The Gulf Between

by Maxine Alterio

  She mumbled something into her pillow. I caught the snarky tone, the slur about Sergio’s carnal appetite. Both unnerved me.

  14

  Ernesto and Ben had business in Afragola. During their absence, I checked on their mother, who was becoming progressively more breathless and lethargic, reluctant to get up or make herself presentable.

  ‘Would you like me to wash you in bed?’ I said.

  ‘I suppose you’ll have to if I can’t manage.’

  ‘This awful morning cough is tiring you out.’ She had been hacking since dawn.

  I filled a basin with warm water, fetched a facecloth and towel. With one hand supporting her shoulders, I started at her neck and gradually moved down her right arm. I talked as I washed, mostly innocuous chitchat about the children. She relaxed, almost smiled, when I told her that the previous day after lessons Francesca had cut up a tea towel and hand-stitched the pieces into a bodice and cap for her favourite hen.

  ‘You should have seen Rosa chasing our young designer and her feathered model round the yard,’ I said, brandishing the facecloth in the air.

  Her lips quivered with amusement. ‘Francesca has a keen imagination. She could be on stage.’

  ‘I was for a while.’

  She raised her chin. ‘We’re all actors, one way or another.’

  ‘Well, motherhood stymied my career.’

  Actually, it was Ben, not the children, who put on the brakes. He was against me working after we married, but I had chipped away at his resistance. Through Marsha I secured a contract with her agent. Ben folded under pressure from our friends, saying, ‘As long as there’s no night work and no kissing.’ We teased him over drinks at our place about being behind the times, but he refused to alter his stance. Understandably the agent withdrew the contract, citing ‘unreasonable limitations’. Thereafter, whenever Marsha told me she’d landed a new part, I said I was thrilled for her when actually I wanted to have a hissy fit. Mostly I was peeved at throwing away the best chance I’d had to fulfil my dreams.

  ‘Julia, pay attention, I’m talking to you.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘After Ernesto was born I continued singing. He came everywhere with me.’

  ‘This explains your closeness. Did it not happen with Ben?’

  ‘His name is Benito,’ she said.

  I bent her arm and washed the saggy skin around her elbow. ‘He cares about you. Is there anything I can do to bring the two of you closer?’

  Her arm went rigid. ‘What happened cannot be changed.’

  That night, as the hall clock struck 11 p.m., I said to Ben, ‘It’s time I had a key for the Lancia.’ We were in the sunroom off our bedroom drinking amaro.

  ‘You’re not driving in Napoli.’ He set his glass down on a ledge.

  ‘I know the route to the shops and the market, the general speed limit, which intersections have traffic lights.’

  He threw up his hands. ‘A green or red signal means nothing. Zebra crossings are only there for decoration. Drivers make impulsive decisions. Hit the brake, swerve, slow down or speed up, whatever takes their fancy. You’re no match for them.’

  ‘I drove in London.’

  ‘English politeness has no place on these roads.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it? I’ll adjust to the conditions.’

  He stood up. ‘I don’t want you or the children in an accident.’

  ‘That’s such an insult. I’m as capable a driver as you.’

  ‘Drop it, Julia. It’s late. Are you coming to bed?’

  I didn’t move.

  He shouted at me. ‘Si pazz!’

  While I didn’t recognise these words, spoken I thought in Neapolitan, I understood their meaning. I snatched a lighter and a packet of cigarettes from the arm of his chair and flounced out to the balcony, where I had three smokes in quick succession. Light-headed and livid, I made a decision. I would find a female to teach me his crazy language.

  An hour passed before I crept inside and slid between the sheets. Ben’s leg strayed towards mine. I shoved it away. He groaned, rolled onto his back and started to snore. I lay beside him, scheming about how to lay my hands on an adequate sum of money to pay for the tuition.

  Apart from the weekly allowance Ben handed me in cash to cover general household expenses, as well as haircuts, I had no access to any other funds. He paid for our visits to the doctor and dentist. If I wanted to buy toys or clothes for the children or a book, I had to ask for extra and justify the purchase. I regretted not insisting that the rent from Marsha and Simon came directly to me. Until this evening I had never thought that there might be fairer ways for a couple to manage their finances. Stupid little fool, I concluded, wiping away tears with a corner of the pillowcase. I’d made it easy for him to control my spending, and therefore my freedom.

  I considered contacting Oliver and asking him to wire over a sum. But Oliver was no slouch. He’d want to know why Ben wasn’t reaching into his pocket. I didn’t want to admit to him that hairline cracks were appearing in my marriage. Pride, of course. I wanted him to think I had made the right decision. A week before we left London he’d taken me for afternoon tea at Harrods. Over cucumber sandwiches and Battenberg cake, he said, ‘Julia, please stay behind with the children. Ben’s willing to travel back and forth. In fact, he’d prefer it.’ I didn’t listen.

  As my outer world shrank, I created a Wednesday after-school ritual with the children, stopping for iced drinks at a café with a canary-yellow awning near the Piazza di Artisti. On the quiet, I asked the proprietress if she knew a woman capable of teaching Neapolitan to a foreigner. She gave an impatient shrug. ‘For starters, you should pronounce it “Napoletano” in Italian but make sure you steer clear of saying “Napulitano”. Leave that to those like me who were born and raised here.’ On a scrap of paper, she wrote the name of a librarian who worked at the Biblioteca Nazionale. ‘Ilaria is the cousin of a neighbour. She hasn’t the looks to attract a husband,’ the proprietress said, waggling her ample backside, ‘so she relies on her brain to earn a living.’

  I repeated the name Ilaria as if it were a talisman. If she agreed to take me on, I might feel more like the linguistic chameleon I aspired to be, moving between Napoletano and English, understanding every word spoken at the villa. I fancied myself as a spy of sorts, following in the footsteps of World War Two heroines Vera Atkins and Virginia Hall. Caught up in the first tingle of excitement I’d had for ages, I neglected to consider all possible outcomes.

  At breakfast on Monday, my pulse quickened as Ernesto set his empty coffee cup aside and said, ‘Jump to it, Benito. We have people to pull into line.’

  Ben ignored the directive and the thump Ernesto gave the table. ‘I’m waiting for the kids,’ he said. ‘I promised to drop them off at school.’

  I viewed this gesture as his half-hearted attempt to curry favour with me. We had barely exchanged two civil words since our quarrel. Behind us, Ernesto paced up and down, the olive hue of his skin deepening to full-bodied claret. Not wanting either man to realise I had plans, I left the dishes on the table and had a second coffee, thinking the extra caffeine would boost my resolve.

  The instant Ernesto’s Fiat sped through the gate, I said to Rosa, ‘I’m going to Chiaia. I’ll stay there until I collect the children.’

  ‘Very well, Signora,’ she said without looking up from the breakfast tray she was preparing to take to my mother-in-law’s room. ‘Do you have St Anthony?’

  Three quarters of the population relied on this small lead figurine to make their decisions. Women on the street would press their handbags to the region of their livers as if to say, ‘It’s up to you, St Anthony.’ Matteo had watched his nonna give one to me. Knowing I didn’t believe in lucky charms, out of her hearing, he whispered, ‘Call him Felix’, after the resourceful cat in a TV cartoon series he’d watched at home.

  ‘Yes, Rosa,’ I fibbed. My figurine languished in a coat pocket in the wardrobe. Not wan
ting her to raise any last-minute objections, I said, ‘I’m out of sanitary pads.’

  Rosa screwed up her nose before setting a dish of jam on the tray. ‘Rags, they do the same job.’

  Thinking she might blab, I almost caved in. Then I recalled the effort I’d had to make to persuade Ben to let me come and go as I pleased in London. I wasn’t about to lose ground just because we were living in a city overrun with stone-age thinkers, two of whom resided in this villa, one who had refused to take me in his car to the waterfront and the other who wouldn’t permit me to drive.

  There must be a better way for women to live, I thought, as I headed off.

  At Piazza Fuga, I boarded the funicular, grateful I had made the same trip two weeks earlier with Ben and the children, because it prepared me for the unsolicited compliments. On these trains, and on the streets, flirting ranked as high as breathing. Like a muscle, the more it was used the more potent it became. ‘We start young,’ Ben had joked as a toddler in his father’s arms had wriggled his foot under my skirt and rubbed it against my bare leg. ‘The cheeky wee chap,’ I’d said in English, moving out of reach.

  After a short ride to Piazza Augusteo, I set off on foot along Via Toledo, following the route we had taken as a family to the public gardens, Villa Comunale. On that occasion, upon reaching Via Chiaia, Ben had gestured towards the Biblioteca Nazionale, housed in the eastern wing of the eighteenth-century Palazzo Reale, and said, ‘Packed with cultural history — music, literature, theatre scripts, maps. The custodians went to great lengths during the war to transfer these priceless manuscripts to safety.’

  As he elaborated, I thought of all the women and children denied a similar level of care. My frustration stemmed in part from a talk we’d had recently in bed. I had been pumping him for more information about Sergio. He told me instead about Don Mario Borelli, a priest who took over some bombed ruins and set up the House of Orphans for the scugnizzo, hawk-eyed wretches who roamed the alleyways, stealing and pimping for food. Images of these waifs had merged with those I’d seen the day we arrived, and with others in a collection of Ernesto’s photographs framed for a retrospective exhibition and left propped against a wall on the second-floor landing. The protruding ribs of these bare-chested youngsters — photographed, Ben said, when Ernesto was running errands for Sergio — were out of proportion with their shrivelled faces and emotionless eyes floating beneath the glass.

  ‘I didn’t expect Naples to throw up so many painful feelings for you, Ben.’

  ‘How could it not? We’re made of memories.’

  15

  I approached the Biblioteca as a throng of people spilled into the square and onto the street. The aroma of tomato, cheese and salami drifted towards me from their brown paper bags, a reminder that I hadn’t eaten much for breakfast. I headed to the nearest street vendor and asked for a calzone fritto, filled with ricotta, cured pork scratchings and black pepper.

  It was a short stroll from there to the communal gardens, where I found a bench under a palm tree and settled to eat, and also to practise what I’d say to Ilaria. As I took a bite of the calzone, two women drew level with a young couple kissing on the grass. The feisty octogenarians hoisted their walking sticks. ‘Make the most of your youth,’ the shortest of the pair called to the lovers. The other wobbled her head to and fro, which I took as a cautionary gesture to alert them to potential disappointments, compromises, rockier times ahead.

  My teen years had vanished far too fast. Just as the marvellous expanse of sea ahead couldn’t disguise the rundown buildings dotted along sections of the waterfront, I couldn’t escape the consequences of my impulsive actions: first the pregnancy, now the reality of living with the Morettis. A steady breeze rocked the palm, producing a patter like falling rain. I had disappointed Muz and Wiggin on many counts.

  It took a melodious peal of bells and a flotilla of pigeons taking to the sky — ‘flying rats’, Rosa called them — to jolt me out of the doldrums.

  Young men and women nearby flattened their bags and folded them into squares to reuse, frugality being another attribute of the inhabitants. A tug of a skirt, a tightening of a tie, and the workers strolled off, leaving me with a handful of mothers chasing spirited toddlers bent on creating mischief.

  Their joyful shouts reminded me of the fun Ben and I’d had taking our children to playgrounds in London at the weekends, pushing them on swings, catching them as they hurtled down slides, teaching them to cartwheel across the grass. I also recalled rainy Saturdays, Ben and me snuggled up on the sofa, Matteo and Francesca building forts out of furniture and blankets. Sometimes we pretended we were invaders, wielding chopsticks as swords through a gap; other times we dropped in sweets.

  I checked my wristwatch, the previous year’s birthday present from Ben. If I didn’t move soon, I would waste the opportunity to speak to Ilaria. I wanted two or three recommendations from her of books written in Italian by female authors. If I found their storylines compelling and thought she and I would get on, I’d reveal my real reason for seeking her out.

  At the Biblioteca I explained to an official that I wanted to see Ilaria Sapienti. He pointed to a woman standing behind a counter, sorting index cards. She looked like thousands of other dark-haired, full-bodied women from this city, only she had a chisel-shaped nose and a long lean neck, features reminiscent of the Royal Swans on the Thames. A stylish turquoise brooch pinned to the lapel of a swanky fuchsia jacket suggested there was more to her than a first-rate brain.

  I headed to the counter, nervous and a little awkward. She took forever to raise her head and look at me. When she did, I found the warmth of her smile reassuring. Her eyes were speckled grey and brown like hens’ eggs. I introduced myself.

  As far as I could tell, she listened to my spiel with genuine interest. ‘Are you wanting books with particular themes?’ she asked.

  I mulled over the question and gave an honest answer. ‘I want to know what women from this region think about, how they manage family frictions, whether any of them have a life outside the home.’

  She studied me intently before responding. ‘A war widow runs a second-hand bookshop not far from here.’ She spread her arms. ‘Buy everything she has by Anna Maria Ortese, the finest writer of our era. Not a local, but don’t let that put you off. Born in Roma, lived in Napoli for years.’

  ‘She sounds ideal. Thank you.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed an officious male bearing towards us with a clipboard. ‘My supervisor,’ Ilaria said, and recommenced filing. As I prepared to leave, she said, ‘Julia, come back and tell me what you think of the ideas Ortese explores in her writing.’

  Out in the open, a warm breeze had turned the piazza into a steamy cauldron. On the return journey I purchased a collection of stories from the widow. Afterwards I drank from a fountain and hurried towards the funicular, skirting round a dozen nuns whose close-fitting coifs resembled bowls of clotted cream.

  The bell was ringing when I reached the school. Matteo and Francesca were running down the steps, waving their arms in the air and calling to classmates, looking and sounding like Vomero children. The spectacle made me apprehensive. I sensed that the longer we stayed in Naples, the more Englishness the city would steal from us.

  On our approach to the villa, a shaft of light flared from a second-floor window. Instantly I suspected Ernesto of photographing us on the sly with his Leica. Did he intend entering the photos in an exhibition without seeking my permission? The rebel in me wanted to ruin his shots. ‘Heads down,’ I said to the children. ‘See how many heart-shaped stones you can find in the gravel.’

  Francesca bounded into the kitchen with a handful, plus a butterfly she’d made in class from crêpe paper and string. ‘The teacher said mine was best, Rosa, because it looks real. See the antennae.’

  Rosa hung up a tea towel and beamed from ear to ear. ‘Francesca, she is blessed with second-sight,’ she said.

  Matteo muttered, ‘I’m not sure there is su
ch a thing.’

  Rosa made the sign of the cross. ‘Have you anything to show me?’

  ‘Boring words I have to learn to spell overnight,’ Matteo said.

  If he didn’t achieve a hundred per cent in the test, his master — porcospino, Francesca called him, porcupine, because of his bushy whiskers — would reach for the cane.

  We carried on in this vein until it was time to set the table. I laid out the plates, thinking of Ilaria doing the same in her home. I thought of getting my hands on the books she mentioned. I thought of talking to her about the female characters.

  16

  I read a single story by Ortese overnight, learning as much about the characters on the page as the settings, often a basso, a basement room. In this story, Ortese highlighted the hoops the aunt of a short-sighted girl has to jump through to buy her niece a pair of glasses.

  On Tuesday I went in the car with Ben to pick up the children from school. Afterwards we were buying fish to make Rosa’s version of Alphonse’s wife’s stew. At the last minute I remembered I also needed a loaf of crusty bread — that morning mine had burnt while I’d dealt with a nosebleed — so Ben pulled up and let me out. ‘Meet us at the fish market,’ he said before heading with the children to the wharf.

  No queue at the bakery closest to the Biblioteca meant I could shoot in to see Ilaria. Mercifully, she was at the counter. After greeting her I said, ‘Do you think Ortese goes on too much about the eight thousand lire the glasses cost? She repeats the phrase “hard cash” on every page.’

  ‘That’s the point,’ Ilaria said. ‘Ortese wants to show her readers that everyone pays a high price for these glasses. The child, her mother, the younger sisters, her father, the Marchesa and owner of the house who lends the money to the aunt, as well as those forced to listen to her boasting about her generosity.’

  ‘The characters are complex and brutalised on multiple levels.’