I watched him search for words. I couldn’t remember seeing him at a loss like this. The man from Pompeii sank into confusion or desire or despair. I couldn’t decide which. His expression pulled between them like a rip tide.
At last the words slipped out, insipid, a salt-less soup: ‘It would seem, Santina, that you are to be married.’
CHAPTER 15
I stopped listening to the Major’s words as they lapped over me. He could sense my retreat and slipped the letter into my hand. The words were a jumble before me; my eyes skimmed across the sentences written in a hand I did not recognize.
‘Would you like me to read it for you, Santina?’
I looked up from the paper. He was sat back on his chair now.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied, annoyed at my dithering.
He reached out his hand. I placed the note in it.
It was a declaration of love from Paolino, written in English but with the flowery singsong of the Neapolitan lover he’d decided to be. He spoke of lifetimes, he compared me to both a nightingale and a lark. He spoke of sunshine and moonlight and stars. He declared his intent for us to be married, his desire to ask permission from the Major, the closest male to me other than my father whom he could not reach. I don’t know what I loathed more, the clumsy writing or the idea that he believed the Major had the power to oversee my personal affairs.
When he finished reading, the Major folded it with care, slipped it back into the envelope and handed it to me. I wanted the setting rays to ease me back to the delicious warmth of a few moments ago. I wanted a peaceful close of the day to steer me back to familiarity.
Paolino’s proposal felt hapless. A boy pretending to be a man; a note from someone who was in love with the idea of love.
‘Who wrote this?’ I asked.
‘I think that much is obvious.’
‘No, who wrote it for him?’
‘Our new neighbour, I believe. An American, Paolino led me to understand. I’m sure she was all too happy to do it. A romantic, from what I can tell. Met her new husband on a holiday here and married him a month later.’
Another woman’s words. My chest tightened. The whole thing was awkward. No less than two foreigners had poured over this declaration before me. I felt like exposed chattle.
The Major stood up. Time was trickling out of my control, water streaking through a tiny crack in a vase base. I wanted him to reach for me, pull me into him, and hated myself for it.
He looked away from me toward the coast. ‘I’m sure you’ll give the matter a great deal of thought.’
‘I’m sure everyone will decide what I ought to do without asking me first.’
The words tumbled out before I could stop them. He turned toward the sharp brunt of them.
‘What on earth is that supposed to mean?’
I shook my head, biting back my tears. We stood motionless in the punishing silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered.
‘For what?’
For craving his touch. For retreating from his kiss. For loathing the great ache inside me to never be anywhere but close to him.
No words surfaced. We looked at one another. His shadow reached me, streaking across the parched grass between us.
‘I will prepare your supper and, if it’s all right, take a delivery of food to Rosalia.’
‘Of course,’ he replied, with the honeyed tone I might have mistaken for genuine care once.
Had he expected me to crumble? To melt into him like a lost child? Did he need me to be that for him after all? Was he drawn to me because of my apparent weakness? I had believed the opposite for so long. These past years, whilst we did so much side by side, complicit, comfortable, all this was nothing more than a professional engagement. The sense of friendship I had come to rely upon was an illusion. Perhaps I craved to be looked after more than I thought? The weakness smarted. I wasn’t a mountain goat after all: self-reliant, unafraid of challenges, determined to reach any tricky nook unaided. I was a local servant girl, nothing more. I was another cog in the working of these foreigners’ lives, oiled like machinery, running with predictable consistency. Our almost kiss – nothing more than a man threatened by another’s declaration of love. If I married Paolino he would lose his trusted aide. No more than that.
I turned and walked back toward the kitchen, feeling his eyes on me and hating it. Inside I found the basket for Rosalia I had prepared earlier. It drew me out of my present. Beyond these villa walls there was deeper grief to attend to. My problems paled in comparison. It was time to be a true friend.
The mood in the Rispoli house was fractured; stepping inside was like crunching over a floor of glassy shards. I had averted the onslaught of visitors from earlier in the day, and found Rosalia in the kitchen. She looked exhausted. I took a seat beside her and reached for her hand. She squeezed it. I looked across at Pasquale at the other side of the table. He forced the start of a sad smile.
‘I don’t think I’ve got any tears left, Santi,’ she murmured.
I ran my thumb over the top of her hand, not rushing for an answer. ‘Where’s Mamma?’
‘In her room. Doesn’t want to leave it. Won’t eat. Will barely drink.’
I let her words hang. I didn’t have any desire to hurry her sadness away. I longed for a memory of people around me when Mamma died, to allow me to grieve. I wanted people to hold the space for me, to give me permission to wail or sit silent, feel the incessant numbness cloud me without a fight. The feeling in this house was familiar to me. I felt the stark realization that a shadow of death trailed me. The thought was a tiny pebble rippling into a well, sending watery echoes spiralling skyward.
‘I love you, Santina. Thank you—’
That’s when her sobs began again. I held her. Pasquale brought over a cup of chamomile tea that a cousin had brewed for her, the comforting sweetness lifting up scented steam.
‘Tesoro, why don’t you get some rest now?’ he asked, his voice warm.
‘I’ll come with you,’ I offered, much to the relief of Pasquale. She hooked her arm in his and rose to her feet. He planted a soft kiss on each cheek and I led her down the corridor to her room. I placed her tea upon her side table and drew back the sheet. The shutters were still half closed against the early evening light, sending wide strips across the white walls and across the crucifix above her bed.
‘Will you stay with me a little while?’ she asked, slipping on her nightdress and sliding herself into her bed.
‘Of course.’
She sat, sipping her tea, asking me to talk to her, to let her mind wander anywhere but to the picture of her brother that terrorized her dreams.
‘And the Major? How is he?’
I wanted to say beautiful. I wanted to say the kindest person I’d ever met, with the gait of a young boy and the wisdom and care of an older one. I longed to describe the way the light played across his freckles, making them look different depending on the time of the day. Or the width of his palms into which mine fit to perfection. Or the way he knew about all our plants and cared for each in their own special way. That I was mesmerized by him from the moment I met him and, only now, having stepped into the intimate space where one person ends and the other begins, could I admit I may have even fallen in love with him. But the words stuck deep in the center of me; a fog in a box, hissing out in wisps, murky thoughts swirling within. Then I remembered the awful expression on his face after my reaction to Paolino’s letter. My cheeks reddened in spite of myself.
‘What’s wrong, Santina?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Please tell me. I want you to let me be as good a friend to you as you are to me.’
I needed to say something. If I upheld this guilty silence she would know something had happened that shouldn’t have. Rosalia had a feral sense for these things.
‘We went to Pompeii,’ I announced at last.
‘Tell me everything.’
I did. But I left out the detailed flecks o
f our colorful day. The way he laughed at me inhaling the pizza, his eyes dancing, making me feel free. I described the ruins and the stories, but not how we sipped limonata under the shade of the curling pines surrounding them. I imagined her expression if I’d revealed that we had slipped back into the villa and almost into one another’s arms. Part of me longed to. My feelings were fast becoming a burden. Who was I to involve her in my near deceit? The first tear traced my cheek.
‘Tesoro, you’ve caught my crying,’ she said, laughing into some more of her own.
‘I’m sorry, Rosali, I didn’t mean to—’
‘Don’t apologize.’
‘Paolino asked me to marry him,’ I blurted, surprising myself as much as her.
Rosalia burst into laughter, released for a moment from her sobs. She wrapped her arms around me. We cried together. She mistook my tears for the happiness of a blushing bride to be. A girl overawed by her lover’s intentions. I had no idea how to unpack my feelings now. How to say that Paolino’s letter lacked true intimacy. He had asked permission from the Major, someone who had no right to decide whom I ought to love, yet the person I had come to orbit like my sun.
‘I am so very happy for you!’ she exclaimed, wiping my face and then hers. ‘Life is so very short, my tesoro. You find love? You treasure it, whatever it takes.’
Her well-meant words prickled. I daren’t let myself hear them.
Besides, whatever the truth may be, at this very moment, my news had offered her a much-needed escape.
‘I hope someday I can share such happy news with you, Santi. You’ve been here for me today in so many ways. My best friend. If you’ll let me call you that.’
I smiled. ‘Of course.’
She sank back on her pillow. She didn’t move her hand from mine. After a while she released to sleep. I watched her chest rise and fall. My mind returned to Adeline’s room. To the Major’s tender hands tracing her back. I felt those same hands on my shoulders now. I was back in the garden. I felt his lips on mine. My stomach tightened. I couldn’t ignore the dreaded return to the villa any longer.
I said my goodbyes and left the house. Pasquale met me at the top of the steps that led up from their front door to join the alley that ran down to the villa, stubbing out his cigarette.
‘Grazie, Santina, I wish I could have soothed her as much as you.’
‘I think she needs time to feel.’
He nodded with a half smile. Then he shifted, anxious to tell me something but not knowing how to begin.
‘I really love her, Santina.’
I replied with a smile. ‘It’s beautiful to watch.’
‘I’ve asked her father for permission. Now I have to wait.’
This time my tears were genuine happiness. ‘Your secret is safe with me.’
‘You’re the only person I can tell. No one in this town can hold secrets. You know what it’s like, sisters, brothers, neighbors, everyone takes a crumb and before you know it the loaf is devoured.’
I smiled at the way his face creased into an embarrassed half grin. He took a breath, struggling to find the right words for the thoughts racing in his eyes.
‘I knew about her brother.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The same people who were after him, look after us, capisce?’
I shook my head, willing him onward.
‘My family and I, we are struggling. A lot. The bakery is forced to buy its flour from certain providers. If not . . .’
He trailed off, his eyes darkening.
‘Are you in danger, Pasquale?’
‘Not if I behave.’
I watched his eyes moisten with anger and fear.
‘It’s making my father sick. Doctor says his kidneys aren’t working like they should. He says it’s old age, but I know it’s because of them.’
It was hard listening to this admission. However special I felt having been entrusted with his confidence was eclipsed by my helplessness. Was he really telling me because I was trustworthy, or did he believe I could be of some actual help?
‘I’m so sorry, Pasquale. Is there nothing we can do?’
‘Close it. Move to America like everyone else. Or buy our supplies at twice the price.’
‘Rosalia knows?’
‘No. That’s why I’m telling you. It seems so selfish to start talking about our future together now that her house is in mourning. But I need to know we have a future together, you know? Outside of this place. Now she sees what living here means. I want her to know, I suppose. And at the same time I don’t.’
He brushed away his stumbling thoughts with a shake of his head. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have burdened you. I don’t know, I’ve heard about your plans to go to America. Rosalia tells me all the time. She doesn’t want you to go. I don’t think I want to stay.’
‘You must be honest with her, no? Perhaps a little time. And in the meantime, you tell me anything you need to, promise me that, si?’
‘I wish my own sisters were more like you!’
The light shifted toward the deepening purple dusk.
‘It’s getting dark,’ I said, not intending to cut off his conversation before he was ready.
‘You need company?’
‘Only my own thoughts, but thank you. Please take care.’
He nodded and straightened. I watched him turn back and follow the steps down to the house. Once he was inside, this conversation would evaporate. I thought about his expression as it rippled through a childlike panic and the warmth of a man in love. How mature was his declaration in contrast to Paolino’s note. I thought about the American scribe, hoping the excruciating meeting I would have to face at some point could be delayed as long as possible.
The shadows wrapped around me along the narrow alleys. The sound of my footsteps echoed against the back walls of the houses. Tumbling vines of bougainvillea softened their white stone, the grey silhouettes faded memories of a summer’s day. At last I reached our door, a gateway to a very different world now.
Inside the quiet, my eye flitted toward the garden. I was thankful to find it void of chairs, gramophones or employer. The moonlit stairs welcomed me with stony silence. I reached Elizabeth’s door; she would return tomorrow, but of habit I was drawn inside. A wide moonbeam shafted across the tiles. My eyes darted to the parted double doors, both sides swung open onto the terrace. I watched the linen curtains dance on the night breeze.
And I saw his silhouette.
I could have shut the door and retreated to my room on the opposite side of the hallway. I could have crept into bed and forced myself to sleep, knowing he stood on the terrace. But I didn’t. I couldn’t tear myself away from the spot. I longed for him to turn toward me. To invite me outside.
He did.
I walked across the darkened nursery. He was swirling a drink. I watched him place the drink on the ledge of the balustrade then lean onto it, looking out toward the lulling moonlight upon the sea.
‘Apologies are painful, are they not, Santina?’
I took a breath, determined to tap into some semblance of courage. ‘It’s an important part of an apology, I think, the pain.’
He turned to me then. All embarrassment and anger from the afternoon melted away into this quiet, darkened space between us.
‘I think you have a wisdom beyond your years. And a smile that makes me believe that all is well in the world. And an insatiable curiosity for things beyond these walls.’
I smiled in spite of myself.
‘I apologize because…’
I knew what I longed for him to say but could scarce admit it to myself. My silence urged him on.
‘Because in spite of the promise I made to myself, I have come to have very strong feelings for you, Santina.’ His voice dipped into honey. ‘Because at this precise moment I want nothing more than to feel your body against mine. And that is unforgiveable. Not just because I sound like as much of a brute as your grocer, but because it puts you in a dreadfully
awkward position. Most especially because, as I suspect, your feelings are quite different than the ones I have for you.’
I knew the reply I longed to give, but the words ricocheted in my mind, sealed shut with fear. I couldn’t move.
‘I’ve rattled around this house all afternoon with only you on my mind. My feelings aside, you must decide what it is you want from your life.’
‘What I want?’
He shifted, rejected in some way. His movements became angular.
‘After our years together I foolishly assumed that you would absorb everything I gave you, the knowledge I offered you for the sake of your freedom. Is that something you want to throw away for a life in the local salumeria? Because if that’s what you want, then that’s what you must have. True freedom is having the liberty to decide such things. I’ve wanted to give nothing but that.’
The ocean’s scent was on the air. ‘I don’t feel free.’
‘Because I’ve cornered you with the possibility of a better life than the one you would have had here if it wasn’t for me? I’m so sorry!’
I could feel the anger rise now. His words seemed pompous. He was wounded and lashing out at me. Perhaps his feelings were far stronger than I would have liked to admit.
‘I have always done my best for you!’ I cried, defensive.
‘And I you! And now we face your future being nothing more than retreating into the back alleys of a small fishing town that a few poets have decided to make the center of the Italian bohemian scene. Is that what you want? I thought you needed more. Your mind is vast, free, insatiable. Your passion for learning is a wonder to behold. Have you any idea the delight I’ve felt watching you chase every flourish I have challenged you with? How wonderful it has been to watch you yearn for more? You’ve given my life new meaning. I’m learning things afresh, and it is exhilarating. Now you seem willing to walk away from that. It breaks my heart.’
I hovered in the angry silence, terrified of what I might say if I opened my mouth.
‘For heaven’s sake, Santina! Don’t stand there mute. Did we or did we not embark on your education just for you to run into the first local lover to set eyes on you? You want a pedestrian life serving others?’
The Secret Legacy Page 18