Her dark hair made her invisible in a coterie of other dark hair. She wanted no one to notice her, especially the boys, but sometimes they teased her to get her attention, so she learnt to swear in slang and hit them back. Occasionally she was told off and occasionally she was praised. Not so bad, she would have said.
Come Friday of that first week, Ulysses, Cress and Massimo met her from school and took her straight to the cinema to watch Fellini’s I Vitelloni. This’ll bring him to the world’s attention, she declared during the intermission.
As autumn progressed, Massimo came by with a much-appreciated bottle of new season olive oil. He also informed them that the paperwork was complete and the pensione could now open for business. A week later, he brought a priest round to bless the venture and Ulysses made sure a good Rosso di Montalcino was ready and waiting. The priest stayed until the bottle was empty and blessed everyone, including Claude. Twice.
The weather cooled and Cress revisited the long trouser and Ulysses found a workshop off Via Maggio. In letters back to England, he described this time as a magic time, a settled time. I think we’ve turned a corner, he wrote.
I’m so sorry to hear Alys’s mother is dead, said the teacher.
It was late October. Outside the school gates. Incessant rain.
The shock on Ulysses’ face must have registered as grief because it brought tears to the teacher’s eyes. She expressed great admiration that he was bringing a child up by himself and handed him a chocolate cake she’d made the night before. Flustered, he tried to refuse it, but she’d hear none of it. He staggered over to the kid waiting by the bike, more widower than the robust young singleton he was. You look awful, she said, and she climbed onto the crossbar and proudly took the cake.
He cycled back with the kid, oilskins flapping, and went straight to Michele’s for tea. It was warm inside, and water pooled beneath the coat rack. Michele nodded to Ulysses and said something about the weather. Ulysses agreed. His Italian had become conversational. He followed the kid to the back and placed the chocolate death cake on the table between them. Kid ordered a plate of beef ragù with pappardelle washed down with a chinotto.
So? she said after a while. You look like you want to say something, sunshine.
He wasn’t sure how to begin. Peg’s not dead, he said. （Clumsy.）
I know that, said the kid, and she made a start on her food.
Then why are you telling people she is? Alys? Look at me, he said. Why’d you say your mum was dead?
Kid looking defiant now. Peg through and through.
Alys? We can sit here all night if—
Because it’s better than the truth.
Which is?
That she gave me away.
And the kid’s face suddenly flushed, and she was angry and there was shame and she began to cry because she didn’t know how to explain any of it. Too young to know the depth of it. All she kept thinking about was the girl in the playground who didn’t have any shoes. So, Alys told her she didn’t have a mother. What’s the difference? Shoes or a mother, lack is lack and it hurts.
Don’t, please don’t, said Ulysses, and he tried to hold her, but she ran to Giulia. And that’s what I’m not, he thought. Soft edges and arms that know what to do. He lit a cigarette. How did he not know? How the fuck did he not know what went on in her head? After all this time? He caught Giulia’s eye and she smiled that it was OK. OK was not what it was, he thought.
After a while, kid came back and sat next to him. Am I in trouble? she said.
Never.
Can I have some cake then?
No. We’ve been given it under false pretences and we’ll have to give it back tomorrow.
That’ll be embarrassing.
I’ll do it. （He did, and it was.）
Kid asked if she could have some budino instead and he said of course.
He gave her a coin for the jukebox. She ate the custard pudding whilst listening to ‘Here in My Heart’ by Al Martino.
That night Ulysses lay next to her until she fell asleep. He looked about at her room. She’d chosen it because of the red and green wallpaper that had images of macaws and trees, a right ol’ jungle. These were the decisions she, as an eight-year-old made. The way her mind worked, what interested her. Over there, a hook on which hung her swimming costume and diving mask. The side table where she kept her sunglasses and sketchbook. The dried shell of a sea urchin on the dressing table. Her guitar at the foot of her bed. The sign they’d made together to advertise the pensione. These things are the sum of her life now. And she will grow up and leave, he thought. And she will make her way and not cast her thoughts back to him. Life in all its exaltation and complexity will devour her. She will love deeply to the exclusion of all else. And he wants to know everything about her before that happens, but wonders if you can ever know anyone truly.