The Night Falling Read Online Free Page A

from Pino’s expression that he sees it – that subtle sinking, a creeping mix of sorrow and frustration; he can see that his oldest friend doesn’t know what to say to him, as long as the moment lasts. They are each given a drink of water and a chunk of bread before work starts. The bread is fresh, which it normally isn’t, and the men tear into it like dogs. The water has the stone grit taste of the cistern. They start work straight afterwards, wriggling their fingers into the wooden hand-guards that are meant to protect them, but which the farmers really like because they extend a man’s grasp, and mean he can gather a bigger sheaf of wheat each time. One man wields the scythe – the taller, stronger ones, with the longest reach – and behind him comes another man, tying the cut stalks into sheaves.
    For hours there’s nothing but the swing of blades, the crunch of the cut stalks as they fall and are gathered up. High above their heads black kites ride the hot air, circling; curious about the smell and movement of the working men. From a distance it looks as though the harvest will be good: field after field of golden grain, rolling in the scorching altina wind from the south. But up close the men see that the stalks are sparser than they should be, shorter, with too few grains on each ear and too much space between them. The yield will be less than hoped for, and their wages to match. At midday the sun is debilitating; it crushes the men, it weighs them down like chains. The corporal’s horses wilt, hanging their heads and letting their eyelids droop, too fagged to even shake the flies away. The overseer calls a halt and the men rest and have another drink of water, just enough to wet their parched throats. As soon as their shadows have crept two hand spans to one side the overseer checks his watch, rouses them, and work continues.
    Pino and Ettore pass each other, working within earshot for a short while as their lines coincide.
    ‘Luna is trying to buy beans today,’ says Pino, conversationally.
    ‘I wish her luck. I hope the grocer doesn’t rob her.’
    ‘She’s smart, my Luna. I think she will get some, and then we’ll have a fine dinner.’ Pino does this a lot – talks about food. Fantasises about food. It seems to help him beat his hunger, but it does the opposite to Ettore, whose stomach writhes and mutters at the thought of fava beans boiled with bay leaves, and maybe some garlic and pepper, and mashed up with strong olive oil. He swallows.
    ‘Don’t talk about food, Pino,’ he pleads.
    ‘Sorry, Ettore. I can’t help it. That’s all I dream about: food, and Luna.’
    ‘Then dream quietly, for fuck’s sake,’ says the man working behind Ettore.
    ‘I don’t mind if he talks about his wife as long as he doesn’t spare us the details.’ This is from a lad no more than fourteen, who grins lopsidedly at Pino.
    ‘If I catch you dreaming about my wife, I’ll cut your prick off,’ Pino tells him, angling his scythe towards the boy, lifting its wicked tip; but he isn’t serious, and the boy grins wider, showing them his broken front teeth.
    The altina picks up, smelling of some distant desert, humming over the grey stone walls of the field and through the leathery leaves of a fig tree in one corner. The ground is dust-dry, the wheat parched, the sky mercilessly clear. The men lick their lips but can’t keep them from cracking. Flies buzz brazenly around their heads and necks, biting, knowing that the men won’t spare the effort to swat them away. Ettore works and tries not to think. He comes across a patch of wild rocket leaves, bitter and mean. He picks all he can find and eats them when nobody is looking, feeling his throat clog with saliva and the hot taste of them. The guards are extra vigilant at this end of the day – eyes sharp for signs of the men slowing down, of surreptitious rests being taken, of the scythe being leant upon, not swung. The man gathering the wheat Ettore cuts