by David Elvar
‘I wasn’t invited,’ she interrupted. ‘I knew nothing of this gathering and had just turned up, doing my family duty in visiting my mother.’
‘Beloved nonna,’ I muttered, rolling my eyes.
‘I see you have met her. Well, she could hardly just turn me away so she invited me to stay. Through gritted teeth, I might add, but she did it. It’s in the rules, you see. No family member shall be turned away from the door.’
‘You make it sound like one of the Ten Commandments.’
‘It carries the same weight,’ she agreed. ‘So tell me about yourself. I know your name is Elisa and that you are not the most popular girl around here just now. So tell something else, tell me the truth.’
So I told her. It was a shortened form of what I’d given my headmaster, shortened because I didn’t know how long I had, if someone would notice the pair of us missing and put two and two together. But I did add the bit about the interview with the headmaster and how he dealt with my father—well, how could I leave that out? I mean, important or what! When she heard that, she laughed. No rap over the knuckles about disrespect and stuff, she just laughed.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I can imagine Vittorio doing that, puffing himself up to impress. It is in his nature.’
‘Well, it didn’t work with the headmaster. Put him in his place and made a good job of it.’
‘Mmm.’ She looked sidelong at me, seemed to be building up to ask something. ‘And you don’t like it here?’
‘Do I make it that obvious?’
‘You do. But what I think I ask for is why you don’t like it here. That part is not so obvious.’
I shrugged. ‘Lots of reasons. The main one is that I miss mum, I miss England—’
‘Yet you spent only a short time there. As I understand it, you have spent most of your life here in Sicily.’
That was true, I couldn’t deny it. And when I stopped to think about it, if I really tried to put a finger on why I didn’t want to be in Sicily, why I wanted to be back in England with mum, I probably wouldn’t have succeeded. She had a point but it still didn’t ring right.
I looked up at her. ‘I guess I’m just not cut out to be brought up as a Sicilian girl.’
She nodded understanding. ‘And now you see why I myself am not held close to the bosom of the family.’
‘You?’ I was surprised. I mean, she looked so…Italian! ‘So why do you still live here? Why haven’t you taken yourself off to far-flung exotic shores and had wild adventures with handsome strangers who stole your heart and disappeared with it one dark and stormy night?’
‘You,’ she said, laughing, ‘have been watching too many romantic films. No, I have travelled but I still always return here. Call it coming back to my roots or what you will but this is home to me.’
‘Even with the scaraffagi?’ I asked grimly.
‘Ah, they are not so bad,’ she said lightly. ‘At least they don’t bite and I have to tell you I would rather spend an evening with a scaraffagio than with some Sicilian men I know.’
I looked down at her hands, her fingers, couldn’t see a ring. ‘You’re not married, are you?’
‘No. And there is the reason for my being less than in the warmth here.’
‘You like your freedom too much.’
‘That and…there was a man, a man that my mother wanted me very much to marry. I turned him down.’
‘An arranged marriage?’ I said. ‘Wow! I thought those only happened in Asian countries.’
‘Not really arranged, no,’ she said wistfully. ‘He was just rich and well connected. That counts for much in the family history.’
And I understood. Her marrying a man her mother had picked for her would have been like me being dragged back to where I didn’t want to be—for the family honour, the family history: it did not sit well that she had not increased the family’s social standing by marrying as per instruction just as it would not have sat well if I’d stayed in England. Now more than ever, I was determined to get back.
‘Would you like to come and visit me?’
I started at the offer, snatched at it before it could be withdrawn. ‘I’d love to! But how? I mean, can you see my father being happy about two black sheep getting together?’
She didn’t answer, just glanced aside to the open door. I looked, saw movement. A figure appeared, one I wasn’t surprised to see.
‘Lisetta,’ said my father. ‘Come in, please.’
‘And what if I don’t want to?’
‘You will do as I ask, please. Come in. Now.’
Only then did I realise that he was totally ignoring Eliana. Same play, it seemed, just different players.
‘I’m talking to someone,’ I said. ‘Can’t you see?’
‘I can see perfectly well,’ he replied, still ignoring her. ‘Come in, please.’
‘But—’
I got no further. Eliana stepped forward, stepped between my father and me.
‘Hello, Vittorio,’ she was saying. ‘How are you?’
He grimaced, his face taking on the look of someone who’d just stepped in something unpleasant, but still he didn’t speak to her.
‘I’ve just been making friends with Elisa,’ she went on sweetly. ‘She is a remarkable girl, no?’
‘This friendship is over,’ he spat. ‘She must come in now.’
‘To hell with you!’ I said. ‘I’ll decide who my friends are, not you!’
‘Lisetta—’
‘She’s the only member of your family worth knowing that I’ve met so far. You might as well know she’s asked me to visit her.’
He snapped round to glare at her. ‘Is this true?’
She shrugged. ‘I suggested a visit, yes. Why? Is there some reason she should not accept?’
‘Out of the question! Out of the question! Elisa, you will come in now.’
‘No!’ I said. ‘I’m not moving from this spot until you accept that I’m going.’
‘But Lisettina—’
‘I said no! I’m going. Take it or leave it.’
He looked at us, from one to the other, me holding my ground, Eliana smiling faint victory.
‘She has a will of her own, Vittorio,’ she said. ‘Perhaps better to let her follow it.’
He didn’t answer. I turned to her. ‘How about next weekend?’
She nodded slowly. ‘I’m not doing anything. Come Saturday morning. Your father, I am sure, will give you the address.’
I looked questioningly at him, but he, for once, didn’t seem to have anything to say.
THIRTEEN
‘Your father very fine man.’
The words had been following me for a week and more, begging me to do something with them, though I still had trouble taking them in. Someone of the opposite sex found my father attractive? Yeah, right.
But stuff had happened that seemed to back it up. In that same week and more, Anya had settled in like a very large and very round peg in a hole that seemed to have been made for her. She’d turned out to be a pretty reasonable cook—a little on the basic side, yes, but one who’d quickly mastered the fine art of cooking pasta to my father’s liking. Al dente it should be, you see. Slightly firm on the teeth. Almost like it’s a little undercooked. Not soft and mushy so it breaks up in pieces on your fork and slops back down on the plate in a kind of pasta soup. The first time she did it, my father positively beamed. And Anya? What do you think? She was, like, walking on air for the rest of the day—the week, even. A teenager again, flushed with the secret knowledge that the hottest boy in the school had accidentally brushed past her in the corridor.
You’d think my father would maybe have noticed this but he didn’t. If it isn’t on his laptop screen, if it doesn’t fit in with his precious work, he doesn’t see it, still less does he want to know it. So Anya’s love remained unrequited. Not that she noticed this herself, though. The hottest scientist in the house liked her pasta. It was enough.
So there we were, Anya and I, looki
ng up at a shop selling skimpy swimwear. That wasn’t where we were supposed to be, what we were supposed to be doing. No, in reality, we were doing more clothes shopping for me. My father had decided I needed more things to wear so beloved nonna could be even more impressed, so he’d stuffed a wad of Euros into Anya’s hand and hustled us out of the house. He must have been more than usually eager to get back to his laptop because I heard the door slam quickly shut behind us. Big mistake, I thought at the time: he didn’t know what he’d just let loose.
‘You surely we do this?’
I dropped my gaze from shop to her. She looked worried. ‘I’m sure,’ I said. ‘Why else do you think he gave you so much money?’
‘It not feel right.’
‘Look,’ I said patiently, ‘like I told you on the bus, he’s kind of shy when it comes to women. He never comes out with anything direct, he just sort of drops hints. He gave you money for clothes for me. He gave you too much money for clothes for me. What do you think he intends you to do with what’s left after we’ve bought what I need?’
‘It not right,’ she said again. ‘We not buy clotheses yet. We buy clotheses first.’
She turned to go. I grabbed her, heaved her back on course. ‘Clotheses can wait. Come on, Anya, live a little! Remember what I also said? If you want to get the guy, you’ve got to let him know what you’ve got.’
‘Da-a-a-a,’ she said uncertainly and in her native Russian. ‘But this go too far, no?’
‘Too far is what you need when dealing with guys, trust me. Come on, let’s go.’
I dragged her into the shop, a woman behind the counter looking up as we entered.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘How can I help you today?’
‘What she say?’ Anya whispered into my ear. ‘I no speak Italian.’
‘It’s okay,’ I whispered back. ‘I’ll translate.’
‘Hi!’ I said to the woman. ‘We’re looking for a bikini.’
‘A bikini,’ she repeated, looking me up and down. ‘We have any number in your size in stock. Did you have any particular style in mind?’
‘Well, actually, it’s not for me, it’s for my friend here.’
The woman shifted her gaze to the broad-beamed battleship moored beside me.
‘For your…friend,’ she repeated, and she seemed to be finding it a little difficult to speak.
‘That’s right. She’s Russian. Doesn’t speak Italian, just a little English and even that not very good.’
‘I can speak English…if you prefer,’ she said.
‘Hey, that’d be great! Thanks!’
She turned to Anya, spoke to her in an English that was almost as good as mine. ‘You want to buy a—a bikini,’ she said.
‘Elisa say so,’ came a guarded reply. ‘I not sure.’
‘Well, we do cater for your…um…size,’ she said carefully. ‘Did you have a particular colour in mind?’
Anya shrugged, looked to me for help. Obviously, buying bikinis didn’t figure too highly on her CV.
‘Something that goes with her hair,’ I said, looking at the matted brown frizz that barely framed her face. ‘Something maybe towards the red end of the spectrum?’
The woman nodded agreement. ‘I’ll see what we have in stock,’ she said, and disappeared out the back.
‘This not good idea,’ Anya hissed when she was gone. ‘I not ever wear bikini in whole life!’
‘Then maybe it’s time to try,’ I whispered back. ‘Trust me, Anya, the guys love it. My father will love it!’
‘He like my Apple Cake. That enough for me.’
It was a very good Apple Cake, I had to agree. The one slice I’d eaten had told me that. And I guessed the one slice my father ate had told him the same thing. The trouble was, we didn’t get a chance to repeat the test. By the time we were ready for a second piece, Anya had eaten the rest.
‘Apple Cake isn’t enough,’ I said. ‘He’s got to see the real you, the you that’s underneath the cook and the housekeeper and the governess you show him every day of the week. That’s the Anya he needs to see if you want him to notice you.’
‘He very fine man,’ she sighed. ‘Okay, we do this.’
The woman was back, still looking a little uncertain about all this. She dropped a box on the counter, sending up clouds of dust from off the lid.
‘This is all I have, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘It’s not the colour you’re looking for and I can’t guarantee it will fit but I’ve brought it out. Do you want to see it?’
‘That’s what we’re here for!’ I said brightly.
She nodded dubiously and lifted the lid. Then she was reaching in and lifting something out, something in two parts, something that looked way too big for anyone with even a half-decent figure. It wasn’t anywhere near the red end of the spectrum, no way…more green…actually, make that green and then some, the sort of green you might see on the face of someone being seasick. Whether it was because of its size or its colour that it had been gathering dust on a stockroom shelf for so long, I didn’t know, but here it was now. Out and eager to be bought. By Anya.
‘It fine,’ she said. ‘I try on?’
‘That’s not actually the way we do things when sizing someone,’ the woman said carefully. ‘If madam will just spread the lower garment out and hold it against her, I can judge if it will fit her.’
‘This work?’
‘I have many years of experience to draw on. So please.’
Anya took the lower half and unfolded it…and unfolded it some more…and then some more. By the time she’d finished, I was gazing down at a sizeable stretch of material that looked better suited to something with four legs and a trunk. Even so, it looked too small for Anya.
‘Like so?’ she said, holding it against her ample waist.
‘Yes but just a little lower…and lower…and lower still—hold it there.’ She stopped, gazing long and thoughtfully at it. ‘You know,’ she said eventually, ‘I’m not entirely certain that it’s a good fit for madam.’
‘I think it’s fine,’ I said. It was actually a little on the small side but that was perfect for what I was planning. ‘What do you think, Anya?’
‘I not sure,’ she said. ‘If lady say it not right, it not right. She many years experience.’
‘That’s right, she has! But she hasn’t actually said it wouldn’t fit you, has she?’
I looked at her for confirmation. She gazed blankly back at me, began to stammer something vague and non-committal.
‘Well…that is…Your friend might—’
‘—look really good in it,’ I finished for her. ‘There you are, Anya. What more do you need?’
Anya looked at me as though weighing my words, and her mind seemed made up. ‘We take!’ she said firmly. ‘How much?’
‘You—you want it?’ said the woman.
‘Da, we take,’ Anya said again. ‘How much?’
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sorry for a shop assistant as I did then. This poor woman just glanced at us in turn, from one to the other, as though wondering just what kind of lunatics she was dealing with here. Then she gathered herself, drew herself upright and said:
‘Just take it.’
‘Uh?’—Anya.
‘Take it! No charge! On the house!’
‘You’re not serious!’—Me.
‘I mean it! Call it a clearance item on special offer, call it what you will but just take it!’
Anya and I looked at each other, then at her.
‘You very kindness lady,’ she said.
‘What she said,’ I added. ‘And thanks!’
‘You’re welcome. Now, good day.’
And we left. Out on the street again, Anya looked faintly pleased with herself and more than faintly relieved.
‘Now,’ she said firmly, ‘we buy clotheses.’
FOURTEEN
The apartment was small but comfortable. Big enough for one. Maybe a little crowded with more. I’d been right about h
er at our first meeting: she was indeed too much of a free spirit to do anything like get married to order.
‘I’m glad you could come,’ she said as she took my jacket. ‘I had it in mind that perhaps your father would object to you coming, would even forbid it.’
‘Yeah, he wasn’t too happy about it,’ I replied truthfully. ‘All this morning, he was trying to be nice, and that’s always a sure sign he’s worried about something, probably that I might say or do something out of turn.’
‘Ah, you too.’
‘He tried the same with you?’
‘No, our mother. She called me this morning, laid down the law about what was and was not to be discussed.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘Not your fault,’ she said easily. ‘And anyway, I have long since ceased to take any notice of her and her commands. Would you like something to drink?’
‘Would I ever!’
She nodded understanding and went into the kitchen. Something to drink was less than I needed just then. The scirocco was blowing unusually hard that day, bringing with it unbearable heat and humidity, the feeling of being stuck in a fan oven with the temperature turned way up. On such days, all you want to do is crawl into a dark space somewhere and hope it doesn’t find you. Usually, you won’t succeed.
But I’d had it even worse. It hadn’t been a long bus journey but however long it is, a bus journey in Sicily is something to be endured rather than enjoyed. Sicilian buses have always seen better days, which is hardly surprising since they’re actually cast-offs from Milan where they’ve already been driven into the ground. They’re old, shaky, and full of sweat and garlic. And you don’t bother with a timetable in Sicily: the bus comes when it comes. That’s sometimes because it’s broken down somewhere along the route but more likely because it’s met with something in the way.
You see, the roads in Sicily are narrow. No, I’m talking wide-enough-for-a-bus-and-not-much-more narrow. And Sicilians, well, like they think they can drive anyhow, they think they can park anywhere. And they do. So the bus comes, finds the road blocked and stands there tooting its impatience before the owner appears to move his car. That can take fifteen minutes and more. If the bus driver’s lucky, the owner will have left a window down so someone can get in and move it, maybe push it out of the way just far enough for the bus to get through. Even that can take a few minutes, though, and a few minutes here and a few minutes there soon mount up. So like I say, forget the timetable. The bus driver will have done it long before you did.