The Gulf Between

by Maxine Alterio

  Ben came over and rested his hands on my waist. ‘You’ve never been beyond Roma. Napoli is different. For starters, it was the most-bombed city in Italia during the war.’

  I had also lived with the rumble of planes overhead, the low whine of falling bombs. ‘London suffered as well,’ I said. ‘Though I realise it was worse for you.’

  He shook his head with vigour, a gale looking for an obstacle to flatten. ‘There wasn’t sufficient food to supply a neighbourhood, let alone a city.’

  ‘We also went without.’

  His voice dropped to a whisper, as if he were approaching his homeland stealthily, unsure of the reception he would get, having left shortly after peace was declared. ‘My love, you have much to learn about my birthplace, my people. Napoli is as corrupt as it is beautiful.’ He swept my hair aside, skimmed his lips down my neck.

  I rested my forehead on his shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’ I looked up.

  ‘Nothing happens unless certain families benefit financially or politically,’ he said, replacing his wistful expression with a wretched grimace.

  There was a short wait for our train so we spread out on a bench defaced with graffiti. I was content to people-watch, but Matteo was bored. He pointed to an ice-cream seller. ‘Papa, can Francesca and I buy a Popsicle, please?’

  ‘If you speak Italian to the vendor,’ Ben said, extracting cash from his wallet. ‘Think you can manage?’

  ‘Si, Papa,’ Francesca said, and she ran off laughing, Matteo at her heels.

  Since their birth, Ben had insisted we converse in Italian at the dinner table every evening. Francesca and Matteo were fluent and I had amassed a reasonable vocabulary, although colloquialisms could flummox me. ‘I might not fare as well.’

  ‘You’ll be fine.’

  ‘How do I look?’ I asked, fingering my dusky-pink Crimplene dress and matching jacket: it was a new synthetic material ideal for travel because it washed like a rag and drip-dried.

  Ben applied light pressure on my arm. ‘Classy, confident, up for a challenge.’

  The merriment in the station persisted in the train we took down to Naples. In our carriage no one buried their head in a book as we English did, everyone minding their business, no one making eye contact. These passengers shouted, flirted, argued, and ate and drank with gusto. Initially, the atmosphere mirrored a rowdy party with people passing around food and complimenting our children on their manners.

  The mood shifted a little for me when vendors waiting at various stations swarmed onto the train, selling second-rate sandwiches, cheap watches, sunglasses and other tat. Pushy and shrill-voiced, they thrust these goods under our noses, ignored my polite ‘No thank you’, and persisted with their manic patter until the guard blew his whistle and the interlopers made a mad rush for the doors.

  Two elderly twin sisters in the aisle opposite us noticed my discomfort and asked about my connection to the south. Since they had been handing sweets to our children whenever they fidgeted, I launched into a detailed explanation. When I mentioned the Moretti name Ben nudged me in the ribs. Already hot and bothered, and now confused, I took off my jacket and laid it flat on my knees.

  A couple of youths sitting behind the two women started telling jokes. Those launched in Neapolitan went over my head, but one delivered in regular Italian hit the mark. ‘Those arms lack the muscles for kneading dough or anything else,’ the younger lad had sniggered. Ben shot off a retort and their comments petered out.

  The general rumpus continuing in other sections of the carriage reached a crescendo as the train juddered to a halt. Eager to escape the sour body odours, and pungent cheeses several passengers carried in cloth bags, I got to my feet.

  ‘Julia, watch for scippatori,’ Ben said. Noting my blank expression, he reverted to English. ‘Young men on scooters waiting to rob new arrivals, especially the naïve.’

  Annoyed at Ben for assuming these thieves would view me as an easy target, I took Francesca and Matteo by the hand and said, ‘Come along children’, leaving their father to collect our luggage.

  On the platform, I followed couples close to my parents’ vintage who were making their way through the crowd towards the exit. I did my best to shield the children from these hand-waving Italians, but even so several patted Matteo’s head and Francesca’s cheeks as if it were their God-given right.

  Outside on the pavement perspiration gathered beneath the rope of pearls at my throat. And it was only spring. I daren’t think about the summer temperatures. The combination of smoke, sweat, fumes and litter reignited the nauseous feeling I’d had on the train. I checked behind me. Ben was heading towards us. ‘Hurry,’ I called. ‘We’re wilting.’ I mopped the children’s foreheads with a handkerchief.

  ‘Mamma,’ Francesca said, ‘you’re cooking me.’

  ‘It’s not her, silly,’ said Matteo, ‘it’s the sunshine.’

  ‘Stop squabbling,’ I said, bending over my squirming daughter.

  ‘Will I melt like an ice cream?’ she asked.

  ‘Not if I fan you,’ I said, retrieving Doctor Zhivago from my bag, a farewell gift from Marsha. I waved the pages in front of Francesca. ‘Is that better?’

  ‘A bit,’ she said.

  Weighed down with suitcases, Ben ushered us towards a taxi rank. There he spoke to a driver called Salvatore, who, while stowing our luggage, taught the children to recite his name, drawing out all four syllables. ‘Talking sounds like singing here,’ Francesca said after he praised her for mimicking him.

  Ben gave his mother’s address. We were barely underway when Salvatore said, ‘I also have two children, both boys. They’re mad about football.’ This revelation led to an animated conversation between the men about the current state of the game, all while we sped through a tangle of streets and careered around corners. In between tooting the horn and signalling to pedestrians, bus drivers, anyone in cars or on motorcycles, Salvatore told Francesca and Matteo where to buy the best gelato. ‘What are your favourite flavours?’ he asked. They were listing them when we drew level with a mob of scantily clothed, fierce-faced urchins clambering over mounds of garbage piled up on the roadside.

  ‘Those children are grubby,’ Matteo said. ‘Why don’t they wash?’

  Also shocked at their appearance, I said, ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Are they in trouble?’

  ‘I doubt it, son,’ Ben said. ‘They’re scrounging for food.’

  ‘Our government neglects the homeless,’ said Salvatore, slamming on his brakes as the traffic ahead came to a standstill.

  The same youngsters headed for the cause of the snarl-up, a truck double-parked outside a shop. A stocky chap with clay-coloured skin unloaded boxes of fruit and vegetables onto a trestle table. The urchins snatched at loose oranges and carrots, and snarled at the shopkeeper who fended them off with a long-handled broom.

  ‘Make the man stop, Papa,’ Francesca said. ‘Mamma, he’s hurting them.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Ben, lifting her from my lap to his and tickling her under the chin. ‘They’re good at ducking out of reach.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s fair,’ Matteo said. ‘They’re smaller.’

  Before Ben could comment, a housewife in a tenement above the shop flung open two shutters with peeling paintwork and emptied a basin of mucky water onto the heads of the scavengers. Her lack of concern for them troubled me. My discomfort increased as three of the shirtless youngsters, ribs like washboards, banged their fists against the side of our taxi and demanded money.

  ‘Ben, tell me what to do.’

  ‘Ignore them. They’ll move on.’

  Taking advantage of my rattled state, Matteo rolled down the window handle an inch or two on his side and slipped a florin Oliver had given him before our departure through the gap and into the hand of a boy about his age. Terrified that Matteo would disappear into the crowd I wound it back up. ‘Never do that again,’ I said. Worried also about contracting a disease, I pressed a handkerchief to my
nose. ‘This place pongs like a sewer.’

  Ben looked at me thoughtfully. ‘The poor congregate on the flat,’ he said, and proceeded to describe the district’s longstanding problems with blocked drains, inadequate washing facilities and penny-pinching landlords.

  When he finished, Matteo said in a resolute tone, ‘Will I have to steal food while we live here, Papa?’

  ‘No, son, there’s plenty to eat at your nonna’s house. Her cook Rosa is the best in Napoli.’

  Salvatore revved the car engine and crossed himself like a good Catholic, as if he thought mixing disorder with divinity might grant us good fortune. A short wait and the truck causing the delay edged back into the traffic. We puttered along behind it until Salvatore turned into a less crowded street and accelerated.

  Ben pressed his lips to Matteo’s forehead. ‘My mother and brother have easier pickings. Whether they’re more deserving is another matter.’

  A strange comment to make, I thought.

  Through the car window, he surveyed his countrymen and -women with what I construed as despondency. ‘Apart from a few misfits like me, Napoletani have voluble natures, a hangover from the city’s tempestuous history.’

  Not long after we met, he admitted feeling guilty for not staying on to help with the post-war rebuild. The same unsettled expression I had seen then clouded his face in the taxi. I edged along the seat and nudged his shoulder with the tip of my chin. He unclenched his fists. Perhaps to convince me as much as himself, he said, ‘Good things happen here, too.’

  ‘Yes, everything will work out,’ I said, hoping to be proven right.

  This belief intensified as Salvatore sped up a road leading to the Vomero. At his urging, the children and I peered out the rear window through the umbrella pines to take in a mix of red, ochre and coral buildings, others flecked with grey. Ornate steeples and domes blazed in the sunlight. Electricity cables and clotheslines crisscrossed the alleyways veering off in all directions. In the distance, Vesuvius loomed through a haze.

  ‘It’s quite a sight,’ I said to Ben, pointing to the humpbacked volcano and trusting it wouldn’t erupt during our stay.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it sweeps down the Sorrentine Peninsula, the southern arm of the gulf. Everyone over there lives in its shadow.’

  This far up, we had an unobstructed view of the water. Small towns and villages ranged along its coastline. Offshore a ketch with reefed sails cut across a flotilla of smaller yachts.

  Matteo pulled on Ben’s shirtcuff and pointed to a headland on the northern side. ‘Does it have a name, Papa?’

  ‘Visitors say “Posillipo”, residents “Pusilleco”. The Moretti olive grove flourishes on its terraces. I’ll take you to see the trees. We’ll also visit the waterfront. At your age, Mattie, I earned lire mending the nets of certain fishermen.’

  Familiar with knots as a Boy Scout, Matteo said, ‘I could also fix their holes. We don’t want the fish to escape. Francesca gets cranky when she’s hungry.’

  His sister screwed up her nose, and Ben widened his eyes and made burbling noises while Matteo waved his hand like a fin along the back of her seat. Francesca was shrieking as Salvatore drove through open gates and down a gravel driveway leading to a large stone villa.

  7

  Tapered arched windows ran the length of the three-storey building in front of us. Pigeons roosted on balconies with marble balustrades. Plumbago, bougainvillea and jasmine gripped the columns and walls. Above a flight of rough-hewn steps, an eagle carved in stone, wings spread wide, head to the side, spanned an archway. The place looked more like a fortress than a family home, a fortress with rampant plant life. Not what I had expected.

  Crumpled and clammy, we emerged from the taxi as the double doors of a forbidding entrance hall burst open. Into the sunlight strode Ernesto, wearing a white shirt and cream trousers. I tried to assess this stranger who was my brother-in-law, but learned little else beyond him being in his early forties, with a squall of black hair, darker in complexion than Ben, and more muscular in build.

  From the top step, he called out in Italian, ‘Welcome to Il Casino di Caccia.’

  This place didn’t match my vision of what a hunting lodge should look like. Though once we were inside the children would make it feel homelier with their cheerful chatter and games, just as long as they didn’t disturb Ben’s mother.

  She wasn’t with Ernesto. I assumed she was poorly, disappointed too, at not being first to greet us. I gave Ernesto a friendly wave.

  Ben cupped my elbow in his hand and guided me over to where his brother was coming down to an open area at the bottom of the steps. ‘My family,’ he said to Ernesto, and he introduced us individually with a formality that surprised me.

  The children hung back, suddenly shy. I stepped forward. ‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ I said warmly.

  ‘The pleasure is all mine.’ Ernesto bowed like a musketeer, earning a giggle from the children. He kissed both my cheeks and said, ‘So you’re Benito’s London wife’, which to my ear sounded as if he thought my husband had another spouse tucked away somewhere.

  ‘His one and only, I hope.’

  Ernesto laughed. ‘You never said she was smart as well as pretty, brother.’ He slapped Ben between the shoulder blades. Spinning on his heels back to me, he said, ‘It’s good of you to come, Julia, and to bring these adorable children.’ He shook Matteo’s hand and ruffled Francesca’s hair. ‘I see they take after their mother.’

  Buoyed by his flattery, I said, ‘I want to be of use. And the children can’t wait to meet their nonna.’ I looked up at the house, expecting to find her at a window, smiling and waving. She wasn’t there either, though a man and woman no longer in their prime waited on the terrace. ‘Ben,’ I said, nudging him, ‘are they the couple you told me about?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, brightening up. ‘Julia, kids, come and meet Rosa and Carlo.’

  I already knew from Ben that Rosa worked in the house and her husband Carlo took care of the grounds. Rosa’s black dress fell almost to her ankles. Her shoes were sturdy lace-ups. She had wiry salt-and-pepper hair, a flattish nose and eyes the colour of aged whisky. A generous mouth curving into a radiant smile alleviated these otherwise coarse features. Aside from sprigs of hair, a similar shade to his wife’s, sprouting above his ears, Carlo was bald. He turned his sun-baked face towards mine. A pug nose, droopy eyelids, fingers the size of pork sausages made me think of the peasants in a Roberto Rossellini film.

  ‘It’s great to see you,’ Ben said to Rosa.

  He gave her a bear hug. She flushed like a giddy spinster. Next thing she was patting his chest, arms and face, and speaking the local language, every word, judging from her demeanour, steeped in affection. Ben basked in her attention briefly, before saying, ‘Best stick to Italian for the sake of Julia and the kids.’

  She swapped over straight away. ‘Benito, you have grown more handsome. How can this be? Your wife, she must look after you very good.’ She plucked at his shirtsleeve. ‘I cook for you chicken with Carlo’s best tomatoes.’

  Nearby was a clay oven, a basket of wood, and loads of chairs, tables and sun umbrellas. I wondered if we would eat there.

  Noting my glance, Rosa said, ‘Tonight I feed everyone in the kitchen, Benito’s favourite room.’ She beamed at me. ‘Your husband, he makes beautiful children.’

  Ernesto said, ‘And their uncle makes loads of money.’ He pulled a wad of lire from his wallet and lobbed them into the air. ‘Finders keepers,’ he said to the children. They scampered off, with him calling after them, ‘Whoever collects the most can sit beside me at dinner.’

  ‘As if that’s a treat,’ Ben muttered in my ear.

  The banknotes stuck to shrubs, scurried along paths, settled in trees. Francesca had to climb a fence to retrieve the last few. The children counted their haul on the flat surface of a large rock.

  ‘I win,’ said Francesca.

  ‘Only because I let you,’ Matteo countered.

&nb
sp; ‘Jesus,’ Ben muttered under his breath, ‘it’s starting already.’

  ‘Everyone indoors,’ Ernesto announced, moving out of the way to let me enter.

  Carlo had already taken in our cases. With Francesca and Ben either side, I climbed the steps leading to double doors with brass knockers styled as menacing gargoyles. Sienna, chartreuse and ecru patterned floor tiles lightened the long cavernous hallway. Dark panels flanked the walls. All connecting doors were closed. We trailed past a sideboard the size of a small car: the gold statues and religious figurines grouped on it bore the dazzle of a recent polish. A vase of fresh flowers on a marble stand released a pleasant fragrance. There was also a cloying odour in the air, a mix of tobacco and the intense aroma of spicy cloves.

  Behind me, Ernesto chatted to Matteo. When they caught up with us, Ernesto said to Ben, ‘She’s in the drawing room. Don’t rush her.’

  Ben tensed beside me. In a clipped voice, he said, ‘Best behaviour, children.’

  Ernesto swung open the door. ‘Here come the visitors, Mamma.’

  ‘Visitors’ struck me as an unusual descriptor for members of the same family. I glanced at Ben. Either it hadn’t registered with him or he chose not to react.

  We inched forward into a gloomy space, timber shutters partially obscuring the windows. Heavy furniture accentuated the magnitude of the room. A stone fireplace with a long, wide hearth dominated the east wall, tapestries the west.

  As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, they settled on a hunched figure in a high-backed chair, a shock of ivory-white hair, deeply recessed eyes, hands clenched. ‘Signora Moretti,’ I said, ‘I’m delighted to meet you.’

  She shifted position to better hide her face.

  I kept moving towards her. ‘We’ve come to care for you.’

  There was a loud derogatory grunt.

  ‘Hello, Mamma,’ Ben said, and he lent over the chair and kissed the top of her head.