by Terri Favro
As the customer climbs into his car, Ida touches Marcello’s hand. “You won’t be a working man forever, caro.” Dirt or no dirt, she puts her arms around him. As Marcello embraces her, he whispers, “I’m sorry to have to scare you, cara, but there’s a guy down in the basement with me who told me a story he heard in Shipman’s Corners. Our story. He said I kidnapped you and Pop’s got some guy searching Little Italy to bring you back and teach me a lesson.”
Ida takes a step back and looks around, as if expecting to see Kowalchuk beside them. “Make sure he does not find out who we are. I will not go back, Cello.”
“Look, the best thing we can do is get your marriage to Pop annulled and get married. Once that happens, you belong to me.”
Ida looks up at Marcello’s face, a smudge of dirt across one pale cheek. “I am no one’s property, Cello. Not even yours.”
“I know, I know,” he says quickly. “It’s the way they think. Not the way I think.”
Ida reaches up to touch his face. “I will be back from Ottawa tomorrow. We talk then, caro.”
That afternoon, with Marcello at the library, Ida invites two flight attendants, Diane and Georgia, to the house for a drink after work. It’s a beautiful early fall day—one of only a few nice days, Ida suspects, that they will see in this city of grey stone. She has discovered that Toronto has three short seasons of pallid sunlight and intense humidity, followed by a long, stingingly-cold, slushy winter. She figures they might as well enjoy a nice day while they’ve got one.
At the local liquor control board outlet, Ida fills out a slip of paper and hands it to a man whose neck is strangled in a tight collar and tie. He takes the slip suspiciously, as if wondering what this woman is up to, buying rye whisky in the afternoon. Finally he comes back with the bottle, tightly wrapped in a brown paper bag. “Can I see some ID, please?”
Ida shows him her birth certificate. She stands impassively, watching him examine the birth date, then peer at her face. She raises her eyebrows as if to say, Che? Then he raises his. Finally, he sighs and gives her the bottle. She goes through this every time she buys something at the liquor control outlet from this very same man. No matter how many times she shows him her birth certificate, he wants to see it again. What a strange country, that buying a bottle of whisky is controlled! thinks Ida.
In the backyard, the three women take off their high heels and sip their rye-and-gingers on ice. Georgia pulls off her panty hose, right there in the yard. “Anyone looking?” she giggles. Mrs. Agnelli casts a look at Georgia, over the fence, from where she’s hanging her laundry. Ida tries not to make eye contact with her.
A few minutes later, Marcello comes home from the library, carrying a Mac’s Milk bag: he has the ingredients for that night’s awful dinner. Something with cream of mushroom soup again, Ida suspects.
When Marcello appears, Ida notices Georgia and Diane’s eyes widening. Ida is used to seeing women react to Marcello this way. At first, she liked it, was proud to be with someone who seemed to excite, if not exactly passion—very rare, in this city—then at least interest.
“Mind if I join you, ladies?” he asks, eyeing the whiskies in their hands.
“Oh, please do!” says Georgia. She thrusts out her chest and sits up a little straighter.
Marcello goes inside to put his textbooks away. At least, thinks Ida with satisfaction, they know that Marcello is a student, not just some ditch digger. This always seems to be the assumption when people hear his name.
“How long have you been with loverboy?” asks Diane.
“Six years,” says Ida.
“He looks like that actor who just played Zorro,” says Georgia. “What’s his name? Frank Langella. Gorgeous! Where did you meet him?”
“A long, long story,” says Ida—then adds, not untruthfully: “Marcello’s father introduced us.”
On Sunday morning, after a few hours of digging alone, Marcello hands his shovel to Vincenzo, then heads for the public library. Sitting at a study table, he notices a young man, about his age, his head in a book. He has a narrow face with an impressive nose and a high, worried forehead. The man looks up while Marcello is staring into the distance, wrestling with an equation, one just troublesome enough to make it interesting. When their eyes meet, the man smiles. “Writs and Torts,” he says, grimacing. “I’m at Osgoode Hall, the law school at York.”
“I’m at York, too,” says Marcello. “Mathematics and Education.”
The man offers his hand across the table: “Ed Ceci.”
“Marcello Trov … I mean, Umbriaco.”
They agree to reward themselves for studying on a beautiful day with espressos at a local café. Like Marcello, Ed was born in Italy and came to Canada as a child.
Since then, he has always lived on Corso Italia. He tells Marcello stories about the history of the area, how the many fruit stores and restaurants got started, the characters who live there, the love affairs, the criminal activity, who’s rumoured to be in the Mafia, the bad blood between some of the neighbours.
“So, you’re a lawyer?” Marcello says casually, sipping his espresso.
“Almost. I still have to find a firm to article with.”
“But you have the knowledge. Of the law, I mean.”
Ed lifts his eyebrows at Marcello. “Are you in trouble?”
“Yes and no,” says Marcello.
He confides in Ed, telling him the story of Ida, his father, the proxy wedding. Ed sits listening raptly. He tells Marcello that for Ida to get an annulment, she would need to appeal to the Archdiocese of Toronto.
“They’ll want a signed affidavit from both Ida and your father swearing that the marriage was never consummated,” explains Ed.
Marcello shakes his head. “I don’t think Pop would ever do anything to make life easier for us. Is there some other way?”
“Let me look into it a bit,” says Ed. “One thing I know, Ida’s situation is not unique. I’ve heard of many proxy marriages in Little Italy and not all work out well. There have been more than a few runaway brides.”
“I didn’t know that,” says Marcello, suddenly uneasy.
“Funny, Ida doesn’t sound like the proxy wife type,” Ed continues. “Usually, they’re young girls from little villages, or sometimes women from towns where all the men have left. I’ve never heard of a Venetian proxy bride, let alone one who became a stewardess. I wonder what Ida was thinking, coming over here like that?”
“It’s a long, long story,” says Marcello, wishing he knew it himself.
A week later, Ed calls Marcello at home. “A buddy of mine is a priest at St. Lucy’s. I used to play hockey with him at St. Mike’s. He gave me the name of someone to talk to at the Archdiocese. And I’ve got an idea about how to get the affidavit signed by your father.”
Ed would write a letter to Marcello Senior care of the Andolinis, using lots of intimidating legal language: “Please find enclosed for your immediate attention and signature…” He would enclose an affidavit from the Archdiocese.
“I won’t tell her about this until we get Pop’s signature,” says Marcello. “If we ever do. One problem though—I don’t want Pop to know where we’re living.”
“The return address will be the Archdiocese. Once they get a signed copy, they’ll forward his response to you. He’ll know you’re somewhere in the region, though.”
“Chance I’ll have to take,” shrugs Marcello.
The following week, as they’re flying back from Ottawa, Georgia says to Ida, “Diane and I are going to a women’s consciousness-raising workshop tonight in High Park. Not far from your neighbourhood. Want to come?”
Ida asks, “Raising consciousness?”
“Yeah, you know. Women’s Lib! It’s a workshop about getting in touch with your true self. Come along with us, Ida! It’ll be good for you.”
Ida shrugs. Why
not? For all she knows, women in Venice are burning their bras by now—maybe even Zara.
When they arrive at the house where the workshop is taking place, Ida feels ridiculously formally dressed. Everyone is in jeans or flowing batik dresses, their hair long and loose, sandals on their feet, bangles on their wrists. A marijuana cigarette is making the rounds and Carole King’s Tapestry is on the stereo. Some of the women sit cross-legged on the floor, paging through a book called Our Bodies, Our Selves.
“I think this not my scene,” she whispers to Georgia.
“Give it a chance. The workshop leader is pretty cool. Jasmine’s been to parties at The Factory.”
“She make cars?”
“No, no. The Factory is a place in New York City. Like … an artistic salon. Andy Warhol. Viva. Bohemians!”
Ida thinks she understands now. “Okay, Bohemians. La Bohème. I know this opera.”
Georgia sighs and pats Ida’s hand.
Jasmine is a woman in her forties, wearing a long saffron dress with strands of coloured beads, grey hair falling to her waist. When she sees Ida in her skirt, pantyhose, and heels, her eyes flick up and down her quickly. Ida lifts her chin, giving Jasmine what Marcello calls her Il Duce look.
“Welcome, powerful women of Toronto,” Jasmine says, sweeping her hands around the packed living room. “I’m delighted you could come to our ‘Sisters Doing It For Themselves’ workshop. We’re going to start with a few minutes of self-examination.” Jasmine hands out small hand mirrors. “Many of us have never actually looked at ourselves. We think we know what’s down there, and yet we’ve never taken the time to truly examine our bodies.”
She explains that everyone will take a moment—whether in the presence of their sisters in the living room (which would be a positive step and in the spirit of feminist solidarity) or if they’re too up-tight (and that’s cool!), in the privacy of one of the bedrooms or bathrooms—to use the mirrors to reveal themselves to themselves.
Ida takes a mirror and locks herself in a powder room. She feels ridiculous, but also curious. She pulls down her pantyhose and panties and angles the mirror. There it is, a fuzz of blonde hair. Big deal. She separates the labia, sees the pinkness within, then pulls up her pantyhose and goes back into the living room, where women are now sitting or lying on the floor. All eyes are on Jasmine.
“This exercise is called ‘Eating a Peach,’” Jasmine explains. “I’ll demonstrate.”
She holds up a large peach, sliced in half. Gently, Jasmine picks out the pit, then holds the peach up, towards the group, so that they can see the neat hole. “What does this look like to you?” she asks.
Half a peach, thinks Ida, stifling a yawn.
“It’s very much like your own vagina, isn’t it?”
Ida trades looks with Diane.
“The vulva looks just like a ripe, juicy peach,” Jasmine continues. “That’s why it’s one of the best ways to demonstrate the technique of a woman receiving oral pleasure. Pretend the clitoris —your ‘pleasure centre’—is right here.” Jasmine points to a spot on the peach. “This is where your partner should be kissing, licking, tongue thrusting. Man or woman, whatever your scene is. I’m not here to judge you.”
Jasmine demonstrates by delicately sliding the edge of the peach between her lips and nibbling on it.
Ida stares at Jasmine. She tries to keep her face perfectly still, not showing any emotion. She crosses her ankles and places her hands in her lap. But inside her head, a storm is raging as she imagines Marcello’s mouth on the peach-coloured fuzz she saw in the mirror. Yes, right there, she’d say to him, and he’d kiss that spot. His mustache might tickle.
She feels her pantyhose getting damp. Turning to Georgia, Ida whispers fiercely: “I go home now, Georgia. I need to get the evening meal. Italian men, they expect hot food on the table.”
Georgia reaches over and pats Ida’s hand, but she’s watching Jasmine. “Okay, honey, you just do what you need to do.”
When Ida is out the door, hurrying toward the streetcar stop, Georgia tells the others what she said, and they burst into laughter. “Barbaric,” someone says. “Wife beater, I bet.”
“Catholics,” says Jasmine. “Believe me, it will take another thousand years for one of them to have the big O.”
“Actually, I think her husband is very sweet,” says Diane. “He looks like that actor from Zorro.”
Everyone in the room groans in derision.
When Ida gets home, she finds Marcello with an apron knotted over his jeans, trying to cook a risotto Milanese with Uncle Ben’s rice. “I’ve always wanted to try this. I went next door and got the recipe from Mrs. Agnelli.” He has a hand-written index card propped on the counter in front of him.
“You need special rice for risotto alla milanese,” explains Ida, examining the mess inside the saucepan. “Arborio rice.”
“Can I find that at Mac’s Milk?”
“Forget about this,” says Ida, untying the apron from around his waist, flinging it onto the floor. “Cooking is not what you are for.”
“No?”
“We are going to make love, now,” says Ida. “Andiamo!”
Marcello follows Ida into the bedroom. Nothing remotely like this has ever happened before. She tells him to stand in the middle of the bedroom so that she can undress him. “I want to have a good look at you, Cello.”
“Oh yeah? You look at me every day.”
“Not specifically,” answers Ida.
She unbuttons and pulls off his shirt, then unzips and pulls down his jeans and boxers. Then she runs her hands over the muscles of his chest and arms, his buttocks and thighs, hard from all the physical labour, then down his stomach to his cock, already springing to attention. She holds it for a moment, examining the tip and the shaft then slips her hand around his testicles. Marcello gives a sharp gasp.
“Your turn now. You look at me.
Marcello obliges, gently easing Ida out of her blouse and skirt and bra. When he gets to the pantyhose, a garment he hates because it reminds him of the casing of a sausage, Ida sits on the edge of the bed so he can yank them off.
“Now look at me, Cello,” she whispers, spreading her legs slightly. Marcello kneels before Ida and puts his hands on her breasts, which are about the size and shape of teacups, then brings his mouth to her nipples.
“No, you already know that part,” says Ida impatiently, pushing his head away from her breasts. “Look down there.”
Marcello eases her legs apart. She’s right. He hasn’t taken the time to really look at the light fuzz of hair or the pinkness inside her. He touches his finger to a spot he can see is moist. Ida shudders. “Now,” she says. “Imagine you are eating a peach. Gently, with your lips, your tongue. Capito?”
Marcello nods. He leans forward and brushes Ida with his lips. Then he licks her. She cries out and thrusts her hips violently forward, her knee hitting a glancing blow to the side of Marcello’s head. He falls back on the floor. “Are you all right?” Marcello asks, rubbing his head.
“Your mustache tickles. Try again, caro.”
Marcello does. Ida cries out, raising her hips to Marcello’s lips. When he finally climbs onto the bed to thrust into her, he can feel her climax coming in waves, like a series of crescendos. Wagner, he thinks, gazing down at Ida’s face.
He gets out the old record player, puts on Madama Butterfly, and they make love to it. Then, they try Verdi. When Marcello gets tired of stopping to change records, he turns on the radio: 10:50 CHUM. Rock and roll. When Marcello brings Ida to a noisy climax during “Nights in White Satin,” the Agnellis next door start banging on the shared wall.
“Shhh!” giggles Ida and clamps a hand over Marcello’s mouth.
When she removes it, he asks, “Where did you learn how to make love like this?”
“You haven’t heard of this before?”
“Well, of course,” says Marcello. “I just didn’t think you would like…”
“Women,” she says quickly. “It’s knowledge women pass from one to another. To teach their men, when the time is right. In Italy, is very traditional. Like cooking. ”
Marcello grins. “Traditional women’s knowledge, eh? Okay, let’s just go with that.” Pulling Ida to him, he says, “Teach me something else Italian men are supposed to learn.”
Daylight starts filtering through the curtains as Ida and Marcello begin to drift into sleep. “Do you have to work?” Marcello asks, yawning.
“Day off. You?”
“Not until this afternoon. Vincenzo is working the morning shift.”
“Cello?” says Ida. “You want to know something?”
“Mm-hmm,” he answers, on the verge of sleep.
“Every morning, my mamma would send me to go get the mail. I had to walk a long way to the post office. My brother Riccardo came with me.”
Marcello lays his hand on Ida’s breast and closes his eyes, but knows he won’t sleep now. “You never told me you had a brother. Tell me something else.”
“The other children would not play with me. Only Riccardo. The other children, they would make a big path around me. Not wanting to walk near me. Sometimes, some of them would even throw things at me and call cruel names.”
Marcello waits to see if she will say anything else. When she doesn’t, he says, “I’m sorry, cara. That must have hurt you.”
They lie quietly. Marcello cups her face in his hand, feeling a rush of tenderness for her.
“Did you ever love any other girls, Cello?” Ida asks, out of nowhere.
“You are the only one, Ida,” answers Marcello immediately.
Ida rolls toward Marcello, pressing her head into the centre of his chest like a mountain goat. He can feel her drifting away, into sleep. “Why did the children throw things, Ida?” he whispers into her ear.