Under a Sardinian Sky

by Sara Alexander

  “She looks pale as a spirit!” Icca cried. “This is what a night in America does. See that? The devil came over with cigarettes and gum. We should have known that was just the beginning. I’ll not see my land become an American colony!”

  “Nonna, they took great care of Salvatore, of me. It was clean,” Carmela said, stirring the water with a little too much vigor so that it spat out onto the flames. “They were kind. Really.”

  “Brainwashed already. Listen to that. One night is all it takes, Maria!”

  The door to the stairs creaked open. Rosa slid in.

  “Are you feeling better, my dear?” Icca asked, kissing her daughter on the forehead.

  “I have rested,” she answered as she bowed her head. The pot boiled over and splattered onto the stove. Piera walked over and took it off the heat. “Act normal,” she whispered.

  Carmela stared down into the pool of salty water, longing to lose herself in the bubbles, disappear for a moment to stop the room from spinning. Piera placed a firm hand on Carmela’s elbow to steady her.

  The bell of the front gate rang. Carmela flew out of the kitchen before anyone could ask her. She raced across the terrace and looked over the wall down to the viccolo below. Never had she been so happy to see Franco’s face. Her feet pelted the stairs, then she wove round, under the wisteria canopy of her mother’s garden, till she reached the gate and flung it open. She wrapped her arms around him. They held each other, feeling the rise and fall of their chests against each other.

  After a few breaths Franco pulled away. He traced Carmela’s face with a gentle finger, rubbed his nose along her cheek. “You still smell of that first summer. I look at you and see that crazy sixteen-year-old who loved to dance and race me along the figs.” He placed his warm lips against hers. “I see my life, Carmela.”

  “Franco,” Carmela murmured, shuddering into tears. She wrapped her arms around him again and then clasped him. The tears rolled. Over two days, so much about her life had become unfamiliar: the party, Salvatore’s accident, being catapulted into the world of the base, the offer of an opportunity to work alongside Kavanagh, and most damaging, most painful, the shattering discovery of her aunt’s brazen infidelity. It was almost too much to bear.

  Yet here, in her arms, was the man who promised her a life of stability, wealth, and passion. Here was her anchor. The person to keep her feet planted in reality, in the hot, fertile, igneous earth of her motherland. Their roots would drive deep, entwining in a web of stoic, tireless ancestors. Their babies would be boys: fat, hungry, irresistible. Deep chocolate pools for eyes, a lifelong love of their mamma, and unwavering respect for their papa. They would grow into tree trunk men, build roofs for their parents, hand them rosy-cheeked grandchildren, honor them at the head of their lunch tables, salute them with wine. Those grown babies would hold the translucent skin of their parents’ bony hands, when death would creep upon them, like a silken sheet, sending them slipping back to their creator without fear, pain, or fight.

  Franco pulled away again and looked into her eyes. She searched his eyes for the boy she had fallen for, but her sight seemed skewed, as if she had walked into the darkened kitchen out of the blinding white morning sun outside, not the other way around. He held out a small bunch of wildflowers. She lifted them up to her nose, but their scent was at once unfamiliar. Carmela knew this wash of uncomfortable feeling would fade soon enough, along with all the excitement of the past few days. She clung to this thought as her hand slipped into Franco’s, silencing the little voice inside that proclaimed it impossible.

  CHAPTER 8

  A silence spliced the seamstresses’ chatter as Carmela stepped into Yolanda’s studio the following day. Carmela felt her colleagues’ glares follow her as she walked across the room to her worktop. She pulled out her chair and sat down, pretending it was any other Monday.

  “I suppose this is all very pedestrian after your weekend, Carmela,” Agnes said with a sneer. Her table flanked Carmela’s. Though she almost matched Carmela for skill and experience, she floundered when it came to grace, tact, or charm. It was the precise reason Yolanda sat her far from the clientele, even if she took on the majority of the more intricate assignments.

  “Thinking about becoming a nurse too, in between being a slave to the Jews?” Agnes asked with a smirk. Carmela looked straight at her. The snide remarks were unsurprising. Five years after the fact, Agnes still refused to relinquish her bitterness toward the girl she deemed had stolen Franco’s heart from her.

  “Salvatore is a lucky boy,” Carmela answered without rising to the bait.

  “I’ll say,” another piped in from the other side of the room. “Got himself a night with those Yankees—those boys aren’t too bad to look at neither!”

  The room frothed with girlish laughter.

  “Carmela wouldn’t know anything about that, would she now?” Agnes chimed. “Only got eyes for her husband-to-be, isn’t that right?” One eyebrow lifted into a provocative arch.

  “Go on, tell us, Carme’, what were they like?” the youngest worker called out from the far wall.

  “Perfectly nice.” Carmela pictured herself at the end of Salvatore’s bed, eating Kavanagh’s sandwich.

  “Take me next time! We’re not all brides in waiting, you know!”

  More cackling.

  “If you concentrate on actually reaching puberty, you might have something worthwhile to look at,” Agnes cut in. “Carmela likes to think those Yanks are drooling over her English, but she knows a man is interested in the size of something other than your brain. Think she’d have been asked to go if she had a washboard for tits like you?”

  The girls turned, stunned. Agnes usually reserved her sting for Carmela, not the starlings of the group.

  “Been working those extra shifts at the post office again, Agnes?” Carmela replied. “You’re even more bad tempered than usual.”

  In the brief silence Yolanda swept in, fixing a pin into her heavy bun at the base of her head. Her eyes scanned the girls. “I pay you to be statues at the cemetery?” she barked. The women returned to their work.

  “There’s a word for girls who stay out all night with strangers, you know,” Agnes whispered out of the side of her mouth, without taking her eyes off the embroidery she was finishing along the hem of an A-line skirt. Carmela spied Yolanda, who was pouring water from a small metal watering can into the lustrous begonia by the main door, and felt thankful when she signaled for her to go to the fitting area.

  “We have a full morning,” Yolanda began as Carmela reached her. “I need you with the customers today. Word’s got out about your little episode at the base—won’t hurt to have our very own celebrity convince the women to try out some of the newer, more expensive fabrics, no?” She glanced down at the appointment book. “By the way, what did I interrupt?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The girls looked like I’d just stepped in on a secret. What’s Agnes brewing?” she pried, without taking her eyes off the wide page of the ledger.

  “Nothing.”

  “Hard to believe.”

  “Hoping for an American husband, I imagine.”

  “There’s one who’ll never find happiness. If she keeps turning over rocks, she’ll only find scorpions.”

  There was a tentative rap at the door.

  “Ah, Signora Rossi, she’s early. Wouldn’t expect anything less from the doctor’s wife,” Yolanda said.

  The words shattered like a jam jar on cold tiles.

  Yolanda nodded to the door. “See her in, won’t you?”

  Carmela stood planted to the bare boards. Her palms were clammy.

  “Today, Carmela.”

  Before she had a chance to compose herself, Carmela opened the door. A wan woman stood before her. A sorrowful oil portrait, were it not for the fact that she nodded her head and muttered a quiet hello. Carmela gestured for her to sit down on the settee. Signora Rossi took her place and glanced around the space as if intuiting from whi
ch wall a wild beast might leap out and consume her. Carmela tried to quash the image of Rosa’s tryst with this woman’s husband, but it kept lighting up, like the flame of a candle that flickers in a breeze too weak to snuff it out.

  “Caffè, Signora?” she managed, clinging to etiquette.

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  Carmela fled for a moment’s refuge into the sliver of kitchen just off the main room. Yolanda was already preparing a pot.

  “I’ll watch the coffee, Zia. It’s probably best you speak with Rossi.”

  “Nonsense. What on earth is the matter? You’ve been on pins since I got in.”

  “What?”

  “Get out and get talking!” she hissed.

  Carmela turned back. She took a reluctant seat beside Rossi. “Please feel free to take a look through any of these magazines, Signora.”

  “Thank you.”

  Carmela ignored the galloping in her chest as she watched the woman’s thin fingers creep across the pages. “Is there something in particular you had in mind?”

  “Not really, no,” she answered, sails lowered. “I am to accompany my husband to an important dinner with professors from the university in Sassari. I suppose I would need something elegant but not brazen. He hates it when I wear anything too revealing.”

  Carmela glanced at Rossi’s cotton blouson, wondering how she could stand to have the top button fastened in this heat.

  “He finds modern fashions cheap.”

  The pale woman’s hair was pulled back off her face in an elegant chignon, drawing the eye to a delicate nose and full lips. Despite the ochre of her eyes, they remained cold, void of expression. Carmela had no idea where to begin dressing a woman who portrayed herself as invisible.

  “Are you an admirer of Audrey Hepburn?” she asked. It dawned on her that her flair for design might be a way of turning this woman’s husband’s head back in the right direction. She brushed off the thoughts, disgusted for thinking that the only thing a man is drawn to is the picture of a woman. Sadness followed soon after; perhaps Agnes’s words were not as far from the truth as Carmela would like to believe.

  Rossi shrugged.

  “You have a similar bone structure, madam, if I might say. Perhaps something like this?” Carmela flicked open the magazine to a shot of the star in a pretty pastel summer evening gown, straight, with a high neckline, delicate tulle layered skirts widening from her tiny waist.

  “That is pretty, yes.” Rossi’s cheeks flushed with a memory of color.

  “I think a pale yellow would work with your skin tone, Signora. But we needn’t rush a decision. I’ll begin with your measurements.”

  Her client stood.

  Carmela drew the velvet curtain. “When you have dressed down to your slip, let me know. I’ll be waiting out here.”

  Yolanda arrived with a tray of espresso. Her eyes widened as she gave an inquisitive nod toward the curtain. Carmela forced a reassuring smile. Rossi called her in. Carmela took the tray from Yolanda and placed it inside the cubicle upon a stool.

  “Sugar, Signora?”

  “Three. My husband says I take too much.” She studied her reflection, as if disappointed.

  Carmela stirred the tiny cup with care and handed it to Rossi. From her pocket Carmela pulled a tape measure and a small leather-bound notepad with a tiny pencil pushed through the top. She held the tape at Rossi’s nape and pulled it along to her shoulder. Carmela scribbled down numbers, stretching the measure around every angle of Rossi’s body with fast, confident hands. Carmela clung to her well-practiced routine, hoping it might quiet her racing mind. The woman watched her, expressionless. She reminded Carmela of the sheep that came into milking, indifferent to the men squeezing their udders and relieving their loads. What had come first, Rossi’s sallow demeanor or the doctor’s infidelity? Her skin felt cool to the touch as Carmela held the tape to her, despite the relentless summer heat outside. She was the perfect mannequin; even her breaths moved her little. Carmela finished and left Rossi to slip back into her clothes.

  Without ever intending to be, Carmela had been shunted into the lie. A passionate man like Dr. Rossi would always seek out a woman whose blood pulsed as hot as his. It was unsurprising that a sullen woman like Signora Rossi couldn’t satisfy him for long.

  Signora Rossi pulled back the velvet curtain.

  Carmela admonished herself for even beginning to justify Dr. Rossi’s unforgivable behavior.

  “The dress on page four will be fine,” Rossi announced.

  “Very well, Signora. We will schedule a second fitting for the same time next week.”

  “Yellow will be acceptable,” she said, giving a mechanical powder to the tip of her nose. “My mother always said it was the color of envy. No matter now. She died the night before my last child was born.” With that, she, and her golden vanity, clasped shut. “Good day.”

  Carmela watched her slide through the doorway and down the steps. “Good day, Signora.”

  “Did she go with the new season yellow?” Yolanda asked.

  “Certainly.”

  “If he doesn’t fall in love with his wife all over again I’ll eat my hat.”

  Carmela faintly smiled.

  Then Yolanda whisked around to crack the whip at an unsuspecting seamstress.

  And Carmela caught Agnes’s glare.

  It was early afternoon when Carmela arrived at the Curwin villa to find the lady of the house lingering over an espresso in the kitchen.

  Mrs. Curwin stood up to give Carmela a kiss on either cheek. “Good heavens, it feels like an age since the fiasco! Piera was just telling me how well the boy is doing.”

  “Yes, Signora. A miracle.”

  “Indeed.” Mrs. Curwin took a final gulp, then reached for the pot resting on the table upon a crotchet doily and poured herself another cup. “I’m morose. Holidays here go so ghastly fast. I can hardly bear it. September looms. What will I do?”

  “You’ll eat my fregola, Signora,” Piera joked, lighting the stove, then placing a skillet upon a flame to gently sweat tiny cubes of carrots, onions, and celery glossy with olive oil.

  “Goes without saying! It feels rather flat to finish our holiday with a party that ended in near tragedy.” The tar-colored coffee swirled around her spoon. “I know!” she exclaimed, slamming down her cup. “A marvelous idea! A picnic! Goodness knows the boys could use a change of scene. They’ve been terrified to run around since the fact. It will be a special thank-you to Kavanagh, and the captain, of course, for their heroics. Could you ask Antonio to be available to take us all to Tharros on Friday?”

  How would the whole family fit into his cab? “Gladly, Signora.”

  “Wonderful. Think carefully about what you’d like to prepare. I’ll send Tore to pick everything up from the salumeria in town, yes? You two will come with us, of course. The boys will need supervising, obviously.”

  “Very well, Signora.”

  “How many times, child? Suzie! Please call me Suzie.”

  “Sorry, Signora.”

  “I’ll run and tell Marito right away. He just loves that magical place! Bravo, girls! The world is bright once again!” She took off for the terrace, leaving a scent of rose cold cream in the air. But before she reached the door she twisted to a sudden halt. “Girls, you’re to come and find me as soon as the sauce is ready. Marito and I will dine late. We’ll let the evening staff finish up here. I’ll have an invitation ready for you to take to Kavanagh now, yes?”

  Carmela and Piera nodded.

  Her second visit to America in three days; Agnes’s tongue would be on fire.

  “Grandmother’s going to kill us,” Piera said, the golden evening rays slanting on the road, catching the twinkle of mischief in her eyes.

  “After the picnic, I hope.”

  “I’ve never seen Tharros.”

  “Antonio told me it’s beautiful.”

  “How long does it take to get there?”

  Carmela shrugged.
“A long time. It’s on the opposite coast.”

  “You think Grandmother will let us go?”

  “Perhaps Grandmother won’t know we’re going.”

  Piera took a slow burn to her sister, unaccustomed to this secret rebellion. “I’m a bad influence on you.”

  The clatter of a vehicle climbing the hill drew the sisters to a standstill.

  An army jeep snaked around the corner and then screeched to a halt.

  “Evening, girls! In need of a ride, I see.” Captain Casler flashed them a wide grin, revealing the startling white of his teeth.

  The women offered polite smiles in reply.

  “C’mon in, now. You headed to town?”

  “No,” Piera answered, unblinking.

  “Hot date, ha?”

  The girls stared at him.

  “Suit yourself, missy!”

  He accelerated away, leaving the girls waving off the cloud of white dust from their eyes.

  “What was that?” Piera asked.

  “A wolf in man’s clothing.”

  The blond receptionist at the base looked surprised to see Carmela. “It’s you. Everything okay?”

  “Yes. We have a note to give.”

  “Oh?” the receptionist answered, as if it was a surprise that any of the locals might write.

  “For Lieutenant Kavanagh.”

  “I see.” Her eyebrows rose a little, as if accustomed to the lieutenant receiving hand-delivered fan mail. “I’ll be sure to give it to him when he arrives.”

  Carmela, unnerved by the disappointment of his not being there, reached into her pocket for the envelope. As she looked back up to hand it over the desk, a warm voice interrupted them.

  “There she is!” Kavanagh said, bounding over to the women, offering a firm handshake and two polite kisses on both sisters’ cheeks. Piera looked taken aback. She straightened her skirt, shifting from foot to foot.

  “Come to give your answer?” he asked with a broad smile, his eyes alive with enthusiasm.

  Carmela ignored her sister’s perplexed stare. “We’ve been sent by Mrs. Curwin.”