“What can we do?”
“Nothing so long as there’s that place down there. Nothing at all.”
Alvina thought so too. So she went to bed.
She was up in time, and watching the clock. It was a grey morning, but not raining. At five minutes to nine, she hurried off to Mrs. Rollings. In the back yard the bicycles were out, glittering and muddy according to their owners. Ciccio was crouching mending a tire, crouching balanced on his toes, near the earth. He turned like a quick-eared animal glancing up as she approached, but did not rise.
“Are you getting ready to go?” she said, looking down at him. He screwed his head round to her unwillingly, upside down, his chin tilted up at her. She did not know him thus inverted. Her eyes rested on his face, puzzled. His chin seemed so large, aggressive. He was a little bit repellent and brutal, inverted. Yet she continued:
“Would you help me to carry back the things we brought for Madame?”
He rose to his feet, but did not look at her. He was wearing broken cycling shoes. He stood looking at his bicycle tube.
“Not just yet,” she said. “I want to say good-bye to Madame. Will you come in half an hour?”
“Yes, I will come,” he said, still watching his bicycle tube, which sprawled nakedly on the floor. The forward drop of his head was curiously beautiful to her, the straight, powerful nape of the neck, the delicate shape of the back of the head, the black hair. The way the neck sprang from the strong, loose shoulders was beautiful. There was something mindless but intent about the forward reach of his head. His face seemed colourless, neutral-tinted and expressionless.
She went indoors. The young men were moving about making preparations.