Secrets in Sicily

by Penny Feeny

  ‘There was di Monza,’ he said and Lily caught her breath. ‘But they closed.’

  From behind the curtain at his back, a disembodied voice called, ‘No, Luigi. They moved.’

  Lily was on a see-saw: down-up/down-up. She tried to say calmly, ‘Do you know where?’

  He conferred through the curtain and, after several minutes, a woman materialised, holding a cardboard shoe box. She rummaged in it with no sense of urgency. ‘Eccola!’ She produced a small white card with a name – Borse Artiginali di Monza – and location stamped in a clean elegant typeface. Lily unfolded her map so she could show her where to find it.

  ‘Thank you so much!’

  It was the best chance she had – there was no reason not to take it. She retraced her steps towards via del Corso, looking out for window displays of handbags en route, diving down side streets and criss-crossing piazzas. A couple of times she spotted a likely contender and entered the shop with her ready-prepared question: ‘Per favore, Carlotta Galetti lavora qui?’

  She wasn’t surprised when the answer was no, but she wanted to be thorough. She wouldn’t give up until she reached her destination: the one printed so stylishly on the card growing sticky in her hand. But the closer she got, the more her feet dragged – a flock of what-ifs? wrestled for space in her brain. And when she finally located it, she hit a discouraging sight: her own reflection facing her in the shining expanse of plate glass. She was wearing shorts and trainers, a baggy tee shirt and a bandana. She was carrying a canvas rucksack with frayed straps and misshapen buckles. She didn’t look like the type of person who would buy anything from an exclusive boutique.

  Lily had to be stern with herself. If she was prepared to risk jacking in her plane ticket and incurring extra expenses, she shouldn’t let a fancy shop front put her off. She should be bold. The bell tinkled when she walked through the door to face a row of kid and calf and snakeskin bags with enormous price tags, ludicrously large in fact – hundreds of thousands – because they were all in lire. She circled the central display table three times, not daring to touch anything in case she left a dirty mark on the leather. After her third circuit, a skinny girl dressed in black approached her with the poise of a ballerina and asked if she needed help.

  26

  Carlotta wasn’t often sick. She couldn’t afford to be. Managing the shop was a full-time affair and when she wasn’t on the premises, it was because she was visiting one of the artisans who supplied them. Apart from some designer labels, most of their handbags were sourced from individual craftsmen. She loved being involved from conception and was a strict monitor of style and quality, inspecting every stitch, every clasp, the durability of leather and lining. She wouldn’t let anybody cheat her or fob her off with the second rate. And even if she was feeling low, with a cold or a headache or indigestion, it didn’t stop her going into work.

  Food poisoning was different. She shouldn’t have been lazy and ordered takeaways from the tavola calda. Nicolo and Luca had both eaten lasagne and been fine, but she’d had the meat loaf, which was a mistake. She’d spent a large proportion of the morning on the floor of her beautiful porcelain bathroom, either vomiting into the lavatory pan or wiping the splashes off the tiles. She’d drunk a quantity of water to rehydrate, but it hadn’t improved the way she felt. She kept the shutters closed and lighting low to protect her from the savagery of the day.

  Nicolo had promised to come home and check on her if he had a break between operations. ‘A half-hour house-call,’ he’d said. ‘I could spare the time for that.’

  When the phone rang, Carlotta assumed it was him. She picked up the receiver and said with a gasp, ‘Pronto.’

  The caller was Flavia, one of her sales assistants. Carlotta gasped again, to emphasise her indisposition. ‘I hope there aren’t any problems?’ she said. ‘You’re coping, yes?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Flavia, ‘everything’s fine, but there’s a customer here… Well, she’s not really a customer, but an English girl who says she’s been looking for you. She’s quite agitated about it. Do you want to speak to her?’

  The pit of Carlotta’s stomach dipped and heaved. She laid down the phone and held a damp linen tea towel to her forehead. It didn’t help. Flavia’s voice was still babbling; Carlotta restored the handset to her ear and said, ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Madonna mia,’ said Flavia. ‘You sound terrible. Would you rather I passed on a message?’

  No, she thought. I will regret it forever if we don’t talk. ‘Put her on,’ she said.

  ‘Carlotta? Is that you?’ The voice was unfamiliar; how could it be otherwise? In Roccamare, she’d been ten years old – younger than Luca; she’d had the high eager tones of a child, full of charm and innocence and wonder. In London, that hopeless botched encounter, they’d barely spoken. Now she was a woman. ‘This is Lily McKenzie. You didn’t get my letter, did you?’

  ‘Yes, actually I did, a few days ago, but it was too late for me to reply. It came from my old apartment.’

  ‘Miss or Mr Gordone lives there now,’ said Lily. ‘But no one was in.’

  ‘Dio mio, you went there!’

  ‘Where else would I go? It was the only address I had. Then the woman in the luggage shop gave me your new card. That’s how I got here.’

  ‘You wished to find me?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s why I wrote. I’m glad you got the letter anyway. I hope it wasn’t too much of a shock, to hear from me, I mean…’

  Carlotta wrapped the telephone cord tightly around her arm as if this might stabilise her and stop her guts lurching. ‘I am sorry to be unwell. I should have been at work today…’

  ‘They’re about to close for lunch,’ said Lily.

  ‘How much longer are you staying in Rome? It’s possible I will be better tomorrow.’ She was furious about the meat loaf. She would complain to the tavola calda. In future she would boycott them.

  ‘I’m booked on a flight that leaves this evening,’ said Lily.

  ‘Oh, no, so soon!’

  ‘I could stay on longer if…’

  There was a gap in which nothing was said, in which Carlotta could hear the background twitter of shoppers and the ring of the till. She dabbed her face with the tea towel again and said, ‘I think maybe you should come here now, but you must understand I am not at my best. Do you have the money for a taxi? Flavia will call you one and she will give you the address of my new apartment.’

  She replaced the receiver and hoisted herself out of her chair. She’d been wrapped in her dressing gown all morning and it had taken on a nasty sickly smell. It was essential to keep up appearances, especially for a meeting as momentous as this – though the timing of it was cruel. In front of the bedroom mirror she brushed her hair vigorously, but it refused to shine. She applied her make-up with hands that were less steady than normal. She couldn’t use perfume: the slightest whiff revived her nausea. She ate two dry crackers and a handful of grapes, on the basis that it was preferable to have something in her stomach than nothing. She sipped some more water. She dressed in a loose cotton shift so there’d be no restriction at her waist. Her entire body was so sensitive she decided against wearing shoes. When the bell rang, she padded barefoot to the entry phone to buzz her caller in.

  Were they disappointed in each other? What did they expect to see? Carlotta saw a young woman bronzed by the sun, her messy dark hair tied back in a scarf. The canvas bag that she dropped on the floor had left a red welt on her shoulder. Her trainers were discoloured and a knot was coming loose. She looked poor and down on her luck, like a hobo. Carlotta had been much the same age when she went to America. She remembered how carefully she had chosen her outfits, how essential it had been to present herself as a person with prospects. Not one who was running away.

  Lily had caught her unawares, at a low and vulnerable ebb. She dreaded to think what she might look like: ageing and fading, with sallow skin and tired lines around her eyes. They stared face to face for a long silent moment.
Then Carlotta felt her stomach heave. She covered her mouth and rushed to the bathroom. She shouldn’t have eaten the crackers and the grapes. She knelt on the floor with her forehead pressed against the cold tiles, seeking relief. She brushed her teeth with copious amounts of toothpaste, although the mint couldn’t mask the taste of bile. When she emerged, Lily was still rooted, aghast, in the hallway.

  ‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have bothered you…’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Carlotta. She managed a faint smile. ‘On our excursion there was also vomiting, non è vero? But it was your brother.’

  The atmosphere lightened a little. ‘Yes, poor Harry… You know, he hasn’t been fishing since. He goes canoeing though, so it didn’t completely put him off boats.’

  ‘I did not think I would ever hear from you.’

  ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘Please,’ said Carlotta. ‘Come to sit down.’ She yearned to reach out and stroke Lily’s cheek, plump with youth and soft and smooth as a nectarine. But she was scared to touch her because of the way her own body was behaving, as if it belonged to somebody else.

  They went into the salone, where the upholstery matched and the flowers were fresh, not plastic. Carlotta had aimed to create a room that could feature in a magazine; it would contain nothing tawdry or vulgar, nothing of poor taste that would make Nicolo think less of her. But Lily took no notice of her surroundings, not even of the framed photographs that would have given her some hint of Carlotta’s new life. She sat on the very edge of her seat, her hands resting on her bare knees, her gaze intense. The thrust of her chin, that small determined point, Carlotta recognised as her own. And then there were her eyebrows… After leaving Santa Margherita, Carlotta had plucked hers into fine arcs and maintained them ever since. Lily’s were thicker, straighter, like Francesco’s… At which her stomach flipped again. She compressed her lips and gripped the arms of her chair and the sensation passed.

  ‘Would you like something to eat or to drink?’

  ‘Are you having anything?’

  Carlotta grimaced. ‘My stomach won’t let me.’

  ‘Then I’ll be fine, really.’

  A glass fruit bowl held white-fleshed peaches and the remaining grapes. She saw Lily glance at it hungrily. ‘Please, you must have a peach. They need to be eaten.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. I will.’

  Carlotta watched her visitor bite into the peach, the sudden spurt of juice. She watched her lick her fingers clean with the tip of her tongue like a cat. Watching was easier than speaking, but she had to make the effort. ‘It is a pity you have to travel to England tonight. That there is so little time.’

  Lily put the peach stone down on the table and leaned forward, her eyes brightening. ‘Oh, I don’t have to. I mean, the other students are but I’ve sorted it with the gang-master. I could stay on longer. I’ve nothing special to get back for and I’ve money left over from my twenty-first so I can afford to buy a ticket for another flight.’

  Lily’s expression was transparent; she had nothing to hide. It was clear she hoped for an invitation to stay and it was clear to Carlotta that she couldn’t offer one. Where could she put her? If she slept with Lily in her bed, Nicolo would have to share with Luca and it was too much to spring on the pair of them at short notice. Too much explaining was required. If only she’d been frank with Nicolo earlier, instead of procrastinating. If only she’d still been in her old apartment: one bed and half a bath were not much, but Lily might find it quaint. She imagined her ensconced there while they got to know each other. If only she weren’t feeling so ill. If only…

  ‘The thing is,’ Lily was saying, ‘I sort of need to know for sure.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Whether we’re actually related.’

  ‘Whether we’re what?’ She didn’t mean to sound hysterical, but hysteria was building inside her, coming out in a harridan’s screech.

  ‘It’s not like I’ve got anything to go on,’ said Lily. ‘Documentary evidence, I mean. Even if I could search parish records or another kind of database, it wouldn’t prove who I am. And you can’t say that just looking like another person is enough. Loads of people look like someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I’d like to be related to you and I’d like us to spend time together. Become closer. After all, we both come from the same town, we have that much in common. But apparently there’s a test you can do now.’

  ‘A test?’ Carlotta hadn’t had a shred of doubt since the day Lily had undressed on the beach. She wanted to ask: what happened to your navel, Lily? Does it still stick out a little bit? Have you got used to it yet?

  But Lily was rambling on about how they would have to have blood samples taken and Carlotta pictured one of Nicolo’s colleagues at San Camillo wielding a threatening hypodermic syringe, agog with curiosity. And she didn’t know if she could handle it. After all, she had all the certainty she needed.

  ‘Is this necessary?’ she said. ‘I don’t think it will make any difference.’

  ‘It will make all the difference!’

  ‘I’m too weak,’ said Carlotta, conscious of the shadows beneath her eyes.

  ‘I didn’t mean today! I don’t want to rush you. It’s not urgent. But I feel I’m stumbling about in the dark sometimes. There are things I want to get straight. For example, the date of my birthday… the nuns gave me fourteenth April, but that’s not right, is it?’

  ‘My baby,’ said Carlotta, ‘was born on seventeenth March.’

  ‘I knew it! Oh, my God, I’m a whole month older.’

  A neighbour called to another across the courtyard. In the street horns blared and brakes screeched. A shaft of sunlight entered the room through a gap in the shutters and jabbed Carlotta in the eye. English was eluding her and the words did not come out as she intended. ‘If you believe you are the same baby,’ she said.

  Lily jumped up, her body writhing as if she’d been bitten by a snake. ‘What do you mean? Why are you playing games with me?’

  ‘I’m not playing games,’ said Carlotta, pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead, turning away from the light. ‘The doubts are yours, Lily. It seems that nothing I can do will make them disappear.’

  Lily didn’t sit down again; she strode in a restless diagonal course from wall to window to wall. ‘I’ve done this all wrong,’ she said, woebegone. ‘Everything’s backfired. It’s a normal human need to want to know where you’ve come from. Where you might belong. Who you are. Basic information like that. I realise it’s not easy to form a relationship with someone you’ve hardly met, but you were keen enough to come after me before.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Carlotta. ‘However, I was forbidden to see or speak to you.’

  ‘Did you know there was a really messy fallout? That it was partly because of you that my parents split?’

  ‘Because of me?’ She was startled. The McKenzies had seemed unassailable, a picture-book couple. How could she have had any influence over them? ‘I’m sorry to hear that. But your father didn’t keep his word to me. That’s why I had given up hope of seeing you again.’

  ‘I’m here now, aren’t I? I don’t understand what the problem is.’ She was frowning, perplexed, a little girl again. ‘Is it all too harrowing? We don’t have to draw it out. I just want to know the truth and I thought you would as well. I’m not asking you to care about me or have anything to do with me afterwards… Oh-h-h… I see!’

  She had paused by the shelving unit that displayed books, videos, some Murano glass and framed photographs, mostly of Luca when he was younger: gathering sea urchins at the beach; fooling around at a country picnic; wielding a tennis racquet triumphantly above his head. And then another of Nicolo and Carlotta with Luca between them, holding their hands and grinning at the camera. Lily didn’t pick up any of these photos to examine them more closely but the colour drained from her face.

  ‘You must not think—’ Carlotta began, but didn’t finish her sentence. The sounds and squawks, both in
side and outside the building, had diminished and the click of Nicolo’s key in the lock was distinctly audible. He was doing what he’d said he would do: dropping home to see how she was.

  ‘A good sign,’ he said, as he entered. ‘You’re dressed.’

  Lily was still hovering in the corner by the shelves. He might have felt the presence of another person before he spotted her. He must have wondered why a stranger was visiting his sick fidanzata. She came forward nervously, her hands curling and uncurling at her sides as if she didn’t know what to do with them.

  Carlotta tried to keep the anguish from her voice. ‘Nico, this is Lily McKenzie. She is the daughter of an English acquaintance I haven’t seen for many years. She’s been visiting Rome but, unfortunately, she has to fly home tonight.’ It didn’t matter if Lily understood what she was saying because she wasn’t dissembling; it was all true.

  ‘Piacere,’ said Nicolo, though she could tell he was perplexed from the way he scratched the back of his neck. ‘I wish you a good trip.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Lily. ‘I’m going.’ She seized her bag and swung it over her shoulder. Carlotta tried to put her arm around her, to escort her to the door, but Lily stalked ahead.

  In English, Carlotta said, ‘I have wanted to see you so much, but not like this. This is not a good day for me.’

  ‘Nor for me,’ said Lily, quivering with indignation.

  ‘But now you know my new address so, please, we must correspond. And next time…’

  ‘Do you really think there will be another time?’

  It must have given Lily satisfaction to pull the door so hard behind her that the walls of the apartment reverberated, but Carlotta felt as if all the breath had been sucked from her body. She’d not even had the chance to shake hands or proffer a fleeting kiss on the cheek. This was an encounter she’d waited years for – and they hadn’t once touched each other.