Grazia gave him a big hug. ‘I’m happy for you. The important thing is that you continue to be a good father and come to see your daughter every weekend as you’ve always done in the past.’
From that moment on, their relationship bloomed like the zucchini in the vegetable garden. She persuaded him to read Women Who Run With the Wolves and he took her to see an air display by the Italian Air Force aerobatic team in Marsala.
After an isolated drunken fit of passion, Maria Grazia became pregnant again. A baby boy was born. They called him Astor, after the great Argentinian tango musician, Astor Piazzolla. Franco continued to go back and forth from Palermo and to see the tobacconist.
Who knows? Maybe with time they’d have got back together. But the virus arrived from Belgium, and this family, like millions of others, was swept away.
When Franco and Maria Grazia died, Anna was nine years old and Astor was five.
*
The roof of the farmhouse was covered with dry leaves and branches. The porch, supported by white pillars, concealed the front door. On the upper floor two windows with faded shutters each opened onto a small balcony. In the middle of the façade, in a whitewashed niche, was a small statue of the Madonna overgrown by a caper bush. The pink plaster had flaked away and what little remained of the gutter had leaked onto the walls, streaking them with green. The Virginia creeper, in only four years, had taken over one side of the house, and the big gnarled mulberry tree had spread its branches over the roof as if to protect it.
Anna opened the gate, closed it behind her and went down the path, which ended in a clearing of bare earth. To the left was the former vegetable garden, now a field of nettles. On the other side a long wooden bench stood among weeds in front of the wreck of an old black Mercedes and a row of rusty barrels where Anna collected rainwater. A dirty, naked little boy was crouching beside the car, hacking at the hard earth with a rake. Tufts of black hair emerged from under the cycling helmet on his head.
As soon as she saw her brother, the weight lifted from her heart. ‘Astor!’
The little boy turned round and smiled, displaying a row of irregular teeth, then went on digging.
Anna sat down beside him, exhausted.
He stared at her torn knees and scratched legs. ‘Did a smoke monster do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Nasty.’
‘Did you beat him?’
‘Yes.’
Astor spread his arms. ‘Was he big?’
‘As big as a mountain.’
He pointed at the hole he’d dug. ‘It’s a trap. To catch rhinoceroses and rats.’
‘That’s great. Are you hungry?’
Her brother stretched his back. He was thin, with long legs and a prominent belly. The nipples on his flat chest looked like lentils and his pointed face was dominated by huge blue eyes which homed in on things as quickly as bees on nectar. ‘Not very.’ He took hold of his penis and pulled it like an elastic band.
His sister gave him a shove. ‘Stop that!’
‘What?’
‘You know.’
Astor was obsessed with his penis. Once he’d covered it with sticky tape, and it had been a terrible business getting it off.
Anna took off her rucksack. ‘How come you’re not hungry?’
‘Did you find anything good?’
Anna nodded, putting her hand on his back, as they walked towards the house.
*
The fine barrel-vaulted sitting room, fitted with rustic furniture and Persian carpets by Maria Grazia Zanchetta, was awash with rubbish. The windows were stopped up with cardboard, and the half-light revealed mountains of bottles, jars, books, toys, printers, newspapers, bicycles, mobile phones, envelopes, clothes, radios, pieces of wood, teddy bears and mattresses.
In the kitchen, light filtered in from the windows, painting bright strips on swarms of flies feasting on remnants left in tins of tuna and meat. Cockroaches and ants scuttled across greasy floor tiles. The marble table was covered with countless bottles of water, Coca-Cola and Fanta.
Anna took a long drink. ‘I was dying for that.’
Astor peered into the rucksack. ‘Any batteries?’
‘No.’
Batteries were precious and hard to find; they were almost always flat nowadays. She had a secret stock of them for the torch. If Astor got his hands on them he’d use them all up listening to music.
Anna produced a jar of beans. ‘Like some?’
A sideways wag of his forefinger said no.
She raised a suspicious eyebrow. ‘What have you been eating?’
‘Nothing. I’ve got the shakes.’
She put her hand on his forehead. ‘You’re boiling hot.’ It couldn’t be Red Fever – he was too young – but she was still worried. ‘Put some clothes on.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Go and get dressed.’ She took a big white tube out of the rucksack. ‘Otherwise, no present.’
‘What is it?’
‘Off you go.’
He kept jumping up, trying to grab the tube.
‘Off you go!’ Anna went outside, sat down on the bench and opened the jar of beans with a knife.
Two minutes later Astor turned up in a dirty jacket that reached down to his knees. ‘Where’s my present?’
She handed it over. ‘I think you’ll like it.’
He eyed her curiously, unscrewed the top and started sucking.
Anna snatched it out of his hand and pushed him down onto the ground. ‘What have I told you a thousand times?’ He tried to get up, but she put her foot on his chest, pinning him down. ‘What have I told you?’
‘Always read and smell before putting things in your mouth.’
‘So?’
Astor grabbed hold of her foot, trying to free himself. ‘You said I’d like it. So it must be all right.’
‘It doesn’t matter. You must always read.’ She gave him the tube again. ‘Come on.’
He puffed out his cheeks in exasperation and rubbed his eye. ‘Ne . . . Nes . . . Nest—’ He broke off and pointed to a letter: ‘What’s
