The Gulf Between

by Maxine Alterio

‘Ortese knows their kind and their situations.’

  ‘She doesn’t hold back.’ I pulled my copy of Il mare non bagna Napolifrom my shopping bag. ‘There’s something confronting on every page.’

  Ilaria leaned her elbow on the desk and cupped her chin in her hand. ‘She captures what she’s seen and been through.’

  ‘Actresses call on similar skills to interpret a script,’ I said.

  Just as we were about to discuss this comparison, Ilaria’s supervisor, who had been placating a disgruntled member of the public, advanced towards us. ‘I have to get on with my work,’ Ilaria said. ‘Come and see me again soon.’

  I put the book back in my bag and set off to find Ben, ruminating on what was and wasn’t in our genes.

  At the villa, I went about my chores without rancour, slicing carrots to Rosa’s exacting standards. ‘Cubes as thick as your thumb,’ she said with a toss of her head.

  Matteo looked up from his homework. ‘Borrow my ruler, Mamma, if you like.’ He was grappling with the history of the Roman Empire.

  Rosa, who was preparing the fish, wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Your mamma, she has two good eyes and two good hands, but I have to teach her to cook like we women do in Napoli.’ She thrust out her ample chest as if it signified her expertise. ‘We have the nose of a little red fox and the tongue of a chocolate maker.’

  Piccola volpe rossa. Cioccolataio. New words to add to my vocabularly: attractive to the ear, too.

  ‘Uncle Ernesto says little red foxes sneak into vineyards under the cover of darkness to feast on the grapes. What does a chocolate-maker’s tongue do, Rosa?’

  ‘Never you mind, Matteo.’ No doubt operating from the premise that a busy child is less likely to ask difficult questions, she assigned him a task. ‘Fill the nut bowl and take it through to your nonna. Me and your mamma, we finish making the stew.’

  By the time I was free to check on the children Francesca was climbing barefoot across the sofa with Ernesto cheering her on from the side while Ben’s mother, wheezing like a rusty sports whistle, shooed a lizard along the backrest into the empty nut bowl in Francesca’s hands.

  ‘Matteo,’ she called, slapping a tablemat over it, ‘I got another.’

  ‘Your sister is fearless like her uncle,’ said her nonna, clapping her hands.

  ‘I’m cold,’ my mother-in-law said as I entered her room to bid her goodnight. I fetched a quilt from the linen cupboard and spread it over her bed. She drew the satin edging up to her chin. ‘Julia, do you think it’s worth me shelling out for a new dress?’

  Although taken aback at her optimism, I said, ‘Sure, why not?’

  She shifted onto her side. The slightest movement made her breathless. I reached for the oxygen mask the doctor had left on a recent visit and placed it over her nose and mouth.

  She took several deep breaths and then pushed it aside. ‘There’s a shop in the old part of the city with suitable styles. See what’s in stock when you take another of your mysterious walks.’

  Inwardly I froze. Did she know about my outings to the Biblioteca to see Ilaria? In a calm voice I said, ‘Certainly. What colour?’

  ‘Mauve.’

  ‘Nice. My mother thought it conveyed elegance and grace.’

  ‘Not qualities normally subscribed to me.’

  ‘The right dress can work magic. Wait and see.’

  Aided by a shop assistant whose hair sat flat like a bathing cap on her head, I selected a silk garment, thinking the gathering at the waist would camouflage any weight loss. These days Ben’s mother ate quite small portions, even of her favourite dish, polenta with cheese baked in the oven.

  After completing the evening chores, I took the dress into her room. She ran the silk between her fingers, exclaiming with delight, ‘It’s gorgeous. Thank you, Julia. You have good taste.’ She turned the garment inside out and inspected the seams. ‘Made by a skilful seamstress. Put it on a hanger and suspend it from the curtain rail. I want to admire it until I find the strength to put it on.’

  Lamplight accentuated the soft hues of mauve, gold and bronze in the fabric. To shield her from a strengthening breeze I closed a side window. The dress swayed in the sudden downdraft. I thought of ghosts, wondered if she had. ‘Sleep well,’ I said, and I switched off the light, leaving her in the dark with her thoughts and fears.

  The same day I bought the dress I had called into the Biblioteca to see Ilaria again. She loaned me two books: a volume of poetry by Daria Menicanti, and Rina Faccio’s novel Una donna. ‘Faccio writes under the pseudonym Sibilla Aleramo.’

  I was curious about this writer’s reason for using a false name, but I didn’t want to come across as insensitive or nosy so I stuck to straightforward questions. ‘What are these books about?’

  ‘Menicanti writes about loneliness, also desire.’

  I wondered if I wore the former on my person like a piece of jewellery.

  Ilaria continued, ‘She takes her readers directly into the joys and struggles of women.’

  I must tell Muz about Ilaria’s kindness, I thought. Then reality struck. I lost the ability to remain upright. Ilaria took my arm and escorted me to a chair. ‘My mother died last year,’ I blurted out. ‘For a moment, I forgot she was gone.’ I clipped my open hands against the sides of my head.

  Ilaria crouched beside me, speaking quietly. ‘We carry within us the capacity to hold close those we have loved and lost.’

  Slowly I reordered my thinking. ‘Sorry about the fuss, Ilaria.’

  ‘Forget it. Join me for lunch. I have plenty for two and I’m on the early roster so you’ll finish in time to collect your children.’

  There was concern in her voice, and the outer edges of her eyes crinkled with kindness.

  I said brightly, ‘Thanks. I’d love to.’ From my handbag, I retrieved a compact and dabbed my nose and forehead with face powder while Ilaria collected a canvas bag from a shelf, slinging it over her shoulder like a labourer.

  We found a shaded bench in the communal gardens. Ilaria divided her packet of cold fried-cheese sandwiches, and poured into a plastic mug a drink for me from her flask of homemade lemonade. Its tartness sent a tingle along my tongue, releasing me fully from my mournful stupor. ‘Whew, that’s better. We were talking about the books. What were you about to say?’

  ‘Only that Faccio’s semi-autobiographical novel caused a sensation all over Europe when it was released.’

  ‘Why? What’s it about?’

  ‘The main character, a young provincial wife, becomes aware of the oppressed circumstances of women in Italian society. After much soul-searching she leaves her husband and child and goes to live in Roma and writes what scholars call feminista books.’

  ‘She must have been at the end of her tether,’ I said.

  Ilaria wiped her fingers on a cloth napkin she’d taken from her satchel and handed another to me. ‘Hopefully she thought the upheaval was worthwhile.’

  This last comment gave me the courage to talk about wanting a fulfilling life. Not as an unencumbered woman. That wasn’t my wish. I merely wanted the right to make decisions without my husband thinking he knew best. And, yes, I wanted to act, though I no longer fantasised about performing in the West End. A small part in a half-decent production would suffice.

  I explained why we were in Naples. Ilaria didn’t interrupt, a rarity in the south. Usually an unfolding drama fuelled in those present the desire to share similar sagas. Then chaos ensued, everyone talking, no one listening.

  Starved of the company of a sympathetic woman, all manner of revelations spilled from my mouth. Changes I’d noticed in Ben, the complex dynamics operating within his family. How I had disappointed my parents. Not getting their bodies to bury, only ash scooped from the wreckage, probably a composite of several passengers on the doomed flight.

  I felt her hand on my forearm. ‘We can’t always control the events that befall us,’ she said. ‘But we can choose how we respond to them.’

  ‘And i
f we doubt our perceptions, let our imagination take over?’ I dug my fingernails into my palms. ‘There’s an old me, and a new me. Neither version feels authentic. Sorry, I’m not explaining this very well.’ I paused to think. ‘Coming here meant leaving behind everything and everyone I knew. I didn’t appreciate the difficulties I might come up against.’

  A ball rolled towards us. Ilaria bent down and picked it up. She balanced it on the toe of her shoe, gave a hefty kick and sent it flying through the air into the arms of a young boy, who waved his thanks and carried on with the game.

  ‘The son of a cleaner at work,’ she said. ‘He dreams of representing Italia.’

  ‘I had dreams,’ I said, holding aloft the two books in my hands. ‘These writers made something of their lives. I let marriage and motherhood mothball my career. Mostly my fault, I know. But I miss the fun I had with cast members, almost as much as I miss performing under the lights. No one cheers or claps when I wipe down a bench or hang washing on the line.’

  Ilaria dipped her bottom lip. ‘There are many ways to feel alive.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I find a character in a book I can relate to and live her or his life for a time.’

  ‘Me, too,’ I said, ‘though the chores don’t stop. These days I have so much to do I can only read in short bursts.’

  ‘Pleasures come in all sizes. Like shoes,’ she said with a chuckle.

  I laughed out loud. ‘You’re a true optimist, Ilaria.’

  ‘It’s the best kind of person to be.’

  ‘Mostly I am too, though it’s harder here. I can’t speak Italian at the same level as I do English. My brain feels as if it has shrunk to the size of a kidney bean.’

  ‘You have a decent vocabulary. I’m guessing not much Napulitano.’ She raised her hand. ‘My cousin tells me you want a teacher.’

  My heart bounded in excitement. ‘Are you interested?’

  ‘I’d be delighted. We can sort where and when the next time we meet. I have to head back to work now.’

  When we reached Via Ferdinando Acton she stared down a driver of a delivery van and ventured fearlessly into the traffic. I raised the scarf in my hand above my head and waved it merrily.

  My spirits continued to soar as I caught a funicular up to a stop close to the children’s school. Ilaria had given me books to read from her personal collection and she was willing to take me on as a student. Even better, I had found a potential friend.

  17

  I addressed my mother-in-law as ‘Nonna’ or ‘Signora Moretti’ until Sunday afternoon the same week. We were in the garden relaxing in comfy chairs. She was in good spirits, thanks to the mucus-thinner potassium iodide, which had been prescribed at a recent hospital check. The syrup made it easier for her to cough up phlegm, reducing the discomfort in her lungs and making breathing less arduous. We were chatting companionably and watching a bird preen. I was passing on Matteo’s improved spelling results when I absentmindedly touched her forearm. She smiled and said, ‘Call me Alessia.’ I must have looked surprised, because she explained. ‘My name. It means defender. Apt, don’t you think?’ She gave an impish grin and blinked.

  Her eyelids were red and scaly. I made a mental reminder to pick up a tube of ointment from a farmacia. ‘It’s lovely. Strong with a pleasing ring.’

  ‘Nothing about me pleased my parents. I was merely another mouth to feed. A squalling nuisance kicked into a corner.’

  Her upturned face, stripped of guile, revealed a defenceless quality.

  ‘All children deserve to be loved,’ I said.

  She pursed her lips. ‘You can have the best intentions but lack the emotional strength to pull it off.’

  Unsure if she was referring to the neglect she had suffered at the hands of her parents or hers towards Ben, and not wanting to say the wrong thing, I waited for her to go on, but she said nothing more. I was berating myself for letting the chance to delve further into her history slip away when a black-headed finch landed down the path, alerting the bird close to us of the presence of a possible mate. She spread her wings, revealing a span of pastel plumage through to the tips, and took to the air.

  We were listening to their mating calls when the side gate opened. Carlo, cloth cap low over his forehead, waved a weathered hand and set about trimming a bush with gardening shears. Left to flourish, the foliage would block the entrance to the toolshed.

  I hadn’t a clue what the men stored in the other outbuildings on the property. Apart from shopping and fetching the children, my responsibilities began and ended inside the villa. Earlier, I’d served the usual Sunday lunch which Rosa had cooked: pasta and lamb ragu, a side dish of melanzane alla parmigiana, bread, dried nuts and sweet pastry. Keen to get on the road, Matteo had gulped down his serving and urged his papa, uncle and sister to do the same if they wanted to watch him play in an interschool game.

  After they left, with Ernesto piggybacking Francesca, and before heading to her room for a snooze, Alessia said, ‘I hope you’re taking notice of Rosa’s cooking skills’, a backhanded compliment to her employee. If Rosa was surprised, she hid it well.

  Rosa and I proceeded to halve the tomatoes Carlo had picked. We were going to simmer them in olive oil and garlic. I was standing near the window above the sink, tying the strings of my apron, daydreaming about a scene in a book of Ilaria’s, when two stocky men trussed up like Christmas turkeys in cheap suits and gaudy ties, hat brims shielding their faces, ducked under the clothesline and headed towards the largest barn. I hadn’t heard a car or a truck pull up. Assuming they were lost, I patted my hair into place, discarded the apron and smoothed the skirt of my cotton frock.

  Before I had taken a step, Rosa’s wide hips were blocking the doorway. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Stay inside.’

  ‘They might need directions.’

  Deploying her body as a bulldozer, Rosa pushed me over to the stove. She grabbed a wooden spoon from a wide-necked jar and waved it at me. ‘You see nothing.’

  I took the spoon and stirred the tomatoes, calm on the exterior, but inside I was bursting to know if these men presented a risk. Were they connected to the Camorra? Did Ernesto do deals with the devil? Whenever I quizzed Ben about the nature of his brother’s business he deftly changed the subject, as he had the nature of his work in London. It was the same with Carlo. I could have written everything I knew about the so-called Moretti Empire on a bottle top. If I wanted to uncover the truth, I needed to resort to other means.

  Another reason to learn their language.

  I considered asking Ben to cover the cost of my lessons, but part of me was hesitant in case he wasn’t keen for me to learn it. There were other reasons, too. Without anyone realising, I wanted to discover Ernesto’s real purpose for bringing us here and unearth the cause of Alessia’s abysmal treatment of Ben. The invitation she’d extended to me today to use her Christian name was a step in the right direction.

  Ilaria and I had arranged to meet during another of her early lunch breaks on Tuesday in the back room of the widow’s bookstore. There were comfy chairs for customers and low tables for food and drink, ideal for our purposes. We talked about a memoir we had agreed to read before this meeting. It explored conflict between men and women.

  ‘This writer is concerned with recognition,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, and when she broke free, her family and society shunned her,’ Ilaria said. ‘Any semblance she had of independence was hard-won.’

  I adjusted a rhinestone barrette to stop it falling from my hair. ‘It must have taken masses of courage. I doubt I could do it.’

  Ilaria said, ‘We find the strength we need at crucial times in our lives.’

  This remark stayed with me long after we parted.

  Ben, who had been to the dentist to replace a filling lost while chewing a toffee, had picked up the children. Matteo ran into the villa excited. ‘At morning break I played a game of tag with Guido, a new boy,’ he said. ‘He’s into football
too.’

  ‘I made a new friend as well,’ said Francesca. ‘Her name is Carla. She has seven sisters.’

  ‘You’re enough for me,’ Matteo said.

  Everyone laughed except Francesca, who pouted. Ernesto tried to bribe her lips back into place with a biscuit but she refused to be won over. Matteo called her Fish-lips Frannie. She retaliated with Monkey-face Mattie. Their name-calling went on all afternoon. If these two wanted to get the better of each other at their age, no wonder there was strife between grown men and women.

  Sun showers fell intermittently all weekend, casting a mellow amber light over the city. Confined indoors, we made ravioli. Unlike Italian mothers who thought a son had no place in the kitchen, I taught Matteo to mix the dough to the consistency Rosa had shown me, knead and roll it out to thin flat sheets, which we laid on metal trays with small square indents and sharp edges. Under Rosa’s watchful eye, and with Francesca’s sporadic input, we made a selection of fillings, including a favourite: spinach and ricotta cheese. We were almost finished when Alessia, who these days rarely joined us in the kitchen, trudged in scraping her stick across the flagstones. After settling in a chair, she jabbed a finger at Matteo. ‘Why aren’t you outside chopping firewood?’ Shifting her glare to me, she said, ‘You’ll turn him into a sissy.’

  Nu’femmeniello, another new word.

  ‘No, she won’t, Nonna. I’m learning about Pellegrino Artusi at school. He wrote an important book. Our master told the class that Artusi is the father of Italian cooking.’

  Alessia stuck her nose in the air. ‘Pity his brain wasn’t as big as his stomach. Women have always been the better cooks.’ She picked up a paper serviette from the table, fashioned it into a crown and set it on top of her head.

  Caught up in her silliness, Matteo thrust out his tummy, stuck his hands behind his back and paraded in front of her, eyes swivelling in search of a troublemaker. Spying Francesca with her fingers in the almond jar, he picked up a newspaper, rolled it into a tube, and pretended to smack her leg. ‘Take that, you greedy girl.’

  Francesca flicked a dusting of flour off the bench at him.