Chapter 5

FIVE

Sabella

Iwake up with an itchy scalp. I tell myself it's because I didn't wash my hair with shampoo last night, but as the morning wears on, even after I wash my hair properly, the itching gets worse.

Fishing the mirror from my make-up bag, I balance it on the bathroom windowsill in the light. When I part my hair down the middle with my comb, I utter a yelp.

No.

No way.

Shuddering, I drop the comb.

I have lice.

Son of a bitch.

I glance at the dirty mattress, my makeshift bed already made.

The knowledge that Angelo knowingly exposed me to such a pest burns with mortification in my stomach. I can only hope Heidi will return before tonight as she promised. That's to say if Angelo lets her. She brought enough food for a week. There's no rush for her to come back.

Panic tightens my stomach as I go through the house in the daylight and confirm that it's empty. There are no cleaning products, not even a mop or a bucket I can use. The house is beautiful, the finishings modern and luxurious, but it's filthy. Someone swept the floors and wiped down the counters, and that's the extent of the cleaning effort that was made.

I go to the window in the bedroom that faces the back of the house. In the dark, I didn't see much on that side. When I peer through the glass, I suck in a breath. The house balances on the edge of a cliff. The rock is yellow like the color of the stone bricks of the house, the sun giving it a golden tint. A small white beach hugs a turquoise ocean below. The view is breathtaking. I appreciate the sight until the persistent itching makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

After ripping the bedding off the mattress, I throw everything outside on the veranda. I need to boil the pillow and the sheets or wash them in very hot water, but there are no pots in the kitchen, and I don't find a washing machine in the scullery. The place was obviously lived in, but all signs of habitation were removed, including the furniture and appliances.

I feel revolting when I have a breakfast of crackers and peanut butter in the kitchen, standing by the counter. The sun streams through the window, warming the room. My breath makes vapor against the glass as I lean closer for a better look. The day is cold, but the sky is clear.

In the daylight, the village at the bottom of the valley is an untidy arrangement of houses with ochre roofs around a river. They blend almost completely into the landscape, the roofs the same color as the soil. It's more difficult to spot the village during the day. If I didn't notice the lights last night, I wouldn't have known to look for it.

The coat Angelo gave me in Marseille is at the bottom of the bag in which Heidi brought the linen. I pull it on and wind a scarf around my neck before stepping outside. The destruction of the yard is even more disturbing in the bright sunlight.

"Hello?" I call, my voice echoing in the valley. "Is anyone there?"

No answer.

Why did I even try? No one is around. I saw for myself how far this house is from the main dwelling. I'm alone here. In front of me, the gravel road is a thin line that runs into the distance before disappearing over the hill. The landscape is rocky and wild. Mountains loom far beyond the village, snow capping their peaks.

Like inside, the veranda was swept, but dried mud and something smelling like manure cling to the terracotta tiles. It looks as if someone used the veranda as an animal shed. I walk to the end. The veranda wraps around the house, allowing outdoor views from all sides. At the back where a door leads to the kitchen, I pause for a better look at the view.

Is there a path going down to the beach? I'd like to explore that, but I don't want to miss Heidi if she returns. I need to ask her for a special shampoo and cleaning products. It doesn't help that I don't have a phone. Without a line of communication with the outside world, my isolation is complete. Is that part of my punishment? Or is Angelo just making sure I can't share information with the police who arrested me?

I pace around for the rest of the morning, watching the road. By noon, the itching is so bad I'm going out of my mind. I broke the skin on my scalp with my nails from all my scratching. I can't stay here in the feeble hope that Heidi will save me.

Making up my mind, I go back inside and put on my thickest jeans and another pair of socks to cushion my soles before tying my sneakers. Armed with sandwiches and a bottle of water, I go out the back, staying well out of sight of the road just in case, and set out toward the village. It's my only option, much closer than the main house.

The walk is difficult. I have to maneuver over rocks and around bushes as there isn't a road or a path. On a flat road, the walk would've taken me one and a half hours. If I jogged, even less. At home, I often jogged from Great Brak River to the neighboring towns along the beach, easily covering ten kilometers in less than an hour.

The thought jostles me. Great Brak River isn't home any longer. That life feels not only miles away but also ages ago. Brushing the unsettling notion away, I force myself to focus on nothing but my steps. I only concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

I don't reach the village until two strenuous hours later. My relief is so great I forget about my aching soles as I stumble down the first road.

It's quiet. What day of the week is it? My sense of time got muddled between the wedding and Angelo bringing me here.

I do a quick calculation. It's Tuesday. People must be at work and children at school.

At the first house where a woman waters the flowers outside, I stop.

"Hi," I say, waving from the fence.

She comes closer, her face drawn with suspicion.

This part, I haven't thought through yet. I don't have money. As much as it irks me, I don't have a choice but to ask Angelo for some. And I don't even know his phone number. During that first year when we communicated regularly, his number was always masked. It must be a necessary precaution when you're a wanted criminal. How young and stupidly na?ve I was not to have questioned it then. I can only hope the house number is listed.

"I'm sorry to bother you," I say, offering her a friendly smile. "Do you have a phone I can use? It's an emergency." When she starts shaking her head, I continue quickly, "I'll be grateful if you could just call…" I can't say my husband. Instead, I settle for, "Angelo Russo." I point toward the hill. "He lives there, on the big property."

A mask drops in front of her face.

Surely, they know him in the village?

"Angelo," I repeat slowly. "Russo."

She crosses herself, says something under her breath, and scurries away.

My shoulders drop with dejection. Setting on my course again, I try at a small park where a few elderly people sit on benches, but I get the same reaction. The moment I utter my husband's name, they make the sign of the cross and turn away.

Clearly, my strategy of calling Angelo and begging him for money isn't going to work.

I wander deeper into the village, crossing a maze of cobblestone streets until I reach a square with a fountain in the heart of the tiny settlement. A few shops are situated around the square. When I spot a green cross flashing on a sign above a door, I blow out a sigh of relief.

Peering through the glass door confirms that the pharmacy is devoid of customers. Just as well. I don't want to contaminate anyone, not to mention that I'd hate for someone to witness my embarrassment.

The bell chimes when I push the door open. It's warm inside. A smell of eucalyptus perfumes the air.

A woman with short brown hair and black-rimmed glasses enters from a room at the back. Her eyes are lined with kohl, and her lips are painted red. I judge her to be in her late fifties. The white tunic she wears over a rollneck sweater tells me she's either the pharmacist or the shop assistant.

"Can I help you?" she asks with a frown, scrutinizing me where I'm hovering in the door.

"You speak English," I say with a pathetic gush of air that leaves my lungs in another bout of relief.

"Of course I do." She looks down her nose at me. "Everyone does. Just because we live in a small village doesn't mean we're uneducated."

"Oh, no. I didn't mean it like that. I'm just happy to find someone I can communicate with. I don't speak French or Italian, so thank you for making the effort."

Her haughty tone remains intact. "We speak a Corsican dialect here."

"Oh." I fumble with the doorknob. "I've only been here for a day."

"Either come in and shut the door or stay outside. You're letting the cold in. The central heating is on. You're wasting energy."

"Sorry." I make a face. "I'm afraid I can't come in. I have a problem, you see."

The long breath she inhales puffs out her chest, making her seem to grow taller. "What do you need?"

"A shampoo for lice," I admit, shame heating my cheeks. "As well as a spray for the house."

She studies me from over the rim of her glasses, not hiding the judgment on her face. "Wait outside." Her lip curls with obvious distaste. "I'll be a moment."

My muttered, "Thank you," is lost on her as she reenters the backroom.

A moment later, she exits with two small boxes. "The shampoo comes with a comb and a special oil. You'll have to spray the room and leave it closed for thirty minutes before airing it well."

I wring my hands together. "The thing is, I don't have money on me, but my husband?—"

She snatches her hands away, all but hiding the boxes behind her back. "Why didn't you say so from the start instead of wasting my time?" She juts her chin toward the mountains. "You can go to the public clinic in Bastia. They'll treat you for free."

"Please," I say when she turns on her heel, suppressing the urge to hold her back with a hand on her arm. "I don't have a car. I can't get to Bastia."

The corners of her mouth turn down as she drags a gaze over me. "I don't run a charity."

"I don't want it for free. My husband will pay." At least, I hope he will.

She narrows her eyes. "Where are you staying?"

Throwing a thumb over my shoulder, I indicate the seaside. "In the house on the cliff."

She goes stiff, suspicion thick in her voice. "Who did you say your husband is?"

I swallow before I can utter the name again, but the sound comes out scratchy. "Angelo." I clear my throat. "Angelo Russo."

At the mention of his name, the change that comes over her is so remarkable I'm too dumbstruck to move. Shock bleeds into her eyes and contempt thins her mouth before she manages to school her features.

Adopting an expressionless mask, she squares her shoulders and says in a hostile tone, "I don't want his money."

Her reaction baffles me so much that I'm at a loss for words. I only jump back into action when she opens the door.

I touch her shoulder. "Wait, please." When she arches away from the touch as if I'm contagious, which I am right now, I pull my hand away. "I'm not asking for charity. If you won't take his money, I'll work for it." I cast a desperate glance at the store. "I'll dust or clean." I add with rushed enthusiasm, "I can do a new window display for you, something that will attract more customers."

That was the wrong thing to say.

Her back turns even more rigid. "My display is perfectly efficient."

"That's not what I meant." I'm becoming more desperate by the second. I can't stand this itching for another minute. "Please, I can do anything you need, any help that's necessary."

She wrinkles her nose. "If you don't have a car, how did you get here?"

"I walked."

She raises her eyebrows. "You walked? All the way from that house?"

Trying to hide my embarrassment at having been banished to a lice-ridden house, I shrug. "It's not that far."

A moment ticks by in which I wish the earth would open up and swallow me. I never thought I'd be reduced to begging for a treatment from a stranger. My shoulders droop. What was I thinking? She doesn't know me. No one here owes me anything.

"You know what?" I utter an uncomfortable laugh. "Forget it. I shouldn't have asked. Thank you anyway." I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, not looking her in the eyes. "Thanks for making an effort with the English."

"Wait," she says as I turn toward the street.

Sighing, she thrusts the products at me. "You don't need to work for it."

Now I'm even more uncomfortable. "No, please. I don't expect you to give me these for free."

"Just take them," she says, shaking the items in my face.

I die a hundred deaths as I take the boxes. "Thank you."

Without another word, she goes back inside.

Keeping my head low, I slink out of the village. I don't miss the curtains being pulled aside in front of windows as I make my way through the streets toward the river.

By the time I reach the house, the sun is dipping below the mountain. I take a moment to rub my aching feet. The cuts on my soles pulled open from the walking.

After switching on the vanity light in the bathroom, I set the products out on the counter and get to work. The front and sides of my head are manageable, but combing the oil through the back is near impossible.

I do the best I can and wash my hair with the special shampoo. As there is no hairdryer, I leave the thick, heavy strands loose to dry. If I didn't manage to catch all the lice and nits, I may have to cut my hair.

With the laborious task of delousing my hair done, I spray the mattress and the room and close the door. For good measure, I spray the bathroom, kitchen, and lounge until the canister is empty.

I have no way of telling the time, but I'm guessing the sun sets around five or six. It's been dark for a long time before headlights creep over the hill and fall on the house.

I wait on the threshold as Heidi gets out of the car and takes a shopping bag from the back.

Her broad smile slips as she nears. "What's wrong?"

"You better not come inside."

She drops the bag on the veranda step. "Did something happen?"

"Lice."

"What?" she asks with a shriek.

"Yep. I got products to wash my hair and spray the mattress, but I have to boil the bedding."

"Oh my God." She clasps a hand over her mouth. "This is terrible. Wait." She lowers her hand. "Where did you get products?"

"At the pharmacy in the village."

Her mouth falls open. "You walked there?"

"It's not that far."

"But…" She shakes her head. "How did you pay?"

"I didn't." I bite my lip. "I offered to pay with a service, but the lady ended up giving me the products for free. She wasn't very happy about that though. I should probably go back and give her the money."

Her lips flatten. "Did she wear ugly black glasses and too much make-up?"

"That sounds like her."

"Helene Campana, the local pharmacist." She adds with disdain, "The woman has always been tight-fisted."

"Well, it wasn't her duty to give me the treatment for free."

She locks her jaw as she picks up the bag and charges up the steps. "A bit of charity won't do her any harm. It may even win her a little grace in the eyes of the Almighty."

"What are you doing?" I ask with alarm as she moves around me.

Putting the bag down, she snorts. "Do you think I'm scared of a few lice?"

"You should be."

She shuts the door and turns to me with a chuckle. "I've dealt with worse. Let me see." She grips my shoulders and spins me around. "Did you do the back of your head?"

"I tried my best."

She parts my hair with her fingers. "I don't see anything, but that doesn't necessarily mean they're all gone. We better make sure, just to be on the safe side."

"Maybe we should cut my hair."

"Nonsense." She releases me. "There's no need to be so radical. We'll get those rascals, don't you worry." She shrugs off her coat, all efficiency and determination. "Bring me those products."

"Thank you, Heidi." And I don't only mean for helping me. She doesn't know how much I need her kindness.

"Don't mention it," she says, waving my gratitude away.

A short while later, I'm sitting on the floor in the kitchen while she combs the oil through my hair.

"Who lived here?" I ask, unable to squash my curiosity.

She sighs. "The late Mrs. Russo's family."

I glance at her from over my shoulder. "Angelo's mother's family?"

"They're a different lot." Focusing on the task at hand, she briefly meets my gaze. "Not from good stock."

A memory of what my sister said about Angelo's family enters my mind. She told me they were bad people, and she didn't mean only in the moral sense. She compared them to a kid in my class who always had a ring of dirt on his neck. Poor Isaac. It wasn't his fault his parents didn't keep him clean. He was a bright, kind-hearted boy.

"Where are they now?" I ask.

Disdain fills her voice. "They moved back to their tents and shacks in that dump they call a camp."

"Why?"

She shrugs. "Who knows? Some people are too set in their ways to change. Angelo had this house built especially for them. You'd think they'd be grateful." She adds with a scoff, "All they did was steal everything and ruin the place." Then, muttering to herself, "Who keeps goats on a veranda?"

That explains the lack of appliances and furniture as well as the manure encrusted on the tiles outside.

"The people in the village detest them," she continues. "They're probably glad the scoundrels left. The only one who was happy about having them here was Angelo."

"What about his mother? How did she feel about all of this?"

"Poor woman." Heidi crosses herself. "Bless her soul. She never knew. Angelo didn't have a chance to tell her. Before he could, the accident happened."

My heart constricts, its beats falling painfully in my ribcage.

No, not an accident.

Feeling bad for deceiving Heidi, I remain quiet. I truly am the traitor Angelo accused me of being.

"We better not say anything about your visit to the village," she says. "Mr. Russo won't be happy."

I thought as much. Not that he left me a choice. "Will you be able to bring me a phone? And some money? In case something happens again."

Her hand stills in my hair. "You'll have to ask Mr. Russo about that."

"Of course."

I drop the subject, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

While she works, I reflect on the information she shared. Thanks to her revelation, I'm two things wiser. The first is that Angelo is obviously despised in the village for more than his brutal reputation. His family on his mother's side brought him shame. The second realization is the one that hits me the hardest. He built a house for them—a stunning, enormous, sea-facing house.

That's huge. Did he do it for them or for himself? Did he do it to better their circumstances or to eradicate his shame? I'm leaning toward the latter. As much as I hate him, I can't help the compassion that flutters in my chest.

"I think we got them all," Heidi says, carrying the comb to the sink.

I push to my feet. "Thank you, Heidi. You have no idea how much I appreciate this." Because she didn't have to help me.

"You're welcome, Mrs. Russo," she replies with a warm smile.

"You can call me Sabella. Mrs. Russo is so formal."

"Mr. Russo won't like that."

"He isn't here, is he?"

She nods. "Fine, Sabella. If that's what you prefer."

After she washes her hands, she disinfects my knee and my feet before applying band-aids despite my protest.

When she's finished tending to me, I walk her to the door. "Do you think I can have some cleaning products and the use of a washing machine?"

"I can take the sheets with me now."

"I don't want to risk spreading this horrible pest. We should seal them in an airtight bag before you transport them."

"Don't worry." She pats my shoulder and says on her way out, "I'll take care of it."

I thank her again and close the door. The engine of her car starts up. I walk to the window and watch until the taillights disappear. Silence descends on the house. Clouds obscure the moon. The night seems darker. An owl hoots somewhere.

A shiver crawls through me. I feel too exposed, too alone. With no curtains or blinds in front of the windows, anyone can look in when the lights are on. Angelo took the key he used to unlock the door with him last night. I make a mental note to ask him to make me a copy so that I can at least lock myself in. That's to say if he gives a damn about my safety. Or if I'll see him anytime soon. He'll probably laugh at me, telling me no one but Heidi is going to drive up here. And him. When he needs a fuck.

Unable to shake the feeling that I'm being watched, I switch off the lights and make my way upstairs in the dark. I don't lie down on the mattress. I sit in the corner with my knees pulled up to my chin. It will be challenging to sleep like this, but I refuse to crawl back onto the infested mattress. I have no way of knowing that the spray was effective.

After a while, the exhaustion of the day wins out and my eyes draw closed. My head nods between my shoulders, jerking me awake. I slide down, trying to make myself more comfortable. That's when I hear it, the creaking of the door as someone pushes it open. My heart pounds as I prick up my ears, but there's nothing but silence.

Was it my imagination? Did I dream it? Pushing to my feet, I tiptoe to the door. A click comes from downstairs. My pulse spikes. There's definitely someone in the house. I dare a peek around the doorframe. In the moonlight that falls through the windows, I can make out the deserted lounge and the front door that stands open.

My heartbeat triples. Whoever slipped into the house must be in the kitchen. What shall I do? How do I defend myself? No one will hear me if I scream for help. I don't have a weapon. Do I hide in the bedroom and hope the intruder doesn't come upstairs?

I'm still considering my limited options when a shadow falls over the threshold of the kitchen door. A small, thin child no older than six or seven creeps into the lounge, clutching something under each arm. He looks left and right before sneaking toward the open door.

I'm speechless with surprise. He's in the middle of the floor before I find my voice.

"Wait. Stop."

The boy freezes and jerks his face in my direction. For a moment, we only stare at each other, both of us caught off guard. His face is so dirty I can make out the streaks on his cheeks in the pale light of the moon. The objects he carries turn out to be a box of cereal and a carton of milk.

The boy comes to his sense first. He turns on his heel, sprinting for the door.

"No," I call after him, rushing down the stairs. "Please, wait."

He charges through the door just as I make it to the bottom of the staircase. By the time I reach the door, he's already vanished into the night.