by Lily Prior
The flickering candlelight drew him at last to the bathroom door, hanging open just wide enough for him to see inside. He stood there, his square shoulders filling the doorframe, uncertain, watching, and although she feigned not to have noticed him, she wanted him to watch her.
Slowly, rhythmically, she allowed the sea sponge to soak up its weight in water, then, lifting it high above her, the excess water tracing the veins in her forearms, she squeezed it out. The expelled water cascaded onto her glistening flesh: her throat, her glorious breasts bobbing up and down, sometimes below the surface of the water, sometimes tantalizingly above it. The sound of water falling into water was all there was in the world.
As he watched, Primo Castorini’s mouth went dry. He didn’t remember to breathe. He felt like the sponge when it had been wrung out. His body, not his hands, pushed the door open. It couldn’t take any more, and it was wise not to. His smell overpowered the perfume of bath oil and unguents: the smoldering musk of pheromones, longing and lust. He came and knelt on the floor beside the tub. He leaned in and began to rescue the rivulets of hair from the water and weave them into the knot on her head. The water soaked up into the cuffs of his shirt, splashed over the rim of the tub onto his chest, and from the floor tiles it permeated the knees of his pants. He was saturated but he didn’t notice. The strands of hair defied his attempts to snare them and slipped back silently into the water.
His feral eyes washed over her and his hands followed his eyes. Her wet body was the most sensuous creation imaginable. She lay back with her eyes shut and allowed the most sensitive hands in the region to explore her fully. In future, he never wanted to touch anything that wasn’t her. Beneath the water he caressed her, all of her. Instinctively he knew the spots that made her pucker. Her breathing grew heavier and more urgent and he had to hold himself in chains.
Thunderbolts shook the house on its foundations. Lightning cracked, coloring the sky outside green then yellow then red. The storm was directly overhead. Primo Castorini stood up, and in the colored lights that lit up the room, their eyes met and fastened. Was the roar that sounded then the thunder, or did it come from someplace deep inside Primo Castorini? It was difficult to tell.
With one hand he tore off his saturated clothes. They peeled off together, like paper, in one piece. They knew it was futile to resist. Shirt, pants, undershorts, even, amazingly, his socks and shoes. There was to be no scuffling here. No hopping and yanking and cursing and squirming and embarrassment. At what she saw, Fernanda Ponderosa’s black eyes widened momentarily. It was the only time she had given anything away. She felt herself being lifted out of the water. She was Aphrodite rising from the waves. The water streamed away from her in rivulets that cascaded onto the floor.
With the sound of artillery, great blistering drops of rain the size of eggs burst on contact with the roof tiles. It was finally raining. And what rain it was.
Primo Castorini carried Fernanda Ponderosa out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.
CHAPTER FIVE
By some trick of the light the writhing figures of Fernanda Ponderosa and Primo Castorini were magnified to huge proportions and projected through the bedroom window onto the ever-changing canvas of the lowering sky.
Outside, the rain fell in a battery. It hissed onto the parched surfaces and was immediately absorbed. Anyone foolish enough to be out in it suffered blows that left indelible marks on the skin. It was not the benevolent rain the citizens had dreamed of dancing naked in. It was spiteful.
Meanwhile the zombies who had been woken by the white light were making toward the house. The first to arrive was my sweetheart. Without his glasses it was a miracle he arrived at all. The moped had run out of gas two miles back and he had been forced to cover the remaining distance on foot. The great raindrops bit at his face and at his body through the flimsy flannel of his pajamas, but he didn’t notice. He was aware of nothing except the thought of Fernanda Ponderosa, which drove him relentlessly onward. He was consumed by a jealousy bigger by far than himself. It dogged his footsteps like an overfed shadow, whispering its poison into his ears, so loud it drowned out the clarion call of the storm. The shadow told him that night he would commit murder. And he believed it.
Fidelio Castorini was making slower progress. His body had suffered during the months he lay dormant in the cave. It was now the body of an old man. The mountain paths and passes made suddenly treacherous by the rain lay in wait for him, and he fell down many times, sustaining terrible injuries.
Arcadio Carnabuci could see nothing clearly, and his eyes were doubly obscured by the rain. He could almost believe the rain was part of the conspiracy against him. The nightmarish quality of the night and the storm was made more nightmarish by his poor eyesight. Monstrous shapes loomed up out of the shadows, terrifying him, and then just as mysteriously, disappeared. Eventually he found the right house. He had been confused by his own cottage not being where he’d left it, but after going round and round in circles, he found the Castorini house, which was in complete darkness, poised between shards of lightning.
As he staggered toward the house, the evil shadow sitting on his shoulder called upon Arcadio to arm himself. A murderer needs a weapon.
“If the pork butcher shows up tonight, he will die,” said the gravelly voice.
Nodding as though mesmerized, Arcadio took hold of a large rock he had tripped over in the yard. It was the turtle Olga, who had been rehydrating herself in a puddle. Quaking, she drew her head, legs, and tail into her shell, offering up a mother’s prayer for the safety of her babies.
Lightning irradiated the scene, this time with a yellow glare like mustard gas. In that split second of blinding light, Fidelio Castorini identified his screen door and made toward it. He had come home. Home at last. In that split second of blinding light, Arcadio Carnabuci’s eyes focused and he beheld the pork butcher from the rear making toward the house.
“Bingo,” cried the voice.
Arcadio Carnabuci’s worst fears were confirmed. All the while he had lain in the infirmary, he had been right to fear that evil seducer. He hoped things had not progressed too far in his absence. The butcher had to die. Of that he was certain. It was the only way. In a frenzy he ran forward and smashed the turtle against Fidelio’s skull. Fidelio let out an abominable scream. In that scream, magnified above the pandemonium of that clamorous night, was contained all his diabolical anguish at the sudden realization of his plight.
Arcadio Carnabuci, too, tried to scream, but nothing came out. He had lost his voice forever, the one abiding residue of his illness. He would never speak or sing again. The form of the pork butcher fell back onto Arcadio, causing him to try to scream again. Or perhaps he had not stopped trying to scream throughout. Who can tell?
Lightning struck again and this time the light stayed on, green and lurid, and by it Arcadio saw his mistake. It was not the pork butcher at all. For all their figures were exactly the same from the back view, from the front they were different. This character had a bushy beard grown down to his knees. A shock of hair like a bush. Admittedly the pork butcher had a shock of hair, but it was mild in comparison with this. And from his mouth from which a trickle of blood was flowing were great fanglike teeth that struck more terror into Arcadio Carnabuci’s soul than anything else.
Fernanda Ponderosa and Primo Castorini in a brief lull between their seventh and eighth bouts of lovemaking heard the scream ripping apart the night. Primo Castorini was all for carrying on regardless, but Fernanda Ponderosa sensed tragedy and hurried to dress in spite of his attempts to stop her. So he, too, threw open the closet and pulled on some of his brother’s things that hung there still.
The rain suddenly stopped, leaving the air fresh and cool. The thunder had rumbled away over the mountains, and the sky remained lit as bright as day.
The breathless lovers appeared on the scene of the carnage at precisely the same moment as I galloped into the yard with my mistress clinging to my back. We were followed by r
oaring sirens heralding the arrival of a truckload of officers of the carabinieri, and the ambulance driven by Irina Biancardi, supported by Gianluigi Pupini.
My darling, still screaming a silent scream, looked deranged, particularly when he witnessed the all too obvious state of relations between she whom he persisted in regarding as his future bride, and the pork butcher, who was all too much alive.
“Fidelio,” roared Primo Castorini, recognizing his brother in spite of his lupine appearance, and throwing himself on his knees beside the body.
“Silvana,” murmured Fidelio at the sight of Fernanda Ponderosa. Then with his last breath he added, “I love you,” and promptly died.
Olga the turtle, who had sustained horrific injuries, died also, leaving seven orphans.
The yard was suddenly full of people. Our grapevine is more efficient than that of any other region, and our citizens are not slow to heed its call. Some were wearing pajamas and nightgowns, although most were wearing very little, having cast off their sleepwear long ago on account of the heat. A murder usually brings people together, especially when it happens on your own doorstep. There had never been such a feeling of camaraderie amongst the citizens, who were usually quick to stab one another in the back.
“Arcadio Carnabuci a murderer! Who’d have believed it, eh?”
“Always thought he was an odd one.”
“What a lucky escape we have had, neighbors.”
“Praise be.”
There was a ripple of excitement as my beloved was placed in handcuffs. I tried to make my way over to him, to comfort him, but I, too, was tethered, by means of a rope. Although my eyes were glued to him, and full of love, he had eyes only for Fernanda Ponderosa, who had eyes only for Primo Castorini. Speranza Patti, wearing a nightgown far too revealing for a woman of her age and avoirdupois, looked dewy-eyed at my darling, and had I not been tethered, I would most certainly have given her a nasty nip on the rump with my teeth.
While the body of Fidelio Castorini, who had come back from the dead only to die once more, was being placed in the ambulance, my darling’s legs were frog-marching him away amid those of two young officers clad in tight pants with a wide red stripe running down the side. He was bundled into the rear of the official vehicle, the door slammed before being padlocked, and his only view of the outside world was through the bars at the tiny window, which revealed a glimpse of Speranza Patti mouthing the words:
“I’ll wait for you. Forever.”
If only I could have got free of that rope.
CHAPTER SIX
The cataclysmic storm had restored the region to its usual balance. The sun was benevolent, not blistering, and was already packing for its winter vacation. The rumbles beneath the earth ceased, and we no longer feared an earthquake. Grass grew green again, not brown. The animals rehydrated. Sheep shed their blue coats, revealing fluffy white ones underneath. Goats and cows began to give milk again. Cheese makers the length and breadth of the region could start curding cheese again. Moles started digging. Rats started gnawing. Bees buzzed. Birds sang. Water ran through the rivers and streams and waterfalls. The lake had filled and the swans were swimming on it. Speckled trout stuck out their rubber lips and snatched at the flies who were again flying.
The residents were able to conduct their regular business. All those except Luigi Bordino. The morning found him dead, and Susanna refusing to meet her husband’s eye. The corpse was discovered with its head submerged in a basin of pear-flavored dough that was to have been shaped into a tasty treat for Fernanda Ponderosa. Susanna insisted he had been struck by lightning, but Melchiore was not so sure. Already, high-technology electric ovens were being installed in the bakery, and sign writers were at work transforming the frontage. Susanna Bordino was written there large in a curly calligraphic script. It was as though Luigi Bordino had never existed. Yet she had committed the murder unnecessarily.
I drew the cart, festooned with white ribbons and rosebuds, containing the blushing newlyweds Concetta and Amilcare Croce home to their cottage in the Via Alfieri. On the way I passed Sancio, the Castorini mule, who was tethered outside the Happy Pig, munching on a leaf of fresh green fern. He gave me one look with his slow eyes and I was smitten. I burned with a love the like of which I had never known. In that instant of revelation I understood the universe. I had never loved Arcadio Carnabuci. It had all been a terrible mistake. It was Sancio I loved, and in his eyes I read that my love was returned.
Tearing my eyes away from my new and tender love, I noticed the town library was closed up. Speranza Patti had followed Arcadio Carnabuci to the district capital, where she was exploiting her civil service connections and was busy making representations on his behalf at the highest level. She would never give up on her mission to clear his name and secure his release from the carcere. Languishing in his cell, Arcadio Carnabuci had realized his fatal mistake. The woman of his dreams was not Fernanda Ponderosa. It was Speranza Patti. He had got their names muddled. What a fool he had been. A complete and utter fool.
Fernanda Ponderosa did not appear for work that day at the Happy Pig. A line was waiting outside before Primo Castorini had even rolled up the shutter and raised the blinds that shaded the window. Pucillo’s Pork Factory had been decimated by a thunderbolt the previous night, and now that the temperature had dropped, everybody in the region was craving ham. Primo Castorini worked mechanically. His mind was saturated by Fernanda Ponderosa. He felt guilty, knowing he should be mourning his brother’s death, but he reasoned he had mourned him once already. He could still smell Fernanda Ponderosa on his skin. Every so often a microscopic bubble of the aroma they had made together would burst somewhere about him and the vapor would carry to his nose. At such times he would groan loudly in remembered ecstasy, causing the ham-buying public to nod indulgently and wink and nudge one another with their elbows. He replayed incessantly every moment of the night. He relived each extraordinary orgasm. He could not stop his lips from smiling, and he didn’t want to.
But then a fear began to gnaw away at him. He couldn’t bear to be without her. He had come on ahead. She was supposed to follow. Where was she? He felt a sense of panic. He couldn’t explain it. Then he realized it was love. He had never felt it before. And he felt like singing. Then he wore out his watch by looking at it. Anytime now she would come. But she didn’t.
In the midst of serving the legions of customers that besieged the shop, he knew he had to go to her, right then. He had been stupid not to do it before. He had wasted a whole hour of being with her. An hour he would never get back. He was furious with himself. So he just walked away, leaving them to it. The citizens looked at one another blankly, then began helping themselves to the hams. Soon the thieving Nellinos were loading up a truck with them.
The five minutes of the journey to the house were the longest in Primo Castorini’s life. He felt fear, certainly. All lovers are frightened. It’s a big part of the job. He also felt the most terrible impatience to be with her. Hold her. Bury himself in her. Inhale her scent. Kiss her endlessly. Caress her body. Drown in her. Then he was seized by the fear again, only worse this time. She had gone. That’s why she hadn’t come to the shop. She had left him. Disappeared. And he would never see her again. A great echoing chasm of terror opened up inside his body. How could he bear it?
He approached the old house at a run. He saw a moving van parked out in the yard. Men were loading it with unicorns, chandeliers, statues, grandfather clocks, banana trees, oak chests, and all kinds of stuff. He saw it but he didn’t allow himself to accept it. His starving eyes sought her out, panic rising in them like a tide. She had gone. She really had gone.
No. She was here. She was still here. She hadn’t gone. It was all right. Everything was all right again. His heart expanded, causing a sharp pain that shot like an arrow through his chest.
That morning Fernanda Ponderosa had said her final goodbyes to Silvana, and although she had hoped her sister might have one last kind word for her in parting
, once more she was met with silence. She accepted now without bitterness that Silvana had been right all along: death couldn’t make everything right between them; it couldn’t change a single thing.
Now she was bending beneath the fig tree, smoothing earth over the grave of the turtle. The pork butcher ran to her and swept her up into his arms and held her there forever, or at least for a long, long time, until the slightest constriction of the muscles of her body made him reluctantly replace her feet on the ground.
Her eyes wouldn’t tell him anything. But the sane part of him knew the answers, and he hated that part, wished he could rip it out of him and throttle it. Long ago she had said she would stay until Fidelio came back. He had come. And now she was leaving. That was all. She stroked his cheek with her fingertips and walked over to the van, which was all packed up and waiting to go. He knew he could do nothing to make her stay. He would do anything. But it wasn’t enough.
“Where are you going?” He was surprised at the sound of his voice. It sounded the way it usually did. Almost.
The driver started the engine.
“A lot of questions,” she replied with half a smile. And he had to watch as the truck bumped across the yard, turned into the lane, and drove away.
“Only one,” he managed. But she had gone.
About the Author
I WAS BORN, raised, and am currently based in London, England. I studied fine arts at university, and then trained to become a human resources manager. My husband, Christopher, is the leader of a political party. We share a love of travel, and spend a lot of time in Italy, which is also the setting of my two previous novels, La Cucina and Nectar. We were married in Venice, and have a house in Tuscany. We have a pug, Norman, aged two, who is bilingual and is equally at home in both countries.