Solitaria

by Genni Gunn

  “I want to go with Vito,” Clarissa said.

  Aldo shrugged, picked up his schoolbag, and headed home. Clarissa and I shadowed Vito, as we often did in the afternoons. Now and then he turned, and we hid in the tall brush, or behind a tree. We followed him halfway across the field, when he turned and waved us away. “Go on home,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure, exactly, if he was serious or playing. I frowned. Clarissa laughed and ran towards him. He stopped and pretended to chase her. Clarissa squealed and ran. Vito turned and continued walking. We followed a few paces behind.

  We crossed an abandoned field, and when we came to a small stone wall, Vito waited. He lifted each of us up on the wall, then hoisted himself up and straddled the stone, legs swinging. Clarissa pushed one leg over, mirroring him. A blaze of poppies bloomed against the rock, around our ankles. Vito pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. It drooped a little.

  “Children are not supposed to smoke,” Clarissa said. “I’m going to tell Papà.”

  Vito raised his eyebrows. “I’m not a child,” he said. “I’m a man.” Then he winked at me.

  I wasn’t sure what to make of this. “Anyway, we are all children,” I said, “and you’re not supposed to smoke.” I hopped off the wall, and pulled down Clarissa, who planted her heels into the ground. “Mamma will be wondering where we are,” I said, dragging Clarissa along by the hand, leaving Vito riding the wall, cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth.

  Mamma expected me home to look after Clarissa and to tend “our little shop” as she called it, which consisted of a table to the right of the door, from which we sold miniscule amounts of basics — 100 grams of oil or pasta, for example — to peasants who could not afford to buy in larger quantities, and on feast days, to the bandisti who would come across our casello during one procession or another.

  After school, while Mamma sewed, I measured oil or kerosene, wrapped bread and pasta in brown paper, sliced mortadella for others — myself a hungry child, stomach growling, mouth watering. I could only guess its taste from the succulent smell and the pink soft flesh. But it was not meant for me or for any of the family. What we ate regularly from the shop was broken pasta that we could not sell. But this was not a hardship — the pasta was a specialty, delicious, varied in colour and texture. We felt so fortunate. We were all working for a common goal — for all of us children to have university educations.

  But on this day, when I’d dropped Clarissa off with Mamma, I sneaked out in search of Vito and found him exactly where we had left him. He had a book open in front of him on the wall and didn’t notice me approach.

  “I can read too, you know,” I said, and he jumped.

  “Can you now? And where did you learn?” He smiled at me, his hand holding the book open.

  “I’m almost six, you know,” I said. “And I learned from Papà’s newspapers.” I moved closer to him. “I can prove it,” I said, staring at the page. “I found myself within a sha—sha—dowed forest / for I had lost the path that does not stray,” I read, trailing my finger along the lines.

  “Brava!” he said. “Already you can read Dante.”

  I smiled and stood straight. “I’m going to be a teacher,” I said.

  We walked along the edge of our field, amid rows of tobacco leaves. The poetry book was in his pocket, and he had promised me he would buy me one like it.

  At first, we didn’t know what the sound was. Someone crying, perhaps. No. A moan. Vito silenced me with a finger in front of his mouth. Together, we ducked among the tobacco plants, then scrambled on our knees towards the sound.

  Papà was lying between the legs of a woman, his trousers halfway down his buttocks. His lips were on the woman’s lips, and both their eyes were closed. I drew in my breath, and Vito put his hand over my mouth. We needn’t have worried, because Papà and the woman were too engrossed in each other to hear anything. Vito sat back on his knees and watched the pumping with bright unblinking eyes. I covered mine.

  A long shudder. The woman moaned, and Papà fell against her. Vito and I retreated slowly until we were far enough away to get up and run. We were both flushed and giddy with excitement. When out of danger, we slipped into one of the rows, and we lay down, side by side, chests heaving.

  “They were doing it,” Vito said, his voice hushed.

  “Agata works for Papà,” I said. “She’s supposed to pick tobacco.”

  Vito laughed. “You are such a little baby.”

  “I am not,” I said, but I felt small against him, against all he seemed to know of the world beyond our casello.

  We lay quietly for a few moments, then Vito said, “He does it to Mamma too.”

  “He does not!” I said, although I didn’t really understand what it was Papà did or didn’t do. But I didn’t think whatever it was, that Mamma would be involved.

  “Where do you think babies come from?” he said, raising himself up on one elbow and staring down at me.

  I looked at him uncertainly. “They grow in Mamma’s heart,” I said.

  Vito burst out laughing. I pushed him and started to get up, but he held my arm. “I’m sorry. Wait,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

  “You’re making fun of me,” I said.

  “I’ll show you what they do,” he whispered, and gently pressed his lips against mine.

  I held my breath, my heart pounding wildly, then I pushed him away and stood up. “They do not,” I said.

  He let me go and we resumed walking. Vito ran ahead of me for twenty, thirty steps, then turned and ran back to me, to and fro, to and fro, as if to dissipate gratuitous energy, zigzagging all the way home. I walked slowly along rows, the field dark and forbidding, thick with tobacco plants and hidden secrets. A wind surfaced, and I shivered and buttoned the front of my sweater. At the edge of the field, I picked three poppies out of the stone wall. When I reached the little chapel, I knelt in front of the Virgin Mary and offered the flowers.

  Vito ran circles around the chapel. “They’ll all die,” he said, breathless. “Flowers need water.”

  “Please, Mary,” I said, “make everything all right.”

  Mamma was waiting by the door. She was barefoot, in a white blouse and a three-tiered skirt in reds and blues, cinched at the waist with a wide, red elastic. Her hair was tight in a bun at the back of her head, though strands had escaped and now curled down her back, around her cheekbones. Mamma pushed them away from her eyes, impatient. Behind her, Clarissa was crying. “Where have you been?” Mamma said to me. “You’re supposed to look after your sister.” She stared at us both. “What’s the matter?” she said.

  A black bird circled above us, teasing and tempting a stray cat. Vito was breathless, his face flushed. “Nothing,” he said. “We’ve been running, that’s all.”

  Mamma’s eyes narrowed. She frowned and pursed her lips. “It is not nothing,” she said. “What’s the matter? Did something happen?”

  “No,” I said. “We didn’t see anything.”

  Mamma squatted down and took my arm. “What didn’t you see?” she asked. Her skirt formed a half-circle on the ground.

  I shook my head. Vito stood a little apart. He picked up pebbles and threw them one by one on the railway tracks.

  “All right. Fine,” Mamma said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this when your father comes home.” She stood up.

  “Please don’t tell Papà,” I begged. “We didn’t see anything.” I was near tears. Clarissa was still crying, and Mamma had to raise her voice to be heard.

  “Where have you been?” she said, turning to Vito. I ducked under her arm, and went inside to soothe Clarissa.

  “In the field,” he said, defiantly. He was almost as tall as she was. “And you better not tell Papà,” he said, “because it’s Papà we saw, lying on that woman, Agata.”

  Mamma shrieked, as if she’d been hit. She slapped Vito. “Don’t you ever say anything like that again!” she said.

  “It’s true,” he said. “Pie
ra saw it too.”

  Mamma pummelled Vito about his head and shoulders, shouting, “Liar, liar!”

  “Don’t, Mamma,” I said. “Vito didn’t do anything.” I began to cry. “Stop, Mamma. Stop.”

  Mamma looked up, her eyes wild. She stared from me to Vito, took a deep breath, and smoothed her dress. Then she seized Clarissa and walked toward the village.

  Vito sat on a stone and lit another cigarette. He acted as if nothing had happened. I touched his shoulder and he winced. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He stared after Mamma. The town rose above us in the distance like a fairy-tale castle buttressed high on a hilltop. Mamma would follow the railway tracks to the bottom, then climb the hill up to the town. It would take her at least an hour, with Clarissa slowing her down. “She must be going to the church,” he said. “Or maybe to that woman’s house.”

  I sat down beside him. The wind had abated, but left the hut, the door, the stoop, the metal bars of the windows, shovels, leaves and flowers, stone and earth, trees and brush, all in a soft saffron hue. I ran my finger along the ground, spelled my name in the yellow dust. Vito watched, cigarette between long thin fingers.

  “What was it like?” I asked. “Living with Uncle?”

  Vito shrugged.

  “But did they treat you well?” I said.

  “I’m all here, aren’t I?” Vito said. He flicked the ash into the indentation of a rock.

  “But didn’t you miss us?” I asked.

  “I didn’t even know you,” he said. “How could I miss you?” He took another drag of the cigarette. “But I would miss you now if I went away.”

  “You’re not going away, are you?” I turned to him.

  Vito shrugged again. He leaned down and began to draw circles and lines in the dust, a random scattering.

  “I’ve never been anywhere,” I said.

  “You’ve been to town,” Vito reminded me.

  “One day, I’m going to go all over the world and see everything.”

  “No you’re not,” Aldo said, and we turned towards him. “Unless you make a lot of money.” He stood in the doorway, an open book against his chest.

  “Mamma’s gone to town,” I said. “I’m going to go and pick some flowers for her.”

  Aldo nodded and went back inside.

  Vito stubbed out his cigarette and hid the butt in his pocket.

  When I arrived home with a bunch of wildflowers, Mamma and Papà were already there, acting as if nothing had happened, only Mamma did not speak to Papà. I looked at them for signs. I could not reconcile this Papà with the man I’d seen earlier. Vito sat, reading, by the open door.

  “Papà, Papà!” Clarissa said, “Vito had a cigarette. He’s not supposed to, is he, Papà?” She climbed into his lap, put her arms around his neck, and leaned her face against his.

  Papà kissed her cheek, then set her down gently. “No, he is not,” Papà said. “And cigarettes cost money in a time when we do not even have enough food.” He stared sternly at Vito, who looked away defiantly.

  Later, after we girls and Mamma had gone upstairs to bed, Papà asked, “Where did you get money for cigarettes?”

  “I found it,” Vito replied. He crossed his arms.

  “You found it,” Papà repeated. “You found what? The money? Where did you find the money?” He leaned forward, his mouth inches from Vito’s face.

  “I found the cigarette,” Vito said, his voice now more confident. He leaned back, away from Papà.

  “Empty your pockets,” Papà said. He stood up and pointed to Vito’s pockets.

  “I told you, I found the cigarette.”

  “Empty your pockets now, or I’ll do it for you!” Papà shouted.

  “Shhhhhhhhhhh,” Mamma said in the darkness.

  Vito shrugged, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pant pocket, and set it with a bang on the table.

  Papà reached down and slapped Vito, hard. “What do you call these?” he said. “I will not have my children lying!”

  “I hate you!” Vito said. “You’re not my father!”

  Papà undid his buckle and slid the belt out of its hoops. “I’ll teach you to lie,” he said, snapping it onto Vito’s back.

  Vito flinched but did not cry out.

  Papà cracked it down, lifting it high over his head, cracked it as if he were riding a stubborn mule, cracked the belt over Vito’s back until he was wheezing and spent.

  Upstairs, I covered my ears, alarmed by this new Papà whose rage was thick and frantic, and left me breathless and afraid.

  Later that night, I awakened to Mamma and Papà sitting on their bed. Papà was sobbing. “Please forgive me. Margherita, you must forgive me.”

  “But why?” Mamma cried. “What does she give you that I can’t? Have I not been a good wife?” She buried her face in her hands and began to weep.

  “I lost my head,” Papà said. “She was sitting at the edge of the well… without underpants. I lost my head.”

  “She’s a serpent. Sent by the devil to tempt you,” Mamma wailed in a new rush of tears. “Oh, you’ll burn in hell!” And she lay down, and turned away from him, her shoulders heaving into the bed.

  I listened to the words and conjured Jesus, the Devil, Adam and Eve naked, the missing underpants, Papà’s buttocks, the apple, the snake, shame. I had heard all this at church and in catechism classes.

  “Mamma, please. Think of the children —”

  ”How can you mention the children?” Mamma sat up and crossed herself. “Don’t you ever mention the children in the same breath as that… that… demon!”

  And so they continued, night after night for about three weeks. They had no idea that Vito and I were awake and listening, both terrified and thrilled at the way Mamma and Papà spoke about snakes and demons, at the way Papà stroked the back of Mamma’s neck, at the way Mamma pushed him away while declaring love.

  In the daytime, Papà went to work, we children to school, Clarissa played in the yellow dirt outside the door, in front of the railway tracks, and after school I helped Mamma, and read from the book Vito had given me. It was all normal, except that Mamma never spoke to Papà. But after dark, when Aldo and Clarissa and Vito and I were in bed, these torturous scenes continued, until one night, I awakened to Papà holding a butcher knife in his hand.

  “Here,” he said to Mamma. “Take it and kill me. I can’t go on like this any longer. Kill me.”

  I caught my breath, and Mamma and Papà turned, and saw me awake. Papà hid the knife in the sheet, and Mamma hurried to me, stroked my face, and kissed my forehead.

  “Mamma, you’re not going to kill Papà, are you?” I whispered fearfully.

  “No one is going to kill anyone,” she said. “You’ve been having a nightmare, that’s all. Everything is fine.” She tucked in the blanket and stroked my forehead, before returning to bed and Papà.

  I lay with my eyes open, shivering. Clarissa was asleep beside me, her breath escaping in small puffs against my arm. I waited for Mamma and Papà to settle down, and counted to a hundred. In the darkness, Vito reached for my hand and squeezed it.

  This program, via satellite, is seen simultaneously in all the countries of Europe and the Mediterranean basin.

  Our answering machine receives approximately 40,000 responses a year.

  July 31, 2002

  Update

  (Episode of July 17, 2002)

  The human remains discovered in Fregene on July 12, 2002 have been identified as Vito Salvatore Santoro, brother of now retired, world-famous soprano Clarissa Santoro.

  Vito Salvatore Santoro’s murder remains a mystery. The family believed he was living in Argentina, and thus have never declared him missing.

  Police are hoping someone will come forward who knew Mr. Santoro during the mid-1950s, and/or particularly anyone who remembers him in Fregene.

  Tune in next week, on August 7th, and watch our in-depth interview with Clarissa Santoro.

  If you have any informati
on regarding this victim, as well as any information regarding the circumstances of his death, please call the number at the bottom of your screen.

  3

  Belisolano, Italy, August 1, 2002

  “David,” Clarissa calls. “David, are you awake? We’re going down.”

  “Ok,” he says, his voice groggy. “I’ll be right there.” However, instead of springing up, he sinks back into the mattress and buries his head in the pillow.

  A nagging guilt keeps him from falling back asleep. He was with Piera past 3:00 a.m., until finally, she swallowed her drops and closed her eyes. Downstairs, they’re all anxious to hear what Piera has told him.

  He struggles out of bed, plugs his computer into the phone line, and dials the Bari access number for Internet dial-up. Once connected, he googles the Chi L’Ha Visto? site, copies the link, and sends it to Bernette in an email that begins with FYI and ends with See you soon. I miss you.

  He showers and puts on his running clothes. On his way out, he stops in front of Piera’s door and listens, but there is only silence. He would like to wake her up, to lifeline her out of her self-imposed isolation, her solitary confinement. How easy it is, he thinks, to go from a loner to alone. One letter away. Dear —.

  He takes the stairs to the inner garden, where they’re eating all their meals now. In the hall, a shard of sun highlights the pots of geraniums beside the glass doors, extends across the white marble floor in a geometry of angles and triangles, between leaf shapes and blooms turned to the light. He slides open the doors. Though it’s early morning, the heat is already cloying, the temperature near forty degrees. In the garden, he’s catapulted into a fairy tale, Alice in Wonderland — the surprise of inner gardens beyond the stone walls of Italian streetscapes. Here, flowers spill out of large urns, fruit trees stretch in the sun, and in one corner, at the edge of an ancient fountain, a cherub perches, peeing a steady stream of water into a fluted basin below.

  The table and chairs are set in the shade of the stone walls. On the table, two large plates are heaped with croissants and biscotti which they’ll dip into their caffelatte. He is greeted by wafts of espresso mingled with the sweet fragrance of jasmine.