Out of the Darkness

Hearing Pesaro’s name brought constables and clerks out from the back rooms of the constabulary station. They pounded the newcomer’s back, clasped his wrist, and congratulated him on coming home again. They never paid that much attention to me, Bembo thought resentfully. But then he smiled to himself. Let them fuss as much as they want. I’ve got Saffa warming my bed, and Pesaro won’t be able to match that--or he’d better not, anyhow.

Even Captain Sasso, who was in early, came down from his lofty office to greet Pesaro. “Good to see you, too, Captain,” Pesaro said. “I wondered if I ever would, after you sent me west.”

That brought a moment of silence. Bembo hadn’t dared say any such thing to Sasso. The constabulary captain licked his lips. Everyone waited to hear how he would answer. At last, he said, “Well, Sergeant, back then none of us thought things would turn out the way they did.”

Now it was Pesaro’s turn to think things over. Grudgingly, he nodded. “All right, Captain, that’s fair enough, I guess.”

When Bembo went back to his flat, he found Saffa getting ready to go in to work. She burst into tears when he told her Pesaro had come back to Tricarico. She seemed so delighted, Bembo wondered if she had slept with the sergeant before he went west. But then Saffa said, “If he can come home . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t have to. If he can come home, my little bastard’s daddy can come home, too, and then the powers below eat you, Bembo.

That was what she meant, that or something enough like it not to matter.

Bembo almost said something sharp in return, but at the last minute he decided to keep his mouth shut--something that came close to constituting an unnatural act for an Algarvian. He kissed her, patted her on the backside, yawned, and headed for the bedroom. He was tired. Saffa, he thought, gave him a grateful look for not picking a fight. Just before he fell asleep, he heard the door close as she went off to the constabulary station.

He got a rather different welcome when he came back to his flat a couple of mornings later. Saffa stood just inside the doorway. “You son of a whore!” she shouted, and slapped him in the face hard enough to rock him back on his heels. “You stick it into that cheap slut, and then you want to touch me? Not futtering likely!” She belted him again, backhand this time.

Though his ears rang, he did ask the right question: “What in blazes are you talking about?” He’d nearly said, How did you know? That would have lost the game before it even started.

But asking the right question didn’t do him a bit of good, for Saffa ground out, “Fiametta told Adonio what you did, and Adonio brought the lovely news back to the station, and now everybody there must know it. And if you think you’ll ever lay a finger on me again, let alone anything else--” She swung at him again.

He caught her by the wrist. When he didn’t let go right away, she tried to bite his hand. “Stop that, powers below eat you!” he said. “I can expl--”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Saffa said. “I never want to hear it. You’re not even wasting time telling me it’s all a lie.” She tried to twist away. He didn’t let go. She snarled, “You’d better turn me loose, Bembo, or I’ll really start screaming.”

“All right, bitch,” he said, “but if you try and take my head off again I promise you’ll lose teeth. Got it?” Saffa nodded warily. Even more warily, Bembo let go of her arm.

She took a quick step back. “I spent most of the night getting my stuff out of this place,” she said. “I have to see you at the station, but that’s all I have to do. As far as I’m concerned, you’re dead. Dead,

do you hear me?”

“Curse it, Saffa, all I did was--”

“Screw a tart the first chance you got. No thanks, pal. You don’t play those games with me. Nobody plays those games with me.”

“But, sweetheart,” Bembo whined, “I really love you.” Did he? He doubted it, but knew he had to sound as if he did. “It was just one of those things.” He even made the ultimate sacrifice: “Darling, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry till the next time you think you can get it wet on the side. Goodbye!” Saffa hyphenated the two syllables by slamming the door so hard, the frame quivered. Bembo stood staring at it for several heartbeats. Then he walked into the flat’s little kitchen, poured himself a glass of spirits, and drank it down, all alone.

Ceorl scratched at his cheeks. He’d been doing that for days now, and cursing and fuming every time he did it. “This fornicating itch is driving me out of my mind,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about it.”