Kal

by Judy Nunn

  ‘I shall always be your friend, Giovanni. I wish you well.’

  Safely in her room, Alice blubbered into her handkerchief, but she felt proud. She’d stood by her resolution; she hadn’t faltered. The lectures she’d delivered herself in the early hours of the morning had paid off. What had happened to her pride? she’d asked herself. Over the years there’d been men by the score who’d made proposals to her, she was one of the most popular barmaids in Kalgoorlie. And not all the proposals had been indecent either; she must have had at least half a dozen marriage offers, serious ones, over the years.

  This was Kalgoorlie, she’d told herself, there was a shortage of women and she was a good catch. And she was only thirty-eight years old, that wasn’t altogether over the hill. So she wasn’t going to marry a younger man who looked like a god, so what?

  Fired with self-derision and armoured with the knowledge that others had probably been laughing at her, Alice had found the strength to confront Giovanni.

  For the rest of that day, however, she allowed herself to cry. She cried for the loss of her one true love. A magic love that only lived in storybooks. And then, first thing Monday morning, she was back in the bar and, on the outside at least, as chirpy as ever. Alice was a survivor.

  WHEN GIOVANNI RETURNED home from seeing Alice he offered to help Teresa and Rico with their elaborate preparations for the evening meal but Teresa wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘You have been out all night. You look tired, Gio. Go to bed. Sleep.’

  He allowed himself to be persuaded and retired to his room. Not to sleep—he knew he would simply lie there and think of her—but to avoid conversation. He lay on his bunk and stared up at the ceiling seeing Caterina’s face as the household noises reached him through the thin partitioning walls. Teresa was scolding Enrico.

  ‘You have been swimming in the vats again, haven’t you? Just look at the back of your trousers, they’re soaking.’

  ‘How many times do we have to tell you,’ Rico joined in. ‘It is dangerous. One day you will drown and then you will be sorry.’

  ‘How can I be sorry if I’m drowned, Papa?’ Enrico only ever answered his father back if he sensed he was in a good mood. And today was Sunday. Rico was always in a good mood on Sundays. ‘Anyway,’ he added, when he saw the familiar scowl appear, ‘there was no danger. Jack was with me.’

  Enrico was, by nature, a cautious boy and would not have swum in the vats at all were it not for Jack. At the best of times one needed to be a good swimmer, which Enrico was not, and if the water level was low, it took a great deal of strength to haul oneself out of the vat. Jack was not only a confident swimmer but a strong boy and Enrico felt safe with him. Jack would drag him out of the water if need be.

  ‘Jack Brearley. Hah! He will get you into trouble, that one. He is like his father. Not to be trusted, you wait and see.’ Rico had no reason at all to dislike young Jack but the boy’s natural high spirits reminded him constantly of Harry Brearley and Harry Brearley rankled with Rico.

  ‘Can I help, Mamma?’ Enrico cursed his own stupidity. He should not have come home until his clothes were dry, or he should have removed his wet under-shorts before putting his trousers back on. Anything rather than risk his father’s ill humour. Especially on a Sunday, the one day when he could normally relax and enjoy his father’s company.

  A rolled-up piece of dough caught Enrico on the side of the face. It was Carmelina, inadvertently saving the day. She squealed and ran behind her father as Enrico picked up the dough and threw it back at her.

  ‘Outside! Outside, the two of you, if you want to play,’ Teresa ordered. She, too, was grateful for Carmelina’s diversion. These days, the mere mention of Harry Brearley’s name was enough to put Rico in one of his moods. She did not know why. She and Giovanni had long given up trying to convince him that he was misjudging the man, and Harry himself, aware of Rico’s animosity, had ceased coming to the Sunday singalongs. It was a pity, Teresa thought—she enjoyed Harry’s company. ‘Go on,’ she ordered again as Carmelina picked up another fistful of dough and prepared to do battle. ‘Outside. There is work to be done in here.’

  Carmelina ran giggling out of the kitchen and Rico smiled fondly after her. Carmelina was Rico’s unashamed favourite. She could twist him around her little finger and she knew it. An energetic, good-natured child, with Rico’s black hair and black eyes, she was fearless. Just like her father.

  As the children played noisily outside, Giovanni finally drifted into an uneasy sleep and it was two hours later when Teresa tapped on his door.

  ‘Arturo and Giulia are here, Giovanni,’ she said.

  Giovanni roused himself and went out the back to pump a basin full of water and wash his face. The washing hanging from the clothes lines strung across the narrow backyard was flapping as the wind picked up and there was the threat of a late dust storm in the air. Giovanni wondered whether he should take the clothes inside. Whenever a dust storm threatened, the washing was hastily gathered up. If it was left to the mercy of the red dust, the clothes and bed linen would all be stained a dull shade of pink. It would delay him from the company for a while. He was in no mood for singing tonight.

  He heard the sound of a trap pulling up out the front. Surely Teresa hadn’t invited other guests. With a sigh, Giovanni rose and went back inside.

  ‘Caterina! Mio Dio! Caterina!’ Teresa was exclaiming in amazement. At the open front door stood Caterina, her daughter on one hip and her son and husband beside her.

  ‘Teresa!’

  Barely able to believe it was her, Giovanni watched as the women embraced. Caterina was here, in his house. No one had seen him come in and he stood at the back door, staring at her.

  ‘Caterina! How is this possible? You, here, in Kalgoorlie!’ Teresa was laughing and kissing Caterina, then holding her at arm’s length, then kissing her again.

  ‘I have been here for years, Teresa. Far longer than you.’ Caterina too was laughing, for sheer joy. ‘And I have been sending you scones and cakes and you have been teaching my son to sing. Is it not ridiculous?’

  Teresa suddenly seemed to see Evan and Paul for the first time. ‘Caterina. You mean …’

  ‘Kate,’ she answered. ‘Kate Jones. I am Evan’s wife.’ The laughter died and Caterina looked a little confused. ‘Did Giovanni not tell you?’

  The mention of his name shocked Giovanni out of his daze. As he stepped forward, he noticed that Evan was looking at him. And he knew, from the expression on the man’s face, that Evan had been looking at him from the moment he had entered the room. Evan had been watching him watch his wife.

  ‘No, I did not tell her.’ All eyes turned to Giovanni. He gave an apologetic shrug and a smile which he hoped did not look forced. ‘I am sorry, Teresa, I forgot.’ He turned to Evan and Caterina, trying not to meet her eyes directly. ‘I have been sleeping most of the afternoon. I am afraid that I am not accustomed to late-night banquets.’

  Teresa looked quizzically at Giovanni for a moment, then began the introductions. Caterina had met Arturo and Giulia at their shop in Boulder. ‘Kate,’ she corrected firmly, as Teresa started to introduce her. ‘I am called Kate now.’ She said it in English and Teresa realised that she was conscious of Evan’s discomfort.

  ‘We are being rude,’ Teresa announced. ‘I am sorry, Evan, we shall speak English for the rest of the evening.’ There was something approaching a growl from Rico. ‘You too, Rico,’ she reprimanded. ‘You will speak English too.’

  ‘No, Teresa, no,’ Kate said, ‘we are not staying for the evening. We came to deliver the gingerbread.’ She gestured for Paul to put the parcel wrapped up in white cloth onto the table. ‘And I wanted to meet your family. Look, Carmelina.’ Carmelina was chatting in a corner with Briony. ‘Look at all the gingerbread people.’

  The little girls came to the table and watched as Kate unfolded the cloth to reveal biscuits in all shapes and sizes. ‘See,’ she said. ‘A whole gingerbread family.’

  Car
melina picked up a biscuit and bit its head off, much to everyone’s amusement. Teresa tried to persuade Kate and Evan to stay. ‘There is more than enough food,’ she insisted when Kate demurred. ‘There is food enough for an army. Oh please, Caterina … Kate,’ she insisted. ‘Please!’

  Kate desperately wanted to stay. She had successfully avoided Giovanni’s eyes—it was not his presence that was deterring her. It was Evan. Despite the fact that everyone was painstakingly speaking English, she could sense his discomfort. She looked at him.

  ‘It’s very kind of you, Teresa,’ he said. ‘We’d very much like to stay.’

  Kate wanted to kiss him but she knew it would embarrass him so she gave him a brief hug instead. And, as she did, the child’s delight in her eyes was more than enough reward for Evan.

  The exchange was not lost on Giovanni. Evan was a shy man, a private man who guarded his thoughts and feelings at all times. But, try as he might, his love for Kate shone like a beacon. Did she love him back? Giovanni wondered as he watched the warmth of her brief embrace and the gratitude in her eyes. Whether she did or not, it was obvious that she was deeply fond of her husband and that she was happy. Although he ached with longing, Giovanni was glad.

  IT WAS A night of joy. A night of song and laughter and friendship. And as the air of camaraderie grew, so did Evan’s melancholy.

  As the wine flowed, the others quickly forgot their promise to speak English and, although Kate clung fondly to his arm and translated for him and Briony, and although Paul sat close to his stepfather and spoke English, Evan could not relax. It was not merely because he felt like a foreigner—it was good to see people enjoy themselves so much—it was because he recognised how at home Kate was. He had deprived her, he thought. All the years she had been with him had she felt as he did now? Had she felt like a foreigner? He had told himself he was protecting her, but all the while he’d been stifling her, cheating her of what was rightfully hers. And all for the sake of being proper. Evan felt utterly miserable.

  They sat around the table mopping up huge bowls of ravioli with chunks of white bread as Teresa fed Salvatore who had woken and demanded attention. And then it was time for song. Fresh wine was poured, the concertina placed in Giovanni’s hands and the evening began anew.

  ‘Vide ’o mare quant’e bello!’ Giovanni started to sing and, one by one, the others joined in. Rico and Teresa, Arturo and Giulia, Enrico and Carmelina. Paul looked at his father, an anxious query in his eyes, and Evan nodded encouragingly.

  ‘Guarda, gua’, chistu ciardino,’ Paul began and although Evan continued to nod and smile the proud father, his guilt and sadness deepened. Had he been depriving the boy, too, of his heritage?

  As always, Giovanni’s beautiful voice rang out above the others. His eyes met Kate’s and she smiled her recognition. Yes, she remembered. It had been ‘Torna a Surriento’ he had been singing that evening on the mountain. She closed her eyes and listened to the words and the haunting melody.

  ‘…loving you so much and longing

  to bestow a fleeting kiss.

  Yet you say: “Farewell I’m leaving” …’

  When she opened her eyes he was still looking at her. She knew that he was singing to her and she knew he was saying that he would pose no threat. In that instant Kate felt that she loved him, just as he loved her. It was a strange feeling, but a safe one. She knew neither of them would pursue it and she was at once grateful and regretful. She smiled at him and then turned her attention to Evan who was looking uncomfortable.

  ‘We must sing something in English,’ she said as the last strains of the concertina died away. ‘Then Evan and Briony can join in.’

  ‘No, Kate,’ Evan murmured. ‘Briony and I are happy listening. Aren’t we, girl?’ Briony nodded cheerfully, enjoying Carmelina’s company and the noise and festivity of the evening.

  ‘You should sing something in Welsh for us then,’ Kate insisted. The wine had gone to her head and she so wanted Evan to enjoy himself. ‘Evan sometimes sings with the Welsh miners,’ she said. ‘He has a fine voice.’ Evan was shaking his head. ‘Oh please, Evan—’

  ‘I said no, Kate!’ It was the sharpest he had ever spoken to her and Kate was startled. She fell instantly silent, knowing she had embarrassed him. She hadn’t meant to.

  ‘“O Sole Mio”,’ Giovanni announced as he played the opening chords. ‘Come. Everyone knows “O Sole Mio”.’ He started to sing and the awkward moment passed.

  DURING THE DRIVE home, Kate chattered with childlike enthusiasm, giddy from the unaccustomed red wine and the heady excitement of the evening. It was only when they arrived home and she gently roused young Paul who had fallen asleep, his head resting against her arm, that she realised her husband had spoken barely a word.

  ‘I am sorry, Evan,’ she said when they had put the children to bed and were preparing to retire themselves. ‘I am sorry that you were uncomfortable and that I embarrassed you.’

  ‘It is I who am sorry, Kate.’ When Evan finally spoke, there was anguish in his voice and she wondered why. ‘I am sorry that I cheated you of your own kind. They are good people, your people. You should be with them, you should speak your language and sing your songs. I am sorry.’

  She held him close to her. ‘You are my own kind,’ she said. ‘You are my people, you and our children.’ She would not go to the Giannis’ house again, she told herself. It was an easy decision to make. She did not want to be in Giovanni’s company anyway. It was too dangerous.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY Giovanni worked hard. Thirty feet below the earth’s surface, he attacked the rock face blindly, sweat pouring from his body. When Rico took a rest Giovanni worked on, welcoming the physical exertion. His mind was numb as he worked. The harder he worked, the less he thought of her.

  So successfully did Giovanni numb his mind that he completely forgot his arrangement to meet Harry. It was to have been the meeting of the partners. But Monday passed. And Tuesday. And Wednesday. The whole week passed and Giovanni did nothing but work and sleep. And on Saturday night he went to Red Ruby’s.

  Miko was pleased that the Italian had come back. He had always been her favourite client. But she knew better than to comment on his long absence. This one did not like to talk. And Miko herself preferred it that way.

  She anticipated a quick, efficient coupling. Whichever way he chose to use her body, this one’s ultimate aim had always been the same as hers, to get the whole process over and done with.

  This time, however, was different. This time there was anger in his love-making. He did not abuse her—he was not violent, but she could tell he was angry. And he took a long time. Miko preferred the way it used to be.

  As Giovanni felt the Japanese girl’s skin against his, the image of Caterina flashed through his mind. As he felt the Japanese girl’s breasts, he thought of Caterina’s breasts: they would be larger than this girl’s. And her buttocks would be rounder. Her thighs longer; the mound between her legs … As his hand traced the body beneath him, he angrily tried to force the images from his mind. He did not want to think of Caterina, not here. Not as he degraded himself and this girl. It was Sarina De Cretico he must think of.

  But even as he forced Sarina into his mind, Caterina’s face would not leave him and that made him even angrier. He was defiling Catarina to think of her in the same instant as Sarina De Cretico. He ground himself fiercely into the Japanese girl, desperate to rid himself of all images, desperate to think of nothing but the satisfaction of his lust. Finally, his body obeyed him and for one moment, as he growled his gratification, his mind went blissfully blank. But, as he rolled off the girl, their bodies bathed in sweat, Caterina was back. He could smell her. He could see her breasts and her buttocks and her thighs. He could feel the warmth of her womb surrounding him.

  All the next day Giovanni wondered whether Caterina would come to the house with her son. Teresa had extended the invitation last Sunday and Caterina had said she would send word. Had she? Giovanni did not dare a
sk Teresa, he knew that she would read his urgency.

  When the boy arrived on his own Giovanni felt a strange sense of relief. He knew if he were to look at her across the family table and the bowls of ravioli, he would have defiled her all over again. As he played his concertina and sang his love songs he would have seen her nakedness and smelled her juices and felt her body. Not only would he have defiled her, he would have driven himself to the point of madness. Caterina had made the right decision. They must not see each other.

  HARRY BREARLEY WONDERED why Giovanni had not contacted him about Monday’s meeting but, whatever the reason, he was grateful. He would only have had to invent an excuse to stall the Italian.

  Two weeks later all was in place. Now Harry’s only dilemma was how to inform the Gianni brothers that Gaston Picot owned the Clover. The papers were signed and sealed. The money was in the bank. He had deposited the brothers’ share into their account. It was all quite legitimate and the Giannis had been remunerated handsomely. In fact, they’d received more than they were legally entitled to under the contract they’d signed. But of course they wouldn’t see it that way and Harry didn’t want to be the one to tell them.

  ‘IT’S QUITE LEGAL. I’ve brought the original papers you signed with Mr Brearley.’

  It was Saturday and the solicitor had arrived at the Clover just before dusk, as Harry had instructed, when the brothers were cleaning themselves up after their hard day’s work.

  He spread the papers out on the table in the humpy. ‘These are the partnership papers; you see your signatures. There,’ he pointed, ‘and there.’

  Giovanni nodded. He could not believe what the solicitor had been saying. He’d heard the words but he could not believe them. And he’d deliberately refused to translate for Rico. ‘Hush, Rico,’ he’d said when his brother impatiently demanded to know what was going on. ‘Let me listen, I will tell you.’