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Deceptive cadence
a chord progression where the dominant chord is followed by a chord other than the tonic chord, usually the sixth chord
As the valley road from the coast snaked inland the cluster of Ozieri appeared in the near distance, past the parched yellow grasses of the farms in its periphery, beyond the trees, sundried and twisted in the heat spreading their branches skyward. The cicadas were in full song. Alba didn’t turn on the radio. She’d wound down the windows since the start of the drive from Olbia Airport, the wind smashing against her ears with smacks of white noise. She needed a break from Rome, she told Dante. Her accademia duties didn’t start for another month. She would call him from Sardinia. He would promise not to contact her before that.
As she wove uphill, the cemetery rose into view, its high white walls a blinding glare in the late morning sun. She pulled in across the gravel. It wouldn’t be long before it closed for the day. There was a small hut selling flowers just outside. The woman working there had already begun taking the buckets of blooms inside out of the heat ahead of closing. Alba caught her just in time, buying the last two dozen roses, then she walked in through the arched entrance, the tall cypress planted along the periphery casting spindled shadows across the pine needle floor and tombs. The sun-toasted dusty air filled her with a brutal slew of memories, a childhood scuffed along the cobbled streets, hours spent in the shade of the trees of the pineta finishing homework with Raffaele, followed by the disorientation of being a balloon snapped of its string, rising aimless, caught up on the whim of the wind.
A janitor was filling up a bucket at one of the faucets. She approached him to ask where Raffaele was buried, her voice breaking midway through his surname. He pointed toward the far end of the cemetery. “He’s in his family’s monument,” he added.
The sound of her feet upon the brittle needles felt like they reached her from far off, like the space between two radio stations, where the dial hits the crackle of frequency still fudged with the sounds of a distant presenter.
The sculpture of an angel contorted in a mid-flight twist rose into view. One foot leapt off the marble base, the other yearned for the sky. Its wings were outstretched and the detail of the sculpting brought Alba to a stop. At its base lay a spray of flowers, the first signs of decay at their tips since the funeral a few days before. Beyond, wrought-iron double doors that opened into a tiny chapel, enough space for a thin marble altar with a lit votive, and, in front, a pew for one person to kneel upon. Alba opened the doors and stepped in. On either side were enamel plaques of Raffaele’s grandparents, and there, on the bottom was his sunny smile. She recognized the picture straightaway. It was a snap they’d caught on one of his visits to Rome about ten years ago. He’d just met Luca and was full of the fresh blush of love, the real deal, he’d said, as they sipped aperitivi in a little bar just above the Spanish steps watching the Roman sun dip across the city in streaks of amber and rose. They clinked to that, to love, in all its forms. Alba had thought of Vittorio that evening and let the image of him swirl into nothingness with the melting cubes, sending love to her younger self, forgiving her mistakes.
A fresh wave of rage rose.
She knelt on the cold marble. Her sobs echoed across the stone. When her breaths returned close to normal, she straightened and looked into the photographic plaque of her best friend’s face. “I want to say sorry without crying at you, Ra’,” she began, sitting back on her knees. “I want to do it with all my soul. Simply. Truthfully. But I can’t, my love”—her tears fighting out between the narrow gaps—“I can’t because the sorry truth is that I was flying and I couldn’t think of coming back down to earth. I believed in the creation of an Alba I no longer recognized. I wore her like a brand-new coat, you know? And I looked good. I looked fucking beautiful. And everyone made me feel so special. I was a breath away from demigod, Ra’. I fed my audience so they would feed me, rather than come straight to you. And I don’t know how I will forgive myself. I was taken up with the current. You knew that though. And you still loved me. You saw through all that crap. If I’d come maybe things would be different. Though of course, that’s not true.”
She wiped her wet face. Saying the words out loud helped calm fall over her like a veil. “So I’m back. I think that’s what you were trying to get me to understand in Milan. But it took the complete breaking of me to really hear you, Ra’. I was swept up in lots of people’s plans for me. I’ve escaped that for the time being. I’ve escaped escaping. I thought my running was the force of ambition. And it was, in part, but driving it was an unswerving need to escape some hard truths. I think it’s time to face some head-on. I think it’s what you’d always tried to get me to understand.”
Her stomach twisted in deep knots. The pain was visceral, pummeling. Here was the grief she’d not allowed herself to feel for her mother. The grief she didn’t allow herself to feel for the broken relationship with her father. It rattled her bones, a fierce resonance, each ripple ricocheting, brittle, against the first, sending grief’s silent melody through her marrow. She might have sat there for longer, in the shade of the small mausoleum, but the rattle of the janitor’s keys wrenched her out of her pool and she stood up, noticing the tips of her roses’ petals had already started to curl inward a little in the heat. She placed them in a vase, replacing the bouquet that was already in it, then stepped outside, closing the iron gates.
With the click of the lock a voice called to her. She spun round, at once aware of her wet face, witnessing the impulse to clear it, hide it, a fleeting yearn for Marianna’s cosmetic brush, letting the sensations drift over her without action.
“Alba?”
Mario was clutching a bunch of chrysanthemums in his hand, a spray of yellow before his spattered trousers, flecked with paint and oil.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured.
“Thanks.”
They stood, her eyes wet, unblinking.
“I didn’t think I had any tears left,” he began through the hot quiet, “but now seeing you I think I’m going to start again.”
He laughed off his stumbling with a sigh, shifted his weight. “I’ve come to see Papà.”
Then he stepped in and kissed her on each cheek. He smelt of the officina, a metallic blur of car oil and coffee.
“Just swung by after work,” he began. “You probably knew that already.”
The silent heat of the afternoon closed in.
“You’re a film star these days too, I hear?”
“Shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” she replied, regretting her throwaway straight afterward. “I mean, yes, I made a film. It’s finished now.”
“That’s wonderful, Alba.”
That the film was finished? That she was perhaps? She wiped her face, and with it the piercing thoughts, feeling how puffy her eyes were beneath her fingers.
He straightened. “I didn’t mean to disturb you just now, Alba, sorry.”
She noticed a few more lines around his eyes than the last time they’d seen each other. The weathered look suited him, lending a warmth and gravitas, which had eluded him till now. His tempo had relaxed. Perhaps Raffaele’s death had stripped him down too?
“It’s fine, really,” Alba said, breaking the pause.
“How long you staying?”
Her eyes dipped for a beat, she found herself wondering why there were dried cracks of earth on his boots beside the splatter of oil. “Not sure.”
“I’m taking your papà to one of his meetings later this week. You know the victim support circle I told you about?”
Alba felt her face wither. “Right.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to start, I mean—here.” He reached into his pocket for his card and handed it to her. “Just call if you need anything.”
She took it. It had the Fiat logo at the center and under his name, Partner.
“No one knows I’m back yet.” Her words came out more of a warning than she’d planned.
She felt her body tighten.
“I mean I won’t say anything, of course,” he added.
“Grazie.”
The stood in silence for a breath, the stone angel between them desperate for flight.
Alba turned and began a slow walk back to her car.
Mario called out. “Alba?”
She switched back. He reached her. Now he was no longer in silhouette against the sun she could make out the start of dark stubble along his jaw.
“Your papà’s pretty frail these days. Just before his ministroke, they charged Mesina with drug trafficking. I think that’s what caused it. Turns out Mesina was heading a ring. Big stuff. The reformed bandit, who invited your dad to his son’s wedding even, was playing a stiff double bluff. Even went to my girls’ school last year to educate kids on how not to succumb to a life of a crime. Quite the celebrity.”
Alba felt a whirr of confusion and tiredness sweep through her.
“I just felt like you should know. Your papà’s not the man you left behind.”
“And I’m not that girl.”
Mario’s expression softened. “I’m so sorry about Raffaele. I can only imagine what you’re feeling.”
Alba nodded. She didn’t want any more words, or any more tears. The heat had begun to weigh down her limbs.
“See you around, Mario.”
“Sure.”
She left him behind her as she reached the car, parked beside what must have been his motorbike because there were no other vehicles in the unforgiving scorch of the lot. Alba pulled out onto the road and followed it till the pineta rose and fell out of view, farther still, till she reached the house where it had all begun.
* * *
Elena and Alba took their post-lunch coffee on the terrace beyond the piano room, overlooking the plains that Alba had played to as a young girl, now bathed in blissful shade. Alba was delighted to see her aging mentor still at home in the kitchen, moving a little slower than before, her movements delicate, but not tentative, her eyes still fierce with that insatiable playfulness Alba adored.
“How do you do it, Elena?”
“Do what?”
“All this. Your house is immaculate, you threw me a lunch worthy of a princess. Your terrace is still in bloom and your garden looks like a painting.”
“Well, I’ll take credit for everything but the garden. I have help with that.”
“You’re an inspiration.”
“I’m too stubborn to die, I think. Maybe that’s it.”
Alba laughed. “Thank you. For everything.”
Elena’s eyes filled. “It doesn’t feel real, does it?”
“No.”
“Dear Raffaele. Are you still outside your body a little?”
“Very much. Or outside the body I thought was mine. I don’t know where to go from here.”
“Has Vittorio tried to reach you?”
“I left my phone at the hotel. I have my pager for Dante, but he knows I’m keeping it off for the next few weeks. Should have heard how I spoke to him that night. I must have sounded deranged. I was deranged.”
“I think you’re entitled to that, no?”
Alba’s mouth curled into a memory of a smile.
Her voice dipped into a whisper. “All I ever wanted was the music, Elena.”
“That will never leave you.”
“You should know.”
Alba looked out toward the blue-green streaks across the hot haze of the plains.
“Did you run away in such a mess though?” Alba asked.
“I never had the fame you do, Alba. But the pressure put upon me by my agents and managers made me realize quite early on that I didn’t want those things. And yes, my heart was split in two also. That has a way of making you realign your life story, no?”
Alba sighed a sad laugh and took a final sip of her coffee.
“I’ll stay a few days only, Elena. Today I’ll go and see Raffaele’s parents. Then, I don’t know.”
“You stay as long as you like, you know that.”
Elena reached for her hand and squeezed it. Her skin was papery, her fingers thinner than Alba remembered, but inside the grip remained the unwavering optimism of the woman who’d laid this world at her feet.
* * *
Raffaele’s parents lived in the heart of Sassari, a small city twenty minutes from Ozieri. They owned a four-bedroom apartment in one of the new blocks that her mother used to complain about and long for. Inside, the corridors were lined with books, an academic mixture of their combined medical and law training. When his mother opened the door, Alba didn’t recognize her. Gone was the elegant woman she remembered. She was dressed in a house smock and looked transparent. Grief had sapped her. They didn’t speak for a second, but held each other. She was not known as a tactile woman but now her frame was brittle in Alba’s arms. For a moment, the touch became the closest thing to feeling Raffaele; a hug once removed.
She led Alba into their living room. The furniture was unchanged from the 1970s. Echoes of her mother talking about it ricocheted in her mind. They had been at the cutting edge of modern living, she would say, flapping her arms in the air as she described the furniture, the obscure abstracts on the walls, the sculptures that looked both like naked dancers and random swirls, the lamps that stretched at peculiar angles and shapes. They knew about cocktails, a sideboard along the one wall testified to the fact. Giovanna had described the place as if it were a palace. Now it looked forgotten, hovering in a time just behind the present.
They sat. Raffaele’s mother spoke first. “Thank you so much for coming, Alba. We know how hard it is with your schedule.”
Her voice was mouse-like. She’d always seemed so forceful when they’d been kids.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t at the funeral,” Alba began, “more than I can say, Signora. I don’t think I will ever forgive myself.”
Raffaele’s mother straightened. She grew even paler. “But you must. If there’s one thing our son taught us, it was forgiveness.”
Alba didn’t want to interrupt.
“I abhorred Raffaele’s lifestyle. For a very long time. And truth be told, it made me sick. Nothing life-threatening, but a series of constant ailments I needed to attend to. Stress, they said. Such a fashionable word. Can’t stand it. Truth was I wasn’t happy, feeling this disgust for my child. It was like an automated reaction. Pathetic when I think about it. My husband was worse, of course.”
“I didn’t come to punish you, Signora.”
“You’re not.”
Raffaele’s mother took a sip of water. She placed it down, all her movements in slow motion, as if there was a possibility that she may break if they sped up.
“I punished myself quite enough. And then one day, Alba, I just decided that it was enough. I was causing the stress to myself. My choice of reaction, you see. I hung on to my reality whether or not it was making me ill.”
Alba nodded, yearning for her to elaborate. Her pain wasn’t a comfort, but it was good to sit with hers as well as her own. Just beyond the doorway to the lounge she could see Raffaele’s room. From the little she could see it was untouched since he’d left. All his posters were on the wall still, his collection of Rubik’s Cubes, the lamp with a Lamborghini as the base.
“He’d told me about Luca, you know,” his mother began, “and I looked at my grown baby, standing tall over me, dressed impeccably, beaming, and I knew my feelings had been a farce. Seeing your child in love is better than being in love yourself.”
Alba let the words hang.
“What I’m trying to say is, I forgave him. No, I forgave myself. I forgave myself for living with hate, I forgave myself for living in fear. It’s almost impossible to forgive myself for him getting sick. Though any good doctor, or mother, I suppose, knows they cannot control everything, however hard we try. And I think he taught me that—the courage to forgive. Yes, that’s the word. His legacy is courage. It�
��s noble to forgive, Alba, but I always thought it weak, like I was giving in to something I knew was wrong, but the truth is, it’s courageous.”
The words were a dart.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to go on,” she said.
“I’m glad to listen.”
Raffaele’s mother nodded and returned to the stiffness Alba remembered.
“I won’t take more of your time, Signora. But please, if I can do anything, you will ask me, si?”
Raffaele’s mother rose and took her hands. “My son loved you so very much. I had wished you two a life together, we all know that. We’re all so proud of you. What you accomplished.”
Alba couldn’t muster more than a wan smile. It would be some time before her achievements would become more than a shield she had used to keep some truths at a safe distance.
“My husband used to tell me how your father would tell his customers about his concert pianist. When he was still well enough to work there.”
“Signora, with respect, we both know he hated me for leaving.”
“He hated you for not doing what he knew he could control, yes. And I was guilty of that too. Raffaele was almost too ill to forgive me my hatred. Don’t leave it till it’s too late, Alba. No one but a parent can understand the agony of their child despising them.”
Alba’s throat tightened in rage. “My father feels nothing but spite. He hates what I’ve achieved.”
“He hates that he doesn’t know you even more. I was one of those parents. I know.”
Alba stood up. “Thank you so much for letting me see you.”
Raffaele’s mother nodded; in the suffused afternoon light netting in through the linen curtains she caught the same slant of Raffaele’s eyes. A fresh wave of grief began to rise. She didn’t want to cry here.
They reached the door. The women promised to stay in touch.
Alba got in her car and left the city behind her. As the road curved through the mountains, Raffaele’s mother’s words pounded in her mind. An unending free fall of fear opened up beneath her, deep as the rocky ravine to the side of the tarmac. Forgiving her father would leave her tender to hurt all over again, just like with Vittorio, one that she may never recover from.
A Roman Rhapsody Page 37