coming in on the midday boat.”
“I decided to swim back. It was easy, no current and warm water. St Nikola was quite dull. Sea urchins and Mediterranean pines all get a bit samey after a while,” she said.
“You mean one prick’s much like another,” della Torre said.
Rebecca cocked her eyebrow. “Something like that,” she said.
She took a towel out of a bag next to the senior della Torre, squeezed the water out of her hair, and then pulled on a long shirt.
“Shall we order some food?” Piero said.
When they got back to the house, della Torre decided on a shower and a siesta.
His skin was dripping when he shut the door from the hall to the little room behind him. With the shutters closed and a breath of cool air coming through the slats from the room next door, he was at last comfortable.
He threw himself on the single bed. The springs complained under his weight.
“So, did you get what you needed to do done this morning?”
She was speaking from her room, though he could hear her clearly through the louvred door.
“To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure what I was meant to be doing this morning,” he replied, hardly having to raise his voice above a normal tone.
“They sent you all the way from Zagreb but didn’t tell you what they wanted you to do?”
“No. I belong to the army now. So there’s going to be a lot more of this in my life.”
“Didn’t you ask?”
“Oh, I asked. They’ll probably send me back when they’ve remembered what they forgot to tell me. I don’t mind.”
There was a silence.
“You know, your picture doesn’t do you justice,” she said. “You’re even better looking in person.”
“Ummm. Thanks,” he said.
He was at a loss for which picture she could possibly be referring to. The only one on display in the house was the one his father had taken of him on his twelfth birthday. He was standing next to his mother at the university campus in Ohio where his father had taught. They’d been on their way to a restaurant for lunch, a rare treat. Or maybe coming back from it. It was his mother’s last photograph.
The only other possibility was that Rebecca had found a passport-sized snap somewhere in the room, the kind that was used for official documents.
“It’s pretty nice and cool in this room. Have you got air conditioning there?”
“It’s fine,” he said. His heart started to beat a little faster.
“Well, if you wanted to get a little . . . cooler, you’re welcome to join me.”
“Thanks,” he said and after a huge effort of will, he added: “But I think I’d better not.”
“If you change your mind . . .”
She stopped talking after that. But he heard her moving on the bed regularly and breathing in time. She made a sound like a suppressed cough. He lay there, willing Rebecca to say something to him. Eventually he spoke to her, but it was too late. She was asleep.
• • •
Della Torre woke early the next morning. On the way to the bathroom, he saw his father standing by an open window looking over the terrace, watching Rebecca. At first della Torre didn’t register what she was doing. It looked like a dance, like she was falling through the air in regular undulating movements punctuated by staccato jerks. Something modern. Sometimes she picked up a long stake for vines, using it as part of her choreographed movements.
“Does that every morning,” his father said with a gently mocking tone. “Like she’s Bruce Lee.”
Della Torre nodded. Tai chi and other martial arts were popular in the West as exercise. In London earlier that summer, he’d frequently seen people, especially young women, practising similar moves in the park on weekend mornings.
He knew a little about it. He’d had some training in martial arts during his time in the commandos. The men who’d taught him had themselves spent years learning their skills in North Korea. There was a whole cohort of Yugoslav commandos who’d been through combat
“I decided to swim back. It was easy, no current and warm water. St Nikola was quite dull. Sea urchins and Mediterranean pines all get a bit samey after a while,” she said.
“You mean one prick’s much like another,” della Torre said.
Rebecca cocked her eyebrow. “Something like that,” she said.
She took a towel out of a bag next to the senior della Torre, squeezed the water out of her hair, and then pulled on a long shirt.
“Shall we order some food?” Piero said.
When they got back to the house, della Torre decided on a shower and a siesta.
His skin was dripping when he shut the door from the hall to the little room behind him. With the shutters closed and a breath of cool air coming through the slats from the room next door, he was at last comfortable.
He threw himself on the single bed. The springs complained under his weight.
“So, did you get what you needed to do done this morning?”
She was speaking from her room, though he could hear her clearly through the louvred door.
“To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure what I was meant to be doing this morning,” he replied, hardly having to raise his voice above a normal tone.
“They sent you all the way from Zagreb but didn’t tell you what they wanted you to do?”
“No. I belong to the army now. So there’s going to be a lot more of this in my life.”
“Didn’t you ask?”
“Oh, I asked. They’ll probably send me back when they’ve remembered what they forgot to tell me. I don’t mind.”
There was a silence.
“You know, your picture doesn’t do you justice,” she said. “You’re even better looking in person.”
“Ummm. Thanks,” he said.
He was at a loss for which picture she could possibly be referring to. The only one on display in the house was the one his father had taken of him on his twelfth birthday. He was standing next to his mother at the university campus in Ohio where his father had taught. They’d been on their way to a restaurant for lunch, a rare treat. Or maybe coming back from it. It was his mother’s last photograph.
The only other possibility was that Rebecca had found a passport-sized snap somewhere in the room, the kind that was used for official documents.
“It’s pretty nice and cool in this room. Have you got air conditioning there?”
“It’s fine,” he said. His heart started to beat a little faster.
“Well, if you wanted to get a little . . . cooler, you’re welcome to join me.”
“Thanks,” he said and after a huge effort of will, he added: “But I think I’d better not.”
“If you change your mind . . .”
She stopped talking after that. But he heard her moving on the bed regularly and breathing in time. She made a sound like a suppressed cough. He lay there, willing Rebecca to say something to him. Eventually he spoke to her, but it was too late. She was asleep.
• • •
Della Torre woke early the next morning. On the way to the bathroom, he saw his father standing by an open window looking over the terrace, watching Rebecca. At first della Torre didn’t register what she was doing. It looked like a dance, like she was falling through the air in regular undulating movements punctuated by staccato jerks. Something modern. Sometimes she picked up a long stake for vines, using it as part of her choreographed movements.
“Does that every morning,” his father said with a gently mocking tone. “Like she’s Bruce Lee.”
Della Torre nodded. Tai chi and other martial arts were popular in the West as exercise. In London earlier that summer, he’d frequently seen people, especially young women, practising similar moves in the park on weekend mornings.
He knew a little about it. He’d had some training in martial arts during his time in the commandos. The men who’d taught him had themselves spent years learning their skills in North Korea. There was a whole cohort of Yugoslav commandos who’d been through combat
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