Solitaria

by Genni Gunn

  He held up the lantern and searched my face. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  I nodded. Clarissa took his arm and pulled him along, asking questions, pointing to this and that particular formation, anxious to monopolize him.

  My throat constricted. I made myself ignore Vito and Clarissa, and concentrated instead on the coral, mineral outblooms encrusted on the translucent walls, the ornate daggers that hung from the roof and rose from the ground, their beauty so exquisite, tears sprang from my eyes.

  Vito handed Clarissa the lantern and slowed his pace so that he was beside me, both of us in semi-darkness. He leaned down into me. “Why are you crying?” he asked.

  I shook my head and brushed my eyes with the back of my sleeve.

  “So sensitive,” he murmured. He put his arm around me and drew me close. He was thin and warm against my side. He touched my face, wiped away a tear.

  I let a few more fall. Clarissa was three steps ahead of us, leaving us almost in darkness. She began to sing, her voice mournful, reverberating against the stone walls. On the last note, she stopped and turned the lantern on us. We sprang apart too quickly. “It’s too cold,” Clarissa said suddenly. She stepped back and reached for Vito’s hand. “Let’s go. I want to go up.” And she began to pull him along towards the staircase.

  Flushed and unsettled, I followed them slowly up the ladder, annoyed at Clarissa.

  When he had reached the top, Vito pushed Clarissa ahead of him and turned to take my hand and help me up the last few steps. Sunlight elbowed through one of the windows above, and I could see his face, his eyes intent on mine. I looked away, but did not take my hand out of his. Then Clarissa was pulling, pulling. “Come on, come on,” she said, and we were all outside, standing beside the trulli sentinels, the light too harsh, everything too bright.

  I shielded my eyes and focused on the limestone wall. Vito stood beside me and pointed to the holes which appeared to have been bored by termites. “Litodomi,” he said. “These organisms lived in the sea and died and fossilized so that when the bones fell out, all that remained of them were holes.” He continued to explain the marine biology of millions of years ago, while I thought about Mamma and Papà and all of us children, our family a solid mass, infallible, and how our skeletons would all dissolve into gaping absences no one would recall one generation hence.

  4. Toy Gun

  “Papà whittled this little gun out of wood for Renato. Look at how crude and yet detailed: the hollow for the finger, the barrel carefully carved.

  “As you can hear from this, I was ignorant about the war both here and in the Pacific, though it loomed, monumental, in our lives in the form of a pervading hunger that followed us everywhere. Everything was rationed. After work, Papà walked for hours, picking wild dandelions. Once he chanced upon a field filled with snails. What a feast we had! And how sick we were afterwards! It seems unimaginable now that we were obsessed with food, while elsewhere millions of Jewish people were being rounded up and sent to death camps. We must have heard about Pearl Harbour, about the Allies’ Declaration by the United Nations, about the German occupation of countries around us, but I have no recollection of knowing about any of this at the time. Aldo tells me that during these years, while he was poring over newspapers each night, trying to understand what was happening and explaining to Renato as much as he could, Clarissa and I concerned ourselves only with poetry and romance. Renato’s interest in the war was fuelled by the fantasy that he could join, even though he was only seven. He ran wild through the fields, blowing up imaginary targets, shooting his wooden gun at everyone, and he convinced a small group of friends to begin to prepare for a partisan war against the British and Americans. Every day, they met and plotted who knows what silliness. I remember them, the troupe of seven- to fourteen-year-old boys squatting in the dirt outside our casello, just out of earshot, their faces serious and determined.”

  ‡ 1943. Locorotondo, Italy. This time, Mamma did not write to the army, and Papà did not mention Vito’s name in front of us. Only I knew where he had gone, and although I had limited understanding of his role, I believed it was something noble.

  On July 10, seven divisions of the Allied Forces — three American, one Canadian, and three British — landed in Sicily and began their sweep across the island. Two weeks later, Papà came home one evening from a neighbour’s house where he had been listening to a shortwave broadcast from London. “He has fallen,” he said. “Mussolini has fallen.”

  We children had no idea what he meant by this, but assumed Mussolini must have fallen down the stairs. We thought no more about it until the next day, when Aldo and I went to the station to buy a newspaper, and there, on the front page we read: Sono finite le pagliacciate del fascismo. The folly of fascism is over. Aldo sat on the ground and read article after article, while I waited impatiently. Finally, he looked at me and said, “My God, now I understand,” and I could see the epiphany in his eyes, but it wasn’t until later, when he patiently explained it all to me and Clarissa, that I felt as if the sky had opened and revealed what a terrible deception we had all been a part of. In town, Mussolini’s face mocked us from posters. People ran in the streets, although we didn’t know where they were headed. In an alley, a shoemaker dipped a rag into black polish, and smeared it across one of the Mussolini posters. Overnight, all of Mussolini’s staunch supporters evaporated or declared themselves anti-fascists. Mussolini was stripped of power and the Italian government entered into secret negotiations with the Allies. The Americans, Canadians, and British continued to advance, and in a little over a month, overtook four Italian and two German divisions, thus ending Axis resistance. On September 3rd, while some of the British Army crossed the Strait of Messina from Sicily to the toe of the Italian boot, the Italian government secretly signed an armistice agreement with the Allies, an agreement not made public until September 8th.The next day, the Americans landed near Salermo, and by October 12, the British and Americans had a fairly solid line across the peninsula from the Volturno River north of Naples, to Termoli on the Adriatic coast.

  Papà was ecstatic that finally Italy was on the right side of this war. Although we had not seen any fighting, we were all excited by the troops of British and American soldiers who began to arrive in their handsome uniforms, their young faces victorious. I wondered if Vito would be one of them, and whether he would be in disguise. I dared not say anything to Mamma or Papà, or even Clarissa, who washed her hair, put on her best skirt and blouse, and rushed out into the street to see the commotion. Mamma and the children followed, all except Mimí, who already, at three, went off wherever she pleased.

  I, too, wanted to join the procession following the soldiers through the town, but Papà was out on the tracks, and I knew Mamma would expect me to look after Mimí. I stepped outside and there, on either side of one of the railway tracks, were two halves of snake, as if someone had neatly sliced it and placed it there for me, as a warning, an evil omen, something from God, or more likely, Satan, dressed in his usual disguise.

  “Mimí!” I called, but there was no reply.

  From the distance came the rumble of a train, or perhaps it was only the soldiers marching through town, or a bomb dismembering women and children.

  “Mimí!” I called again, my heart like thunder, sure the next time I saw her, she’d be across the rails, cut in half… “Mimí!” I ran up and down the tracks calling her name, ever more desperate; searched at the side of the casello, in the brush. No Mimí.

  I had no idea what to do, but I remembered the signal we used when any of the children were ill — to put tables onto the track — so that Papà would see them and come. I rushed into the house, swept clean the table with a brush of my elbow, then began to drag it outside. If anyone had seen me, they would have thought I was crazy, but all I could think of was Mimí, her sweet mischievous face, her dear little smile. When I got the table onto the tracks, I kneeled down beside it and closed my eyes in prayer. Dear God, I prayed, I’ll do
anything, but please, please…

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Papà’s voice was angry. “There’ll be a train along soon. Do you want to be responsible for a derailment? What kind of delinquent behaviour is this? And from you, Piera!”

  I looked up. Papà was staring at me, a most astonished look on his face. Beside him, Mimí stepped up on a rail then jumped down, up and down, up and down.

  I ran to her and shook her. “Where have you been?” I shouted. “And why didn’t you answer me?”

  Mimí’s lip began to tremble, and this infuriated me even more. “You spoiled little brat,” I said. “You made me crazy with worry.”

  “Papà,” Mimí wailed, and ran into his arms.

  “Piera, what’s gotten into you?” Papà said. “She’s just a baby.”

  I stood looking at both of them, my chest tight, then turned and went into the house.

  Everything went black, as if I were blind. All I could hear was Papà dragging the table off the tracks, Mimí’s whining, and these sounds were mingled with the roar of military convoys, the whistling and cheering of a crowd far removed from me, both physically and mentally.

  5. White Chicken Feather

  “This is exactly what it looks like: a white chicken feather. I plucked it out myself and stuck it under the band of a blue hat that has long since disintegrated. But this, I kept.”

  ‡ 1945. Locorotondo, Italy. Revisiting my childhood is like standing at the shores of a turbulent sea: achingly beautiful and dangerous — the thunderclap of breakers, the foamlicks of crests, the way swells undulate, graceful as pregnant women, the boil of froth through sand in a rip tide. And I, who never learned to swim, long to submerge myself in those pristine days when miracles were possible, when everyone still loved me.

  On New Year’s Day, upon awakening, Mamma looked out the window and saw a white horse.

  “What great fortune,” she said, almost fainting with pleasure. She was pregnant with Daniela, the last of the children. “This one,” she said, stroking her abdomen, “will be lovable and polite; she’ll seek pleasure and be religiously inclined. That should please you, Piera.”

  I smiled at her positive predictions.

  “However,” Mamma had added, “she’ll ask frequent questions but will often be deceived; she’ll trust men but they’ll betray her; and although she’ll be liberal she’ll also be vindictive.” According to Mamma, there was no season, no month, nor day of the year when one could be born without the weight of sorrows. For the rest of New Year’s Day, she would not allow Papà to conduct any business or see anyone with whom he might have a disagreement, because this could undo her good fortune and cast an evil one for the entire year. Certain that she had foreseen our future, Mamma perceived only the good in everything around her. And this in itself was a great fortune.

  Within weeks, Aldo received a letter from the University of Milan, informing him that he had placed second in the national competition. A full scholarship right through law school. “We are blessed!” Mamma said. “What great fortune!” He would be expected to report to the university in the fall, having barely turned sixteen. Mamma held him tight to her chest, and Papà patted his back, murmuring how his dreams were beginning to come true.

  In July of that year, Mamma began her labour.

  “Where is Vito?” Mamma cried, though we had not seen or heard from Vito for two years. “Is it Tuesday? Oh please God, I pray you,” she kept saying, the ominous predictions swirling in her head, confused. “Let the baby wait till midnight.” She was drenched in sweat, delirious. “We’re being punished by God for our wickedness,” she moaned, without explaining what wickedness, exactly, she was referring to.

  Papà said, “Margherita, please. You’re getting yourself in a state. There is no wickedness. Please, for the baby’s sake, stop all this morbid superstition.”

  “If only we could find a piece of that stone,” Mamma murmured. “Ovidio, go and see if you can find a piece of that stone.”

  “What is she talking about?” Mimí whispered. “What stone?”

  Papà stroked Mamma’s forehead. “Shhhhhh,” he said to Mimí, then to Mamma, “Of course, my love, I’ll find the stone.”

  Clarissa began to sing.

  Renato shook his head and tapped his index finger against his temples. He and Aldo had been ordered outside and now stood in the doorway, listening to Mamma behind the curtain.

  Daniela was born squealing in a small casello below the town of Locorotondo, in a valley thick with almond and olive groves, holm oaks and wild flowering cacti. Yet, this natural beauty belied our dire living conditions. The casello was half the size of the last one, a cramped eight feet by ten feet we could all barely fit into at one time. Instead of a kitchen inside, a large stone oven leaned against the casello, so that Mamma had to go outside to cook. On the roof, an open cistern, filled once a week by the water train, provided the perfect breeding ground for mosquitoes. Snakes abounded, often sunning themselves on the railway track.

  Mimí began to complain of muscle aches and nausea. At night in bed, she shook, chilled and hot, keeping everyone awake. Renato developed chronic dysentery and with it, constant diarrhoea, so that after each squat, his bleeding intestine protruded. Papà coughed with perpetual bronchitis. I tried as best I could to help out, but it was not enough. Mamma became so exhausted by the new baby and by everyone’s ailments that one day, she simply collapsed. Papà called a doctor, who prescribed rest. We enlisted the help of Papà’s sister-in-law and for three weeks, we all tiptoed around the casello, while Mamma slept almost around the clock. Finally, at the end of the third week, Mamma sighed and sat up weakly. We all crowded around her with kisses and words of joy.

  Although she resumed her place, Mamma was easily tired now, and we all worried that she’d have a relapse. Aldo was soon due to leave for Milan. Papà arranged a job for Clarissa in the railway office in Bari, and installed me as the new mother, responsible for Mamma, for Renato, Mimí, and Daniela, and for the daily caring of them all. I was fifteen, my life altered, my dreams of education and futures suddenly arrested.

  1947. Locorotondo, Italy. After two years of silence, Vito finally wrote to say he was coming home. Each day now, I waited.

  On the floor beside me, the children’s clothes, ready to be washed and ironed. The pantry shelf almost empty, and at the back of the hut, the oven gaped, a Munch scream in the afternoon sun. Inside, the room was dark, oppressive. Mamma lay in bed, resting.

  I sat at the table in front of the window of our small casello, writing a school essay on “How was life portrayed by the authors of the 1800s?” Because I had been studying at home, I had concentrated my reading on poetry, which I loved, and had not read much prose from that period. I didn’t know if Fogazzaro or Leopardi or Carducci wrote in the 1800s. I did know that Manzoni wrote I Promessi Sposi in the 1800s, but he was writing about Sicily in the 1600s. I added what I knew about others: Carducci, I said, won the Nobel Prize for Literature. He was against the papacy, the monarchy, and the romantic sentimentalism of Italian literature during his time. I felt slightly guilty thinking about Carducci, because I also remembered that he did not seem to believe in God, but more in pagan rituals. Of Fogazzaro, I said that I had only read The Saint, a book in which he made a plea for the reform and modernization of the church. Because of this, his novel was banned by the church and placed in the Index of Forbidden Books. I’m not sure about the dates, I wrote, but I believe that Fogazzaro was having crises of faith. And of Leopardi, I wrote at length because I was very familiar with his work, with his exquisite sensibility, his perfect form, all of which was contrasted by his intense pessimistic point of view. I had read and memorized many of his poems of unrequited love and despair. And when I recited these at home, tears brimming in my eyes, Clarissa would accuse me of being overly sentimental and melodramatic, while Mamma would shush her and tell her to leave me alone, because I was, in her words, melancholic.

  I set the essay aside,
and opened my volume of Leopardi’s poems to “The Infinite,” while staring at the hillside town, at the rail tracks that rounded the house and extended into the distance at either side.

  The Infinite

  Always dear to me this lonely hill

  This hedge as well that blocks the view

  Of the far-flung horizon.

  But as I sit and contemplate the endless

  Space beyond, the suprahuman

  Silences, and profound stillness,

  In my mind, I fool myself and for a while

  My heart is not afraid. And I compare the wind

  I hear rustling among these leaves,

  To the infinite silence; it brings to mind eternity,

  And the death of seasons, and the present one

  Alive, and the sound of it. And so, in this

  Immensity my thoughts drown:

  And sweet to me is shipwreck in this sea.

  Across from me, a small road led up and over a rise to a trulli house where a young woman grew red roses. They were the first roses I’d ever seen, their petals moist and sensual, not like the dried flowers people keep in their homes today. I stared into the afternoon sun, searching for the familiar gait.

  Mamma moaned in her sleep, and I turned quickly, but she was only dreaming.

  A train horn sounded in the distance. Or maybe it was thunder.

  Mamma sat up. “Renato,” she said. “Oh! Oh! Help!” Because Renato was born during an evening thunderstorm, Mamma believed he would have a lifelong tendency to tremble, that he would fear things would collapse on him, that his sparkling eyes would not be able to hold another’s gaze, that he’d have brilliant ideas and thoughts, but would not articulate them, because he would always be thinking about thunder and the possibility of the earth breaking open and swallowing him whole.

  “Shhhhh. Everything is fine, Mamma,” I said.