– Ma guarda quei gatti. He points and I follow the line of his finger to where two cats are mating.
The hand moves off the back of the bench and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, slips on to my shoulder.
– Guarda come le piace, alla gattaccia. Look at how much she likes it, the filthy she-cat.
He hesitates a moment.
– Anche a te piace? Do you also like it?
He puts his hand on my thigh, bends closer and with his lips touching my ear whispers roughly.
– Anche tu gridi così? Do you also scream like that?
I don’t reply.
He takes my hand and leads me to a crowded caffè across the road where he orders a grappa standing up at the counter. By now his arm is around my waist. He pays, drinks, and guides me to his car parked nearby. We get inside. He pulls me to him, already busy unbuttoning his fly, then pushes my head down into his lap. I hear him gasp as he fills my mouth.
Before he is spent we are interrupted by a traffic policeman who knocks officiously on the window and tells us to move on. The man drives a short way to a park with a lake. From a public telephone booth he phones a friend and arranges to borrow his apartment for the afternoon. In exchange, he says, the friend can also have some fun.
Saturday 17 November
Sunday 18 November
Monday 19 November
By Monday morning I am ready to go back to school although my lips are bruised and it is painful to walk. Ugo is not there. I eat two eggs and green salad. I wonder what Ugo is doing, if he will come back to school tomorrow.
Tuesday 20 November
School. English history, Henry VIII and his wives. Ugo is not there.
In the latest box of books was a copy of Erasmus of Rotterdam’s In Praise of Folly. I prefer the Italian title, Elogio della follia – In Praise of Madness. I like the word madness better. I will read that one next.
Avvocato Rossi had interesting tastes in literature; this box is a source of great delight to me. I wonder what else is in there. Perhaps this weekend I should unpack it and see what else I will find.
There was another letter from the police today. After school I put it on top of the fridge on top of the others. I make minestrone soup for supper – the apartment is full of the smell of onions and vegetables.
Wednesday 21 November
School. Where has Ugo gone? He has not been at school for several days now. I first noticed he was missing on Monday when I handed out the homework books and was left holding his scruffy, dog-eared one, which always stood out from the others. I look carefully around the room amongst the heads bent over their work in the white electric light that struggles against the pale colourless glare that filters through the window leaving no place for shadows, just an irritable sense of exposure. I do not fill in the register until the end of the lesson in the hope that Ugo might still arrive, but at last I am forced to mark a capital A for absent against his name. I am not quite sure why I feel disturbed by this, but I do. He has never been absent before this week.
At the end of the day I take my register down to the office and leave a note for the secretary to call the family. The school has a policy that the family should be contacted after the third consecutive absence.
On my way to school the next morning, I make a detour past the vegetable market. The stall-keepers are all huddled around small braziers in the crisp morning air. I catch sight of Ugo’s uncle, massive and bloated in a frayed black-and-white checked pullover, stamping his feet in outsize rubber boots and whistling to himself with his hands in his pockets. His face is red and unshaven, unkempt. His wife, in a faded torn overall, is weighing out some tomatoes for an early customer, a mark of blood red against the grey of the morning light. They both look absorbed and I hasten my step and walk on to school without saying a word.
There is no sign of Ugo.
After lunch I go out for a walk. The weather is mild, overcast but with the clouds breaking from time to time and brilliant blue sky opening behind it. I have not taken any exercise for days and I feel quite breathless as I walk up the slope, but I soon find my second wind, as my mother used to call it. I decide to walk along the cliffs to clear my head. I know I don’t have much time as the sun sets early now and I do not want to find myself stumbling about in the dark. I choose a narrow muddy path behind the village that threads its way along the edge of the fields and then begins to climb through the tangled underbrush. As always on the edges of human habitation there is an area of transition, where a discarded shoe, a shard of glass, a plastic doll, slowly decompose. I note these details as I walk, feeling distaste. But then, as I reach the top of the cliff and the horizon opens out, I breathe deeply again and take in the aromatic scent of the mimosa. I can see the path that follows across the top of the cliffs, then moves away from the sea to cut across the saddle and climb again to the highest peaks. I listen for the sound of Ugo’s step but all I hear is the wind snagging against the bushes and the sound of the seagulls high above calling, calling, calling.
Friday 23 November
Friday again and I know I should go to the Questura but I don’t have the energy to take ferries and buses and negotiate the busy city streets. If Ispettore Lupo wants to see me he will have to come and fetch me himself.
Saturday 24 November
I am so tired, my body feels exhausted as if I had taken a great battering, yet I have done nothing out of the ordinary.
I stay up marking homework until late. I have nothing else to do. It fills the empty space between dinner and when I feel I can legitimately go to bed. I have no reason to wait until eleven o’clock to go to bed, but this has become my routine and I try not to vary it since it upsets my metabolism.
Sunday 25 November
I do not let anyone into my room. I lock it each time I leave. Even Signora Bruna does not enter.
But today Ugo knocked.
It is late in the evening, a rainy cold day, the sea and sky the colour of gunmetal. The ferry has not been able to venture into the harbour because of the high seas. I have spent the evening as usual at Modugno’s trattoria, I ordered pasta e lenticchie followed by cheese and salad. I have had more to drink than I should have and am feeling sleepy and irritable by the time I get home. I am sitting in my armchair in front of the window when suddenly I hear a gentle tapping at my door. At first I do not even recognise it as a knocking; I think it must be a branch scratching against the wall or a sound from my neighbour’s room. But then it comes again, and then a third time. I pull on a jacket and go down to the street and open the door a crack. Outside, soaking wet, wild-eyed, is Ugo, teeth chattering, a black eye. As I stand in front of him there on the threshold, I see him wavering as if he were about to faint.
I don’t know what to do. I can’t send him back to his uncle, but nor do I want to get involved. I feel reluctant to take him to the police station, because I know I will have to make an official statement and I am afraid of the judgemental eyes of officialdom in my little world. Ispettore Lupo’s face flashes through my mind.
I should have turned the boy away, shut the door tight, and sent him back to his uncle. I knew it would mean trouble to take him in. Yet I couldn’t help myself. Something in me reached out to him and brought him inside. I put my arm around his shoulders and under his knees and carried him up to the warmth of my room.
I bring him to my room. I remove his dirty jacket and trousers, his ragged T-shirt. He lets me do what I want, eyes averted. I bring him a towel and an old tracksuit of mine and I clothe him in it. It is too big for him but I suppose it doesn’t matter. There is no one to see. I take his clothes and wring them out, noticing as I do how threadbare they are, and hang them over the radiator to dry.
His body does not soften or shape itself as I move it; he remains rigid and hard, yet I know he is aware of me, is opposing me, opposing my soft touch. I, who struggle to be soft, have to force this upon him. I shudder at the bruises and cigarette burns I discover on his arms and chest.
He doesn’t answer.
– Was it your uncle?
He doesn’t answer.
I take a soft cloth and warm soapy water and gently wipe his limbs, his chest, his legs, trying to soothe, trying to soften the hurt. I hug his body to mine, then, fearing his reaction, I begin to wipe his face, first his forehead, the sweatiness of his brow and up into the short cropped hair. I outline the shape of his brows and, having squeezed out the cloth with clean fresh water, I wash his eyes, tenderly, afraid to give him more pain.
Monday 26 November
I go to school again this morning, leaving Ugo still asleep in my bed. I put a few biscuits on a plate for him to eat if he wakes up, but I do not have the heart to wake him myself. I find it difficult to concentrate on the lessons. There are feelings of excitement and dread rippling through me, alternating. When I get home he is gone. I stroll down to the market later and see him, dressed in his dry clothes, helping his uncle out as usual. He notices me and moves away and I do not follow. I buy some tomatoes and scarola from his uncle, who looks at me, small eyes unblinking, impenetrable. I wonder whether he knows. What Ugo has told him. I pay and leave. I hear him sniggering as I cross the square, but do not turn to see what it is he is laughing at.
Tuesday 27 November
I could not sleep last night.
Wednesday 28 November
I still can’t sleep. I will go mad unless I sleep.
Thursday 29 November
Three days have passed, days of anxiety, of fear, yet how can I tell you of the stirrings of joy and life in me. All my instincts tell me I should not let him come back again, yet I know I will not be able to turn him away if he returns.
And late last night he came. I was walking home from Modugno’s where I had seen his uncle drinking with his friends when I heard his soft footsteps behind me again.
– Ugo, I call without turning my head.
Silence.
The echoing footsteps falter then stop. My heart drops but I keep walking. I turn into the alleyway and then I hear them again, faster now, trying to catch up, anxious not to lose me.
– Ugo, I call again. Come upstairs and I’ll make you some camomile tea.
Still no reply. I put the key in the lock and turn it and push open the door. As I am about to close it he appears on the doorstep looking distressed. I walk up the steep stairs, aware of his uncertain presence behind me. He comes inside. I light a candle, not wanting to frighten him with the bright neon light of the room. I hand him a bottle of birdseed and ask him to fill the feeder.
With great care and attention he lifts the cage from its hook, tongue sticking out from concentration, careful not to upset anything or hurt the little bird, which flaps agitatedly but stays on its perch. He pulls out the little drawer and fills it with seed, then replaces it. He washes out the water bowl which is quite empty and refills that too. The little bird jumps off its perch and goes to drink, sipping from the bowl and then lifting its head to swallow.
In the meantime I make some tea and toast with butter and honey. The smell of flowers fills the room.
– Come and sit down now and eat.
– Posso far uscire l’uccellino?
I nod, and he opens the door of the cage and puts his hand inside. With great delicacy he takes the cardellino in his hand and brings it out. He sits down and opens his hand. The bird does not move but eyes him curiously. Ugo takes a bite of toast then puts a crumb on his hand and holds it out for the bird on his palm. It looks at him, then darts forward and pecks up the crumb.
– Guarda. Hai visto, he says excitedly. Ha mangiato.
– I think it likes toast.
– Pensi che gli piaccia.
I smile.
– Of course it likes you.
We sit in silence, the three of us. He strokes the little bird’s back and breast with his short stubby fingers with the nails chewed down to the quick. He is not a beautiful child but to me this evening he feels infinitely beautiful. At last it is time to go to bed.
– Where are you going to sleep tonight?
The guarded look comes over his face again. He shrugs. He puts the bird back into its cage and closes the door.
– Can you go home?
He shakes his head violently and gazes at the floor.
– What then?
For a while there is no reply, and then he mumbles:
– Posso restare qui? Can I stay here?
I know I shouldn’t, that it will bring only trouble. But I can’t send him out again to sleep in the street or to face his drunken uncle.
– OK. But just for tonight. OK?
He nods.
– Then help me make up the stretcher here for you.
– Posso dormire nel tuo letto? Can I sleep in your bed?
I cannot say no.
We climb into the bed and cling there together like castaways.
Friday 30 November
In the morning I wake him early and help him to get dressed. I give him a handful of biscuits and see him to the door, afraid of the watchful eye of the islanders who will read something perverse into the relationship, of this I am sure. I open the door, look up and down the alley, and check the windows. The shutters are all still closed but that doesn’t mean anything – Signora Bruna is an expert at spying through the cracks of closed shutters – and push him into the street. When I go to school later I see him sitting on the edge of the dock dangling his feet over the edge. He lifts his hand and waves and I waggle my fingers in return and wink. I see his face light up in a smile.
I pretend not to notice him in class but I am constantly aware of him on the periphery of my vision, the emotional centre of the room for me.
I know I should be careful. I know implicitly, without even needing to think about it, that no one should know that I have taken him in, and that he has slept in my bed. I know it must not happen again. Yet I feel such sweetness when I think of his arms around me and mine around him, his head on my shoulder.
Saturday 1 December
I ate some salad and cheese.
Sunday 2 December
Monday 3 December
Ugo came again last night.
Tuesday 4 December
Wednesday 5 December
Ugo. Polenta and mushrooms.
Thursday 6 December
Lentil soup and salad. I know there is something I am supposed to do tomorrow but I can’t remember what it is. Ugo came.
Friday 7 December
I almost forgot it is Friday and I have to go to the Questura after school. I haven’t thought of Lupo all week and can’t remember why he wants to see me. By the time I reach my classroom I am wide awake. I decide to take the children outside into the fresh air for their lesson. The morning is far too beautiful to waste indoors in the stuffy centrally heated classroom. It takes longer than I thought to get them all ready in their hats and jackets and gloves. We set off at last, the children walking two by two holding hands, with me leading the party. Where am I going to take them? What am I going to teach them? I have no idea. I had thought of teaching them a song, perhaps ‘Speed Bonnie Boat’, seeing we are doing the Stuarts in history and they love singing. Singing is very good for them. It helps with their pronunciation of the often difficult English sounds. The air is so clear today that I can see the snowy white on the peaks of the mountains far in the distance across the sea. Even Vesuvius has a white tip. It is bitterly cold and I feel the chill bite into my cheeks, turning them pink and my nose red. Too late I realise it is too cold for an outdoor lesson and that anyway we would need a blackboard for me to write the words of the song on. I turn the lesson into an active clapping game instead but by now my enthusiasm and energy are waning and after a few more minutes I lead them back to the classroom that in contrast to the brightness looks even more drab and overheated than usual. I write the words of the song in big letters on the blackboard and tell them to copy it into their exercise books. They are restless now
and I hear them fidgeting and giggling behind my back, but when I turn I see only blank faces. They take ages and the bell rings while they are still copying down the words. We will have to leave the song until another day.
I put away my books and clean the board carefully, then take the register back to the office and set off home. The children are also still in the streets reluctant to go home and be inside again. I feel something hit my sleeve and look down. It is a paper bullet from a blowpipe. The boys all have them. I wonder if this came from Leonardo or Matteo. I look around quickly but no one is taking any notice of me. All are talking or minding their own business and I am forced to just pretend that nothing has happened and carry on walking. I hasten my step now, anxious to get home and away from these hostile eyes. I climb the stairs with a sense of oppression. I pack a bag and take the ferry to Anzio.
Ispettore Lupo is not at the Questura today. His colleague tells me that he has taken a few days off work.
I haven’t had anything to eat, so I find an inexpensive-looking trattoria near the station and order the dish of the day without knowing what it is. It turns out to be tripe. I push it to one side and focus on the salad and bread.
I wait until ten o’clock when I feel sure that Sabrina will be working. I walk along the porticoes. Quite a few of the women are out, mostly middle-aged women who look as if they would be more comfortable sitting at home knitting in front of the television, watching over the restless sleep of their grandchildren in the makeshift bed in the corridor. Men hover in the shadows, whether clients or protectors is not clear. I wonder if Ispettore Lupo is there too, watching me, wanting me, seeking my scent. It feels as if it is too late now to worry about things like that.
A car stops and Sabrina alights and the customer drives off alone into the night. It takes her a minute or so to regain her composure, to repair the shell of her face. She straightens her clothes, reapplies her smudged make-up, then turns and sees me watching her from the far pavement across the dark street. I gesture and she nods and sets off towards the small hotel. I follow. We slip off our clothes in the half-darkness of the room and climb into the over-soft bed. She strokes me gently, holding me tight as if I were a small child, and I find myself sobbing, my body racked with violent sobs that I can’t control. I want to tell her about Ugo, about the sweetness of him, about my fear of what the islanders would say if they knew. But I know instinctively that she will also not understand, that she will also judge, and so I stay silent. Her hands keep smoothing me, defining my skin, my forms, the boundaries of my self, softly, rhythmically reconstituting my surface that feels so battered, circling my breasts and then down into those funny places, touching softly, gently, until I feel the flood upon me. I fall asleep at last in her arms amidst the smell of sweat and damp sheets.
The Story of Anna P, as Told by Herself Page 7