Solitaria

by Genni Gunn

  “You need to respect others’ feelings,” he says.

  She doesn’t respond, continues to stare at him until he feels his face flushing.

  He goes back to his room, dons his running gear, and slips out, though it’s late. Across the street, at the tobacconist, he buys a phone card, then sets off toward the Piazza ai Caduti, where he recalls seeing a phone booth. A procession of cars slowly snakes up the one-way street beside him, in a nightly ritual of seeing and being seen. On the narrow sidewalks — sometimes no more than a couple of feet wide — young men and women saunter past, or stand in the doorways of shops, illuminated by the light emanating through the glass doors, their faces expectant. So much life awaits them. He thinks of his own home, Vancouver, of the disaffected youth roaming the downtown core, their bored expressions, their heads bent forward, staring at the small screens of their cellphones, thumbs texting. What nostalgia to want to return to these rituals, the promenades, the motorcades, the looks, the intense pleasure of anticipation, something that may well still exist in small towns back in Canada.

  At the Piazza of the Fallen, a bustle of men smokes and chats on benches, in small groups, while at the periphery, near the market, young girls in twos and threes walk together, arm in arm. He finds the phone booth and dials into his past; Bernette six hours behind. It’s early afternoon in Illinois and her voice is chirpy, expectant across the hollow line. “Hello? Hello? David? Is that you?”

  “I’ll be done in a few days,” he says. “I was thinking I could fly direct to Chicago.” He pauses. “Or we could meet somewhere, if you prefer.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks, her voice tinged with alarm. “I thought we were going on holidays.”

  He sighs. “We need to talk.”

  “So talk.”

  He pauses. “We need to talk face-to-face.”

  “Since when?” she says, a shrill tone creeping into her voice. “Since when have you ever needed to talk to me face-to-face?”

  “Bernette —”

  “You’re going to dump me,” she says. “And you think doing it face-to-face is going to make it ok?”

  “Bernette, please —”

  “You bastard!” she says. “You lying bastard!”

  “I never lied to you,” he says. “I never promised anything.”

  “You said you loved me!” And she begins to cry.

  “Look,” he says, “can we do this while we’re looking at each other?”

  “I don’t ever want to see you again,” she says. “Don’t you ever call me again!”

  9. Saint Cards

  “Before the undoing, there is always the doing.

  “We were all living alternate lives, as if the ones doled out to us were meant for others, as if God had made a series of errors we now had to pay for. Do I believe in God, in Providence, in Fate? I was raised to believe. Look at these saint cards. Given Clarissa’s beliefs, I’m sure you don’t believe in any of these saints’ power to protect against a variety of things. I’m not sure I do either now. These were inserted into small frames on the walls of this bedroom. I took them down, finally, some years ago. St. Flora of Cordoba, St. Maria Bagnesi, St. Gemma Galgani, St. Francis of Assisi, St. John Nepomucene, and Saint Bibiana. None of them protected us from anything, least of all my brother Vito.”

  ‡ 1953. Belisolano, Italy. I had not seen or spoken to him in two years, not since Tricase, although I knew that he had been living here in Belisolano the past four months. He stood in the sala d’ingresso, hat in hand. The chairs were all occupied by townspeople waiting for Sandro’s advice, money, signature, interpretation of legal papers, for whatever he could — in his legal capacity — do for them. Vito shifted his weight from foot to foot, flattening himself against a wall. The sombre portraits stared down at him, their mouths set, their eyes unflinching. He brushed something off his jacket sleeve.

  I watched him through a sliver of open door, and my heart lurched. Duty, duty, duty. I had seen him across the street, leaning in the tobacconist’s doorway, looking up at my window. Why couldn’t he go away? Why did he have to taunt me? No one spoke about him, of course, because Papà had forbidden it. I combed my hair and applied fresh lipstick. “Show him in,” I said to Domenica.

  “He’s not here to see you,” Domenica whispered, head down.

  The office door opened, and Sandro came out, hand extended, took Vito’s and shook it, walking him into the office. Neither of them saw me. I closed the door and sank into a chair. Why was he here? What had he done now? I took a deep breath, reached for a cigarette on the end table, and lit it. Domenica flitted about the room, in search of an ashtray. She laid it on my lap, under my hand, and skittered to a chair opposite, where she sat, knees together, hands clasped, and watched me as if I were a television program.

  I let out a long, irritated sigh, got up, and began pacing. Domenica followed me, the ashtray in her hand.

  “Domenica, for the love of God, stop it!” I said.

  “Please, excuse me… I’m sorry to be — ” Domenica said.

  “For goodness’ sake, Domenica, it’s all right. There’s no need for apology,” I said, my tone a little harder than I meant it to be, but Domenica was driving me to distraction with her constant apologies, her constant meekness. She was a child trapped in the body of a forty-seven-year-old. She hardly spoke, and when she did, it was only in apologies, or to condemn some innocent thing.

  I stopped in front of Domenica and stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray, in multiple stabs, during which the hem of my sleeves fell over my forearms, frayed loose threads. “Domenica!” I said immediately. I had been finding my skirts unhemmed as well. “What was the meaning of this?” I held out my arms, ragged-edged sleeves skimming my elbows.

  Domenica reached out and tugged them down. “É peccato,” she whispered.

  “And just what sin is this?” I asked.

  “The elbows,” Domenica whispered, as if the word itself could conjure Satan. “You must cover the elbows. It’s a sin,” she repeated.

  I burst into laughter, and Domenica crossed herself, then scurried off. God might have said the meek will inherit the earth, but I didn’t believe it one bit, not if Domenica were any indication. The meek got trampled. If they wanted to survive, they had better grow backbones. Everything was a sin in this house, in this town, my whole life a turning away. I rolled up my sleeves, walked to the common wall between this room and Sandro’s office, and put my ear against it. What were they saying? But I heard only a drone of voices, and couldn’t even be sure that Vito was still there.

  “That’s that,” Sandro said later, when Vito had gone. “Your brother will do the right thing this time.” He removed his jacket and laid it over back of the chaise lounge. Then he unclasped his cufflinks, set them on the side table, and began to roll up his sleeves.

  “What has he done now?” I asked. I lit a cigarette and sat at the edge of the couch.

  “That girl, Teresa,” Sandro said. “It’s not enough that Renato compromised her. Now Vito too…”

  I fell back into the couch, my heart beating erratically. “What do you mean? What has he done?”

  “She’s pregnant. He has seduced the poor girl, and now her father has threatened to charge him.”

  “She’s the one who seduced him,” I cried. “Just like she seduced Renato! Oh, she’s a clever one. She couldn’t get one brother, so she went after the other.” I suppressed my urge to scream, and went outside on the balcony where I leaned down and deadheaded flowers while I counted to calm myself.

  Sandro followed me outside and leaned on the balcony railing, staring out past the roofs of the town, his eyes distant. “Vito has agreed to marry her,” he said. “We will provide a dowry and I’ll find him employment. I will speak to your father.” He sighed. “Let’s hope that Vito lives up to his responsibilities this time.”

  I remained silent. All I could think of was Teresa and Vito. How could he do this to me? Oh, how I hated them both! I turned and
went into the bedroom; sat on the bed and stared at the macabre memorial to departed saints, who Domenica believed would protect me from harm: on the walls, under glass, paintings of saints with relics pasted into the corners — hair or clothing, or bone fragments — St. Flora of Cordoba, patron saint of abandoned people, St. Maria Bagnesi, patron saint of victims of abuse, and St. Gemma Galgani, purest virgin, who died of consumption when she was twenty-five but was more consumed by the fire of divine love than by her wasting disease; on the dressers, saints stared out from under glass domes: St. Francis of Assisi, birds at his feet and on his shoulders, protector against a solitary death; St. John Nepomucene, protector against indiscretions, who was burned, tied to a wheel and thrown off a bridge into the Moldau River, and for whom, on the night of his death, seven stars hovered over the place where he drowned; and Saint Bibiana, protector against insanity, whose body was scourged and left to the dogs, but none would touch her; on the posts of the bed, rosaries in various sizes and beads of semi-precious stones; and on the wall above the headboard, a crucified Christ, bleeding onto a thick cross. I threw myself face down on the bed. Martyrs. Gruesome lives. This room, a monument to sacrifice.

  On a cool, drizzly day in December of 1953,Vito and Teresa were married quietly in Lecce, where Sandro had arranged a job for Vito. None of the family attended the ceremony, Papà’s shunning still in place. Soon after, Aldo wrote to say that Renato had left the army and moved to Australia. Although no one mentioned it, I felt they all held me responsible for Renato’s unhappiness. Under this guise, I indulged in crying myself into migraine after migraine, welcoming the searing pain, which paled in comparison to the one in my heart. At first, Sandro was sympathetic to my “melancholy.” I went to bed and refused to get up until, finally, one morning, two months after Vito’s marriage, Sandro stormed into the bedroom, and drew the shutters so that sunlight filled the room. I shrieked, and pulled the covers over my head.

  “That’s enough,” Sandro said. “Get up.”

  I stayed under the blanket, new tears streaming down my face.

  Sandro pulled down the sheets, seized my shoulders and shook me. “Piera! You have to stop this. Renato is an adult and he made the choice to go to Australia,” he said, totally misunderstanding my despair. “You have to respect other people’s choices in life.” He paced around the room. “We are all tired of these scenes, Piera. Perhaps it’s my fault, because I’ve spoiled you too much and treated you like a child. But you are not a child, and you can’t go through life crying at foolish things. There are too many important things to cry about. And you have a duty to me and to your family. This nonsense has to stop.”

  We knew nothing of depression back then. Melancholia was a woman’s affliction doctors cured with tranquillizers. Somehow, I managed to resume living, but I did so from a dark and bitter space.

  10. Photo of Sandro and Me

  “This is a photo of Sandro and me out in the fields. Look at the grapes. How big they are. It must be near harvest time. Although Sandro was a magistrate, and spent most of his days in his office behind his desk, reading and writing, he loved being outdoors. He used to say he would have been happier as a peasant, which infuriated me, because I felt he was mocking my origins. You may not understand this in America, but there is a huge social difference between a peasant and an artisan. My grandmother came from a family of artisans, and so Sandro would tease me: ‘You are the daughter of the daughter of artisans,’ he’d say.”

  ‡ September 1954. Belisolano, Italy. The first time Domenica informed me that Teresa was waiting to see me, I felt the beginning of an anxiety attack. I told myself to stop, that if something were wrong with the boy or Vito, I would have heard much sooner.

  “Come in, please,” I said, and motioned Teresa into the living room. Teresa had not been in this house since she was thirteen, and for the first time, she came not as a servant, but as my sister-in-law.

  She followed me into the living room, her shoes clicking on the marble tiles. She was so ill at ease, it reminded me of the time, years before, when I’d found her with Renato. Teresa sat on the edge of a couch, her knees slightly apart so that I could see her fleshy inner thighs, and the white nylon slip.

  “Close your legs, Teresa,” I said. “Didn’t your mother teach you anything?”

  Teresa quickly brought her knees together and pulled the hem of her skirt over them.

  Domenica came in and hovered around us, like a flying gnat. She had taken to doing this, and when I asked her about it, she said it was because I lit cigarettes and forgot them in the ashtrays. I knew, however, that Domenica was not worried about earthly fire, but that I might say something bad and thus sin.

  “Domenica, could you ask Maria to make us a cool drink?” I said, smiling sweetly at her.

  We watched her leave, then I turned to Teresa, who avoided my eyes. She was trying her best to act composed and proud, but I had already understood why she was here.

  “Well,” I said. “You didn’t come here to see how I am.”

  Teresa looked at me, and for a moment, I saw pure hatred in her eyes. Then they welled with tears, and she said, all at once, “We’re in such trouble. I don’t know what to do.” She covered her face with her hands, and began to sob aloud.

  I got up and walked to the window, lit a cigarette, and tried to calm myself. “How much?” I asked.

  “He’s gone,” Teresa began. “Abandoned us.”

  I sat down and bit my lip. “Are you sure?” I asked. “You know Vito. Sometimes he disappears for a few days.”

  She nodded and pulled a folded sheet out of her purse. “He says he’s sorry.” She launched into new sobs. “What am I to tell our child? And how can I possibly repay his debts?”

  “How much?” I said again.

  “Two thousand dollars.” Teresa spoke quickly, as if to mitigate the sum, explaining that Vito didn’t spend money on himself. If he bought wine for everyone at the trattoria, if he bought focaccia for everyone, wasn’t this proof of his goodness? Sometimes, yes, he gambled, but only because there was a possibility of making a sum that would help their lives immensely. He was only thinking of her and his son, and so on and so on.

  I shut Teresa out. Two thousand dollars, I thought, trying to imagine how Sandro would find the money to bail her out. How could Teresa have allowed this to happen? Did she not wonder where their money came from? Stupid, stupid girl. And stupid, stupid Sandro for putting the two of them together.

  Teresa continued to cry, quietly now, dabbing her eyes now and then, like someone spot cleaning a garment.

  “Stop it,” I said, finally. “If anyone should cry, it should be me.”

  Teresa sniffled loudly, but I ignored her.

  Domenica tiptoed in, carrying a silver tray. She set it on the coffee table, stared at Teresa, then at me, frowning, as if I had done something wrong.

  “How is the baby?” I asked, and when Teresa looked up, surprised, I motioned toward Domenica with my eyes, to make Teresa understand that we could not speak of this in front of that childlike saint.

  “He’s a very good boy, obedient. Thank you, Donna Piera,” Teresa said.

  I nodded. Born in July of that year, Marco was sweet and obedient, even though, eventually, he would fulfil Mamma’s predictions about babies born in July, by being cavalier and daring, short-tempered and merciful, moody and self-indulgent.

  “Does he study catechism?” Domenica asked anxiously.

  “He’s barely one, Domenica,” I said. “But Teresa knows the importance of catechism, and as soon as he’s capable, she’ll send him to study, won’t you, Teresa?”

  Teresa nodded. Domenica smiled, and handed us each a lemonade, then sat in her high-backed chair staring at us.

  “Per carità, Domenica, please, stop watching us. You’re making me nervous.” I lit another cigarette and waved it in the air. Domenica rushed up, found a nearby ashtray, and set it under my hand. I sighed loudly. “Domenica,” she said. “Would you be a dear and
get us some biscotti? I’m sure Teresa would love some biscotti.”

  As soon as Domenica was out of the room, I said, “We don’t have that kind of cash. I’ll speak to Sandro and we’ll see what can be done.”

  I didn’t want to give Teresa the money. We didn’t have it, and would have to sell property. “When will it end?” I said to Sandro. “When will my family cease their constant demands?”

  “I have to live in this town and hold up my head,” Sandro said. “We’ll take care of the debts.”

  You don’t understand, perhaps, what it is like here. We tend to our own, we take care of our own dirty laundry and we do so in private, not like in America, not like those people I see on TV who abandon their family members when they’re in trouble, or worse, send them to jail. For all our sakes, I felt I was responsible for Vito and Teresa, and so did the townspeople. You see, they were sure I wouldn’t refuse him.

  Sandro sold one of the fields to pay Vito’s debtors. And soon we discovered that Teresa had not told the whole truth. More debtors came forward, and Sandro had no choice but to sell another field to pay them off. And so, Sandro and I took over all financial responsibility for Teresa and Marco. This is why she hates me. Though I have tried to please her, and humiliated myself in numerous ways, Teresa has remained a savage beast who bites everyone and everything. She lives in a state of eternal defence, barricaded against the world.

  Teresa says I’ve abused my position, used Sandro’s money to control everyone. You see, she says these things, even as I continue to pay her bills. But I just wanted to protect them. I loved them all, and if I criticized them or asked something of them, it was for their own good, not mine. Everything I did, I did for love.

  “You’ve never loved anyone for who they are,” Teresa tells me. “Only for who you are.”

  I was barely twenty-five, yet I felt I had lived several lives already. Little by little, I fell ever deeper into a cavern, until I could no longer even get out of bed. The tiny rays of light entering through the pinholes in the shutters were daggers in my eyes, and I wailed if Domenica or Sandro did not immediately tighten them. Everyone thought this darkness was itself a sickness I was wallowing in. I only recognized excruciating pain from which I could not escape.