The Women of Saturn

by Connie Guzzo-Mcparland

  “Lots of action going on,” Sean says. “The war between the Sicilians and the Calabrians seems to be intensifying.”

  “I couldn’t care less,” I say.

  What irritates me most is another article in The Montreal Star with the title: “Italian Montrealers Mum on Mob.” The reporter tries to interview passers-by on Boulevard Saint-Laurent as they leave a popular Italian grocery store, and is surprised to be met by blank stares.

  “What does he expect these people tell him?” I ask as I throw the article at Sean.

  Not only is it idiotic of the reporter to think that average Italian Montrealers know what is going on within a criminal organization with tentacles in the global drug trade, but it’s an outright insult to imply that their shrugs of “no-comments” is associated to a code of omerta, as if being Italian in Little Italy automatically makes one a member of a secret organization.

  “It’s naïve of him, to say the least,” Sean says. “It’s strange, though, that a family member is hit. Doesn’t it make you wonder what was said about that paesana of yours?”

  “Not at all. This guy must have been involved somewhat in his uncle’s activities. Lucia most certainly is not a mobster.”

  “Bonjour, Maman,” J.P. says when he arrives late Saturday afternoon, and plants a kiss on my cheek.

  I cringe, as I always do when he calls me that, but say nothing. J.P. called me “Maman” the first time he met me, and then Sean took to saying, “Yes, Mommy,” whenever I made a suggestion around the house. I couldn’t hide my irritation from Sean and he finally stopped.

  The cool October weather prompted me to prepare a hearty vegetable soup and pork roast for dinner, along with scalloped potatoes. Sean complains when I go all out to entertain other guests, but insists on only the best for J.P. This time, I bought an inexpensive pork roast that requires little fussing. I don’t want to be fretting in the kitchen for J.P. while he and Sean drink scotch and discuss some esoteric philosophical topic to which I cannot contribute.

  When J.P. arrives, the kitchen is infused with the homey odours of the garlic-studded meat, and the applesauce simmering on the stove. I like cooking and I revel in experimenting with different recipes, and in serving delicious food to friends and relatives. But as much as I become vexed when the media makes it sound as if all Italians were mobsters, I’m just as irritated at being defined only by my housekeeping abilities, as J.P. does every time he calls me “Maman.”

  My mind is packed full of the ideas I have read about. I never forget a face, an incident, or a concept that I find interesting. But when I’m nervous, as I always am when J.P. is around, I mumble. I’m becoming more and more aware that I have been deprived of a very crucial skill—that of remembering words. Is it because of my intermittent schooling or because of having to function in different languages? Or is it a physiological condition with a medical name of its own? Whatever the reason, I know that for me the one great casualty of my immigrant journey has been the poor mastery of verbal expression in any of the three languages I speak.

  Sean has already poured two scotches by the time J.P. has arranged his things in the den, and they sit in the living room. I can’t hear their conversation since I have started slicing the roast with the electric knife. J.P.’s background is in political science, more particularly in international relations, but he dabbles in writing poetry, which he shares with Sean whenever they meet. They seem to be discussing one of his poems now. Writing poetry is a mystery to me, and I’m afraid to even attempt it.

  Sean and J.P. continue their discussion while devouring the scalloped potatoes and meat, disagreeing over a line in the poem. Their conversation seems obscure to me, but because they are talking about writing, I listen attentively. The topic is hermeneutic circularity and its contradictions: to understand the whole, Sean explains, there must be a connection between the individual words, and to understand the parts, one must comprehend the whole. It sounds like a riddle, and to better understand it, I try to visualize the concept as a geometric shape.

  As I take J.P.’s plate, he says, absent-mindedly, “Merci, Maman.”

  I look directly at his face and say, “I wish you wouldn’t call me Maman, Mama, or Mommy. I’m not your mother or anyone else’s, yet.”

  J.P. pulls his chair back. “But I don’t mean it as a derogatory term,” he answers. “You’re just so … very motherly.”

  “How am I motherly?” I ask, and put my hands on my hips.

  “Physically, I mean. Look at your childbearing hips, your moon face, all the traits of the earth mother figure—a Jungian archetype. Isn’t that right, Sean?”

  Sean has started putting dishes into the dishwater and doesn’t answer.

  “What does having a round face have to do with Jung’s archetypes? I haven’t read that anywhere.”

  “Have you been reading my notes?” Sean asks.

  “No, I’ve been reading your books. I can read, you know.”

  “Why this sudden interest in reading my books?” Sean asks.

  “I’m intrigued by Jung’s mandalas and what you were talking about before … circularity … about understanding the parts to understand the whole. I’d like to understand how it applies to writing a novel.”

  They both look at me blankly.

  I finally splutter, “It’s because I’m trying to write a novel, and … well, it’s funny, but for years I’ve had a tendency to draw shapes, especially circles, just like mandalas.”

  Sean and J.P. are quiet for a while, and then look at one other. J.P. says, “I would think that many people doodle with shapes, and with writing novels. It can be … therapeutic.”

  “Yes, schizophrenics, neurotics have been known to experience these spontaneous images of mandalas,” Sean says with an amused laugh, then adds, “Sorry, Cat, I didn’t mean to imply…”

  “Let’s have a toast for mandalas—the archetypes of wholeness,” J.P. says, raising his wine glass to Sean.

  Sean returns to his seat and clinks his wine glass with J.P.’s. “On a more serious note,” he says, “the focus of my paper is, in fact, the significance of the fundamental conformity in mandalas, in spite of time and place. Whether we call it synchronicity, or the Chinese I Ching, anything that happens is related to everything else that happens at the same time.”

  “Isn’t that a little scary?” I say.

  “What do you mean, Cat?” Sean asks.

  “It means that if our lives are controlled by what happens to others, we’re not in control of our own destinies.”

  “That’s a good point, Cat. Some people think of destiny as magical, as some invisible force, but the beauty of the Chinese I Ching is that it reveals our story, and gives us some advice about how to co-author it.”

  I’m quiet for an instant, trying to absorb what Sean has said. “When I was little, I always wondered what my mother meant by destiny…”

  J.P. interrupts, “Speaking of mothers, there’s something I wanted to ask you, if I may.”

  “Yes?” I say, annoyed he has interrupted the discussion, and at the way he swishes his wine around in his glass before he takes a drink from it.

  “The girl who lives here…? Aren’t you worried, what with everything that is happening?”

  “I’m not worried in the least.”

  “Well, you must have read the papers this morning. It seems to be open season on mobsters. They’re settling accounts and are getting nasty. Family members are being hit.”

  “Angie is not a mobster, she’s a helpless teenager,” I say.

  “Oh, stop sounding so naïve, Cathy. This girl may mean trouble for Sean. Already, her family has been connected to Jack Russo. You know that Sean will be in the public eye soon. If the papers make any more connections, they’ll have me and Sean connected to Jack Russo too … through you.”

  “Through me? That’s too funny for word
s. Why me? I have nothing to do with Jack Russo.”

  “Well, your name for one—Anastasia. There’s a Tony Anastasia in the nightclub business who is a close associate of Jack Russo. Do you know him?”

  “I know of him. People have often asked me if we’re related, but I have no idea who he is. I never met the man. Anastasia is a common name in Calabria, like Menard in Quebec.”

  “Names have resonances in the media, which may trigger investigations,” J.P. says gravely.

  “Don’t forget the infamous Albert Anastasia of Chicago,” I say. “Next thing you know, they’ll have me connected to Al Capone.”

  “Don’t laugh. Media people never miss a chance to connect politicians with criminal elements. You saw the papers this morning. There’s a turf war going on.”

  “The papers covered the hit of the nephew of a known criminal. What does that have to do with me?” I ask loudly. “But you can stop visiting us if you think it might taint your reputation.”

  “No need to get defensive,” Sean says. “J.P. wants to make sure that our names don’t ever come up in connection with Angie’s family.”

  “I find what you’re saying extremely insulting … after the years you’ve known my family,” I say to J.P.

  “It’s not your family, per se, that would be questioned, but your relationship with this girl’s family.”

  Then I remember. “You already know her uncle, Alfonso. He told me he’s going to the fundraising event next week. So what’s the big deal?”

  “Yes, I’ve met him at other fundraising events, together with many other people,” J.P. answers.

  “You know, I remember a time when Di Principe and Jack Russo were pretty close, in fact involved in a project together that went bust,” I say.

  “Alex cut those ties ages ago, long before he became involved in federal politics. I suggest you see if there’s any way the girl can return to her home before the ball next week. We will be getting a lot of media coverage and we want to be sure it’s positive.”

  “I can’t believe you’re asking me this,” I say, looking at Sean.

  “Blame it on the media,” Sean replies, shrugging his shoulders. “Alfonso may be linked to Jack Russo, and his niece is living with us; I worked for Di Principe, who has been appointed a senator … interesting connections for the media to make.”

  “I see; you’re afraid of synchronicities … meaningful coincidences,” I say.

  “I believe Sean was against the idea of you playing mommy with this girl…” J.P. shoots back.

  “So you go around discussing our personal matters with him?” I ask Sean as I get up.

  “There was nothing personal about that discussion,” Sean says. “Take it easy. Don’t get all worked up.”

  “Look,” J.P. says. “I don’t want to cause a family quarrel here. I don’t want this girl to cast a negative light on Sean, and on my relationship to both of you. I’d appreciate it if you considered our position, what with an election coming up. Is she returning to her family this week?”

  “She’s returning to her family when and if her mother gets better. Angie is my friend and she’s staying here. I’m not her mommy, only her friend. And I’d appreciate it if you called me by my name once in a while.”

  “Okay, but which name? You have a few: Caterina, Cathy, Catarí, and I’ve noticed Cat lately.”

  “That’s because I’ve developed nine lives … the better to deal with bigots like you,” I retort sharply.

  “That’s an insult I won’t even dignify with a comment. I’ve had nothing but respect for you and your family. And everyone in our group was in agreement last week with Sean’s decision to get married to a serious, discreet, and hardworking ethnic woman like you.”

  I don’t respond for a while. I look at Sean, but his face is a blank page I can’t read. “I see. Now I understand.” I get up, coolly, and leave the table. “You discussed our marriage with a committee before proposing to me.”

  “I talked it over with some friends. What’s wrong with that?” Sean says, shrugging his shoulders.

  “I’m going to my mother’s for the evening,” I answer. Suddenly I need to get out of the house. Having to listen to J.P., in my own kitchen, pontificate about what I can or cannot do is humiliating enough. I don’t want to argue with Sean in his presence. I call my mother with the pretense of wanting to help her organize the furniture Gaetano has delivered.

  “No, it’s late. Save yourself the trek in the dark,” she says.

  I go out anyway and walk around the block. I take the car and circle the block one more time, and then think of spending the evening at some friend’s house. But then I’d have to explain the reason for my state of mind.

  I debate looking for a motel, while driving around and around the block, my anger rising with each circuit, as I mull over J.P.’s comments. I swerve toward Jean-Talon Street and stop at a Harvey’s. I order a large coffee and sit by a darkened window, staring blankly out. A sad, drawn-out face is reflected back in the glass. Who is this person? What is the connection between the person that she was and who she has become? I reflect calmly over the events of the last few weeks and try to weigh if I’ve been amiss in my relationship with Sean. Maybe in my concern over Angie I was neglectful of his needs, ignoring his efforts to forge a political career for himself—a career that I had encouraged him to pursue long before Angie came into our lives. But the question that I have never asked and perturbs me now is: what is the role he envisions for me as his life partner?

  It becomes clearer and clearer to me that Sean’s proposal is part of a strategy to help him win over ethnic voters. In exchange for the honour of being married to him, I’d have to maintain the image of the long-suffering, dutiful, submissive Italian woman—Maman to J.P. and the token ethnic woman. Worse still, the token ethnic wife. My story has already been written for me. My anger rises again. I get back in the car and circle the block over and over again until I yell out loud, “I can’t go around in circles forever!”

  I return to the apartment. Sean and J.P. have moved to the living room, sipping their scotches, clearly surprised at seeing me back.

  “That was a short visit,” Sean says. “What happened?”

  I don’t respond. “Angie will be back here Sunday evening and I expect the den cleared by tomorrow morning,” I nod at J.P.

  “J.P. and I have work to do,” Sean says. “Be reasonable.”

  “You can go work with him at a hotel. My house is not the headquarters of the Liberal party. In fact, I expect you both out of this house and out of my life by morning!”

  The two men get up and look at each other as if thunderstruck. J.P. haughtily walks to the den, muttering something I don’t understand and shuts the door; Sean moves to the bedroom and also slams the door. I throw myself on the sofa. I finally cry, but my cries are more like wails, trapped and muffled by cushions, sounds that no one will hear.

  43. THE CANADIAN BRIGAND

  MY WEDDING INVITATION LIST IS ready. My brother hands it to me at Sunday lunch. He has also reserved the restaurant Da Paesano on Cotes des Neiges Road for the engagement party for November 15th, and all my aunts and uncles have been invited. I mumble that he shouldn’t have been so quick. “I’m lucky I got this date on a Saturday. You know this restaurant gets filled up every weekend, and with Christmas parties coming up, it was getting difficult to find a free date.”

  “I know … I know,” I say.

  Early in the morning, I had pretended to be asleep as Sean and J.P. moved about packing their papers and personal effects, whispering to each other. They left without even having breakfast. Sean left a note on the table: “We’re going to a hotel. We can’t work in this hostile environment. I’ll speak to you in a few days after you’ve calmed down.”

  I tried preparing a speech on how to tell my mother and brother that I had called the engagement off,
but found myself at a loss about how or what to tell them. I can’t formulate in words my mother would understand the reason for throwing Sean out. I tell them I’ll only have time to look at the list after the fundraising ball at the end of the month. I’m hoping that between now and then, another more concrete reason will come up to explain the break-up.

  On my way home, after lunch, I stop at the hospital to pick up Angie. Comare Rosaria is sitting alone next to the still-comatose Lucia. Angie, Alfonso, and Pietro are in the waiting room, huddled around another visitor. The two men listen attentively to what Filomena—the talkative distant relative of Pasquale—is recounting. They nod at me as I sit next to Angie, but I say nothing, not wanting to interrupt the chatty woman.

  “Who knows what’s going through his head; maybe he’s gone completely crazy,” Filomena is saying.

  “Crazy or not,” Alfonso says, his voice a pitch higher than usual, “I’ll call my lawyer in the morning, and he’ll inform the police. He won’t get away with anything just because he’s in his own paese.”

  “Is there some news about your father?” I venture to ask Angie.

  “The idiot’s been arrested in Italy,” Angie says in a monotone voice.

  “What a stronzo,” Alfonso says, shaking his head, as the others laugh.

  “Not only arrested, but his picture is even in the paper there, in the Gazzetta Del Sud,” Filomena says. She then recounts how Pasquale appeared unannounced at the home of his brother’s son, Alfredo. His nephew received him with open arms, until Pasquale started inquiring about deeds to the family home and farmlands.

  “Pasquale insists that the family house in town is legally his, because he’s the eldest son,” Filomena says. “He’s not completely wrong. He did send his mother the money to completely rebuild the house after the war.”