Free Kal by Judy Nunn Page B

was a whole new world to be explored. It was the other side of the earth, the biggest adventure a man could undertake. Beyond Santa Lena and the mountains there was a vast, brown land. That was what the newspaper called it. Giovanni could not possibly imagine what a vast brown land looked like, but the thought of it was thrilling beyond belief.
    Giovanni checked the coffee and stoked the fire. It was late afternoon and soon the others would return from the digging. At the end of each working day one man went on ahead to the camp to build the fire and prepare the coffee. It was a pleasurable duty and they took it in turn. If the fire was not burning steadily and the coffee not well brewed when the others arrived, the man forfeited his next turn.
    The air was clear and still, but bitterly cold, the feeling of snow imminent. Yes, he thought, there would be a heavy fall tonight. He fetched his concertina from the tent, sat beside the fire and played. He loved the way the sound rang out through the stillness. He started to sing. ‘Torna a Surriento’. His favourite.
    As Giovanni sang, he kept looking along the track which led to the work site. He could see no one. They would be another fifteen minutes, he guessed. Yes, the timing of the coffee was right. Then he caught sight of alone figure in the distance, walking down the mountain track which led to the border.
    He stopped singing. The boy must have been walking for a long time, he thought, it was an eight-hour trek to Steinach, which was the closest village over the mountains. He would offer him a cup of coffee, he thought. It would not be well brewed but it would be warm enough.
    He stood and beckoned to the boy, who appeared not to see him. Giovanni walked towards the track to intercept him and then he realised it was not a boy at all. It was her. The beautiful girl who had crossed the mountain with Teresa.
    â€˜Come and warm yourself by the fire,’ he said. ‘There is coffee.’
    The girl glanced at him vaguely. She looked tired, he thought, tired and cold. ‘Have you come from Steinach?’ he asked. ‘You must be weary.’
    She nodded and followed him to the fire where she put down her knapsack and squatted beside him. He stirred the half-brewed coffee and ladled some into a tin mug. ‘It is not quite ready yet but it will warm you.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ she murmured as she clasped her mittened hands around the mug and gazed into the fire. Then she noticed the concertina on the ground and glanced at him briefly. ‘It was you singing.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Ah.’ Her gaze returned to the fire.
    She had not recognised him, he realised. ‘We have met,’ he said. ‘Two months ago, when you crossed the mountain with Teresa.’ She looked at him blankly. ‘Teresa is promised to my brother Rico,’ he prompted. Still her eyes held no recognition. ‘We talked, you and I. My name is Giovanni.’
    â€˜Ah. Yes,’ she said, and her gaze returned to the fire.
    She was more than tired, he thought, more thancold. No longer was there laughter beneath her beauty. Her blue eyes no longer danced. They were lifeless, as if something inside her had died. He wondered what had happened and whether he should ask. He watched as she sipped the coffee.
    â€˜I am sorry it has not yet brewed,’ he said. ‘The second cup will be better.’
    â€˜It is good. Thank you.’
    Giovanni could not help himself. ‘What has happened?’ he asked. And when she said nothing he persevered. ‘You were happy when you crossed the mountain and now you come back over the mountain and you are sad. What has happened?’ She looked directly at him for the first time, but still she seemed not to see him. ‘Teresa is not to finish her work at the chalet for a further two months,’ he said. Again it was a question but, even as he asked it, he felt guilty. He was prying. Something terrible had