by David Elvar
‘Say hello to your cousin, Elisa,’ my father was saying now.
‘Hello,’ I said flatly.
He nodded gracious acknowledgement but didn’t deign to answer. Silence. Then:
‘Elisa, don’t you have anything more to say? Silvio is your cousin, your cousin.’
I glanced up at him. That emphasis again but it wasn’t that that was bothering me. ‘Silvio!’ I repeated. ‘As in Berlusconi?’
‘That is not a person we discuss in this house,’ my father bristled. ‘And why should your cousin not be called Silvio? It is a common enough name.’
‘Yeah but…Oh, never mind.’
‘And I ask again, do you not have anything more to say to your cousin?’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe. What does he like talking about?’
‘Oh, he’s very clever!’ mama interrupted for him. ‘He can talk about anything you like—such a clever boy he is! We had a report from the school only last month that the presentation he gave to the class on the subject of Italian rivers was first class, even quite the best they’d ever seen. No one can touch my little Silvio when it comes to schoolwork.’
As if to emphasise this, she gave his cheek a gentle tweak. He just responded with another of his simpering smirks. I was about ready to throw up my lunch but, maybe luckily, another aunt joined us.
‘I’m sorry to intrude, Vittorio,’ she was saying, ‘but we’re having a discussion about Verdi and his place in world music and we were thinking perhaps you might have something to contribute.’
My father’s eyes seemed to light up, as well they might since he regards himself as a leading authority on anything cultural.
‘But of course!’ he beamed. ‘I’m sure Elisa and Silvio can find a lot to talk about.’
—and he was gone, hurrying to show off his great cultural refinement to a willing audience. I turned back to the dynamic duo.
‘Italian rivers, huh?’ I said. ‘Well, we can talk about Italian rivers if you like but I was thinking more about music. What do you think of Linkin Park?’
He didn’t answer. He didn’t try to. He didn’t get the chance to. Proud mama was there with the answer.
‘Oh, he doesn’t have time for this modern music. He only listens to what his mama listens to—isn’t that right, my little Silviuccio?’
Silviuccio, I thought. You have got to be kidding me!
‘Only last night,’ she went on, ‘we were sitting together on our balcony and singing along to one of my favourite songs by…Oh, who was it, now?…I can’t remember but it was such a magical moment for the two of us! We sat there holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes and gently singing along to the words. Not that I have much of a voice but my little Silviuccio sings like an angel! Why, at the last concert at his school, he was given the lead solo—utterly captivated the audience, he did! And the headmaster, do you know what he did afterwards? He came up to me and congratulated me for having such a talented son and said that he hoped Silvio would be available for next year’s concert when he would be assured of the lead role again and for any other performances the school might like to put on—oh, he was so full of praise!’
Another simper right on cue.
‘Yeah, but what music does he like?’ I asked. ‘I mean, does he have a sound system? CD collection? What?’
‘Oh, he can borrow any one of my CDs at any time and he knows it. And my stereo, he knows he doesn’t even have to ask his mama, he can just go to it any time he likes, pull out any CD he likes and put it on as loud as he likes, no one is going to stop him. Only last week, he played my entire Eros Ramazzotti collection non-stop at top volume! Oh, the neighbours were banging on the walls and one of them threatened to call the Police but I couldn’t bring myself to stop him! Such an appreciation of the best in music, I told them, it would be a crime to stop him expressing it so fully!’
‘Right,’ I said faintly. ‘Fine. So he doesn’t have his own CDs, he just borrows yours. He doesn’t have his own taste in music, he just borrows yours. I’m sorry to have to ask this but does he do anything, like anything without your approval first?’
‘Why should he?’ she retorted. ‘His only wish in life is to please his mama!’
Another tweak and another simper, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing here. It was like watching a pair of teenagers on their first date together, the syrup dripping from every word, every gesture. Much more of this and I was headed for a bad case of sugar rush. It may have been the only time I felt it but I was almost wishing my father would return, if only to rescue me from these two. As if in answer, there was movement behind me, and I turned to it, relieved. But it wasn’t my father, it was beloved nonna.
‘What are you doing here, girl!’ she snapped. ‘Why is your father not with you?’
Translation: who let you loose while no one was looking?
‘My father is off somewhere discussing Verdi,’ I replied evenly. ‘He left me here to get to know my cousin Silvio.’
She snapped her gaze to proud mama. ‘Is this true?’
‘As true as I am sitting here!’ she said eagerly. ‘And such fun we have been having! Silvio has been telling her about all the things he’s done and the things he likes to do and what music he likes and…well…everything! They’re getting on very well.’
Yeah, I had trouble keeping a straight face. Just who had been telling exactly what to whom was maybe not quite as she’d described it but I think beloved nonna got the general idea. She snapped back to me—not exactly with the same contempt, maybe, but still an only slightly diluted version of it.
‘So you are behaving yourself at last!’ she said. ‘Let us hope it will continue. Now, I feel something of a headache coming on. If anyone asks where I am, I have gone for some of my medicine and will be back shortly. Be sure to tell them that!’
Proud mama murmured acknowledgement. Little Silviuccio smirked. I did nothing. Beloved nonna nodded once and hobbled off to the kitchen.
‘Well,’ I said when she was gone, ‘it’s been nice meeting you. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again some time.’
‘Oh, but you’re not leaving, surely!’ said mama. ‘Silvio’s only just begun to tell you about all the things he’s done!’
‘Yes, it’s been, um, interesting to hear what he had to say—’
‘And I’m sure you’ll want to hear about the debating society he’s formed at school.’
‘Well, maybe another time—’
‘And his thoughts for the future. You know, he’s set his little heart on becoming an scientist and I’m sure he’ll be the best scientist the world has ever seen!’
That’s what you’ll tell everyone, anyway, I wanted to say. I might even have said it but my father was back, was glancing nervously between the three of us.
‘So have we had fun here while I was gone?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Oh, such a time we have had!’ proud mama jumped in. ‘These two have been talking so much, I haven’t been able to get a word in edgeways!’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said my father, looking strangely relieved about something. ‘So, Elisa, what do you think of your cousin?’
I looked down at him, saw again the sleepy eyes only vaguely seeing anyone but their owner, the simpering smirk that not for one moment had left his face, that seemed even to grow with every revelation of all he was, all he’d done. What did I think of him? I told them.
‘Che aria di Carlo Magno é questo?’
Silence. Yep, you got it: I’d said the wrong thing. Che aria di Carlo Magno é questo? That’s the Italian version. In English, it runs What airs of Carl the Great are these? And it’s an insult. You use it on someone you think is too full of himself, someone who’s maybe puffed himself up so much that you just want to stick a pin in him. The wrong thing that in that moment was so much the right thing. Damn, I’m good.
My father was probably working up a furious demand for an apology but he never got to use it. There was a scream from the kitc
hen. All voices stopped, all eyes looked its way. Then beloved nonna was staggering back into the room, her mouth wide open, her eyes ablaze with pain and fury.
She looked directly at me, raised a tremulous finger to point pure accusation at me.
‘YOU!’ she screamed. ‘YOU!’
I figured she’d found the Tabasco.
TWENTY ONE
Yeah, I got banned. Beloved nonna couldn’t have known it was me who’d spiked her medicine but it wouldn’t have needed a Sherlock Holmes to put two and two together: I was the only one who’d been in the kitchen and the only one with motive enough to want to do it. Maybe I’d even wanted to get caught, it wasn’t like I’d gone out of my way to hide my tracks. Whatever. I was banned. No more family lunches on a Sunday. Be comforted, my breaking heart.
My father? Oh yeah, he still went: no way could he carry on life without his weekly pat on the head from his mama. He left me behind, left Anya with strict instructions that I was not to be let out of her sight, even for a moment. I was okay with that. A couple of hours with a Russian battleship with inexplicable hots for my father was infinitely preferable to those same couple of hours being ignored by people I was supposed to share genetic material with and show gratitude for it. It was a good trade-off, was even worth the tongue-lashing I got from beloved nonna when she’d finally managed to recover her voice.
I put the time to good use. Despite what my father had told her, Anya pretty quickly gave up her guard dog duties and scuttled off to her room. And equally quickly, the sound of snoring could be heard coming from it. I was off the leash, free to do as I pleased.
That first Sunday, I raided my father’s study. As I slipped in and gently closed the door behind me, I wondered about using his computer to e-mail mum but it was logged off and locked. I needed his password, and that I didn’t have. But there was still his bottom drawer. I tried it. It wasn’t locked, and this kind of surprised me. With all-out war going on between us, I would have expected him to be taking no chances, to be taking every precaution possible against me. But he wasn’t. I could live with that.
I rummaged around in the drawer and yanked the file out. Even as I opened it, I could see there was a new paper on the top. I picked it up, scanned it briefly. Aunt Eliana had been right: this was what I needed. It was a notification of a court hearing, to be held in the Minori Tribunale in ten days from the above date, under presiding judge Enrico Giordano. Bingo! I replaced the paper, put the file back as tidily as I’d found it and went back to my room.
I wouldn’t be in school tomorrow. I had a meeting with a judge.
The court building brought back memories, none of which I really needed just then. I shoved them to one side and made for the Information Desk. The woman on duty looked up as I arrived, looked at me as if I was something strange.
‘Yes?’ she said in that faintly formal, faintly quizzical voice that officials seem to reserve for unwelcome interruptions. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I need to see Judge Giordano.’
‘His Honour Judge Giordano,’ she corrected. ‘And what is the nature of your business with him?’
‘I…’
Suddenly, I didn’t know what to say. It had never occurred to me that I might have to fight my way through layers of officialdom to even get to him. Just how the hell was I going to explain what I wanted?
‘I…just need to see him,’ I said at length. ‘It’s important.’
‘I’m sure it is to you, but the question is, will it be as important to him?’
‘Look,’ I said, ‘it’s kind of difficult to explain but I’m involved in this case he’s hearing and—’
‘You’re involved in a case that he’s overseeing!’ she interrupted. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so? That puts the matter in a completely different light.’
‘You mean I can see him?’
‘Absolutely not! Direct contact between any defendant and a judge is strictly forbidden.’
‘It is?’ I said weakly.
‘It is. We can’t have people trying to bring influence to bear on any legal decisions that might have to be made.’
‘But it’s important!’
‘Look,’ she said patiently, ‘if it’s that important, give it to your lawyer. He or she will then present it to the judge in the right place at the right time in the right way—in court!’
‘But—’
This was hopeless. This lady was not going to budge, I could see that. I mumbled my thanks and left her to her rules and regulations.
I didn’t leave, though. I’d come this far, I had to see it through. And if there’s one thing that living with my father had taught me, it’s that rules and regulations sometimes have to be broken. I’d broken plenty in the family gatherings on Sundays and look where it had got me. Right where I wanted to be, if you think about it. So yeah, this wasn’t over. I’d get to His Honour one way or another.
I wandered round the place a little, getting my bearings, getting to know what was where and why. There was a long corridor leading off down the length of the building, a number of alcoves set into the sides, chairs and people waiting glumly outside large double doors. These led to the courtrooms. If this His Honour was going to be anywhere, it would be in one of these. All I had to do was wait.
Ever been wrong about something? I mean totally, completely, spectacularly wrong? I was just settling myself into a chair for a long wait when another door opened—just a little, just so far…then stopped. From behind it came voices and laughter. I couldn’t hear what was being said but someone was enjoying a good joke. Then something I did hear, something that made my ears prick up.
‘Have a good one, Enrico. Don’t hand out too many death sentences.’
More laughter and the door swung fully open. Someone still grinning marched through, someone called Enrico, and that name kind of rang a bell. He was wearing a shiny black robe, and that and the name combined could mean only one thing. I got up and followed him as he strode down the corridor.
‘Excuse me. Are you Judge Giordano?’
He hesitated for a moment then stopped and swung round to face me. He was a big man, well-built rather than just plain fat, with a stern face that you maybe wouldn’t want to be seeing too many times if you lived on the wrong side of the law.
‘I am,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I have to talk to you.’
‘Look,’ he said, glancing at his watch, ‘I have to be in court in a few minutes and that makes this really not a good time for a friendly chat.’
‘This won’t take a moment!’ I blurted. ‘And it’s important, really important. You’re hearing a case in a few days time, a custody case, name of Pellegrino.’
‘Dr. Pellegrino,’ he said. ‘Yes, I was studying the case notes only this morning. What about it?’
‘I’m Elisa. It’s me this case is all about and there’s something I have to show you, there’s something you have to see.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, turning to go, ‘but I cannot do this. Whatever it is, take it to your lawyer.’
‘I haven’t got one! And those case notes you were reading, one of them is a forgery!’
He stopped, turned back to me, didn’t say anything.
‘It’s this,’ I went on, unshouldering my schoolbag and opening it to pull out the photocopy I’d taken. I held it out to him. ‘He claims my mother wrote this but she didn’t. It’s a complete pack of lies.’
To my surprise, he took it. He scanned it briefly.
‘Yes, I've seen this,’ he said. ‘What makes you think it isn’t genuine?’
‘Two things. First, the spelling. It’s perfect—yes?’
He nodded.
‘Well, my mother is English—so am I, come to that, but that’s another story—and she’s never been able to master even the basics of Italian. If she had written this, it would have been shot through with mistakes.’
‘Mmm. And the second thing?’
/> ‘She’s my mum,’ I said simply. ‘I was with her the whole time we were in England and there was never any talk of communes and drugs and all the stuff my father is claiming in there. She met a really nice man called John and we lived with him in his house in the countryside in the south-west of England. They were going to get married,’ I ended weakly.
‘Mmm.’ Just that, no more. Then: ‘You shouldn’t be here talking to me like this, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, your receptionist told me.’
‘Then why did you not listen to her?’
I shrugged listlessly. ‘I didn’t know what else to do. But I had to do it, I had to tell someone that my father was lying to the court, and even I know that’s illegal. Isn’t that a good enough reason to be doing this?’
‘It is not your reasons that I am questioning but your methods.’ He paused to glance again at his watch. ‘I really have to be going now. As for this…’ He handed it back to me. ‘…I will see what I can do. Now if you will excuse me…’
I watched him take up his stride down the corridor again, felt elated and deflated all at once. Yeah, I’d done what I’d set out to do, obstructive receptionists and court procedures regardless, and it felt good. And sad. Like it was something I had to do rather than wanted to do. I guess a lot of life is like that. But it was over. All I could do now was wait and see what came out of it.
TWENTY TWO
We were in the middle of a Maths lesson when it happened. There was a knock on the classroom door and it swung open. We all of us looked up from moth-eaten textbooks, glad of the interruption. It was the headmaster’s secretary.
‘I apologise for this intrusion,’ she said, ‘but the headmaster wishes to see Elisa Pellegrino at once.’
All eyes snapped round to look at me, and that I could understand. Me? Why?
‘Elisa,’ the teacher was saying, ‘you are excused.’
I murmured an unnecessary Thank you and got up.
‘What’s this about?’ I asked as she hurried us down the corridor.
‘My job is only to fetch you,’ she retorted. ‘Whatever the headmaster wants, I am sure you will find out soon enough.’
I grunted vague acknowledgement and tried to keep up with her. It was a long walk to that office, I can tell you.