Sweet Life

by Linda Biasotto

  Karl’s eyes bugged. “You’re going to kill him?”

  “Take the road and go around the bush,” Viktor said. “Come up by the river. He’ll never see you.”

  “Why me?”

  “You’re strongest. The old man wouldn’t stand a chance.” Alek pressed the axe handle against Karl’s palm until his brother took it. “Think about Mama. Doesn’t she stick up for you when he gets mad? Doesn’t she let him clobber her instead of you? What about that time he chased you with the rake? Next time, it won’t be the rake. It’ll be the rifle.”

  Karl looked out the loft door. Squinted. “I told the bugger. I said, ‘You come after me again, I’ll do you.’ I told him.” He turned toward the ladder, started forward then stopped. “And I told the Mounties I had to hit him with the shovel because he came after me with the rake but they locked me up. I’m not no stupid bohunk like they said and I’m never going back to jail.” Karl shoved the axe at Alek.

  Viktor crouched next to him. “We’ll get rid of the body where the Mounties can’t find it. No body, no crime. We’ll smear the body with gear oil and cow shit, stick it in a grain sack and spread that with oil, too. Dig a hole in the cream shed and put the separator over top. Tell Mama that the old man had an accident and we had to bury him to keep the Mounties from blaming us.”

  Alek knelt next to his brothers. “Karl, you know he’ll go after you again. Think about the rifle hanging by the door. How many times has he said he was going to shoot us? Go along the bushes. Come up from behind.”

  Suddenly, Matthew’s voice. “What you guys doing?” He looked around for his boots.

  Karl headed for the ladder. “I’m going to do the old man, get him before he gets me.”

  “No.” Matthew ran after Karl and threw himself at his legs. Karl shook him off.

  Viktor ran to the loft doors. Clouds had closed in about the sun, dragging the warmth from the day. Beneath their wide shadows, my grandmother carried the hoe to the garden, a faded babushka tied under her chin.

  Matthew started to cry. “No, Karl, don’t hurt Papa.”

  It was the only time Viktor shook Matthew. “Shut up.”

  Karl started down the ladder.

  Matthew couldn’t pull himself from Viktor, but he called: “Karl, they’ll come in the big car and take you away, again.”

  Karl hesitated. Then he climbed back to the loft, dropped the axe and sat in the straw again. “I’m never going back to jail.”

  A noise on the ladder. Viktor looked. Felt the floorboards sway, like they were trying to pry themselves loose and run. He smelled Alek’s pee. Because there was my grandfather’s head, truncated above the ladder hole, his narrowed eyes watching. Then he made it the rest of the way, rocking a little on the balls of his feet, not too drunk yet. A clump of black hair stuck out behind one ear where his cap sat crooked. His gaze passed over each boy, one by one.

  At last he looked at Viktor again. “Chores done, already?” When he stepped forward, his toe bumped the axe, and he looked at it as though he’d no idea what it was. He looked at Alek. “What’s this doing here?”

  Karl bolted to the ladder. When his feet hit the packed dirt below, the mongrel barked. Viktor stood in front of Matthew.

  When my grandfather spoke, again, his voice was low enough that Viktor strained to hear it. “What-is-this-axe-doing-up-here?”

  Viktor couldn’t answer, couldn’t look my grandfather in the eye.

  Grandfather slowly bent over and took the axe. “I’m glad I found it. Now I can kill me something tasty for supper. A nice lamb.” He smiled at Matthew. “I think Sofie.”

  “No!”

  Grandfather’s head snapped back. He and Viktor locked eyes. A year clicked by. Until my grandfather grunted. “Get back to work, you sons-of-bitches.” When he turned to the ladder, he took the axe with him.

  None of my three uncles moved until Grandfather and his dog left the barn and passed the sheep pen. Then Alek said, “He figured it out, didn’t he? He knows we were going to kill him with that axe. You could see it in his eyes. We’ll be lucky if he don’t shoot us.”

  “He won’t. Who’d do the work? You’d better go change your pants.”

  After Alek left, Matthew tugged Viktor’s sleeve. “You mad at me?”

  “No. You’re a good boy. Get on your boots and help Mama in the garden.”

  After Matthew, too, was gone, Viktor still couldn’t move. It wasn’t until he heard the doves, again, heard them call from the woods: Who? Who? that he turned to the loft doors and spread his arms wide. “It’s me. Viktor Banchuk. Wait for me, I’m coming, soon.”

  Indistinct Shapes

  The Bells of San Martino

  Midnight. The last patron lurches from the Silver Bar. Passing through Manna’s town square, he looks up when he hears the first bell of San Martino. The damp May warmth seems to hold each ring before allowing the sounds to roll from church spire to pavement. The man (his name doesn’t matter; it could be Romano or Mario or Gusto) is relieved the rain has stopped; glad to have several lira remaining in his pocket; happy to have spent such a pleasant evening drinking with friends. But now he must relieve himself and the bar door is locked. No matter. He plants his feet in a corner where the church steps rise and unbuttons his fly. The feeling of releasing himself into the night adds to his happiness and he whistles a snappy air, a Neapolitan love song he learned from a record. Soon he’ll be home in his warm bed, snuggled against his wife’s soft hip, not at all concerned that, come morning, she’ll chew his ear for staying out late, again.

  The bell ringing follows him as he stumbles up a street, and by the time the twelfth ring echoes against the stone houses, his hand is against the mayor’s fastened shutter. There’s something he should tell the mayor, something important, but Dio, what’s that sound? Crazy Catelli’s wagon! The man hurries for home as quickly as his unsteady legs will take him.

  ~

  The mayor sits alone with his cigarettes and a bottle of red wine. He hardly notices the bells, which are as familiar to him as his wife’s breath. And if she knew he was awake and stewing about work, she’d send him back to bed, tell him to let tomorrow take care of tomorrow. Easy for her; she has only the house, the garden, her parents and their six children to worry about, but he has to deal with an entire town.

  It took him almost an hour yesterday to calm elderly Signora Tosca after the Campin rascal drove by her house on his Lambretta and tossed lit firecrackers through her window. The poor woman thought she was under artillery attack. When she stormed into the mayor’s office, he had the devil’s time reminding her that this was 1965, not 1905, and much as he’d like to, he couldn’t toss the seventeen-year-old delinquent into jail.

  But firecrackers are children’s tricks and nothing compared to the trouble Crazy Catelli causes.

  When the mayor took the time to visit Signorina Catelli, she put him off. He, the mayor! Sì, the Signorina is a Catelli and her family donates handsomely to the Church of San Martino, has for many decades. But how dare she bat her eyes, treat him as though he was an infatuated schoolboy? He made sure she understood his position.

  “Listen, Signorina. When your brother walks about, the children run away because they are afraid. Even their fathers cross to the other side of the street. On market days, he threatens the vendors if they don’t lower their prices enough to suit him, and they’re afraid, too. He’s always showing off his strength. For example, he’ll take a cantaloupe in each hand – you can be sure he doesn’t pay for them – and squeeze until nothing is left but pulp.

  “He keeps an eye out for newcomers, talks them into bad deals. ‘Buy my hens, such fabulous layers, think of the money you’ll make.’ But these birds squeeze out an egg here, an egg there, no profit in it, and when these people complain, your brother threatens them, says: ‘Leave me alone or I will squeeze your neck with both hands until your flesh oozes between my fingers!’ Really, Signorina, something must be done.”

  And what did
the Signorina have to say? She’d think about it.

  The mayor shakes his head, lifts the wine bottle to pour another glass. Then he remembers the new bakery opens in the morning and he must look good for the photographs. He rises and turns off the light.

  ~

  Paola Catelli has not slept a wink, and it is all the fault of Signor Big Shot Mayor. Such a comic with his uneven teeth and cheap suit, daring to speak as though they were equals. Yet his insistence, his habit of looking her square in the eye like a man who knows what he wants – well. She was sufficiently interested to shift herself, give him a better view of her crossed legs.

  Now she paces between her bedroom and dressing room, back and forth, chain-smoking American cigarettes. She was not careful this evening when she applied the cold crème, and has soiled the collar of her Japanese robe, a gift from her last lover.

  He was a generous man, but not wealthy. Virile and good for a laugh, but definitely not husband material. And Paola’s current boyfriend? Perfect for a romp, but what a poseur. Imagine hinting she use her connections to find him better employment, as though what he wanted mattered.

  Paola needs something to calm her nerves, needs it now. She goes to the hallway. “Maria! Maria, caffè!”

  ~

  Maria gropes for the switch cord hanging by the headboard. Moving into a guest room has meant being woken by shouts instead of by the bell. True, this room with its high ceilings and arched windows is elegant, unlike the plain downstairs room she occupied for four decades. The Signorina insisted Maria move because it was taking her too long to climb the stairs. Nonsense. At sixty-two, Maria is as quick as ever. The problem isn’t her legs; the problem is the Signorina’s worsening temper.

  Maria ties a robe about her waist, pulls on her slippers and takes the staircase. When she flips on lights as she goes, reflections from the chandeliers glimmer along the black-and-white terrazzo floor. She was employed in this piccolo palazzo – little palace – when Signora Catelli brought her babies home: first Carlo, and then, two years later, Paola. And Maria has been more than loyal, tucking the family secrets against the roof of her mouth instead of blabbing to other servants. She told no one about the late master and his son, how they whisked their mistresses inside the back door as soon as Signora Catelli stepped out the front. Let chauffeurs and cooks talk about their employers’ indiscretions; Maria is above such betrayals.

  And will she pass on what she has heard about the Signorina’s latest beau, Signor Barbaro? If the rumour is true, let the Signorina find out for herself. Now the woman has another Romeo who visits the palazzo on Maria’s night off, and the man is certainly not grey-haired Signor Barbaro, who lives far away in Milan. This other fellow leaves black hair all over the bathroom.

  Each time the Signorina takes up with someone, she slips extra cash into Maria’s pay envelope. Call it a bonus or call it a bribe, Maria saves every lira for her Rico and Roberto, who must be provided with better chances than their father, Enzo, ever had. What an awful job he has, slaughtering pigs six days a week; returning home stinking of blood.

  Returning home to a silent saint, who saves her voice for prayers and secludes herself in the apartment unless she is dragging herself to Mass. Sì, Lidia’s accident was a terrible misfortune, but what good is it to be religious? Despite her holy airs, despite praying the rosary more times than the Pope, nothing has changed. Religion is a waste of time, nothing but false hope. And false hope drags the weak to their knees when they should be on their feet solving their problems. Light a candle and believe in miracles? Maria’s own faith died long ago when hope boarded a train without a single word of farewell.

  Now the aroma of pumping espresso makes her stomach growl. She takes four biscuits from a packet and drops them into her pocket. After pouring the coffee into a cup, she adds a generous amount of grappa before setting the cup onto a saucer, and that onto a tray. She hurries upstairs, switching off lights, until she knocks once at the Signorina’s door and enters. She leaves the tray on a small table next to a gold brocade armchair. The Signorina, examining her eyelids, doesn’t notice.

  Maria smiles as she closes the door. What a waste of money, all those expensive creams. Old age will capture the Signorina the same way it does everyone. Maria bites into a biscuit. Oh, please, let there be no more royal summons tonight.

  ~

  Paola gives up at the mirror. In two weeks she’ll be forty, and when she’s this tired, she looks every bit her age. She will ask the doctor for sleeping pills; she can’t risk appearing haggard. She drops onto the gold chair and takes the cup. It’s the grappa and not the coffee that warms her, the strong liquor smoothing her on the inside the way strong fingers can smooth her on the outside.

  That Maria. Lately Paola has caught her sidelong looks, as though she finds something about Paola amusing. If she knew the extent of Paola’s troubles, she’d quit smirking, that old woman with nothing to lose. No hotel in Pordenone in need of modernizing, no dwindling bank accounts, no romantic assignations to juggle. And no complaints about her brother. Ah no, Maria’s brother is a paragon. Well, what Paola could tell about Enzo would give Maria a stroke.

  One lesson Paola learned early is that every man has a use, but of what use has her brother been? Such an idiocy for him to join the Fascist Party during the war and go against their papà’s wishes. After the war, Carlo returned from Libya with scrambled brains. His shouts would rouse the household at night, and there were many times he threatened the servants with imprisonment. Once he walked to a neighbour’s, calmly stalked their chickens and shot every one.

  Their papà turned out the tenants who lived in the farmhouse in Manna and gave the farm to Carlo. Along with raising a cow and poultry, he farms acres of wheat and corn scattered in the district outside town. Most Saturday afternoons, he calls Paola from the Silver Bar and demands more money. The ingrate. The only reason she mails him anything is to fulfill her promise to their late mamma to look out for him. The promise she has not fulfilled is in providing an heir for the Catelli estate, and if she continues to remain unmarried, the estate will go to male cousins.

  If her fiancée had survived the war, Paola would have been married at twenty. After him there were more men than her parents realized, but few could match their requirements for a son-in-law. And her own criteria? She gazes at her wide bed with its gold and pink canopy.

  When she marries, she will be forced to give up some independence. But it will be worth it to take a well-established name, one that will set her back on the higher social footing lost to her once Carlo’s eccentricity became well known. Unfortunately, there are those who believe that insanity is inherited.

  Nothing is wrong with Paola’s brains, thank the Holy Mother. And may the Holy Mother bless the friend who arranged for Paola to meet Alberto Barbaro, a handsome man, rich and ensconced in the best society. And best of all, due to his late wife’s barrenness, childless. Although he has asked questions about Carlo and the worth of the Catelli estate, she’s been able to put Alberto off. But he won’t propose until he visits her home and sees all for himself.

  There is an answer to everything. She hasn’t seen Carlo for three years and it’s time to pay him a visit, judge his state of mind. She can’t let Alberto slip through her fingers.

  Coffee finished, she gets into bed and nestles between the silk sheets. But a Catelli in an asylum? Never.

  ~

  The twelfth ring dies. On Via Mioni, a massive figure dressed in black and wearing a wide-brimmed hat pulls open one side of a double gate. When the gate is open, the man climbs onto a wagon and flips the reins. “Hey-ho, Nero!” The mule’s black ears twitch, then the mule lunges against the harness, jerks the wagon into the street. Once through, the man pulls at the reins, leaps down and relocks the gate with a key he fastens to his belt.

  “Hey-ho, Nero!” ricochets from the stone houses and their shuttered windows.

  The mule plods along Manna’s crooked streets, passes in and out of the wan
lamplight where bats dive and climb. The wagon’s wheels scrape continuously, the noise waking children, who pull the covers over their heads. Older boys, excited in their fear, crack open shutters. Where is he headed, this night marauder? What does he load inside his wagon, which he covers with a tarp before returning home near daybreak, wakening his neighbours as he unloads? No one will berate him. Instead, they’ll complain to each other and to the mayor.

  Crazy Catelli knows about the fears, the children’s nightmares, the complaints. When others cave in to his demands, when men sight him and cross the road, Carlo can feel his chest expand and his hands swell to enormous size. He’s a giant, a colossus. He could fight the entire town with one hand tied behind his back. Let them loose the nearby garrison at him, he’d crush a hundred soldiers – no, two hundred. Stop him? They might as well try roping a locomotive or digging the rock from Mount Cavallo with bare hands. No one will ever stop him.

  ~

  Paola parks her silver Mercedes on the narrow street outside Carlo’s gate. Her stockings whisper as she swings her legs from the red seat and drops the keys into her crocodile handbag. Hidden behind large shades, her eyes pass over the neighbours, who drift from their yards and into the street.

  Carlo’s nearest neighbour leans out her window. “Buon giorno, Signorina. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you.” Within one side of the double gate is a door. Locked, of course. And no bell. “Carlo!” How humiliating to stand in the street and be gawked at. A large bead of sweat starts at Paola’s neck, slides down her back into her white sundress.

  From behind, the sound of a motorcycle.

  “Hey!”

  Paola turns and there is a teenager on a black Lambretta. Hair combed in the Elvis style, he wears tight jeans and a short-sleeved, white shirt. He gestures toward the gate. “That guy will eat a pretty woman like you.”

  “And what do you know about pretty women, Signor…?”

  “Gino Campin.” He sticks out his chest. “I know plenty.”