To Marry a Tiger

by Isobel Chace

  Saro went to the door and whined gently, looking sorrowfully over his shoulder at her.

  “I’m coming,” she told him.

  There was one thing about a dog, he gave one something to do. Ruth dressed quickly and went downstairs with him into the rough garden at the side of the house. There was a path that went steeply uphill and through a clump of cypress trees. Saro went first, his tail held aloft, sniffing every inch of the path as he went along to see who had been there since the day before. Ruth followed at a more leisurely pace, looking back at the house at intervals, admiring the classical lines of the house behind her.

  She was surprised, when she arrived at the cypress trees, to find herself overlooking the sea. The cliff fell away beneath her, honeycombed with the holes that birds had used for nesting earlier in the summer. Beneath was the deep blue of the sea, edged with white as it broke against the rocks beneath. In a nearby vineyard a man was singing a Neapolitan love song, such as she had heard from her very youth. She smiled to herself with sheer enjoyment, remembering a story that she had once been told about Sicily. The angel Gabriel had been astonished by the beauty of the island. ‘What are you going to do?’ he had asked God. ‘The island is so desirable that everyone will fight over it.’ ‘I shall fill it with Sicilians,’ God had answered.

  The scene was so beautiful that Ruth stopped for a while to look the longer. A fallen tree served as a more than adequate seat and Saro, who had apparently adopted her as a more or less permanent companion, ran in and out of the trees, returning to her at intervals for a few words of admiration and approval.

  Henry Brett had found her name apt the day before, she remembered. But she had no desire to weep. She was not in the least homesick. But there was, she thought, something in the poem that struck a chord. She began to recite it softly to herself, to see what it sounded like, away from the classroom, in surroundings that were made for such cadences.

  Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

  No hungry generations tread thee down;

  The voice I hear this passing night was heard

  In ancient days by emperor and clown!

  Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

  Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

  She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

  The same that oft times hath

  Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam

  Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

  There was no nightingale, not at that hour of the morning, and Ruth couldn’t honestly say that she felt in the least bit alien, but the magic casements were there before her, and the perilous seas she could feel in her very blood. Perhaps the choice was apter than Henry Brett had known.

  She turned as she heard hurrying footsteps coming up the path and went to meet Giulia, cross and panting, as she came towards her.

  “The Signor is angry because you have not had breakfast!” the Italian woman said furiously. “In England you would have eaten egg and bacon— many things—and he says you must have the same here!”

  Ruth blinked. “But I never eat breakfast!” she objected.

  “Then you had better tell Signor Verdecchio so yourself!” Giulia insisted grimly.

  Ruth chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m being a great nuisance to you,” she apologised.

  Giulia gave her a sudden smile. “It is no trouble for me, but,” she added with a shake of her head, “it is trouble for you! The Signor’s aunt will be with us for lunch, now that her friend has died. She will not expect to find you here.”

  But she would, Ruth thought. She knew all about her! And when she came, she would sort out the whole situation and Ruth would go back to England.

  But she couldn’t help wondering why the thought gave her so little pleasure.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RUTH succeeded in avoiding Mario all day. Signora Verdecchio had not turned up at lunchtime after all. Ruth had looked for her arrival, but no car had come up the drive to the house and Giulia had resignedly shrugged her shoulders and declared that it was always the same, the Signora had no idea of time, that she scarcely knew that the sun came up in the morning and went down at night.

  At five o clock in the afternoon, she did finally arrive. Ruth could just catch a glimpse of the front door from her bedroom window and she had watched Mario stride out of the door to take her luggage, saluting his vivacious aunt on either cheek. The Signora, Ruth was surprised to see, was clothed entirely in black and looked rather older than she had remembered her. Then she remembered it had been a friend of hers who had died and that she was probably already in mourning.

  It was the beginning of an exhausting evening. Lucia Verdecchio had come originally from a local family before she had married Mario’s father’s younger brother. She knew everyone for miles around and, hearing that she was there, mourning her dead friend, it seemed to Ruth that the whole island came to pay their respects to her. A never-ending stream of people passed in and out of the house, looking around with curious eyes. If Ruth had been in any doubt before, she knew now that everyone had already heard all about her. With secret eyes, veiling their thoughts, they congratulated Mario on his good fortune.

  But it was only at dinner, when the people had gone, that Signora Verdecchio had time to give her nephew’s affairs her full attention.

  “When is the priest coming?” she asked Mario.

  He looked at her with real affection. “I had arranged for him to come today, but we thought we’d wait for you to grace the occasion with your presence.”

  “Very proper!” his aunt commented.

  But, Ruth began, “now that your aunt is here, surely there is no need—”

  Signora Verdecchio gave her a long, hard look.

  “You had better take Italian lessons in Palermo,” she directed, just as if Ruth hadn’t spoken at all.

  “Well, I won’t!” Ruth said sulkily.

  “And you will need some clothes—”

  “And she needs to have her hair fixed!” Mario put in.

  His aunt nodded. “I will take her in the morning to a little place I know,” she said comfortably. “You had better arrange with the priest to come at midday.”

  “I won’t be married to anyone!” Ruth said loudly.

  Mario smiled straight into her eyes. “You won’t find it so dreadful,” he told her. “I’ll see to that!”

  “But that isn’t the point!” Ruth exclaimed.

  “No,” Lucia Verdecchio agreed sagely, “that is not the point. The point is that the whole family has been wanting Mario to marry for a long time, and now he is going to. I have already told his mother all about it. A nice girl, I said. A very nice girl! Not quite in Mario’s usual circle, but that is a good thing, no doubt. We are all very pleased!”

  Ruth stared at her. “I don’t believe you!” she said faintly. “I thought you would help me!”

  Lucia Verdecchio nodded complacently. “But that is what I am doing! There is nothing for it but for you to marry Mario, and I intend to stay on here and then everyone will see that the family approves. It would have been different, perhaps, if I had been here at the house last night, but—” She shrugged elegantly.

  “Where were you last night?” Ruth asked, suddenly extremely angry, angry with the Verdecchios, and still more angry with herself for getting into such a silly position.

  Mario’s aunt looked innocent. “Were you hoping I would look in? But how could I leave the deathbed of my friend?”

  “You appear to have had a nice conversation with my mother,” Mario reminded her dryly.

  “On the telephone,” Lucia Verdecchio nodded. “She sounded as though she were in the next room! And to think she is in New York! It was my duty to set her mind at rest,” she went on virtuously. “She had heard—many things that were not to her taste at all! How could I not tell her about our dear Ruth?”

  Mario gave her a sardonic look. “And how did she know about these—many things?”

&nb
sp; “I have really no idea!” his aunt replied. “As you know, I live quietly in Tunis. I have no knowledge of what you do or don’t do! But the Verdecchios are well known all over southern Italy. What do you expect. That your friends will suddenly give up the natural pleasure of having a good gossip? Mamma mia, you expect a great deal!”

  “Well, I am not known all over southern Italy,” Ruth objected. “I shall go back to Naples tomorrow, and Pearl and I will go straight back to England! So you needn’t worry about us at all.”

  “You will do as you’re told!” Mario growled at her.

  Ruth lifted her chin. “By whom?”

  “By your husband!” he snapped.

  “But you’re not my husband,” she returned sweetly.

  “In Sicily,” he warned her with careful enunciation, “women are better seen and not heard!”

  “And I’m not Sicilian either!” Ruth informed him loftily. “If you want to know, I am very glad I am English. And I believe in equality between the sexes!”

  Signora Verdecchio smiled pacifically. “Of course you do!” She took a quick sip of wine. “I do myself!”

  “Then how—?” Ruth began.

  Mario choked. “I never thought to hear you say it, aunt,” he drawled.

  “But it is so!” that lady insisted. “I assure you. All women think so—that is only natural! Only, from one place to another we go about it in different ways. In England you make a great noise; you demonstrate; and you wear your hair shorter than the men. In Sicily, we do none of those things. Here, it is the family that matters. The woman is the family! It is quite obvious, is it not? It is necessary for the man to marry a nice girl who will be the mother of his sons. It is so easy for a man not to be the father, but with the mother, it is apparent, no?”

  “Quite apparent,” Ruth was forced to agree.

  “So we protect our women and, therefore, our families!” Signora Verdecchio concluded in triumph. “It is not quite equal, perhaps, but the men feel they are equal and so all is well.”

  This was not an argument that had previously occurred to Ruth. She was sure that there was a flaw in it somewhere, especially when it came to how it affected her personally, but for the moment it sounded almost reasonable.

  “I still won’t marry Mario,” she said clearly. “I’ll tell the priest as much! He can hardly force me into marriage.”

  Mario smiled faintly. “Il padre is a little deaf.”

  “Then I’ll shout!” she retorted.

  “I think not,” he answered charmingly. “We are all equal, but some of us are a little more equal than others, like Mr. Orwell’s pigs, was it not?”

  “In fact you’ll make me?” she challenged him.

  He shrugged his shoulders, still smiling. “I hope it will not come to that,” he said in disapproving tones.

  “But why?” she demanded, tears stinging her eyes. “You can’t want to marry me?”

  He laughed shortly. “Perhaps not. But I know better than to fly in the face of destiny, my dear. And so, tomorrow, my wife you shall be!”

  Ruth rose to her feet, leaving the meat course of her meal untasted. “I am going up to bed,” she announced.

  Mario politely rose as well. “Sleep well, cara mia,” he said gently.

  She turned at the doorway and glared at him. “And I’ll thank you to lock the door between our rooms!” she said defiantly.

  He looked amused, “You will not be disturbed—tonight,” he promised her.

  “I should think not!” his aunt bridled. “Am I not here to chaperone you?”

  Ruth was in two minds about telling her that her promised chaperonage of the night before had hardly been effective, but she held her tongue. She would, she thought, need Mario’s aunt for an ally when she made her escape to Naples.

  “Shall I bring you a warm drink to your bed?” Giulia asked her as she went through the kitchen.

  Ruth shook her head, thanking her warmly. “I only came for Saro,” she said.

  Giulia frowned. “The Signor will have other ideas after tonight!” she said with heavy humour.

  Ruth blushed. “We’ll see,” she said with a dour dignity that seemed to be all that was left to her. And she scuttled off to bed, with the little dog dancing along at her heels, pleased and excited by the prospect of another night inside the house.

  Lucia Verdecchio drove Ruth into Palermo herself.

  “I have discussed it with Mario and we have decided exactly how you must wear your hair,” She explained as they made a rather erratic start down the long drive.

  Ruth looked at her soberly. “It’s very kind of you,” she said hesitantly, “but I’m going back to Naples. Pearl will be frantic with worry by now! It would be very kind of you, if you’ll take me to the boat.”

  Signora Verdecchio pushed the car into top gear and frowned. “There is no boat today from Palermo. Now really, you mustn’t worry, my dear! You’ll feel better when you’ve had your hair done!”

  Ruth relapsed into silence. She was being railroaded with a vengeance! But she wouldn’t have it! Sooner or later, some time during the morning, she would escape the custody of Mario’s aunt. There must be some way of getting off this island, and she would find it if it was the last thing she did!

  Meanwhile, there was a certain excitement about going to a top-class hairdresser. She had never been able to afford such luxuries on her salary at home.

  “Luigi is very clever!” Signora Verdecchio told her, here whole being glowing with enthusiasm. “We must have you looking your best for your wedding, musn’t we?”

  Ruth nodded, for it was quite useless to argue with the older woman.

  “Tell me about Mario’s mother,” she suggested instead.

  Signora Verdecchio was inordinately pleased at this sign of interest in The Family. She gave Ruth a look of such complete approval that Ruth felt guilty. She was interested in Mario’s mother, but not at all as her future mother-in-law.

  “Why is she in New York?” she asked.

  Signora Verdecchio was surprised. “She lives there!”

  “In New York?” Ruth exclaimed.

  Signora Verdecchio apparently thought that this interesting fact did need some kind of explanation. “She married the elder brother and I the younger,” she said. “Her husband died a few years ago and she couldn’t stand living in Sicily with all the family dispersed. At that time, Mario was in Milan looking round for suitable small industries that he could bring to Sicily, and my husband and I were living in Tunis. She was dull by herself—”

  “But what about her family?” Ruth objected.

  Lucia Verdecchio looked very well satisfied with herself. “That’s why she went to New York,” she said slyly. “Mary-Anne is an American.”

  “And was she kidnapped too?” Ruth asked dryly.

  “She was very much in love with her husband!” Lucia retorted. “And with Sicily too. The family—especially her son—means a great deal to her.”

  She sounded an odd kind of person to Ruth. What woman in her right mind would have tied herself down to this narrow, old-fashioned island, when she had been born an American?

  “Her husband must have been very different from Mario!” she observed.

  “In what way?” the Signora asked, laughing.

  “Mario expects a woman to have no views of her own at all!” Ruth burst out. “I’m sure he wants a wife who will keep the house running smoothly, and bring up his children, and do exactly what he says—”

  The Signora laughed. “My dear, Mario is modern compared to his father! Now he was an autocrat of the old order. But Mary-Anne wouldn’t have had him any different. Her freedom, since his death, hasn’t brought her any happiness.”

  “Well, I don’t intend to put myself in the position of being a doormat to any man!” Ruth said briskly.

  Signora Verdecchio laughed again. “You are so exactly right for Mario!” she exclaimed.

  Ruth was startled into an uncomfortable silence that was only broken b
y their arrival in Palermo at the hairdressers. Signora Verdecchio parked the car with a gay abandon as to the parking rules and allowed herself to be bowed into the salon with all the charm and dignity that Ruth was beginning to associate with all the Verdecchios.

  “I want you to meet my niece,” she said in cool, clear Italian so that even Ruth could understand her. “Today she gets married and, as you can see, her hair-style is not in the fashion. I think a good cut, no? A manicure? And it is necessary for her to have make-up to improve her face!”

  “At once, signora! If the signorina will pass this way—?”

  Ruth was led away into a perfumed cubicle while chattering Italians hurried back and forth, turning Signora Verdecchio’s vague instructions into reality. A pretty young girl shampooed her hair, marvelling at Ruth’s good fortune in getting married that very day. And to Mario Verdecchio! There was no man who had been more sought after! He was rich, good-looking, and doing all that he could to improve the local conditions of his people! How flattered Ruth must feel! How she must die at the very thought of being loved by such a man!

  Ruth assured her that she was managing to bear up, though she had to admit to herself that she did feel weak inside if she allowed herself to dwell on the thought of Mario as her husband. Not that he was going to be! But she felt a definite sinking feeling when she thought of his relief when he discovered that she had escaped him.

  By the time the master hairdresser himself came into her cubicle she was decidedly depressed. She was as plain as she had ever looked, with her hair dripping around her shoulders and her face innocent even of the modicum of make-up that she customarily wore.

  “Mmm. You must look beautiful,” the tall, elegant man said thoughtfully. “It is not easy. No, not easy at all!”

  Ruth’s self-confidence took another dive. The man pulled her wet hair over her eyes and back again.