to him. But soon the Colonel would leave for Africa, taking with him his store of stories.
What could Federico tell Sibilla today? Maybe an anecdote about the Signora’s parrot? He was walking along the switchbacks towards the cabin, enjoying the autumnal bluster. The sun was being fickle: darting into view, shying behind clouds, then announcing itself grandly. The breeze whipped left and right, casting chaos and roving shadows over the valley, as if a giant hand were mussing the fields. Federico ran his own hands over the dry stalks of wheat that had crept outside a fence. Their wispy burrs made him think of feathers and, again, of Paolucci.
Last night, someone had doused the parrot’s feed in grappa. It had started hopping in circles, rattling off vulgar replays. Puttana! Pompinara! Bring the wine! Bring the whores! Liar! Ashes! Vaffanculo! Federico shook his head and absently broke a stalk of wheat. Spin, ragnatela! Che cazzo! I spit on your father’s grave! I spit on your mother’s cunt! Federico peeled the stalk to clean his teeth as he marched along the switchbacks. Silly beast. Spin, ragnatela! He stopped, the stalk dangling from his mouth. Spin, ragnatela? But the bird had arrived at Villa Serra the very day that Sibilla had left. How did it know the Colonel’s nickname for her? Federico broke into a trot. How had it echoed his command? Federico began to run.
* * *
‘Che cos’è?’ The Colonel’s moustache lifted with surprise, as if its ends were tied to his eyebrows. He stood up and limped slowly towards her. ‘I’m going to all this trouble to find a cure for you, ragnatela. You could even come with me…’ He paused to light his cigarette. ‘You know,’ he mused, ‘there are others like you in this world.’
‘Like me?’ She didn’t recognise her own voice. ‘Where?’
‘Ragnatela!’ He swung to face her, blowing smoke in her eyes. ‘I knew you were curious! Don’t you want to know what the doctors call you?’
Sibilla stood and walked across the cabin, her hair slithering in the cracks of the wooden floor. She placed the watch on the table. ‘I never asked for a doctor. Or a name.’
‘Dear ragnatela, we cannot always know what we want…’
‘I know what you want!’ Her hair rose, hackle-like. ‘You want to swallow me!’
They stared at each other. Holding her gaze, the Colonel limped over to the table and reached into his vest pocket for a piece of paper.
‘Sibilla.’ Her real name sounded strange in his mouth. He always called her ragnatela. ‘This is who you are.’
The paper was folded but when he tossed it on the table, it sprang open. Sibilla stared at it a moment. Then she snatched it and ran to the hearth and threw it in the fire. The flames crunched into it. The Colonel wobbled after her and grabbed her arm. He wasn’t trying to save the letter – he had read it, it was gone – he wanted to hurt her. She glared at him, then they both glanced down at his grip on her forearm – her hair had slipped over his wrist. With a grunt, he twisted his hand and seized a rope of it. With his other hand, he spun her roughly – once, twice – into her locks until she was bound inside them. She tried to turn back but he held her fast.
As the familiar warm smother began, Sibilla heard an unhappy plucking sound, like a broken mandolin. She knew how sharp the Colonel’s knife was, how swift and sure his stroke had been when he had cut her out of her nightly cocoon in the salon. As her breath and consciousness waned, she realised he was using its hooked back instead of its keenest edge, running it slowly down the hairs wrapped around her, playing a warped melody as he decided whether or not to set her free…
* * *
Federico knew what was happening the moment he burst through the cabin door. He grappled his brother off Sibilla, then straddled him and punched his face, over and over. When the pain in Federico’s fists finally rose above the one in his chest, he stood up shakily, snatched up the knife on the floor, and stumbled over to Sibilla. He lifted her in his arms. His brother was rolling desultorily side to side, laughing through his bloodied moustache. The Colonel’s fly was still open, the raw pink flesh there like a baby bird’s neck. ‘Take it. Take her,’ he spat between