sursum corda

When he returns from Rome the boy is dead. Primo leaves Leonardo behind him, the bearer of bad news, and he tears up the goat track to the bunker, snapping branches. Many times he has thought it would be better if the boy were dead, would have killed him himself and laughed about it, but for all the trouble they’ve been through the boy has no right to succumb to anything less than a bullet.

They had left him there against the wall, immobilized and gray-faced, leaking thick blood — Leonardo had given him brandy for the pain at first, but he kept vomiting. Primo calls out to Salvatore, but there is no answer from within but an echo. The boy stands at the mouth of the cave, upright as Christ; the blanket hangs from his naked shoulders, and the bandage has unraveled from his hair. The glow of health is on him, his face is gentle as an angel and beautiful as a woman — hungry as a dog.

Primo bristles and curses, but the Getty boy does not flinch away. There is blood on his face, bright new blood. He smiles, and his teeth shine white in a red mouth.