Clara Callan

by Richard B. Wright

  I said it sounded interesting. It was raining now and I watched the drops, driven by a gust of wind, strike the windows and run down the glass. On the deck, stewards were folding up the canvas chairs and people were hurrying inside with newspapers and magazines on their heads. L.M. asked me what I wanted most to see in Italy and I told him the house in Rome where Keats died.

  “Nora told me you write poetry. I’d like to see some of your work one day.”

  I told him there was nothing to see. “I only dream of doing it,” I said.

  He was about to add something when Nora came in from her shuffleboard game with a sweater tied across her shoulders, her hair damp from the rain. She looked pretty and erotic and L.M. rose to embrace her. There was talk of cocktails somewhere with her new friends. Nora and L.M. began to nibble at one another, and I thought of a nymph and satyr at play. Agreed to meet them for dinner and they left the lounge arm in arm.

  On my way to the cabin, I looked out at the rain beating now against the windows. A steward assured me that it was nothing. “A little squall, Signorina. It will soon pass.”

  And so it did. A moment ago the sun broke through the clouds and briefly coloured the sea a light bronze. I keep imagining the depths over which we travel: the abyss that awaits the careless or unfortunate. I wonder how far it is to the bottom of the sea.

  Tuesday, July 21 (midnight)

  Nora and L.M. quarrelled before dinner. Something to do with suitable or unsuitable clothing. Lewis a little tight and more than a little disagreeable. Of course, Nora can hold her own. Flashes of the temper I remember from childhood when she and Father would argue over the smallest things. They were in the midst of all this when they knocked on my door to take me to the dining room. Wasn’t the least bit hungry. I can’t get used to eating at eight o’clock and so I keep asking the steward for fruit and biscuits which I bolt in the late afternoon. Also the food on the ship is foreign and rich to me. Soups made from tortoises and strange fishes, guinea fowl, whatever they are. I suppose I am not made for the “high life.”

  Wednesday, July 22

  All seems well again between Nora and L.M. Cooing and touching at breakfast (my best meal). A brilliant sunny day and the sea as flat as a plate. The days are now very warm. This afternoon I saw a faint smudge on the horizon. Smoke from another ship perhaps. A man and his little boy were examining it through binoculars, and after a few minutes the man shyly offered me the glasses for a look. But I could make nothing of this dark smear against the ridge of water and sky. We introduced ourselves. Mr. Rossi is from Cleveland, Ohio, and is travelling with his seven-year-old son, Marco. They are going to see the child’s grandmother who lives south of Naples. Despite the afternoon sun, Mr. Rossi was dressed like an English gentleman in blazer and white pants and straw hat. The little boy stood next to him unsmiling in a sailor suit and cap. An air of almost comical gravity surrounded both father and son. Life seemed to be a serious business with them and then I discovered that Mr. Rossi had recently lost his wife and the little boy his mother. She died two months ago in a motor car accident, and so now they are going to spend some time with relatives “in the old country.” Mr. Rossi emigrated thirty-five years ago at the age of fifteen and he has done well in the construction business. He has not been back to Italy since that long-ago day in 1901 when he sailed away with an aunt and uncle. His father is dead but he would like to bring his mother back to America for a visit, though he doubts that she will agree. “She loves her village and, of course, Il Duce. She thinks he is a saint.”

  Mr. Rossi told me about his wife whom he met in a diner where she worked as a waitress. In no time they had “tied the knot.” This was only eight years ago. “I was too busy making money to look for a wife. And then when I found one, she was taken from me just like that.” He made a snapping sound with his enormous fingers. She was struck by a car while crossing the street. “But, it was only a nudge that knocked her down and she struck her head. Killed like that and not a mark on her body, so help me God.”

  The little boy scarcely moved as he listened to all this, and I wondered how many times he had heard the story. Mr. Rossi carefully fitted the expensive-looking binoculars into a leather case and hung it around his neck. He struck me as a man who pays attention to details. He looked down at his son. “Would you like an ice cream, Marco?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Would you care to join us, Miss?”

  I wouldn’t have minded a bit, for I liked Mr. Rossi and Marco and the graceful, particular air about them. The sun, however, had given me a searing headache and I had to retreat to my cabin.

  This evening there was a change in our seating at dinner, probably managed by Nora. We are now with her new friends, two couples in their thirties. They are in the restaurant business in Philadelphia and this is their third or fourth trip to Italy. They are cheerful, loud, self-absorbed people with numerous jokes about Italian men and their alleged virility. As the single woman at the table, I was good-naturedly warned to be on guard for my virtue. Laughter all around except from L.M. who seemed to be tiring of the shenanigans. He was beginning to take on what Nora refers to as “his bulldog look.”

  The captain, a hearty American in his smart white uniform, came by the tables, inquiring about our welfare. “How are we all getting along? Is there anything you folks need?”

  One of the restaurant wives asked about the war in Spain. “Would we be in any danger?”

  “Clear sailing all the way,” said the captain. “You have my word on it.”

  At a nearby table, some elderly women were making a pleasant fuss over Marco, and for the first time Mr. Rossi looked happy.

  Thursday, July 23

  Nora at her shuffleboard all morning despite the heat. I have been reading Keats’s letters. He is walking through Scotland with his friend Brown. Poor Keats has only three years to live. L.M. came by the lounge and said he was talking to one of the ship’s officers, and we may be held up by this war, after all. Apparently Gibraltar has been attacked by airships. He asked me how I felt about being so close to an actual war and I only shrugged. I think he interpreted this gesture as indifference to danger, when in fact it was nothing of the sort. I am not a courageous person at the best of times; the shrug was only a reaction to my sense of unreality. I seem to exist these days in a kind of dream. I am sitting in a chair in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, reading about Keats tramping through Scotland.

  Later

  A hot night and many people are staying out on deck quite late. Some kind of auction in the ballroom and Nora and L.M. have gone to that. In these latitudes, the stars are immense and brilliant, a heavenly feast for the eyes. I wish I knew more about them. As I gazed upward, I thought of Evelyn Dowling’s story about her old teacher setting up her telescope one winter night on the snow-covered playing field.

  Watched a couple leaning against the railing. The woman kept up this high-pitched laughter. On and on it went, ending finally with, “Oh, Roger, you slay me!”

  What an odd expression!

  Friday, July 24 (4:10 a.m.)

  I awoke two hours ago from a troubling dream which I wish I could recall, but the memory of it vanished upon awakening. The ship had stopped and I was aware at once of the stillness and silence. Have lain awake now these two hours, watching the stars, until one by one they have disappeared into the lightening sky. Just felt the vibrations of the engine and so once again we are underway.

  (Afternoon)

  It is so hot now that few venture out on deck. Like others, I am thirsty all the time, but one’s thirst is quenched by the best lemonade I have ever tasted. The stewards will bring as much as you want. You must drink it quickly, however, for the ice melts so fast in this heat. Nora is spending the afternoons in her cabin reading GWTW. Looking out at the blazing, merciless sun, I thought of Coleridge’s sailors. How terrible to suffer from thirst in such heat! “There passed a weary time/Each throat was parched and glazed each eye/A weary time, a weary time.”


  Saturday, July 26 (3:00 a.m.)

  A hot and still and starless night. Only the whirring of the tiny fan and the faint vibrations from the ship’s engine. Awakened a half-hour ago by a “smothering seizure.” I felt as if I were drowning in darkness. Had such difficulty getting my breath, but far worse was this terrible sense of loss and sadness accompanying this panic in the dark. Turned on the reading lamp and this seems to have helped. I think I will soon sleep again.

  (3:00 p.m.)

  The poor night’s sleep left me nervous and unsteady, so I took some Sal Hepatica and stayed in my cabin for a good part of today. The stewards were very kind, bringing me fruit and tea. Nora too is unwell with her monthlies. L.M. is working on something. I saw him an hour ago at a small corner table in the lounge. His “bulldog look” said clearly “stay away.” There is to be a masquerade ball tonight, though many seem too hot and fed up to think about going. The novelty of life aboard ship has passed, and most would probably like to feel again the earth beneath their feet. The recreation director, a bossy little man, has been bustling about all afternoon, knocking on cabin doors, trying to drum up business for his dance. Talked to Mr. Rossi who is distressed. It seems that children will not be allowed to attend and I gather that the R.D. was rather rude to him. A steward told me that we will see the Rock of Gibraltar tomorrow.

  Sunday July 26

  A misty morning with the sun a lemon-coloured eye in the clouds. By nine o’clock, however, the sky was clear and the day hot again. Around eleven a flurry of excitement: Gibraltar could now be seen through binoculars, and so there was much rushing to and fro to find a spot along the railing. Nora, a little pallid and depressed, joined me on deck. She thanks God for Gone With the Wind which is keeping her occupied. L.M. “is too cranky for words.”

  (5:00 p.m.)

  We passed through the Straits of Gibraltar. Mr. Rossi loaned me his glasses, so I could see the immense brown cliffs and the faint outlines of a settlement. There is a rumour that Loyalist Spanish gunboats are patrolling these waters, but we have seen nothing.

  (Later)

  Just before dinner we heard the drone of airplanes and people were looking skyward. One man claimed to have seen them, but for the rest of us, there was only the immensity of the darkening sky. I asked a steward how far it was to Naples.

  “Nearly a thousand miles,” he said. “We’ll be there Wednesday afternoon.”

  The stewards and waiters seem unconcerned by these rumours of gunboats and airships and that at least is reassuring. And so now I am travelling over the dark water of the Mediterranean.

  Monday, July 27

  A long talk with Nora who is troubled by L.M.’s ill temper, which she attributes to no sex on account of her condition.

  “I’ve never seen anyone so interested in doing it. You’d never know to look at him, would you?”

  In the late afternoon an Italian warship steamed past with smoke billowing from her stacks; the sailors in their white uniforms and tasselled caps looked splendidly severe. Many aboard the Genoa Princess waved and cheered, but the sailors looked back at us impassively. At dinner, people talked about whether or not Italy would get involved in this war. L.M. thinks they won’t, but believes they will help the rebels with guns and planes. All this talk about war has made the restaurant wives nervous and unhappy. Rain in the night. I was awakened by the sound of it against my little window.

  Tuesday, July 28

  Everything was still wet when I went out this morning at six o’clock. The deck was deserted except for Mr. Rossi who was leaning on the railing, looking out at the beginning of another hot day. We had the following conversation.

  “I am so very nervous,” he confessed. “Tomorrow I will see my mother for the first time in thirty-five years. I was only fifteen when I left with my aunt and uncle. What will Mama think when she sees me?”

  “She will be very proud of you and Marco,” I said. “After all, you have been a success in America and Marco is a handsome little boy.”

  Mr. Rossi looked as if he wanted to embrace me. “Do you think so? I could never do anything right in Mama’s eyes. None of us could. How I wish my wife was with me!”

  Mr. Rossi stared gloomily out to sea for the longest time and then said something like this.

  “Mama was difficult and I will tell you for a fact that as a child I was frightened of her. We all were, my sisters, my brothers. Papa never said a word. He wouldn’t contradict her. Of course, he was much smaller. It’s true. My mother is a big woman, over six feet and maybe two hundred pounds. In the old days, she could lift a sack of grain like that.” Again the snap of the heavy fingers. “And her temper! I have seen her handle men in the village. I watched her once. I was only five or six, maybe Marco’s age. I watched her pull a man off the stone bench near the church where the men gathered to talk after Mass. He must have said something. Mama pulled him right off the bench and shook a fist in his face. I remember that as if it were yesterday. As a girl, she worked in the vineyards. Worked for my grandfather and better than her brothers too. She was strong. But any little thing could set her off. The whole village was afraid of her, I think. Even the priest.”

  Another pause. “I hope she takes to Marco. She is now much older, of course, but still fierce enough, according to my sisters who write. They say she can still get into her rages, and then look out. You must leave the house. She throws things. I’m afraid she will frighten the boy. He’s a nervous child. Perhaps it was a mistake to return.”

  What a sweet and gentle man Mr. Rossi is! And while we talked, the little boy was asleep in his cabin, dreaming perhaps of his dead mother, or the fierce old tyrant who lives in a village south of Naples, with her bad temper and her pictures of Mussolini and the Virgin Mary on the walls. Perhaps Mr. Rossi has made a mistake in returning to his homeland, but it was not for me to tell him.

  L.M. and Nora are both in much better spirits today; we are all looking forward to getting off the Genoa Princess tomorrow.

  Wednesday, July 29 (Hotel Victoria, Rome, 11:30 p.m.)

  An exhausting day! We docked at Naples around four o’clock this afternoon. Chaotic! So many people jostling you and everyone seemed to be shouting. L.M. kept bulling his way through all this with Nora and me in tow. A final look at Mr. Rossi, surrounded by weeping women in black; they must have been his sisters. The child was being passed from woman to woman and smothered with kisses; poor little Marco seemed dazed and unhappy. I looked for the legendary matriarch, but she must have stayed in her village. A nasty scene at the immigration counter, and for a few horrible minutes it looked as though we might not be allowed to enter the country. The problem was L.M.’s truculence. He seemed to be under the impression that the immigration people would recognize him as a distinguished guest, an American journalist who was doing them a favour by visiting their country. In L.M.’s view, they should have been appropriately cowed. Instead, they didn’t care a pin for his reputation, and in fact were suspicious of both his credentials and his reasons for being there. The result — a huge fuss with glares and muttered threats about appealing to the American Embassy with heads rolling, etc., etc. On both sides of the counter, a great deal of masculine posturing that reminded me of the schoolyard at recess. My feet encased in new shoes were swollen with the heat and Nora too was suffering.

  “Isn’t this awful, Clara!”

  More charging through the crowd to the railroad station with L.M. in the vanguard, followed by two frightened women and a poor hunchbacked porter pushing a barrow with our luggage. Resentful looks from all around us to whom we must have seemed hateful and rude.

  Aboard the train for Rome in a first-class carriage, I watched L.M. who sat by the window glowering at the crowd on the platform: a stranger thrust suddenly into a foreign land and imagining sharp practice and iniquity everywhere. He is probably right, but I fear he will get us into trouble with his belligerent manner. There are so many men in uniform in this country: immigration people, customs offi
cials, railroad police, soldiers, sailors, carabinieri, clusters of ominous-looking black-shirted young men; all of them look as if they expect to be obeyed instantly. This appears to be the face of Fascism, at least as far as I can tell. When we arrived in Rome, we had problems with the luggage. A piece belonging to Nora was missing.

  Nora: “It’s all right, Lewis. I can do without those things.”

  L.M.: “The country is full of goddamn thieves.”

  Thursday, July 30 (Hotel Victoria, 8:00 a.m.)