Between Two Mountains - 10. Chapter 10

At the same time as Cosmo was climbing the winding steps for his morning at the Villa Cimbrone with Luca and Emilia, Marco was coaxing his new mountain bike up the last of the roads to the highest point of Scala. It had been a long, demanding climb in the morning sun, and Marco had taken it gently, pausing for regular rest breaks. The last thing he wanted was to arrive at Giorgio’s place all hot and sweaty.

Get a grip, Marco. He’s a full year younger than you! Are you REALLY worried about looking good for a fourteen-year-old kid?

But the younger boy had made his feelings clear, even if he was visibly unsure what to do about it. And to have someone crushing on you, it was… powerful. Marco had been unable to get the thought out of his head, and he had responded to it almost unconsciously. His mind had begun taking him to places. Places he hadn’t expected.

After a while, he coasted to a halt in the centre of Campidoglio, the highest hamlet of Scala, where there was a viewpoint with a couple of benches overlooking the valley. He dismounted for a final rest and a quick drink of water; he would walk the final stretch to Giorgio’s house once he had cooled off a bit. There was no shade at the viewpoint, and the morning sun beat down mercilessly, so Marco flicked a few droplets from his water bottle onto his forehead. He felt them begin to cool him at once.

From where he was standing, the terraces and villas of Scala slipped down into the depths of the valley. On the far side, Ravello lay spread-eagled along its mountain ridge with the blue horizon stretched out behind it. A few swifts soared past, screeching shrilly.

It had been a strange weekend. The attack on Pietro had cast a shadow over the shopping trip with his foster parents, which had been an unusually quiet and subdued affair. Angelo, in particular, had been distracted, lacking his usual spark and humour. Gianni had stepped into the breach, working to cheer him up throughout the day without resorting to insensitive flippancy, but it wasn’t until the evening, after Angelo had finally been able to speak to his older brother on the phone, that the usual warmth and light had begun to return to his eyes. Everything, it seemed, was going to be alright.

As for Marco, he was troubled by his suspicions about who was responsible. Cosmo, apparently, was innocent of any direct wrongdoing. But, when Valentina Forza had interviewed Marco, he had felt obliged to tell her what he knew about the time Cosmo had been spending with his girlfriend from Salerno. There were bound to be consequences.

What would Giorgio say if he knew I’d put the Carabinieri onto his sister?

It was hard to call. Giorgio seemed to have no great love for Elisabetta; he had been quick to turn away from her way of doing things when Marco had offered him something better, and Marco had even seen him defend his uncle Maurizio against her cruel words. But if Marco’s actions threatened to take her away from him completely? That might be a different matter.

Marco turned away from the valley and began to wheel his bike up a side turning just above the viewpoint. From the way Giorgio had described it, the house was just a short distance beyond the hairpin bend at the top of the first incline.

Marco’s legs were already tired, and it was hard going. He was disheartened to see that the climb appeared to continue beyond the corner. His new friend really couldn’t have picked a higher place to end up living; even the houses at Monte, on the far side of the valley, could barely compete for altitude.

Marco was about halfway up the second incline when a scratched and battered old silver Vespa scooter came barrelling down the narrow road at speed, and he was forced to dive into a gap between the parked cars to avoid being hit. He raised a hand to shout a suitable protest after the retreating rider, but then he saw her dark clothing and the curtain of black hair that hung down below her helmet and he held his tongue. At least he wouldn’t have to contend with Elisabetta at the house today.

I wonder if the police have caught up with her yet…?

A few moments later, he crested the hill at a section of road that was flanked with grape vines. A scuffed old red Fiat Cinquecento sat dustily at the side of the carriageway. Below, the roof of a modernish villa protruded just beyond boundary wall. The distinctive tang of Elisabetta’s two-stroke exhaust still hung in the air, even as he heard its engine receding distantly down the hill. He supposed this must be the place.

The entrance to the house was down a short flight of concrete steps that descended next to a stone retaining wall on which a couple of watchful lizards basked. The front door was flanked by baskets of colourful geraniums, giving the place a welcoming air.

So far, so good…

Marco leaned his bike against the wall and gave an uncharacteristically timid knock at the door, hoping he’d got the right house. A few moments later, the door opened slightly, and, to Marco’s relief, Giorgio’s face poked out.

“Ciao,” the younger boy whispered, and he stood back to admit Marco.

“Ciao,” Marco replied, following him into the cool white hallway and pausing to check him out.

Giorgio was wearing another new shirt: a dark green, slim-fit number checked with black, over a pair of dark jeans. His hair looked clean and soft… and he even smelled good. Marco felt himself flush slightly at the thought that he’d even noticed. But there was something a little tense about the younger boy’s manner, tense in a different way to the skittish behaviour he’d shown the last time they’d met. Marco wondered what had changed; he supposed it had something to do with the events of Friday evening.

“About what happened to Pietro,” he ventured. “I wanted you to know that…”

But Giorgio cut him off hastily. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to zio Maurizio.”

Perplexed, Marco followed him down the hallway, glimpsing a staircase going up and what looked like a downstairs bedroom suite on the way. Soon they had rounded a corner into a large living area with a kitchen at the far end. The low-ceilinged room was light, bright and modern, lit by three wide, arched windows that looked out over the valley. Maurizio was apparently an enthusiast for all things Japanese: the pendant lights hung with bamboo shades, there was a large, decorative hand fan mounted to the back wall, and a pair enormous cherry blossom vases stood to either side of the central window, each housing a display of dried, feathery pampas grass. For a room that had, until recently, belonged to a single man who lived alone, it had a few surprisingly delicate touches.

It certainly seemed an unlikely place for a girl like Elisabetta to live. Self-consciously, Marco slipped out of his dusty trainers and nudged them tidily against the wall.

A person whom Marco took to be Giorgio’s uncle was sitting at the dining table in the central window nursing a cappuccino. He was a kind-looking man in his fifties with a moustache and a bald pate. He seemed the very definition of inoffensive; Marco wondered to which of Giorgio’s parents he was related, to be so very different from the sort of family the younger boy had described.

Maurizio appeared to be in the middle of pouring his heart out to his visitor, a shapely woman in her early forties whom Marco recognised. Her long, wavy hair, which she had dyed slightly to give it an attractive, dark red tinge, was tied back over her bar uniform.

“It’s quite intolerable, Chiara,” he said morosely. “You saw the way she flounced out just now without a word… and, to be honest, it’s almost worse when she does talk to me. Elisabetta takes what she wants and offers nothing in return. Nothing but rudeness and intimidation. I feel like a prisoner in my own home.”

Marco snuck a sideways glance at Giorgio. The younger boy looked vaguely uncomfortable at hearing his sister described in such terms, but the look in his eyes suggested he couldn’t entirely disagree with what he was hearing, either.

Chiara clutched the older man’s free hand earnestly between her own.

“It sounds like it’s been very difficult, Maurizio,” she said sympathetically, “but I’m sure it will get better, once the children realise you’re finally providing them with some stability.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” Maurizio replied. “Elisabetta isn’t a child. She’s a troubled young woman with a depth of life experience that’s quite frightening for one so young. What do I, of all people, know of such things… and how on Earth am I supposed to impose any authority over her?” He sighed. “My sister’s a weak woman. She allowed her husband to corrupt her, but I still love her for the girl she was. When they got into trouble, I was only too happy to take Elisabetta and Giorgio, but I don’t think I really knew what I was letting myself in for.”

“And what about Giorgio?” Chiara asked.

The creases in Maurizio’s brow leavened slightly and he almost smiled. “It’s funny, really. I assumed that the fourteen-year-old boy would give me the most trouble out of the two, but he’s making wonderful progress.”

Marco gave a questioning glance to Giorgio, who shrugged and twisted his mouth in an embarrassed sort of way.

“Yes, he seems to be getting happier all the time, at least until that bad business on Friday,” Maurizio went on. “He’s made some new friends who’ve shown him a better way, and that really seems to have helped. In fact, he seems really quite taken with one of them in particular…”

Giorgio’s eyes widened slightly; apparently, he had heard enough. He cleared his throat loudly, cutting his uncle off in mid-flow. Marco snickered slightly, a little embarrassed himself.

Both adults looked up, and Chiara broke into a delighted smile.

“Why, it’s Marco!” she exclaimed. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here!”

“Buongiorno, signora Romano,” Marco replied dutifully.

“You know each other?” Maurizio enquired, glancing in surprise between them.

“Not exactly,” Chiara replied, “but Ravello’s a small town, and Marco’s a friend of a friend of my son. If that’s Giorgio’s new group, he’s hanging out with a good crowd.”

Maurizio brightened. “Then I’m pleased to meet you, Marco. Giorgio’s told me all about you, of course. Welcome to my home.”

Marco nodded. “Grazie, signore.”

Giorgio, meanwhile, looked about ready to die of embarrassment.

“Can I take him upstairs, zio?” he asked, dragging his eyes up from his own feet for the merest split second, cheeks flushed a dull red.

Maurizio nodded. “Of course, but make sure you offer our guest a drink first.”

A couple of minutes later, they were safely ensconced in Giorgio’s room with a couple of Lemon Sodas. Marco was relieved that the younger boy didn’t seem to have to share with his sister; he had his own room, small, but light and bright with space for a desk and a decent sized window that looked down over the valley. The house had a southeasterly aspect, and the morning sun shone fiercely down on the terrace outside, but slatted shutters had been fitted to the bedroom windows, and they were keeping the glare of the sun out without obscuring the view completely.

“So… you’re getting on okay with your uncle, then,” Marco said. He was reclining in the desk chair, facing the other boy, who was perched on the side of the bed.

Giorgio cringed slightly. “Why did he have to say all that stuff in front of you?” he grumbled.

“He didn’t know we were there.”

Giorgio sighed. “I guess.”

“You’re lucky that you’ve found someone who cares enough to take an interest,” Marco offered. He glanced down at his hands, remembering his sad, lonely days before Gianni and Angelo. “I’ve been the kid who nobody looks at, who fixes his own meals and raises himself. Talk about lonely. I wasn’t living, I was just existing.”

“Your friends never said anything to anyone?” Giorgio asked.

Marco shrugged. “We were all younger then. I used to keep Giaco and Emilia away from my home so they wouldn’t see how crappy my life was. Anyway, Giaco never used to think about other people’s feelings that much until Dani taught him to.”

“At least you had friends,” Giorgio mumbled.

“I did,” Marco conceded, “until I lost them. When I saw you on your own in that dried out old garden, it was like looking in some weird mirror back in time.”

“I tried to invite kids home once or twice,” Giorgio said, “but they took one look at Elisabetta and ran a mile. After a while, I gave up trying.”

“Why’s she like that?” Marco asked. “She’s, like… the angriest person I’ve ever seen. She’s worse than my dad.”

“Did your dad beat you?” Giorgio asked quietly.

Startled by the bluntness of the question, Marco drew back slightly. “No, I… not so much. He mostly just lashed me with his tongue.”

“Papà beat her sometimes,” Giorgio almost whispered. “He was unpredictable… kinda crazy. He’d seem normal one minute, then he’d fly into a rage. He didn’t usually go for me, but when he tried…” he looked away, seeming a little ashamed. “Elisabetta usually stopped him.”

“Is she a good fighter?” Marco asked. Giorgio flinched slightly and broke eye contact, sliding away from the subject once again.

“Do you like my room?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink.

The uneasy tension had returned to the younger boy’s shoulders. Wanting to explore it, to find out what was bothering him, Marco sidled across the room and sat down next to him on the side of the bed. He reached for Giorgio’s shoulder, but the younger boy shuffled away.

“Did I do something wrong?” Marco asked, frowning slightly. Whatever spark had ignited between them at Gianni and Angelo’s house the other day, it seemed to be sputtering now.

If he knows about me snitching on Elisabetta to the police, why doesn’t he just tell me…?

But Giorgio just shook his head and slid out from beside Marco. He walked across the room and took a large sheet of paper out of his desk drawer, then turned around to show it to Marco. “What do you think?”

Marco squinted at it. It seemed to be a profusion of zig-zagging and criss-crossing lines, some of them thick, some not.

“Ah… it’s very nice,” he replied awkwardly. “What is it?”

Giorgio rolled his eyes. “It’s a map, stupid.”

Marco leaned forward to take a closer look, but Giorgio returned to the bed. Marco shuffled up to make room, and the younger boy set it down between them.

“A map of Scala?” Marco asked, trying to work out the geography.

Giorgio shook his head again. “A map of Ravello. Seeing all your awesome pictures made me want to create something. But, like I said, I’m crap at drawing, so I made this.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” Marco replied, confused and rather flattered to be seen as a source of inspiration.

Giorgio pointed one slender finger at an area that seemed to be the focus of his unfinished creation. “That’s the square, see, with the cathedral next to it.” The Duomo registered as a shaded block, with the narrower lines radiating out from it. “Next to it those are the steps going up. The little tree there shows the gardens at the top, and if you go along a bit…” he pointed at a smaller shaded block inscribed with an ‘M’. “That’s your house!”

He looked up at Marco with a fragile but expectant smile. Realising that they were on safer ground, Marco sought to capitalise on it. “It’s brilliant, but… why are you doing it?”

“I like maps and lists,” Giorgio replied, looking a bit embarrassed. “And have you seen what the online maps are like for round here? They’re terrible. Half the paths are missing, and a lot of the names are wrong.”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” Marco confessed. “I just kinda… know my place, you know?”

“If zio Maurizio ever buys me a computer, I’d like to do it properly,” Giorgio went on. “But I can start building my knowledge now, can’t I?” He paused, and a faintly dreamy look came into his gaze. “Maybe one day I’ll work for Google, and I can start making some real maps for places like this.” He offered Marco a small smile. “Or maybe I’ll just do a short contract as the guy who walks around with a three-sixty degree camera on his shoulders taking the photos of the places the cars can’t get to.” He gave a small, slightly embarrassed giggle.

Marco smiled, too, but something else in the younger boy’s words had caught his attention.

“You sound like you’re already seeing this place as home,” he said, “like… long-term?”

Giorgio shrugged, and his eyes flicked to Marco’s for a moment. “I like it here,” he replied, “and I like Maurizio. If he wanted to adopt me… I wouldn’t say no.”

But he dropped his gaze again, looking unhappy, as if he thought this was unlikely.

“I’d like that,” Marco offered.

Giorgio looked up, and a conflicted feeling of some kind flickered through his brown eyes.

“Thanks,” he replied, but then he was away again, staring anxiously out of the window.

Most of all, Giorgio looked like he needed a big, reassuring hug. Marco flushed a little at the thought of doing it, but he knew it wasn’t the right moment to attempt it. For whatever reason, the younger boy was uncomfortable around him this morning. Maybe he was having second thoughts about getting entangled with another boy… or maybe it was something to do with what had happened with Pietro on Friday night.

“D’you want to go out for a bit?” Marco suggested. “I brought my bike.”

Giorgio sagged with relief. “Yeah. I really do.”

They rode out when they had finished their drinks. Marco led the way, and he retraced his journey of that morning for a while. Houses, terraced vegetable plots and retaining walls encrusted with climbers and tufts of valerian flashed by as they zig-zagged back down the hill, and the view down over Ravello and the distant sea turned gently as they followed the contours of the valley. The weather was hot and still, but they created a breeze as they went, which helped to cool Marco’s brow.

Every so often, Marco glanced over his shoulder to make sure Giorgio was still with him. The younger boy’s mountain bike was a gunmetal grey; his shirt and his dark hair fluttered in the air currents as he freewheeled after Marco with an expression of quiet concentration. They hadn’t discussed a destination, but wherever Marco led, Giorgio seemed content to follow.

Eventually, the view of the sea spun away from them as they turned inland; the striated green hump of Monte Brusara loomed briefly in the middle distance and then they were among houses on both sides. Leaving the main road behind them, they began to climb gently into the hamlet of Santa Caterina. The leafy quiet of the upper reaches of the Valle del Dragone beckoned, and Marco already had some idea of where they were going.

At the tiny square in front of the village church, Marco dismounted from his bike and splashed a little water onto his face from a fountain there. After a few seconds, Giorgio joined him. Droplets of water ran off his fingers, leaving a scattering of darker spots on his shirt. Once again, Marco was struck by just how much he was tending to notice, all the smaller details of how the other boy looked, what he did.

Marco was also aware of the younger boy casting awkward little glances at him. It wasn’t just a crush, this time; there was definitely something else at work.

“Are we okay?” Marco asked, hoping to confront the matter directly. “There’s been something not quite right with you all morning.”

That uncomfortable ripple across the younger boy’s face once again.

“You’re really good at climbing these hills,” he babbled. “I can’t believe you cycled all the way up here this morning! It was much flatter in Salerno. I…”

“Giorgio…!” Marco exclaimed in frustration.

The younger boy winced. “Look… I can’t, okay?” he cried. “Can’t we just cycle?”

“We’ve got to walk for a bit,” Marco said shortly. He grabbed his bike and wheeled it towards a broad flight of stone steps that descended opposite the church. At the top, he paused to shoot one more remark over his shoulder. “You’re holding out on me.”

Giorgio gave him a bleak, dark-eyed look and hitched up his bike to walk it down the stairs. They passed through an arch under an old building and then they were traversing a gulley where a dry streambed ran down into the main valley. Passing a couple of farmsteads, they descended past grape vines and olive trees and then they were able to regain their wheels again, bumping down the occasional step as they descended towards the Dragone river. The path became wilder and more secluded, and soon they were back among the chestnut trees and bracken that were so typical of the mountains.

They reached a point where the lane, now a narrow dirt path, crossed the dry trickle of the Dragone via a short section of culvert, then Marco led them up a few winding steps and Giorgio’s eyes widened as he recognised the field of young chestnut saplings that they had visited a few days before.

“Oh, we’re here,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” Marco replied. “This is sort of the secret back way between Ravello and Scala. Why don’t you add that to your map?”

“I will,” Giorgio assured him. “But why are we here? What’s so special about it?”

“Where else can you go to lounge about round here where there aren’t a load of other people?” Marco replied. “Or… to talk?”

Giorgio gave him a reproachful look. “I told you…”

“Yeah, I know,” Marco sighed. “You can’t.”

Unhappily, they ditched their bikes and sat down together in the dappled shade of one of the saplings. A couple of distant cicadas scraped among the trees.

“Only, here’s the thing…” Marco hesitated, wondering if he should go on; after a moment, he took a deep breath and ploughed ahead. “I’m sort of starting to like you, but I can’t go out with someone who doesn’t trust me enough to tell me what’s wrong.”

Giorgio stared at him with wide eyes. “Go out with someone…? Jesus…” He paused, seemingly struggling to process the idea. For a moment, he looked every bit the awkward thirteen-year-old he must, until recently, have been. “Do you really want to go out with me?”

Marco shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.”

Giorgio’s jaw worked soundlessly for a second or two, but then his face crumpled and he buried it in his knees. Marco looked on in horror as the younger boy began to sob, his chest hitching harshly as he gasped for air.

Did I just totally screw this up…?

“Hey…” Marco said anxiously, reaching for Giorgio’s shoulder, but the younger boy shook him off. “I guess I was wrong about what you wanted. It’s alright, forget I spoke.”

But Giorgio shook his head fiercely, sending teardrops flying. “It’s not that.”

“Then what…?” Marco replied desperately.

“It was Elisabetta, okay?” Giorgio cried suddenly, turning his tear-streaked face towards him. “It was Elisabetta who beat up your friend. I hate her for it, and I’m scared. Scared that you’ll hate me, scared that we’ll have to move again, scared that…”

“Giorgio…” Marco interrupted, taking a firm hold of the younger boy’s shoulder; this time, he didn’t shake him off. “That wasn’t you. That was her! Why would I hate you?”

“Because we’re the same!” Giorgio whispered, with the air of someone who was laying bare his greatest fear. “We come from the same place, the same people. It’s gonna happen, isn’t it? I’m gonna turn into her.”

Now Marco took the other boy by both shoulders and turned him towards him. “That’s not true, Giorgio!” he said furiously. “I told you the last time we sat here. You’re all right! You’re nothing like her. I can see it, your uncle Maurizio can see it, even Cosmo could probably see it if he took his head out of his own backside for long enough to notice!”

Giorgio stared at him with a desperate, uncomprehending sort of hope. “But how can I be so different?”

“I think you were born different,” Marco replied. “And… I don’t know, but I think maybe you haven’t seen or been through as much bad stuff as she has.” He looked down for a moment, reluctant to concede on his final point. “I even think… she may have protected you from some of it.”

Giorgio wiped at his damp eyes with one hand. “So, I don’t… I don’t have to…” he managed, but then he sprang forward and pulled the startled Marco into a hug. They sagged down that way, and then the younger boy was sobbing again, but with what felt like relief this time.

Trying to bring to bear what he had learned from Gianni and Angelo, Marco held the younger boy tightly, allowing him to unload all his pent-up anxiety and fear into him. It was sort of frightening, but there was also a profound sense of connection in it. Even with Daniele, Giacomo and Emilia, he had seldom experienced a long, full-body hug quite like this.

After a while, the tension began to drain from the younger boy’s shoulders. Marco felt himself relax as well, and then, suddenly, everything seemed to go so soft… he was suddenly aware of the soft folds of fabric of the other boy’s shirt under his hands, of Giorgio’s hair tickling gently at his ears, of the gentle weight of the other boy’s head against his shoulders.

Almost unconsciously, Marco ran a hand up the other boy’s back and into his hair. Giorgio shivered slightly and broke the embrace, pulling back with his cheeks a little flushed and his eyes wide and bright.

“Ah…” he stammered.

Marco bit his lip nervously. “Sorry.”

Giorgio shook his head. “No, I…” he said bashfully, “I sort of liked it.”

“Me too.”

Marco glanced away, suddenly embarrassed.

“What’s wrong?” Giorgio asked.

Marco ran a confused hand through his own hair; it fell back into place, halfway back to its old, untidy self.

Great. I probably just turned myself into a hedgehog.

“This is so weird,” he said. “I hardly know you. You don’t know me, not really. We’re not in love… we can’t be. So… what are we doing?”

Giorgio frowned slightly. “Do we have to be in love?” he asked. “I mean… is there, like, a rule or something?”

Marco blinked. “I… ah…”

Giorgio shrugged. “I don’t know how it feels to be in love,” he mumbled. “But… I know I think about you. It used to be Cosmo, but now it’s you. I wonder what it would be like to…” he flushed and looked away. “Don’t you?”

“Jesus…” Marco murmured, half to himself, staring searchingly into the younger boy’s brown eyes. “I really did it, didn’t I?”

Giorgio blinked. “What?”

“The exact same thing Dani did to me.”

Giorgio shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

Marco drew back a little, unsure what he should do. The other boy was younger than him, and he had accidentally cast himself in the role of rescuer. Did he have the right…?

So, am I really his crush, or am I just his hero?

“Do you really like me?” he asked.

Wordlessly, Giorgio nodded.

“Would you still like me if I hadn’t done all the things I’ve done to help you?”

Giorgio’s clear brow creased thoughtfully. “I dunno… but only because I don’t think I was looking until you did.”

It wasn’t the ringing endorsement Marco had hoped for. He gave the other boy another searching look.

“What do you see when you look at me now?” he asked quietly.

“I see…” Giorgio hesitated, “a friend.”

Marco frowned slightly. “A friend?”

Giorgio flushed. “A friend who’s really cute, and who’s available and I just really want to…”

Marco’s heart gave a little jolt, and he felt another of his defences teeter and begin to tumble. “I think you’re cute, too.”

Giorgio’s eyes widened slightly. “For real…?”

“Only…” Marco swallowed nervously. “Whenever I’ve kissed anyone before it’s always gone really badly, and I’m worried that it’s going to go wrong again, and it’ll all be my fault, because I’m so terrible, and I…”

He never got to finish the sentence, because suddenly Giorgio was right there, his soft lips were in contact with his own and, for a split second, so was something else, and he felt himself begin to melt…

And then it was over. Giorgio shifted back slightly, and they were two separate boys again, sitting face-to-face in a peaceful, sunlit glade, with only the distant cicadas, the quick-witted swifts and the beady-eyed lizards for company. Somewhere, among the distant houses of Santa Caterina, a dog barked a couple of times then fell silent.

“Um…” Marco mumbled with an awkward smile.

There were no uncomfortable platitudes this time; no doubtful claims that ‘well, that was nice…?’ There was only Giorgio, Marco’s own rapidly beating heart, and a confused, heady tingle that faded through his body, combined with a faint, melancholy sense of loss.

“I thought that was just fine,” Giorgio said primly, and then they both succumbed to a sudden, faintly demented fit of laughter. Marco fell back and sprawled like a star, staring up into the sky through the still green leaves of the young chestnut tree.

“Just fine,” he repeated between giggles.

He turned his head sideways and saw the other boy sprawled beside him, looking back at him in much the same way. He smiled and heaved himself back up into a sitting position, wondering where the day would take them next.

I wonder if he’d like to do it again…?

* * *

Over dinner that evening, Marco couldn’t quite conceal his smile. He was trying to; after what had happened to Pietro, it felt wrong to be so distracted and carefree in front of Angelo. But the young man, who had served up a tasty dinner for the two of them of homemade pizza with tomato, mozzarella and anchovies with an extra scattering of olives and capers, wasn’t fooled. He was looking at Marco with one fine black eyebrow raised and an amused half-smile of his own playing about his lips.

“I couldn’t help noticing that you looked a little… ruffled… when you got home today?” he said.

Marco made a renewed effort to restore his poker face. “Must have been the breeze when I was cycling back down the hill,” he said.

Ennio hopped up onto the chair next to him and gave him an inscrutable glare with his bright green eyes, tail curled tidily around his front paws.

Angelo chuckled. “Even the cat doesn’t believe that, Marco,” he replied. “No. Judging by what we saw after dinner on Friday, I’m thinking that young Giorgio might have had something to do with it.”

Marco reached out and gave Ennio a scratch under the chin and below the ears. Ennio leaned into it, purring.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “With everything that’s happened, it feels wrong. What with, you know, Elisabetta and everything.”

Angelo shook his head. “Giorgio’s not his sister, Marco. I think you know that.”

Marco nodded, still focusing most of his attention on the cat. “I know, he’s alright. He was actually worried he was going to turn into her. I told him to stop being stupid.”

“Does he know the police will probably be coming for her?” Angelo asked.

Marco gave him a thoughtful look. As they had finally parted that afternoon, Marco had confessed to his role in bringing Elisabetta to the attention of the police.

‘You had to tell them the truth,’ the younger boy had said, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. ‘She shouldn’t have done it if she didn’t want to get into trouble.’

So, it seemed that he was forgiven, but all the same, he wished it had never come to this. What would happen if she was charged, found guilty and taken away?

He supposed only time would tell.