by Cara Shaw
He decided to buy a car rather than rent, and he found an old Fiat for sale for around the same price as a hire for a month; he didn’t want to go through the bother of arranging insurance and dealing with forms and service providers, he was sick of it, he just wanted to be free to do what he wanted. He was thrumming with restless energy and he desperately needed to get out of Rome. After weeks of hospital rooms and clinics he felt as if he were in a race to connect with the real world again. He closed up the apartment and walked the hour or so it took to reach the shabby block of apartments where a traveller was selling the Fiat. He spotted it on a back street, worse for wear and a pale blue. He was peering through the window to assess the state of the charcoal vinyl of the seats when he heard a voice behind him.
“You the guy?” It was the young Albanian backpacker he’d contacted over the car sales site he’d found on the internet.
“Yes,” said Nico.
“Okay,” said the fellow, he was scrawny and wore a sparse beard. He spoke in heavily accented Italian. “It runs, I’ve just filled it up. You wanna take it for a drive?”
At this stage Nico didn’t care. “No. Is it registered?” inquired Nico.
“Oh yeah,” said the man, “It’s good for another six months.”
Nico looked at him closely, “Is it hot? I don’t want any trouble.”
The Albanian was offended, “Hey, if it was hot I wouldn’t be selling it on a car sales site.”
“Okay, here,” Nico handed him the money and the fellow gave him the keys and papers.
“Thanks man,” and he sauntered off whistling.
Nico threw his bag in the back and climbed in. He turned the key and drove out of the side street onto one of the insanely hectic main roads of Rome, it would take at least an hour and a half to negotiate the traffic out of the city, and then he could head south. At last, he was free.
It was late one afternoon when he pulled up outside the estate. He had taken his time driving down, following the Amalfi coast and staying overnight at a cheap beachside hotel. He had a huge breakfast at a terrace cafe that overlooked the ocean, and then swam and sun baked for a couple of hours. He thought his body looked pathetic, flabby and bony, and there was a horrible yellow cast to his skin. His hands and feet were huge in comparison and he felt like a freak. That with his lopsided face and dark circles under his eyes didn’t help his overall confidence. He did feel a bit better after resting on the beach and spent the rest of the day driving to the estate in the squeaky old Fiat. The tyres were bald and the vehicle practically skated around the corners of the winding coast roads. He took the last turn off to head east and made it out to Avellino by dusk, and when he drove through the village he was pleased with what he saw. The standard piazza was laid in flagstone, there was a small and beautifully built church, village cafes, all surrounded by trees and gardens and overlooked by a steep hill. He drove for another twenty minutes until the estate gates came into view and then headed up an elm lined avenue. This was a substantial holding, Vito and Maria Pallegrini were obviously once well off and Roberto would have been raised in considerable comfort. The question was, if Roberto wasn’t Vito’s son, how was it that he had been raised by him?
He parked the Fiat and got out to look at the view. The sun was setting over a patchwork of villas and fields, and the warm evening air took on the scent of the musky soil and herb blooms that grew abundantly everywhere. Wild geraniums grew alongside wild oregano, cooking smells filled the air, and the sun soaked stone made everything feel sultry and sweet. This was nothing like the chaotic energy of Rome, and he breathed deeply. He turned to look at the house. It was an unusually large Italian rose-rendered villa with ivy climbing up the walls and a pristine vineyard that dropped away at the rear. The old house had been modernised and extended to accommodate guests, and Nico was gratified that the original building was plain to see. Nico approached it in wonder, this was his grandfather’s home, the place where he had spent his childhood. Whether it was because Nico had become reacquainted with him through the peculiar visions he’d had of Roberto at the hospital, or just the tug of familial connection, he felt a push of emotion. A woman greeted him from the front door.
“Nico Pallegrini?” she said.
“Yes,” he replied, “That’s me.”
“How exciting, we’ve been expecting you. When we read the booking we guessed you were a relative. Am I right?”
The woman was charming, she had a broad dark face and an easy smile.
“Yes you are,” he laughed and he held out his hand, “Nico.”
“Sophia. Come with me,” and she led him inside the large cool house.
What followed for Nico was a strange time of both disassociation and belonging, a period where he was driven to rediscover his identity and place in the world. Sophia and her husband Aldo welcomed him wholeheartedly into what they believed was his ancestral home, and although they were partially right, he knew that his true heritage didn’t lie with the Pallegrini’s. Nico was the only guest and while they dined together that evening the couple told him their story. They were Italian Australians and who emigrated to Italy six years earlier after buying the estate. They had secured the property very cheaply – not unusual for foreigners as very few people in Campania had the resources to maintain a large holding. The pair converted the house into a simple hotel, and Aldo, after resurrecting the vineyard, sold the grapes to a Campanian co-op that produced the region’s wine. Aldo and Sophia had married young and managed restaurants in their hometown of Melbourne, where their family was contained within an established Italian network in the suburbs.
“That sounds ideal,” said Nico, “I’m curious, why did you leave?”
He knew that the standard of living in Australia was high and it seemed an incongruous choice to move their lives to Italy. Their Italian was unusually accented, their vowels were flat and they spoke in a drawn-out manner which was unlike the urgent and loud dialect he was used to. Sophia teared up and put her napkin to her face.
Aldo touched her hand, “I’m sorry Nico. You see we lost our son, our only son. He was heavily involved in drugs and he overdosed. It was unbearable, so we decided to change our lives. Make a new start. Our daughter gave us her blessing, she visits us here with her husband and children every year. Sophia’s family emigrated to Australia from Avellino in the fifties, and that’s why we thought we’d try out our luck here.”
Nico was taken aback by their honesty. “And are you happy?’’
Sophia had taken the napkin away from her face. “Yes Nico, it was the best thing we could have done. Life should be an adventure, don’t you agree?”
She rose and began clearing the table, they’d had a simple spaghetti for dinner, superb, made from the vegetables grown in the kitchen garden. The idea that life was an adventure had never occurred to Nico, and he thought it was something his grandfather Roberto might say. In comparison his life had been rather staid; he had followed the rules, done all the right things and now in light of his illness, it was clear that he had forgotten to include joy in his grand life plan.
Nico was sun baking by the pool one afternoon when Sophia brought him an icy limoncello and sat down next to him.
“Nico,” she said hesitantly, “Why are you so thin? Aldo and I are a little concerned about you,” and she trailed off, embarrassed.
Nico was touched, the couple had taken a liking to him, perhaps they missed their son. He lifted his chin and showed her the scar. “I had a tumour removed recently, it was malignant. The radiation I had afterwards was pretty rough.”
“So,you’ve come here to recuperate?” asked Sophia.
Nico hadn’t thought of his trip here in that way, although it was obvious to him now that was what he was doing. Ever since he’d arrived he had done nothing other than eat and sleep.
“Yes,” he said simply.
“You’ll get well here. We d
id and so will you,” and she left him to rest on the sunlit terrace, surrounded by olive trees and the sound of chirping birds.
That night Nico was in the midst of a dream, in it he was tunnelling upwards through a heavy enclosure of water, he could feel the pressure all around him and he knew that if he didn’t get to the top soon his lungs would burst. He kicked frantically, and burst through the surface shaking his hair and gulping for breath. Nico woke with a gasp and sat up. He’d had the dream constantly since his arrival at the estate; the visions of Roberto had left him, and were now replaced by the water dream. He got up and crossed the bedroom to lean out the window. He drew long breaths of fresh air as he looked out over the silent vineyard, which was partially lit by a waning moon. The vines sat in neat ordered rows, their branches curling obediently around the wires and stakes that held them in place.
The dream set off a longing within him that he couldn’t identify and he wished he didn’t feel so aimless. He yearned to know what exactly he was searching for. Sophia and Aldo had moved him out of the hotel area and into one of the bottom rooms at the back of the house which he now rented. His stay had stretched into weeks, and he helped Aldo in the vineyard and Sophia with the general housekeeping and running of the hotel. He would feel better if he had a clearer idea of what he was doing besides recovering from his surgery. Sophia and Aldo seemed to accept the situation as it was, and he discovered through their talks in the evenings that it wasn’t unusual for people in their country to just wander along at various times in their lives.
“I’m not sure why,” said Sophia when Nico questioned her about it. “Maybe Australians are more relaxed. Stay as long as you want Nico, it doesn’t bother us.”
He could see what she meant. The Pallegrini Estate was a popular destination for Australian travellers, and their lack of reverence for practically everything was clear to see. Although their almost primal dedication to consuming beer was a constant problem for the couple.
‘Aldo mate! Have you got any decent beer? I can’t even taste this stuff’ was a commonly heard refrain out on the terrace where people gathered for evening drinks. The couple had to store cases of Australian beer in the cellar to keep their guests happy. Nico tried it and found he disliked the thick hop taste so he stuck to his usual Italian brand, which was lighter and cleaner.
He knew the dreams were connected in some way to the trauma he had experienced when he was undergoing treatment. When they came he felt as if he was being pulled along, and the liberation he felt when breaking through the surface released him to a point, but he still awoke feeling dissatisfied and somewhat lost. He had been at the estate for three months and the tourist season was easing off. He had put on the ten kilos he had lost thanks to Sophia’s cooking and generous desserts, and he was brown and strong from working in the vineyard with Aldo. When he looked in the mirror he could see that his appearance had changed, his cheeks were a little sunken, and his face was obviously lopsided from the operation. He felt that his looks were a small price for his good health. His increasing restlessness led him to explore the area, and lately he had been going into Avellino in the Fiat and taking long drives around Campania. He searched out old buildings and churches and made small sketches in his notebooks. He felt more interested in life and the constant companionship of Sophia and Aldo eased his loneliness, the unexpected legacy that he acquired when he had to endure the cancer by himself.
He returned late one afternoon, and after dinner Sophia invited him into the lounge where there were two large trunks sitting on the floor.
“I asked Aldo to bring these down for you, they were stored in the loft. They belonged to the Pallegrini’s – I thought you might want to go through them.”
Nico could tell she was excited. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he wasn’t really related to the Pallegrini’s, but he sat the on floor beside her while they waded through the contents of the old cases. When the couple had purchased the estate from the previous vineyard owners years before, they were told that the Pallegrini memorabilia was held in the upper storey. They opened the cases and began rifling through yellowing photos and some old stich-bound books.
“Oh look,” said Sophia, “The estate ledgers,” and she flicked through them.
They found records of everything, wine and grape sales, receipts for wine-making equipment, wages records. The name that appeared on everything was Vito Pallegrini, and his father before him, Giacomo.
“Wasn’t your grandfather born here Nico? I can’t find any sign of him,” said Sophia
“Yes,” said Nico, “He was raised here, definitely.” It wasn’t really a lie he thought. “My great-grandmother was Maria Pallegrini.’’
After sorting through a heavy trunk, they found a packet of photos at the bottom of a box, folded neatly in waxy brown paper. Sophia unwrapped them.
“Yes, this looks like Maria and Vito.”
She passed them to Nico who flipped through the images, and turned one over which was dated in 1925. There was Vito, much older than Maria, a white-haired man standing uncomfortably next to a small generously proportioned woman dressed in a drop-waist black dress and a white lace collar. Behind them was the house, and even in this photo Nico could see that it was beautiful then too, impressive in the classic Italian country style.
There were more pictures, of the vineyards, the couple’s cars. Dozens of people sitting around a long luncheon table outdoors where the terrace was now, then a pretty garden with bushes and flowers everywhere. At the next photo he stopped. It was of Maria and Vito, and standing in front of them was a little boy, dressed conservatively in a cream shirt and long shorts. He was staring straight into the camera with a surprised look on his face, mouth shaped into a small oh.
Sophia took the photo from him, “Is this your grandfather? Goodness he’s very dark, how strange,” and she handed the photo back to him.
Nico looked at the photo again and an otherworldly shiver ran through him. He knew that heavy brow, and he had seen that upturned nose a thousand times. As the dark-fringed eyes gazed innocently at Nico from the photograph, taken over eighty years ago, he knew that although the boy was half Italian, he was also undeniably and without a single doubt – black.
Chapter Eleven
On the surface, Billington was about the same as any other country town in central New South Wales. Long wide streets, a tiny town centre where half of the shop fronts were vacant and blank spaces cast cool shadows onto the quiet street, symbolising the declining trade in the area. The people were ordinary and most had lived in the town all their lives, descended from the free settlers granted land parcels in the area over two hundred years ago. Others had left to find employment or a more interesting life in the city.
Billington lay west of the Blue Mountains and the three main rivers, the George, the Sandringham and the Dale met at the northern point of the region before separating and meandering along in other directions. There was one supermarket, a couple of cafes, a few bed and breakfasts and a good choice of pubs. Cars were king and people drove everywhere, parking nose to kerb to do their shopping then further down to another store, often rounding off at the pub or the club for an afternoon beer. It was a quiet place, different now from the small and busy town it once was. Up until the seventies it carried a substantial wool trade and plenty of agriculture. The soil was rich and fertile because of the rivers, and the grass green and plentiful for cattle and sheep – mostly sheep. Billington was built on the sheep’s back some would say, although there was little evidence of the industry to be found in the main centre these days.
As with most small towns, the dynamics and social structure had shifted over the years. Most of the farms had been bought by corporations to service the insatiable needs of the fast food industry that abounded in the whole nation. Sheep production had moved further west, and traditionally owned family stations caved to the ruin of drought. And then of course there was Kin
g Coal. The expense of producing wool in an economy where it was barely in demand had proved unprofitable; so the sheep had moved out and the mining industry had moved in, grudgingly accepted and somewhat resented by locals and landholders alike. Some saw the drilling as a scab on the searing beauty of the country and others saw jobs, money and housing for their families. It was a double-edged sword that carried a gold ticket on the spear, and it was taken. No risk and a guaranteed win. The big names in the town had moved on too. The Cranes, the wool kings of the region whose station once lay north of Billington, began losing money forty years previously. When Tulloch Grange, the old station had burnt down, the Crane brothers sold the land piece by piece and then mouldered away in a nursing home. They were bitter old men who gave the staff hell from the moment they arrived until the day they died, still cursing and mean as old dogs. Not many showed up to the funerals. There were rumours about those three for years in Billington; and the Aboriginal people around the place who had Crane blood were loath to admit kinship – as anyone would be with a Crane relative behind them.
Black history was entrenched at Murruma, a tiny suburb that was located outside the small township. Multicoloured Murruma some of the locals called it, only half joking. Family relationships ran deep in this place as did the connection to traditional land that had once belonged to the Duradjuri. An undertow of bitterness surged beneath the normally genial relations between blacks and whites. The problem was that white and black blood had evolved into a murky mix, a key issue when attention was turned to land rights and family legacy. When the settlers arrived in the mid-1800’s, raping an Aboriginal woman was a common event, and proud Aboriginal men had to turn a blind eye when light coloured babies were born.