wanted to hear them again, and ran them around her mouth greedily, savouring them, devouring them.
‘For me too,’ she said, raising one hand, fingers open. ‘Somehow forever!’
He nodded; yes, she did remember.
‘Listen, I don’t want you to take any risks on my behalf,’ he said. ‘Promise me you won’t.’
‘I promise. But I want to help you… if I can.’
‘Just tell me. Where are the horses?’
‘The stables are right beside this tent. But watch out for the camels.’
‘Is my horse still here? She’s a chestnut Budyonny mare with a white blaze on her forehead and white socks.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are they guarded?’
‘Not at night.’
‘I need a weapon before I can go.’
‘A gun?’ She looked worried. ‘Montefalcone keeps all captured weapons in our arsenal, in the cottage next to the stables, but…’
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. Forget about the guns, please… But I must go in a few hours’ time.’
‘Can’t you stay one more day?’
‘I can’t risk that. I go tonight.’ He put his hand in hers. ‘Somehow forever.’
V
Darling Lioness,
I just want to kiss you again. On your lips, your neck, your shoulders. I want to smell your hair. You delight me…
Day Seven
I
True darkness in high summer does not come until very late, and Benya waited until it was well after midnight. He listened to his own heart ticking like a fuse and to the sounds of the village. Cats fighting, the camels nuzzing, scattered shots, planes overhead, Italians singing, horses whinnying – then just a hiss outside the tent. ‘Benya!’
He opened the flap and there was the white blaze of Silver Socks with Fabiana leading him. Socks searched for him, and Benya stroked her muzzle and kissed her neck.
‘Grazie mille,’ he said to Fabiana, ‘grazie mille.’ And Fabiana, now wearing light green Italian uniform with a bustina at a raffish angle on the back of her head, said the same thing to him and then he kissed her cheeks, three times Russian-style, and he could feel her, so warm and close to him, and he kissed her mouth, and she kissed him back and whispered:
‘Benya, you must strike me so…’
‘That’s not easy for me.’
‘Just hurry.’
He slapped her hard across the face and she flinched, and touched her lip.
‘OK.’ There was blood on her fingertip. ‘There’s food in the saddlebags. Go then. Go!’
Silver Socks skittered as he mounted, and he calmed her with a touch on the withers. He meant to say poetical things to Fabiana, to say ‘Somehow forever’, but he was too afraid to think of such things. Instead, without looking back, he kicked Socks into a canter and rode away, knowing that she would wait a while and then cry out: ‘Help!’ They’d agreed that she would say ‘the prisoner’ had knocked her over and escaped into the night. And would the Italians bother chasing one wounded Russian prisoner on the run? Unlikely.
He rode out across the rye fields, staying close to the hedges. In the dark, he could see the heads of a thousand sunflowers, lowered to the dark ground, waiting for the sun to rouse them, and beyond them, the steppes all the way to the Don. As he rode, he realized he had no weapon, not even a penknife to defend himself – just my fingernails, he thought, smiling grimly. He pulled Socks to a halt. Should he go back and steal a weapon – at least a sidearm so he could shoot himself rather than fall into the hands of Mandryka’s men? Indecision overcame him and he rubbed his forehead. He was not very good at this, not good at all. He had no idea where to go, or what to do.
He heard the thud of hooves coming across the fields. His heart scudded – they were chasing him already. He dismounted and stood in the shadows, listening, shaking. It sounded as though just one rider was following him. Was it Malamore? Or one of Mandryka’s Hiwis?
Then he heard the soft voice: ‘Benya, it’s me. Are you there?’
‘Here!’
Fabiana rode towards him on her palomino. ‘You took no weapons. I forgot to give you these.’ She handed over a Parabellum, a couple of grenades, a Papasha with the ammunition, and she had a rifle in her scabbard on the horse’s flank. ‘I didn’t know which to take.’
‘Thank you, but you stole too many. They’ll notice. Take the rest of these back, and hurry!’
‘OK,’ she said but she did not move.
‘I must ride on. I meant to say – I’ll never forget you, or what you’ve done for me, everything—’
‘Va bene,’ she whispered. ‘Somehow forever.’ And she made the extravagant gesture he was familiar with. Briskly he put the Parabellum in his belt, the PPSh over his shoulder, and the ‘zincs’ that held the ammunition for its drum-like magazine in his saddlebags, passing the rifle back to her. She slipped the rifle into her scabbard. He mounted Silver Socks and looked back at her.
Fabiana hadn’t moved. He turned Socks around. She was still there.
‘Right! Thank you. I must go, Fabiana, and you must go back right now. Vai subito! Arrivederci.’
She turned the palomino but in a circle and ended up closer to him. ‘You know, Il Primo, I can’t go back. Not now. You have your horse and your guns and you are gone. They will know and they will shoot me for treason.’
Benya absorbed this in a second: the Italians would presume he was taking a hostage; they would hunt them down; and probably they would die together. It was not what he had planned, but he knew she was right. In bringing him the weapons, she’d put herself in supreme danger. ‘So we ride together. But we must go now!’
The horses were nervous; Socks stamped; there were shouts from the village; lights were going on; and then the first shot rang out.
Benya leaned over and smacked the rump of her horse with his quirt. Violante reared up and almost bucked Fabiana off but she stayed on and then they were galloping. A volley of machine-gun fire thwanged over them and Benya could see muzzle flashes from the village and the pirts of dust on the ground rising from the impacts. A bullet chinged right off his stirrup. A searchlight cast a beam into the dark, seeking them. At this rate, they would shoot him like a dog. He seized her horse’s bridle and pulled Fabiana closer: ‘Stay next to me.’ The searchlight found them and suddenly Benya could see her clearly in boots and britches and khaki, the bustina on her tied-up hair – he thanked God she wasn’t wearing her snow-white nurse’s outfit – and he levelled the Papasha right at her, knowing the Italians could see her too, and sure enough, the voices cried out, ‘Fabiana!’ and then to him: ‘Let Fabiana go!’ But the shooting had stopped. They wouldn’t kill her, he knew this, when it was he they wanted.
Using Fabiana as a shield, he kicked both horses on until they were out of range and the moon was high on that silvery summer night, lighting up the high grasses and the sunflowers and the rye. And, all the time, there she was beside him, concentrating on the riding, spurring her palomino, dressed for this, and he realized that sometime that evening she had made a reckless decision and now they would both live with the consequences. There was a glint of something he hadn’t seen in her before, and sometimes, when he looked back at her, she smiled as she rode, her white teeth bright in the moonlight.