Due to our diligence and the medication, Alessia gradually reached steadier terrain, although she was left with a diabolical cough.
The instant the men resumed their work routines, I thought of nothing else but slipping off to meet Ilaria, knowing that Rosa, on tenterhooks since the fresh-air debacle, would at regular intervals check on Alessia. I hoped Ilaria hadn’t given up on me. Two Mondays had passed. I hadn’t wanted to use the telephone at the villa, for although I’d seen Ernesto’s compassionate and entertaining qualities, I was growing ever more wary of him, more so after another unnerving incident.
I had been alone in the kitchen, setting the table. Francesca and Rosa were ferreting in the scullery for a jar of pickles. Out of nowhere, Ernesto appeared at the back door. Instead of coming in, he leaned nonchalantly against the wooden frame. Resting a bare foot on the ankle of the other, he eyed me up and down, not as a hot-blooded man, more like a lynx sizing up prey.
‘Little toothpick,’ he said in a quiet, calculated manner. Stecchetto, a harsh-sounding word. I didn’t know what to make of this slur. Did he think I’d lost weight? Was he chastising me for saying Italian males expected to be in charge? Or had he used the term to intimidate me, imply I could be broken?
While I tried to come up with a suitable response, Francesca burst from the scullery into the kitchen. Ernesto swooped in, lifted her off her feet. Suspended mid-air she said, ‘Put me down, Uncle Ernesto. I might drop the pickles.’
He rubbed his nose slowly along the hem of her dress and lowered her to the ground. ‘Frightful itch,’ he said, looking at me.
On the first unencumbered Monday, I knocked on the door of Ilaria’s flat. She greeted me warmly and stepped aside to let me in. I pulled from my carrier bag a bouquet of fresh basil, oregano and sage, purchased from a boy on a street corner, and handed it to her. ‘Sorry it’s not flowers.’
‘Herbs are more useful,’ she said, taking a sniff.
In the main room, books were arranged across planks raised on bricks. A gold-and-blue patterned curtain partially separated a poky kitchenette from the compact living area. A quick glance revealed that she cooked on a two-plate ring, washed dishes in a tin basin and did her chores on a wooden bench scrubbed to a light brown. Two chairs in the larger space, either side of a flyleaf table, caught the marbled light streaming through a single window, its lower half covered with a lace curtain. Embroidered cushions depicting country scenes livened up a faded brown settee.
‘Your handiwork?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Nice details.’
A welcome aroma of coffee wafted towards us from a percolator on the stove. She filled two cups and said, ‘I hope you like chocolate-creams four layers thick. Can you take the plate to the table while I put these herbs in water?’
Over coffee and biscuits, I apologised for inconveniencing her and recounted Alessia’s setback, leaving out Ernesto’s transgressions in case she thought me overdramatic.
‘Well, you made it today,’ Ilaria said, ‘so let’s make a start.’
At her suggestion we discussed where we shopped and what food we liked and disliked. Every so often, she substituted an Italian word with a Napoletano equivalent, and had me repeat it aloud and then use it in a sentence. ‘Speak with feeling, Julia,’ she said whenever I was tentative. ‘Match what you say with expression and movement.’
In the forty minutes we had left we discovered that we both haggled at the market if we were buying veal, preferred anchovies to sardines, and frequented the same quick-witted female cheesemaker’s stall.
‘She’s quite a character,’ I said. ‘I heard her ribbing the two chaps who sell garlic from a barrow without either man realising she was having him on.’
Ilaria chuckled. ‘Her IQ is double theirs combined.’
‘Plenty of eccentrics work at the market.’
‘Two come into the Biblioteca,’ Ilaria said. ‘One’s obsessed with the female form.’ She ran her hands over the top half of her body and gave a full-throated whoop. ‘Last Saturday I found him licking a marble statue with such ferocity I feared he would wear a hole where none was intended. He wouldn’t let up. I had to summons a security guard to prise him off.’
I was doubled over with laughter when she served up a second tale. ‘The other nuisance, an elderly lady with a chequered history and a befuddled mind, trails a candy-pink chiffon scarf through the building as if it were her entrails.’
‘Or those of former lovers,’ I suggested, to which Ilaria replied, ‘If this were the case she’d need a tour coach to transport them all.’
‘How long have you worked there?’
‘Coming up fourteen years. Before that I taught English several evenings a week to small groups of affluent students, mostly overindulged brats. I envied them going to university, for I had dreamed of taking the same path before everything changed and I had to earn an income.’
‘What did you want to study?’
‘Sociology. And you?’
Too embarrassed to admit I’d rubbished the opportunity, I said, ‘I was mad about the theatre and acting.’ Recalling Wiggin, under duress, reaching for his chequebook, led me to say, ‘Couldn’t a relative have chipped in?’
Ilaria gathered up our coffee cups and the biscuit plate and stood up. ‘I prefer to answer to no one but myself.’
‘Not even to God?’ I said, also rising to my feet.
‘I lost the faith long ago,’ she said. ‘Essentially I’m alone. We all are.’
22
There was a chill in the air in the weeks preceding Christmas. Nothing to rival the bone-numbing weather we were familiar with this time of year in London, but nevertheless warranting a second layer of clothing. A strong wind rattled the latches, and leaves danced like dervishes across the terrace outside Alessia’s bedroom.
Waking one morning to a light dusting of snow on top of the volcano made me homesick. Fortunately, there was little time to dwell on previous Christmases or Muz’s English fare. In the days leading up to the celebrations I dashed from the kitchen to the drawing and dining rooms as well as to the washhouse, assisted Rosa in the kitchen, quelled sibling rivalry and attended to Alessia. I also shopped for presents: Ben had given me extra housekeeping money.
Saturday afternoon he and Matteo felled a fir tree, which Ernesto and Carlo secured with metal hoops and wire to a ceiling beam in the drawing room where festive music blared from the turntable. Everything pointed to a joyful celebration.
Satisfied with the preparations, Rosa fetched a box from the cupboard where Ernesto had retrieved the football for Matteo and handed it to me. ‘Take this through to Signora Moretti. She will give the instructions.’
I set the box on the floor at the foot of the tree. ‘Want to see inside, Francesca?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and ran over to lift the lid. Baubles, tinsel and bells nestled among religious figurines. ‘Bags I decorate the tree!’
‘With Mattie,’ I said. ‘And Nonna will tell you where everything goes.’
Alessia delivered her instructions in short, shallow huffs. ‘Drape the tinsel, Matteo. Higher. Attach the silver balls in rows, Francesca. No sloppiness. Stick the red stars on the lower branches. Keep the angel for the top, Julia.’
‘I made those felt stars,’ Ben whispered to me. ‘She kept them.’
He tucked one into his trouser pocket, I assumed to remind him that she had once valued his handiwork, if not him. I slipped my arm through his and said sympathetically, ‘There, you see. She cares.’
Rosa, with me as her undercook, prepared a traditional Cenone della Vigilia di Natale, Christmas Eve dinner: spaghetti alle vongole, spaghetti with clams; capitone e baccalà fritto, fried eel and dried cod; and insalata di rinforzo, a zesty cauliflower salad and marinated vegetables. For dessert, there was rococo with almonds.
Rosa flushed with pride when Ben declared her a better cook than Artusi. ‘No way,’ she said. Non ci penso proprio. ‘And do not forget your wife, she h
elps me very well.’
I wanted to hug her.
We all went to Midnight Mass, apart from Alessia, and Rosa, who stayed behind to fetch and carry for her, rosary beads at the top of her list.
The ringing of the bell enthralled me as we entered the church, as well as the sweet-smelling incense wafting from thuribles suspended from chains, and the ceremonial splendour. Then Francesca spotted the nativity scene, displayed as a pyramid several feet high. Coloured paper, pinecones painted gold, candles on the tiered shelves and a sparkly silver star at the top. Fruit, sweets and wooden animals bedecked the base alongside carved figures of famous people, including politicians.
‘I want to see baby Jesus,’ Francesca said loudly.
The parishioners stared at her — waiting, I assumed, to see what we’d do.
Ben attempted to bribe her to stay seated and behave. The little rascal turned up her nose at a thousand lire and skipped up to the manger where she fidgeted with the crown on the infant’s head, glancing over her shoulder at us and licking her lips expectantly. Ben upped the spoils to two thousand. Matteo raised two fingers to indicate the increase to her.
‘She’s a tough negotiator,’ Ernesto said loud enough for me to hear. He slipped his nephew another note. ‘Full of wickedness.’
Satisfied with the three thousand Matteo signalled, Francesca came back to our pew, crouched down and removed her shoes. I watched in astonishment as she folded the notes in half and laid them flat along the inner soles before slipping her feet back in. From whom had she learned this trick? I glanced at Ernesto. In the flickering candlelight his features took on those of a python, if a python was capable of smiling.
‘Stay beside me,’ I whispered to her, ‘and when the collection plate comes round, put the money in.’
She mouthed, ‘All of it?’
‘Yes, Frannie.’ I couldn’t have her thinking bribes were acceptable. It was bad enough that I was dipping into her father’s wallet. ‘Understand?’
Reluctantly she took off her shoes and retrieved the lire.
On Christmas morning, we woke to fog and light drizzle. Alessia asked for breakfast in bed. I made her milky coffee and arranged a dish of hot rolls on a tray, which I took to her room. She barely stirred when I walked in. There was a greyish tinge to her skin. ‘Did you not sleep well?’
‘Too much going on up here,’ she said, pointing to her head.
‘Want to tell me about it?
‘I want to forget, not fork through manure.’
‘Eat and rest then.’ I placed the tray across her knees. ‘And once you’re feeling stronger I’ll help you put on your nice dress.’
She gave me a half-hearted smile. ‘Thank you.’
On the way out, I noticed the framed photograph of her and Sergio and Ernesto face-down on the bureau. No one would dare touch it other than her. It set me wondering if, during the hours of darkness, bad memories had resurfaced and, in their mercurial mirror, she had seen aspects that shamed her. I decided to find Ben and ask him what Christmas had meant to Sergio.
He was coming down the stairs shuffling a pack of cards. ‘The kids want a game,’ he said.
‘Forget about that for a moment.’ I pulled him into a recess. ‘Was Sergio ever around at Christmas?’
He shoved me hard against the wall. ‘Will you get it into your thick head that I don’t want to talk about him?’
‘I’m not dumb. I passed my exams. I could have had a profession.’
‘Only if you had bloody shut up and listened for a change.’
Early afternoon we took our places at the table for Christmas dinner. In keeping with the Moretti tradition, Rosa and Carlo joined us. Alessia sat at the head of the table, resplendent in her mauve dress, though looking frail. We started with minestra maritata, chicken and vegetable soup, followed by pasta. Our next treat was the fowl whose carcass Rosa had used to make the soup; contorno, a leafy broccoli native to the gulf, which I had trimmed and washed before steaming; and roast potatoes I had convinced Rosa to let me cook. For dessert, we tucked into struffoli, made from tiny dried balls of dough. Throughout the meal we adults drank Gragnano and the youngsters fizzy orange. Alessia managed to eat a few mouthfuls of each course and enjoyed half a small glass of the sparkling red wine.
The table cleared, we settled to open the presents under the tree. Ben and I had won the argument about whether to wait for the sixth day of January, as was the custom, or follow the English tradition. ‘The majority are from Father Christmas,’ Ben told the children.
Matteo, who knew otherwise, kept up the pretence for his sister’s benefit.
Alessia gave Ernesto a receipt for a new Moto Bellissima motorbike and Ben a tie. She never left the villa unless she had an appointment at the hospital and then Carlo drove and I accompanied her, and as far as I knew she hadn’t asked Rosa to shop on her behalf, which meant Ernesto had chosen these presents. The cheek of the man. I pursed my lips, tightened my shoulders.
The atmosphere turned even icier when Matteo said, ‘Nonna, where have you hidden Papa’s real present?’
She looked taken aback. Her skin turned a lighter shade.
Ernesto jumped to her rescue. ‘Benito can’t pack a motorbike into his suitcase when he leaves. His gift has to be smaller.’
‘How thoughtful,’ Ben said, obscuring the tautening of his jaw with his hand.
We both went to bed that night having drunk far too much alcohol.
Over the ensuing days Matteo played with his presents upstairs, emerging only for meals. At one refuelling stop he snuck a piece of paper into my apron pocket: Be kind to Papa. He’s sad. I thought it unusual for him to write to me when he could have told me. Then I remembered Ben and Muz and Wiggin bringing him and Francesca backstage to see me play a minor role in a Saturday matinee of The Wizard of Oz. At home afterwards Matteo had written lines for a play starring Felix, the TV cartoon character he was keen on. I had found segments of scripts scattered throughout the house. Paw me, I fell off the roof in a fruit bowl, I am a wondafol cat in a gumboot and, on the doormat among the mail, Show Tonite. Felix and the Flying Box. Admishon Free.
I didn’t get the reaction I expected when I went upstairs to thank him for his comment about Ben. He waved me out the door, saying, ‘I want to set up my Scalextric set without you or Francesca or anyone else bothering me.’ I was slinking off when he called out, ‘Thanks for my new model book and the comic as well, Mamma.’
On New Year’s Eve, we ate lentils to symbolise money and good fortune for the coming year, and cotechino, a spiced sausage, to celebrate the richness of life. We didn’t observe the custom of throwing out old possessions to make way for the new. ‘You’ll be rid of me soon enough,’ Alessia said lightly.
It was pitch-dark and starless when we put on our jackets and went onto the terrace to watch a fireworks display staged in the city. The huge spiralling pinwheels and rockets hurtling skywards made me long for the small sparklers my parents had favoured.
The morning after these celebrations Ben persuaded Matteo to help him make intricate furniture for the doll’s house we’d given Francesca. The sight of their bowed heads at the table, bodies tensing and slackening depending on the degree of challenge, Matteo’s back almost the same length as Ben’s, stopped me in my tracks. Another growth spurt and our son would be close to his father’s height.
Leaving them to work undisturbed, I took Francesca outdoors to hunt for insects to feed her ever-expanding lizard family. We checked under stones, logs and hedges, prising out anything suitable. Once we’d filled the jar, she scooted off to divide the cache into meal-sized portions.
Bugs of another variety were rife in the last weeks of winter. No matter how fastidious we were about hand-washing, a nasty flu felled Ben and Matteo and, twenty-four hours later, Francesca. I isolated the afflicted, and persuaded Rosa to give Alessia a wide berth when she returned from the market with a sniffle. I also had Carlo poke in newspaper to block the draughts coming through ill-fit
ting doors and windows. Ernesto shouldered the bulk of his mother’s care while I tended to Ben and the children, although I was there with him when the doctor came to check on her. ‘Make sure she drinks plenty of fluids,’ he told us.
‘What about my husband and children?’ I said. ‘They’re going at both ends.’
‘Same treatment,’ he replied, and he left to attend to a multitude of similar cases.
I strained my lower back lugging buckets and washbasins in and out of the sickrooms. Feeling hard done by nudged me again towards temptation. As Ben spewed and crapped, I nabbed ten thousand lire from his wallet, justifying it as payment for the extra work, and stashed it in a zippered compartment of my leather handbag, which I had flung over the same hanger as my coat on our arrival and remained there.
Just when I thought I couldn’t keep up this frenetic pace, the illness abated and three gaunt creatures appeared at the kitchen door requesting bowls of Rosa’s chicken soup. In conjunction with Alessia, they lapped up the broth prepared in anticipation. Ernesto remained contrite in Alessia’s presence. Away from her I detected a chilly, wild force gathering in his eyes.
When school reopened Ben revved up the Lancia. ‘I’ll give the children a ride. Anything to get out of this suffocating place,’ he said.
I sympathised. Resuming Monday visits to Ilaria’s was high on my list.
23
Late February, Ben drove Matteo and Francesca to the waterfront to watch the fishermen repair their nets. Alessia was resting, Rosa polishing cutlery at the table, and Carlo weeding the front garden. I was at the sink rinsing coffee cups when through the window I glimpsed Ernesto, a stack of paperwork under his arm, heading for an outbuilding which he, I had learned from Alessia, used as an office to sort his business records. Alter them, more like, I thought, watching him unlock the bolt on the door. If he had the inclination, he could fudge the accounts, move figures from one column to another. Was this what he and Ben fought about?
The Gulf Between Page 13