The Italian’s Baby

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SHE was seventeen, as pretty as a doll, and as lifeless, sitting in the window, staring out, unseeing, over the Italian countryside.

She didn’t turn when the door opened and a nurse came in, with a middle-aged man. He had an air of joviality that sat oddly with his cold eyes.

‘How’s my best girl?’ he greeted the doll by the window.

She neither replied nor looked at him.

‘I’ve got someone to see you, precious.’ He turned to a young man standing behind him and said curtly, ‘Make it quick.’

He was twenty, little more than a boy. His hair was shaggy, he looked as though he hadn’t shaved for days, and his eyes were wild with pain and anger. He went quickly to the girl and dropped on his knees beside her, speaking in an imploring voice.

‘Becky, mia piccina-it is I, Luca. Look at me, I beg you. Forgive me for everything-they say our child is dead and that it is my fault-I never meant to hurt you-can you hear me?’

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