And then slowly the fires died down. The light seemed to go out of the scene, as though I were watching the sunset glow and the rim of the sun was sinking below the horizon. I looked up towards the mountain. The red streaks of the lava flow were gradually fading. A curtain was being drawn over the mountain, veiling the terrible red anger of it. In a moment it was black as the pit. And as the glow vanished all the world went black. I could see nothing — no sign of the vineyards or the orange trees, not even the shape of the window outlined against the night outside.
And then the gentle hissing sound of something falling — continuously and relentlessly. It was like the sound of hail. But it wasn’t hail. It had a heavy, sulphurous smell. It was ash raining down from the mountain above.
I knew then what to expect. This was it — the rain of ash that had buried Pompeii. The history of the mountain was repeating itself. I felt suddenly calm, almost detached. There is a moment after you have been badly frightened when you accept death as the inevitable, logical conclusion. That was how I felt as I stared at the black, sulphurous night with its sifting sound of falling ash. I accepted it, and once having accepted it I didn’t mind so much.
And now I became conscious of other sounds. A woman was screaming. A door banged and footsteps ran along the corridor overhead. The villa seemed suddenly to have come to life. It was like the relief of the jungle after it has been frozen to stillness by the hunting roar of a lion. Sansevino came to life, too. He turned and ran to the door. As he passed me he cried, ‘The cars. Presto! Presto!’
I turned and followed him. A torch was bobbing towards me down the stairs. The beam showed a grey curtain of ash sifting down from the top of the villa. The tiny particles gleamed and danced in the light. The torch flashed on my face and Zina’s voice said, ‘Che dobbiamo fare? Che dobbiamo fare!’
I could hear Sansevino shouting for Roberto. ‘They’ve gone for the cars,’ I told her.
‘We must get away from here. Where is Roberto? Roberto! Roberto!’ Her voice was a scream. ‘We must get to the car. We must drive away quick before the roads are blocked.’
I thought of the cabriolet’s canvas hood. Hot ash would burn through it. Anyway, how could any one drive through it? It’d be worse than driving through a sandstorm. The ash would be like a solid wall reflecting the light of the headlights. ‘Better to stay here,’ I said.
‘Stay here!’ she screamed at me. ‘Do you know what it is liked to be buried alive? Did you not see what happen to Pompeii? Dio Santo! I wish to God I never come ‘ere. Albanese of the osservatore tell me something will happen. But I have to come. I have to come.’ She was literally wringing her hands. I’d heard of people doing it, but I’d never actually seen it before. Her hands were locked together, her fingers twisting and twining so tightly that she seemed to be trying to squeeze the flesh out from between the bones. ‘We must get away. Dio ci salvi! We must get away.’
She was on the edge of hysteria. I caught hold of her shoulders and shook her. ‘Pull yourself together,’ I said. ‘We’ll get out of it somehow.’