by Adele Parks
Stupidly, I find myself dawdling past his apartment and I can't help but notice whether a window is open or closed, if a shutter is up or down and whether his car is parked on the street or whether it's absent. More often than not the windows are closed, the shutters down and the car is nowhere to be seen. I torture myself with imaginings of where he might be. What if he's out with another woman? Well, not another woman technically. If he is out with a woman then she would be his woman, she could only be another woman if there was an initial woman and there isn't. We were just friends. I remind myself that it's natural that Chuck is out, no doubt with a new girlfriend; I was taking up far too much of his time — unfairly. Still, something stings.
On the rare occasion that I notice his window open I dart into the shadows, like some character from a Bond movie. I'd die if he caught me lurking on the sun-bleached streets outside his house. What would he think? Obviously the only natural conclusion to draw would be that I'm some sort of Billy-no-mates, weirdo stalker, which would be accurate. Once I thought I heard the slow, sad chords of Ida Cox drifting from his open kitchen window, but I might have been mistaken.
I have to give Chuck credit; he clearly respects me enough to have taken me at my word. That or I didn't mean much to him at all and hurling out our friendship has been easy for him. Either way, there's no denying it, he's given me space. Acres of it, oceans of it. Space that I'd hoped to fill with my relationship with Roberto.
Fat chance.
I have made myself available for Roberto. I have renewed my efforts to communicate, share interests and act supportively but I get the feeling I'm on a one-way street to nowhere.
Despite feeling as rough as the bottom of a budgie's birdcage on the Saturday evening, following my dinner with Chuck and Roberto's sleepover party at Ana-Maria's, I decided that Roberto and I had to go out for the evening – on a date.
Paolina returned from the hills, and while I don't know if she had categorically resolved anything while gazing down from those majestic heights, she looked fresher on return and was happy to give Roberto and me the night off. Roberto took less persuading to take time away from the bar than he had ever done before. I wanted to be encouraged by that but I couldn't help but feel his actions were the actions of a guilty man.
We both dressed carefully. I wore the long white linen gypsy dress that I'd bought when I thought I might be crushing grapes with my feet. I painstakingly applied full make-up and hoped it could somehow shield me. Maybe I should have bought one of those festival masks from Venice; it might have come in useful – I needed something to hide behind. Roberto wore a shirt I'd never seen before. We took a cab to Valdagno and we travelled in the loudest silence I've ever endured. When we arrived at the cosy trattoria Roberto asked the waiter for a quiet, corner table, which I found encouraging. Although by the time the evening was over I think we both secretly believed that it might have been wiser to sit near a boisterous party of twelve; perhaps their noise would have cloaked our conversational lapses.
I had resolved not to talk about Ana-Maria. I don't have to dignify the situation by talking about it. I will not allow her to become important. Instead I asked lots of questions about the bar. I faked an avid interest in the takings, the music, and the choice of decor. I reiterated some of my own suggestions and Roberto responded to them enthusiastically; I did not chide him and remind him that it wasn't the first time I'd shared with him my ideas about cool bathrooms and happy hours, instead I assured him I'd go online and look up suppliers of glass basins.
I insisted we order multiple courses, although it quickly became apparent that neither of us had big appetites that night. Plump scallops, vibrant sun-blush tomatoes and shiny fat olives were disrespectfully poked and prodded but not eaten. We ordered an expensive botde of wine and under normal circumstances I'd have happily cracked open a second, but I realized that I couldn't risk getting squiffy. I have never done anything especially terrible while under the influence (except throw up in Chuck's loo, but the sooner I forget all about that night the better), but then I haven't done anything especially admirable while under the influence either. With Herculean effort I could just about keep my evil insecurities subdued beneath a swathe of calm. Alcohol would encourage me to slip into a filthy pit of jealousy, fear and unhappiness. I realized that I had to be very careful, very careful indeed.
The conversation between us pit-pattered back and forth, rarely drying up completely but never flowing with any conviction. I just wanted things to be like they were before. No, that's not quite right; I wanted them to be as I believed they could be. I wanted us to eat our meal together and then for us to dash home for rampant, fruitful sex. But if that was not to be, I at least wanted to introduce the subject of IVF.
The breadstick scratched the roof of my mouth. Really, I shouldn't have been picking at it; there were so many more delicious choices lying in front of me – barely touched. I'd intended to be bubbly and vibrant. I'd wanted to logically discuss this matter calmly, judiciously and, most importantly, effectively. My tongue lay fat and useless.
Eventually I muttered, 'I think I need to register at the local doctor's.'
'Are you ill?' Roberto asked, momentarily pausing from mopping up his creamy sauce with inch-thick chunks of bread.
'No, but I think it would be a good idea for him to know me and know my history; know our history, in fact.' I looked at Roberto meaningfully. I wasn't sure if he would feign ignorance at what I was getting at or fly off the handle and insist I never speak of such things again. When did I stop knowing him? He surprised me by shrugging.
'If you want to.'
Encouraged, I added, 'I want – I need to talk to him about IVF.'
Roberto carefully put down his bread, picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth. He stared at me for what felt like a week and then said, 'I will not consider it, Elizabeth. I have said so much before.'
He seemed strangely intimidating, and movie images of mafia gangsters threatening cement shoes sprang to my mind.
I drew breath and reminded him, 'But you owe me, Roberto. Now you owe me.'
I have registered at the local doctor's and I have had my first appointment with him, where I passed over my medical records and, with the assistance of Paolina, who acted as a marvellous interpreter, added the human detail to the printed notes.
The doctor immediately agreed to refer me to the fertility expert in Bassano del Grappa who advises on IVF procedure. The appointment is likely to come through within the month. He was pleasant and reassuring.
I tried to be encouraged but found it impossible to be as cheery as I wanted to be. I could not banish my doubts and nervousness. The doctor assumed I was losing hope, rather than plotting how best to extract sperm from an unwilling husband. Unsurprisingly, we haven't had sex since he spent the evening away from home. I keep meaning to. I want to, by way of proving that I trust him, but something stops me. He's no keener; we sleep clinging to the opposite sides of the bed.
'I am sure you and your husband have many avenues to explore before you give up hope,' the doctor said with a confident beam.
I didn't mention Roberto's position on IVF; it would have spoilt the moment.
I have not seen Ana-Maria; she no longer comes into the bar. Roberto is still often absent for hours on end at any time of the day or evening. I regularly hunt out the bar diary, which is now left conspicuously behind the whisky, and I make an obvious effort to check it for appointments whenever he's not around; he has made an equally striking effort to ensure there are appointments detailed in the diary to explain his absences. I'm grateful to him for colluding in what I fear to be an illusion of innocence. Sometimes he writes contact numbers, sometimes he doesn't. I have never called him on one of those numbers or on his mobile. I cannot hint that I might suspect an affair because once acknowledged it can't be avoided; ignored it will go away. I'm sure it will. I need to give the impression I believe in him and that I trust him. But this can only be achieved if I don't slap-bang r
ight up against anything that might prove otherwise.
52
23 May
Some things are constant. Not love – apparently – or friendship, or even dreams, so I suppose I ought to take some sort of perverse comfort in the fact that Raffaella continues to be as invidious as ever. Her loathing of me is, at least, constant. In the beginning she had dozens of ways to make it clear that she did not consider me family; now it appears she has thousands.
Before, she plucked Roberto's dirty clothes out of the basket and ignored mine, preferring to run a wash on half full rather than to help me out; now she contrives to always be using the machine whenever I have time away from the bar, so that I have to put on a load in the middle of the night or use the town's launderette. In the past she insisted on preparing meat dishes; now she doesn't even put a place setting at the table for me. She has never paid me a wage, and recently she has repeatedly asked Roberto if we can contribute more of our savings towards the bar's refit. I told him that I didn't want all our savings used up this way. I'm aware that we may very well need funds for the IVF treatment. He said I wasn't to worry, but I do worry, so I withdrew half of the savings and opened a new account in my own name. I have yet to find the moment to tell him this.
This morning I returned from the language school and dragged my feet towards Raffaella's place. I have a serious amount of homework to do for Signor Castoro and I can't decide where I ought to study. Foolishly I have left it until now, Friday, to attempt – just as I did when I was a kid at school and left homework until the last moment. The bar is too noisy and distracting nowadays; of course I'm pleased that it's no longer a ghost town, but it used to be a convenient and private place to hide. I know that if I sit in the piazza and try to study my mind will drift and my eyes will close. The Italian sun shines constantly and confidently now. The hot weather is great on so many levels (nice tan, long nails, better wardrobe), but not especially conducive to work. My alternative is studying in my bedroom at Raffaella's. Even when temperatures are soaring that place causes me to shiver. I sigh and cross my fingers that she'll be in the bar or at the market haggling with some poor soul about the cost of asparagus.
As Raffaella's comes into view I immediately spot that she's home (bad news) and that she's being industrious (disastrous news). My experience of Raffaella being industrious is that she's even grumpier and bossier than usual, and she actually does very little herself but anyone within a five-mile radius gets dumped with a long list of chores. When she decided that she was going to grow her own vegetables last month, I discovered that this meant I was in for four days' back-breaking hard labour with a spade. Raffaella is clearly having some sort of clear-out. As I approach the house I watch her dragging cardboard boxes and black plastic sacks of junk out into the yard.
'Buon giorno I call politely and insincerely. I only do so because I don't know the Italian for drop dead. Raffaella doesn't reply but unusually she does at least acknowledge me. In fact she throws out something like a smile; a sneer I suppose. My Italian has improved enough so that I can now speak to her; she still often chooses not to understand me, but not today.
'What are you doing?'
'I am discarding rubbish. Making more space.'
'A clear-out is always very refreshing, isn't it?' I comment breezily. I should know; it was me who had to drag about a zillion bags of broken picture frames and moth-eaten tablecloths from the attic to make a nice room for Raffaella. 'Which room are you clearing?'
'Yours.'
'Mine?'
'I see you have not unpacked your cases yet. I think you no want all the extra stuff you bring with you. My son he is forever tripping up on it. I decide to throw it away.'
'What?' I grab a plastic sack off her and frantically root inside. Oh my God! She is throwing out my wardrobe. I scramble through the soulless sack to discover several of my favourite tops and skirts. I pick up another bag and find dresses, jeans and underwear. Raffaella turns away and goes back into the house, presumably to find more of my worldly goods. Stunned, I quickly and haphazardly root through the half-dozen bags and three cardboard boxes that are casually tossed by the bins. It only takes moments for me to establish that she has thrown out about three-quarters of everything I own. Besides clothes, the nasty witch has thrown out make-up, CDs, books, my Christmas tree decorations, even my deodorant! I am staggered and bewildered into a shocked silence and for a few minutes I stand by the bins, guarding my possessions; it is all I can do to instruct myself to breathe. What the hell is going on? Have I died? This sure seems a lot like hell, and seeing my worldly goods piled in chaotic heaps next to the bins makes me feel eerily obliterated.
I want to run indoors and demand to know what Raffaella thinks she is doing. I want to yell and scream and even hit her. Yes, I am that vile. I want to hit an old woman, I am so furious and miserable and tiny. I don't charge indoors to lay out my mother-in-law. For one thing I daren't risk leaving my stuff, in case it is nicked or collected by the bin men. For another, even in this state of vile fury and misery I know that I'd never be able to look my parents in the eye again if I resorted to battering the old cow.
I struggle to pick up all the bags at once and I drag them back into the kitchen. Raffaella is nowhere to be seen, so I dash back outside to collect the remaining three boxes. I carefully stack them on top of one another. It's a precarious balancing act but I want to take them all inside in one trip as I daren't risk leaving my other things unattended for too long. Irrationally I have visions of her setting fire to them in the kitchen. I feel like some heroine in a movie playing a homeless refugee desperately trying to hang on to her chattels and dignity. I'm aware that in those movies the heroine usually starts with everything and loses the lot; it's not a helpful thought.
By the time I get inside the house I'm panting under the weight of the boxes. Roberto often accuses me of reading light novels – well, let me say, there's nothing light about them when you are lugging a box of them across the yard.
Raffaella is calmly sitting in the kitchen now. She's drinking coffee and munching on an apple. She looks self-satisfied, almost serene.
'What the hell do you think you are doing?' I demand. I am not serene. I am blazing.
'I clean up my son's room. You no do so. I have to do it.'
'You threw my clothes in the bin.'
'You have many. Too many.'
'And my books, my hairbrush and my . . . my . . . mascara.' I spit out the words as I grab items from the bags and boxes and slam them on to the large kitchen table.
Raffaella takes another bite of her apple; a fly settles on her hand. I want to bat away the fly and I want to shove the apple down her throat. Whole.
'My son is used to a tidy home,' she comments calmly. 'I discuss the clean with my son.'
Is it possible that she really doesn't know what she has done wrong? Can she honestly believe that it's acceptable to throw out my possessions? No. No she cannot. Raffaella has declared outright war; a nuclear wipe-out, in fact, with all the associated carnage. Packing my suitcase and buying me a plane ticket home would have been less of an avowal of her hatred for me.
I decide to cut to the chase. I stare at her, although she's keen to keep her currant-like eyes averted; she concentrates on carefully slicing another chunk of apple and eats it off the knife. Her hands are mottled with liver spots and her skin looks too loose for her bones. I should pity this old woman but I don't harbour any sentimentality or affection for her; I loathe her.
'Listen to me, Raffaella, because I'm only going to say this once.' My voice is low and yet the rage is palpable. I breathe deeply and try with every iota of self-control I possess to refrain from ripping off her head. 'I am Roberto's wife and I am not going anywhere. Do you understand? I am not giving him up to you. So never, ever touch my things again. For that matter, do not even go into my bedroom again.' I feel proud and relieved that I've reached the end of the sentence without cracking or crying.
'It is my house,' she
replies confidently. Now she meets my eye. Having wanted this I suddenly feel petrified. She's not abashed, or ashamed or repentant. She's evil. Pure evil and I'm terrified. A realization creeps upon me and wraps its cold, bony bleakness around my heart.
I might not win this.
After I have returned all my possessions to my bedroom I march around to the bar and demand that Roberto comes for lunch with me. He sees that I am livid with rage and therefore agrees instantly; he knows a scene is not great for business.
Over an enormous plate of spinach and ricotta lasagne (which I don't touch) I tell Roberto of Raffaella's latest insult.
'No, Mamma did not mean to offend you. She wanted to help. Maybe she got carried away. You should perhaps have unpacked your clothes. The suitcases are a nuisance.'
'I couldn't unpack; we haven't got any wardrobe space!' I yell with indignation. 'Roberto, you know that your mother was being a bitch. She hates me. She's hated me from day one and she wants to make my life hell on earth. Plus, she's succeeding.'
Roberto sighs but has the decency to give up defending his mother. 'I'll put a lock on the door.'
'It's not enough; she'll pick it if she wants to or just break the door down.' I believe the woman has no limits.
'Can't you try to get along with her?'
'I've tried. You know I have.'
'Try harder.'