vendetta ! by Brian Cleeve . they faced each other in the lamplit room , her hands pale against the black of her dress , clasped together , as if she was afraid of what he would say to her , or of what she would answer . tell me what really happened , he whispered . how did your father die ? he saw the hands twist , the fingers clench with the effort of holding the words in . was he killed ? he said . she lifted one hand , pressed its knuckles against her mouth . yes , she breathed . they killed him &amp;hellip; . she turned away , towards the deep , narrow window that looked out on the valley , and Mount Tamborene . there was no moon yet , and the stars were heavy as gold coins in the south Italian sky . and your brother ? Silvio ? what do you think ? she said , trying to keep the bitterness from her voice . he is carrying on the vendetta . like a hero of the old times . she leant her forehead against the cool plaster of the wall , beside the window . he is up there , on the mountain . stealing their sheep . burning their shepherds &apos; huts . while we stay here &amp;hellip; . she was crying now , with a quiet despair that was worse than if she had screamed aloud . he was afraid to touch her : afraid of many things , perhaps most of all to wake the thing that he had tried to forget after all the years in the north , since he left this house . seven years . seven years ago , stealing out of the house on a night as dark as this . running away , a boy &apos;s dream in his mind that one day he would come back with a fortune , to dazzle this family that had taken him in as an orphan , saved his life - and exacted the fullest price for it that they could . he had been seven years old when they found him , a piece of wartime flotsam cast up in a Calabrian valley from God knew where . starving , remembering nothing but his name , Ettore , and a mind-picture of buildings lit by a fantastic glare , tumbling , falling , while a woman screamed . and the Feltri , the richest family in the valley , had let him sleep in a corner of their yard , and fed him scraps in return for work ; drawing water , minding the goats and chickens , seeing that this girl beside him did n&apos;t stray out of the courtyard . she had been five then , small and dark and supple as a kitten ; running away from him , laughing at him , hiding , while he ran after her in despair , calling Ginevra , Ginevra , terrified that he would be beaten or left without food for not minding her properly . there had been Silvio too , almost his own age , but already a young prince , slender and arrogant . it had been Silvio who gave him his new name , Orfano . Ettore the orphan . he had grown up to carry the name with a kind of sullen pride . but for that name he might truly have become one of the family . they were kind enough to him , as far as they understood what kindness was . after the first year or so , they did n&apos;t beat him any more . they gave him his place in life against the world , as they gave it to their dogs , their shepherds , the women who worked in the house , the peasants who worked on their olive terraces . he belonged to them , to their faction , opposing the other faction in the village , that of the Crespi , bitter enemies of the Feltri for more than a hundred years . he might have grown up to be like Silvio &apos;s true brother , or cousin , but for that name , Orfano . the children in the village shrieked it after him , the orphan , the orphan ! sometimes at night he prayed , when I wake up tomorrow , let me remember my real name . but he never did . only the buildings falling , burning , the woman screaming . the only person that he was really close to was Ginevra ; protecting her from her brother ; bringing her new-born chicks in his cap for an Easter gift . he pretended to himself that both she and he were orphans ; that they were the brother and sister , not she and Silvio . he gave her all the love that he would have given his whole family , if he had had one &amp;hellip; . until quite suddenly , between one day and the next , he realised that it had become a different kind of love . for a week he had held the knowledge inside himself , half ecstasy , half terror , like a pleasure so unbearable that it becomes agony . then , one evening , when both of them were drawing water by the well , he had told her what he felt ; had taken her hands , held them against his heart , drawn her close to him , so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his mouth &amp;hellip; . Ettore ? she had breathed , afraid of what she saw in his face , what she felt stirring in herself . Ettore &amp;hellip; . and he had kissed her ; not wanting to , holding himself back as if it was a sacrilege , and yet drawn down to her . and then they had really kissed , and it was like drunkenness , like falling , like fire in the mouth , and they both leaned against the well , sick and dizzy , hardly able to see one another . but her father had seen . he came out from the house , shouting curses . he knocked Ettore to the ground and beat him with a harness strap until he was barely conscious . that night Ettore ran away . he had known that there was no chance of his being allowed even to speak to Ginevra again . he ran away , to make his fortune . in a year he would be back , with a motor car and a sack of gold , and he would pour the gold on the great kitchen table in front of all of them . when he told them that he had come back to marry Ginevra , they would go down on their knees to him in gratitude . but that dream had faded very soon , as he begged his way north , picking up what work he could in Rome , in Bologna , in Milan , Turin . until eventually in Turin the police picked him up as a vagabond , found that he was due for his military service , and shipped him off to the barracks instead of the gaol . he thrived as a soldier . he was drafted into the engineers , showed promise and intelligence , and was trained as a road surveyor . when he finished his service , one of his officers found him a job with a road construction company , and for two years he was working in the Alps . Calabria , the Feltri - even Ginevra - seemed to belong to another world . he felt that it was better like that . it would do him no good to carry useless regret through life . he tried never to think of her &amp;hellip; . and then the construction company was granted a contract in Calabria . Ettore Orfano was assigned to it because he knew the dialect , and would get on with the local workmen . and suddenly he found himself within twenty miles of Tamborene , and the house which for ten years of his life had been his home . for a month he debated in his mind whether to go back , then whether to write first , or simply to arrive . finally he compromised . a week &apos;s leave was due to him , and he simply wrote that he was coming , and followed his letter so closely that there would be no time for a reply . he spent the hour-long journey in the bus trying over a dozen different speeches for his arrival , wondering how they would receive him , nursing the little pile of gifts in his lap : a pipe for Giovanni Feltri ; silk scarves for the women ; a box of cheroots for Silvio . he was half-eager to walk into the great kitchen with its smoke-blackened timbers , its huge table , its massive chairs and cavernous hearth ; to show himself to them in his suit from Milan , his town shoes ; to show them what he had become ; a man on the rungs of a skilled professional career , educated , self-assured . and yet also half-afraid . of what ? nothing . he could imagine the clamour of welcome . even old Giovanni would welcome him , the cuffs , the beatings , the brutalities and the last quarrel forgotten . Ginevra would surely be married now . perhaps she would have children . would she have called one of them Ettore ? whom would she have married ? one of the Crespi ? not very likely . and yet who else had there been for her to marry ? perhaps she had healed the century-old vendetta between the families . he tried to be pleased at the idea . the bus hammered to a stop . he was the only passenger to get down . a few men were sitting in the caf&amp;eacute; opposite , but it was already half-dark and no one recognized him . he walked very quickly up the street , into the familiar lane , to the wide , double doors set in the fortress-thickness of the courtyard wall . he found that his heart was beating fast , and his mouth was dry . then he heard old footsteps shuffling across the courtyard , an old voice grumbling , the leaf of the great door swinging open with a whine of hinges . he recognized one of the servants who had been there in his time : Franca , who had been old then , and seemed no older now , as thin as a stick in her widow &apos;s black that she had worn for forty years . she stared at him . Franca , he said . it &apos;s me . Ettore Orfano . do n&apos;t you remember ? madonna mia , she whispered . Ettore &amp;hellip; . suddenly she ran back towards the house as if possessed , shrieking at the top of her voice , Ettore Orfano , little Ettore ; he has come back ! Ginevra , Signora Angela &amp;hellip; Maria ! he followed her , laughing , and at the same time scarcely able to breathe for the thudding of his heart , the tightness in his throat . and then she was in the doorway , looking at him , grown very tall and slender , her face ivory pale , her dark eyebrows frowning a little , looking at him among the shadows of the courtyard . until suddenly her hand went out to him , her eyes lighting , her remembered voice saying , Ettore ! welcome ! welcome ! welcome home ! he took her hands , and looked at her from head to foot , while his fingers felt to see what rings she wore . no wedding ring . and he was absurdly glad , and then angry with himself . he noticed that she was wearing black . you are in mourning ? he said . she was already drawing him into the kitchen . for my father , Ginevra said . he died a month ago . a fall on the mountain . may God rest his soul , Ettore said . I am very sorry . I would not have come - from inside the kitchen , Ginevra &apos;s mother caught the last words , grasped his arms and shook her head at him in rebuke . would not have come ? she exclaimed . you have kept us waiting too long as it is . how long will you stay ? where have you &amp;hellip; oh , how fine you have grown , how tall ! eh , Ginevra - eh , Maria ? she seemed not to remember how he had left ; only to be glad to see him again . she had changed , Ettore saw . in the old days she had been harsh and stiff ; afraid of her husband and yet arrogantly proud that she had a husband strong and fierce enough to make her afraid . now all that seemed gone . she seemed to have shrunk , and to have lost all the certainties that once held her upright . and Silvio ? Ettore asked , looking round for him . a silence fell on the kitchen . Ginevra looked down , avoiding his eyes . he is &amp;hellip; he is away , she said , and immediately began a great bustle of laying a place for Ettore , of giving orders to Maria the cook , of fetching wine . no one mentioned Silvio again all through the meal . and when Ettore asked exactly how old Giovanni had died , the same silence fell , as if there were things about the death that they were unwilling to discuss , or that made them afraid . 