Under a Sardinian Sky

by Sara Alexander

  “It’s all right,” she heard one of them say. “Everyone is in the piazza.”

  There were a few more murmurs from the younger voice. Then silence.

  Carmela’s heart pounded.

  Out of the quiet a sound grew that she couldn’t make out at first. A sort of fumbling. The men’s soles scuffed across the cobbles. They stopped talking. What could they be searching for? Perhaps they had stolen some liquor? That wouldn’t be unusual for Cristiano. There was no sound of a bottle though, or the glug of liquid. Every fiber in her body willed her to hold her stance, but she burned to see what mischief they were up to. She craned her neck and peeked through a narrow chink in the doorway’s stone where the grout had crumbled away. It took a moment to decipher the figures as they dipped in and out of the shadows. When one of the faces caught the only sliver of light along the street, it took her breath away. This was not Franco. This was not Cristiano.

  This was Antonio.

  What was he doing away from his bar on a night like this, down a darkened alley? He slipped back into the darkness. Out of the silence more movement. The silhouettes were close together now, so much so it was hard to make out where one ended and the other began. Their heads were almost touching. What Carmela saw next made her breath catch.

  Antonio had tilted his head to one side. His hands were on either side of the other man’s face. She stared, unable to tear her eyes away. The men clasped each other, hands racing over bodies. Carmela froze. Antonio was swallowed into the black.

  She heard only the sounds of the two bodies pressed against one another. The figures moved faster. The second man caught the light for a flash before disappearing into the breathy darkness. A stone fell to the pit of her stomach.

  She spied him. A tumble of judgment and embarrassment overtook her racing thoughts. The men’s lips parted. They held each other’s hands for a moment and then dodged behind a corner. Carmela’s heart thumped. Then it ached for Antonio. He too would never relish a lifelong love. He, more than anyone she knew, was treading the same unsteady ground.

  His secret was one he would not, could not, share. Yet he had been there for her. Two friends stood, chasing after love in the dark. An impossible love. A punishable love. How had he reconciled himself to his duality? Everything he had said to her in the back office of his bar now ricocheted in her memory, more meaningful than at the time. He doled out romantic sagacity because he was still living the nightmare Carmela thought she had escaped. Why was she overcome with pity? Who was she to judge his actions, his choices? She hid in the same shadows as he.

  CHAPTER 22

  Carmela gazed up at the elaborate frescoes on the ceiling and let the choir’s voices wash over her. Swirls of biblical stories in bright colors twirled within the intricate trompe l’oeil of geometric gilt cornice. The choir’s hallelujahs modulated higher and higher, vibrating joy throughout the majestic cathedral packed with all of Simius dressed in their Easter fineries. As the verse swelled, Carmela felt a tear run down her cheek. The lyrics were so full of hope and triumph, it was impossible not to feel overcome. The women’s voices were bold and brave, their warm vibrato lifted up like sunbeams.

  Carmela’s eyes scanned her neighbors, every now and then her memory jogged by a coat or skirt that she had made. Then they rested on the marble Madonna cradling her Jesus beneath the raised lectern, her skirts falling in gentle ruffles around her son, forever smiling, forever hopeful. The dark days of winter were behind Carmela and her family. Kavanagh’s disappearance and her childish infatuation with him, the gore of Rosa’s violent stillbirth, even the disorientation of Kavanagh’s ill-timed letter seemed from a distant past. New beginnings were on the horizon.

  She looked along the pew at her siblings in their best dresses. Vittoria, prim in navy blue; Gianetta wore Carmela’s old yellow A-line skirt; Piera looked luminous in a maroon two-piece that gave gentle curves to her wiry frame. Every now and again Carmela spotted Luigi cast sideways glances at her from the other side of the aisle, where he sat with his family. His face beamed with love. Carmela felt a great wave of happiness for her sister and the life she saw laid out for her and Luigi.

  Carmela’s mother looked sanguine at the far end of the pew, holding hands with Tomas, letting the music take her into the meditative state that churchgoing induced. Carmela had never known her mother to miss the first mass of the day. Even Icca looked at peace with the world, reveling in the staccato rhythms of the priest’s Latin.

  Carmela reached over for Franco’s hand. He held hers warm in his. There was strength in this hand. Strength she could harness, channel. Directed in the right way this strength could be a powerful source for good. What could they not achieve together? Besides a brood, what limitless possibilities could there be between his contacts and influence and her deft creativity and head for figures?

  What were those tears streaming down Carmela’s face, other than allowing herself to be overcome with the staggering beauty and potential of life? She would not waste hers. She was ready to roll her own stone away. She was ready to leave her mother speechless at her own rise. Her hand was cradled in Franco’s. She allowed the heat of his to penetrate hers. She would be loved and protected. Skepticism was dead. Long live Hope.

  Just after the sun spiked the horizon, Lucia and her fruit truck rattled down the viccoli to collect her load of passengers. She pulled up at the foot of the harsh incline that lead to the Chirigoni house, where a small army of revelers waited, each holding baskets stuffed for the Easter Monday feast. Luigi and a handful of his closest friends flirted with Piera and several of their cousins. Vittoria, Gianetta, and a gaggle of other squealing girls charged up and down the hill. Icca linked her arm in Maria’s as they took their final pigeon steps down from the house.

  Franco stood beside Carmela, holding a wrapped lamb flopped over his shoulder. Once upon a time, Carmela would have interpreted this as some kind of warped omen: a dead child, in her eyes, torn from a loving mother, ready to be consumed.

  Today though, and every day from now on, Franco would be nothing but the proud provider. This was a man who knew how to look after someone. He wouldn’t feed her flattery, fill her head with perfume or fancy words. She wouldn’t expect silk lingerie chosen with taste for their anniversaries. What were those things worth? Rosa had a lifetime supply of it all, and where had it left her? Loveless, childless, and scarred.

  Carmela would be cared for in the most practical ways a human could want. Their love was not lofty, ethereal, and transient. This was bones-and-flesh love. It started raw and, over time, it would warm, sweeten, just like that lamb, soon to be caramelizing on her father’s spit.

  “All aboard!” Lucia bellowed from the driver’s seat.

  Carmela looked up at her aunt and flashed her a warm smile. “Good to be driving again, Zia?”

  “And some!” she shouted back. After the first few exhausting months of her youngest son’s birth, Lucia had risen back to her usual verve, once again driving the fruit runs for the market. She often took her youngest children with her, and all of Carmela’s cousins understood that as soon as they were tall enough to get behind the wheel, they would be expected to perpetuate her legacy. Carmela felt a rush of pride for this gregarious woman. Her aunt shrugged everything off with a joke about her orphanage childhood and the demented nuns there who administered questionable care. Carmela felt blessed to be flanked by such strong women: Yolanda, Lucia, and Maria were an indomitable triumvirate.

  “Don’t stand there gawping, child! One of you boys help Carmela up!” Lucia shouted. One of Luigi’s friends rushed over and held out his hand. His face looked like he’d just passed the first flush of adolescence; his hair was combed to one side with mathematical care, and a vertical crease pressed down the length of his trousers.

  “Well, thank you.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine, Signorina.” With that, he steadied Carmela up to the small metal step, and she clambered into the open truck. Its canvas sides were pulled down,
and the floor was packed with partiers. Icca and her mother took their seats beside Lucia in the cab, Grandmother clutching her rosary, for, as she had proclaimed all night, their lives did indeed depend on it, what with her least favorite daughter-in-law at the helm.

  “Easy now,” Franco said, his back to the young boy, “she’s almost married, you know!” The crowd laughed, and someone yelled that the young boy had discovered only yesterday what all his God-given equipment was for. The truck charged along the dirt roads out of Simius to the farm, lifting clouds of dust, filling the awakening valley, pink orange in the morning light, with song.

  By the time the truck pulled into the farm, the fire below the spit was dying down, perfect for roasting. Tomas sat beside it on a squat milking stool, looking at the flames as if they were weaving a captivating story. Peppe leaped past his brother, over to his wife. “They all in one piece?”

  “Your wife seems to think it hilarious to rattle her mother-inlaw’s bones to dust,” Icca growled as Peppe opened the passenger door.

  “Oh, come now, Ma, plenty of time for that!”

  Icca rolled her eyes and, with a begrudging scowl, allowed her son to help her out.

  A steady stream of people filed out from the back of the truck. The children raced into the dewy fields, birds that had just found their wings; the women made their way inside the farmhouse to begin preparations while the men crowded around the fire, greeting Tomas with polite salutes, ready to spear the lamb onto the metal rod. Tomas had a jar of olive oil beside him, several cloves of garlic resting at the bottom. A brush made of rosemary and sage stems tied together with twine was dipped inside, infusing the oil with their aromatic scent.

  By the time Carmela and Piera reached the house, it was swarming with industrious females. A group of younger women prepared a vat of broth, slicing beef belly at a slanted angle, peeling carrots, cleaning celery and removing the papery skin of onions. All the ingredients were thrown into the pot and covered with cold water, then set upon the stove to boil. When the lid began to rattle, Carmela lifted it slightly, then sprinkled in some peppercorns, fresh parsley, and a sprig of fresh thyme. The onions, placed in whole, bobbed up and down at the surface. It wasn’t long before the whole kitchen was filled with its promising aroma.

  Others flanked the table, cleaning the rest of the fresh carrots and radishes, slicing them and creating attractive arrangements upon long slabs of cork bark. When several raw vegetable platters were complete, they were placed on the marble counter where the cheese was usually made, to keep cool. Others unwrapped the fresh, sour cheese, which Carmela and her mother had made the week before, from their muslin cases, where they had hung inside wicker baskets. A small group cubed the cheese, ready to be tipped into the broth just before serving. Another group of women folded and tore fresh pane fino, still warm from the dawn’s baking. They were placed in round, flat baskets and covered with cloths to keep them soft. Carmela watched everyone’s happy, busy hands. The kitchen sang with the hum of familiar rituals. A great wave of comfort washed over her.

  She pictured Kavanagh’s letter wafting up the chimney into swirls of smoke, with neither pain nor love. Then her mind drifted to Antonio, and for a moment she felt the heavy burden of his secret. Yet even he had found a way to lead a full life. He was a successful man, a faultless friend. If he could lead two lives and find happiness in each, who was she to confront him with knowing the truth? What was that in any case? Whatever anyone chose to believe. Today there was only one thing she believed more than ever: this place is where she belonged.

  Maria checked the uncooked seadas laid inside a huge earthenware dish, perfect discs of thin pastry filled with more of the fresh cheese, ready to be fried after lunch and drizzled with acacia honey. Carmela hadn’t tasted them since last summer, the day Kavanagh appeared.

  She could look back to that day with a smile now, a maternal nod to her younger self. No thorn in her side, no teenage flutter. Even when a couple of her cousins started murmuring about the young American soldiers they had danced with at the carnival, she didn’t feel the slightest twinge. She felt happy for them, that was all. Was there anything sweeter than that first blush of attraction? Or anything more enriching than true love that grew with time and sank roots deeper with each passing year?

  The hours drifted by, the spit turned, the meat roasted. The broth darkened. The aromas wafted into the house. The crowd nibbled on fresh, crusty rolls smeared with homemade butter and fig jam. Some of the men took wine bottles and ridotto glasses and then headed for the far fields to gossip out of earshot or play cards while the sun promised a warm day. The women warmed the house with tales, old and new, sipping coffee in between filling small bowls with olives from enormous glass jars, where they had marinated over winter in brine and wild fennel.

  By the time the sun should have risen to midday brightness, the clouds rolled in from the coast and the temperatures dipped. The fire was stoked in the house and the tables brought inside, arranged next to one another in a long line that stretched the entire width of the kitchen. The women emptied baskets of enamel plates that each had brought for the several dozen guests. The cottage was a clatter of crockery and cutlery, punctuated by the frisson of so many young, lithe bodies in one small space. There was a frisky spring in everyone’s step—the men rosy with wine, the women warmed with good company and the pleasure of granting themselves a day to devote to the making and consuming of food. Everyone was immune to Icca’s drawl on how everything should or shouldn’t have been chopped, and no one even paid attention to the fact that Rosa did little more than change seats and conversation every hour or so.

  At last, the meat was ready. It was pulled off the spit and lain upon a bed of myrtle stems along a vast slab of cork bark. With quick hands, Maria removed the dampened paper wrapped around several dozen potatoes that had cooked in the earth beneath the fire and placed them around the meat. She forked the tender meat off the bone, arranging the sprigs of rosemary around it. Then she put the head and brains on a separate plate for Tomas and his brothers, and drizzled olive oil over the roast and the potatoes, before sprinkling coarse salt over it all. Lucia helped her carry it to the center of the table, not without some effort. The sight and smell drew everyone to the table, applauding.

  Hurricane lamps were lit and hung from three hooks on the low ceiling, creating a golden bridge of light above the party. The fire crackled. Tomas led a short grace, guests’ heads bowed. The swirling steam from their soup bowls warmed their cheeks. There were cheers, raising of glasses, in celebration for surviving winter and for a table loaded with plenty: food, family, and love.

  Carmela gazed at the orange glow on everyone’s faces. What did people strive for if not this? What was the point of being a sought-after seamstress if not to provide for her family the way her own had all her life? Carmela wondered whether her father, digging Mussolini’s roads under the scorching African sun in return for enough money to build a house in Simius, had pictured this scene. She looked at her mother beside her, swirling her soup, fresh cheese oozing off her spoon as she lifted it to her mouth. Did she cling to this promise while he was away?

  Tomas stood up. The guests grew quiet. “I’m a man of few words. . . .”

  A happy titter.

  “But I would like to say this. To the cooks! To many happy years ahead, my friends. Health, wealth, and happiness to you all!”

  Everyone stood and reached to one another’s glasses once again. Carmela looked across the table and caught the reflection of the fire dancing in Franco’s eyes. A rush of warmth rippled up her body. Franco turned toward Tomas; she watched them raise their glasses at one another. Clinks and laughter filled the little house.

  The door swung open and crashed against the wall. Salvatore dashed in, only just escaping a hit as it swung back and slammed shut.

  “Gli Americani!” he squawked.

  “Sit down, boy!” Lucia fumed. “Peppe, see to your son!” She huffed and puffed back into her seat.
As Peppe made to stand, the party dove into their meal.

  “Gli Americani!” Salvatore screeched again. No one except his father paid him any mind. “Sit and eat, boy,” Peppe said.

  Carmela’s eyes darted back to Salvatore. There was a loud knock. Several people twisted around to look.

  “I’ll go, Signor Chirigoni,” Franco called down to Tomas. “It’s probably Papa. He said he would be late, remember?”

  Tomas nodded, then returned to his soup and lighthearted sparring with his brother. Franco opened the door.

  The sight of what lay beyond drew the group into silence.

  There, in the doorframe, was the largest chocolate egg any of them had ever seen. It was so big, it covered the bearer’s face and half of his torso, with a cascade of pink ribbons twirling down from the apex and over the ebony luster of the shell. At the bottom there was a nest of crepe paper and more ribbons that spiraled down to a pair of shiny boots. Carmela’s eyes were drawn to the paper flowers at the base, where two hands held the gift. The egg on legs stepped in and handed its load to Casler, who stood beside.

  That face.

  Those eyes.

  Kavanagh removed his hat. He took a breath and smiled at the crowd. “Signor Chirigoni, I do not mean to interrupt your feast, though I confess I smelled it all the way down at the base, and, as I speak, many of my colleagues are salivating. Signora Chirigoni.” He found Maria’s eyes. She smiled. “Nevertheless, I feel it my duty to pass on sincere Easter wishes to all of you, from everyone at the base.” With that he lifted the gargantuan egg from Casler.

  A stunned silence. His Italian was flawless.

  Franco turned to Tomas, speechless. Tomas rose and walked toward the soldiers. Lucia lifted the egg out of his hands and placed it on the marble counter.