“What is it?”
Carmela ran to Gemma’s door and shook the handle, calling to her to come out. There was no answer, and perhaps they had a dreadful premonition of the truth even then; Olive left them huddled together like frightened sheep. The knocking still continued, and it sounded very loud when she came out of the flat on to the stairs. She was beside herself; that is, she was aware of two Olives, one who spoke in a strange voice and trembled, and was now going down into the darkness, stumbling at nearly every step and moaning incoherent prayers to God, and one who watched and listened and was surprised at what was said and done.
When she opened the great house door a man stood aside to let her come out. She looked at him and knew him to be one of the neighbours, and she wondered why he had run out into the street in his shirt-sleeves. He was pale, too, and looked ill, and he seemed to want to speak to her, but she could not listen.
A crowd had collected about something that was lying on the pavement near their house wall; Olive looked up and saw Gemma’s window opened wide, and then she knew what it was. The people made way for her and let her come to where the dead thing lay on its back with the knees drawn up. Some woman had already covered the face with a handkerchief, and dark blood was oozing out from under it. Olive crouched down beside its pitiful disarray.
“Will someone help me carry her into the house?” she said.
No one answered her, and after a while she spoke again.
“Will someone fetch a doctor quickly?”
“It is useless, figlia mia; she is dead.”
“At least”—her voice broke, and she had to begin again, making a painful effort to control the words that she might be quite intelligible—“at least help me to carry her in from the street. Is there no Christian here?”
Two carabinieri came running up now, and they made the people stand back so that a space of pavement was left clear; the younger man spoke to Olive.