The Gulf Between

by Maxine Alterio

  The dishes done, I fetched my book and flopped into an armchair for a long-awaited read. As much as I wanted to concentrate, a guilty conscience about stealing, and fretting over the widening rift between Ben and me, made it impossible. Hoping to shake off the burden of deceit and disillusionment, I draped a scarf over my hair, put on a jacket, and set off for a walk. There were more dogs and cats than humans on the streets, which suited me. I wasn’t in a talkative mood. As well as lighting remembrance candles for Muz and Wiggin throughout the festive period, I had the previous night risen from bed and drawn with my finger a cross on the misty pane.

  I hadn’t intended entering a church. Religion held no sway for me. I only went to Mass to please Ben. Nevertheless, I ended up on my knees thanking my parents for everything they had given me, sobs accumulating in my throat, tears banking up. In an effort to achieve a degree of composure, I removed from my pocket a Christmas letter from Oliver and reread it. His reassuring words washed through me like a psalm. He’d been out of the country, but was now in London for a decent stretch, would come over whenever I wanted; all I had to do was ask.

  We’d phoned the day before to thank him for his gifts and fill him in on Alessia’s slow deterioration. Ben mentioned we were staying indefinitely, which was news to me: I thought we were reconsidering our options. Francesca asked Oliver if he’d had a dog at her age — she had been harping about wanting one — and Matteo regaled him with his latest football news, three wins and a draw.

  When Matteo handed me the phone, Oliver burbled on about an unruly branch of the Fulham Road crowd smashing up a club. ‘Most of them failed musicians.’ He also said Clinty and Jasper’s businesses were flourishing — ‘They’re invited to all the best parties’ — and that Marsha and the painter had had an art sale, mostly nudes. Oliver laughed when I said, ‘It’s a miracle they’re still together.’ He annoyed me again when he boasted about the profits he was making on an investment. The interest alone could have paid for hundreds of lessons with Ilaria. Not that I intended staying in Naples after Alessia’s death and funeral. ‘Throw a massive party for us when we return. Order the champagne,’ I said and hung up.

  I left the church in a reflective mood, failing to notice which direction I was taking until a small child tugged at my clothing. I gave her all the coins I had on me. As she ran off, I took stock of the noisome alley I had strayed into. Shabby under- and outer-garments hung on lines stretching overhead from one dwelling to another, a ramshackle network of electricity cables looping between them. Beneath the laundry and wires, elderly women with baleful expressions and guarded eyes gave me the once-over, and the jaded faces of young mothers swamped with babies and brooms stared through the gaps of crumbling masonry. I tucked in my elbows and hurried on.

  Ahead, feckless youths and boys pranced about in tattered shirts and trousers. Darting among them, barefoot girls herded younger children towards an enclave of stalls where middle-aged women were selling cheese, oil, wine and vegetables. Another group hawked fresh squid, bushels of eels and slabs of white fish. The entire place stank of scallions.

  A huddle of men, two with hands over their groins, gave frenzied headshakes. Another drilled an index finger into his cheek. Ignoring these sexual innuendos, I quickened my pace, keeping one eye on the cobblestones slick with grease, the other on a wide avenue ahead.

  Several blocks of fast walking brought me to the street where Ernesto had his studio. An unfamiliar van pulled into his parking space. A man in his forties got out of the driver’s seat and a runty youth from the passenger side. The older fellow wrenched open the rear doors to reveal a stack of boxes, similar in size to cartons of cigarette packets. He passed them to the younger chap who took them inside. Ilaria had told me the Camorra controlled the smuggling of cigarettes in the area: clan members could buy a case of Chesterfield, Pall Mall or Camel for £25 and sell it on the streets for £170. They also managed the market where Rosa and I shopped, although I didn’t realise this until Ilaria filled me in. If I stopped going, there’d be questions.

  Pressed against a wall, mouth as dry as paper, my eyes lingered on the younger man ferrying boxes into the studio, his straggly hair and scrawny build hardly a terrifying sight. However, off to his left, the driver struck a match on the wall to light a cigarette, and the flame revealed knuckles the size of horse hooves. I visualised them pummelling someone, anyone, maybe me.

  Panic sent me edging along the wall to the road I had crossed. Once I made it to the other side, I scarpered towards the Vomero. At the villa gate, I convinced myself that photography equipment could come in comparable packaging and unlawful behaviour needn’t continue down the generations. By the time I reached the front steps, I believed there were plausible reasons for these men making deliveries to Ernesto’s studio. But as the day marched on, niggling doubts crept in.

  At bedtime, I decided to tell Ben what I had seen. He was full of his trip to the waterfront. Snuggling against me — another surprise — he recounted with a touch of nostalgia how Matteo had asked a fisherman if he needed a younger pair of eyes to help mend his net and the man saying, ‘We oldies see with our hands.’ He also talked of Francesca reconstituting a discarded length of twine into a skipping rope. His enjoyment at relaying these small pleasures persuaded me not to voice my suspicions. Unfortunately, the longer I kept quiet, the harder it was to raise anything of this nature with him.

  24

  As the weather gradually improved, signs of spring appeared in the garden: asparagus shoots, succulent fennel, purple eggplants. Carlo picked a selection. He claimed we would find them the sweetest we had tasted to date. I cut freesias to fill vases for half a dozen rooms.

  In the year since we arrived, Alessia’s health had deteriorated to the point where taking more than two or three steps wore her out. On difficult days she blamed her decline on the exhaust fumes from Ben’s car, me serving food she had to cut up, Carlo spraying weeds in the garden when she was on the terrace, Rosa dusting too close to her.

  The doctor had another theory. ‘A fifty-year smoking habit is the culprit,’ he said as I escorted him from Alessia’s room to the front entrance. ‘It’s weakened the air sacs in her lungs, causing them to rupture. She has one large space instead of many small ones. Any reduction in the surface area limits the amount of oxygen that reaches the bloodstream. It can’t be reversed.’ He picked up his hat from the hall table. ‘She has three months if she’s fortunate. If she quits smoking, she could double it. I gave up after I read a major study linking tobacco usage to lung disease. If your husband wants to reach fifty, I’d advise him to stop, too. I’ll see myself out.’

  I was heartened to hear Alessia had longer to live than we had anticipated, more if she followed her doctor’s example, because in my mind it increased her chances of patching things up with Ben. On hearing the news, he suggested we take a quick trip home. He phoned a travel agent and obtained a list of flights to coincide with the children’s summer break. Instead of making me feeling joyful, it had the opposite effect. Unable to pin down the reason for my apprehension, I gave Ben a feeble excuse. ‘I don’t want to leave Alessia. Anything could happen. The doctor has been careless before.’

  Perplexed at this reaction and unwilling to abandon the idea of a holiday, he proposed as an alternative that we go to Positano for a fortnight. ‘I want you and the kids to see the place.’

  To our surprise Alessia didn’t object, and she dismissed Ernesto’s criticisms, saying, ‘Julia deserves a break. So do the children.’ She sucked in a thin funnel of air. ‘They’re not going far. Benito can drive there and back in a day. Rosa and you can manage, Ernesto. You have before.’ He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. If Ben thought she was having a dig at him for taking his time last year to return to Il Casino di Caccia, he didn’t show it. He carried on eating his risotto as if the arrangements had nothing to do with him.

  Before the war, Positano and the surrounding area had been quite poor. Inquisitive travellers
flocked there only after John Steinbeck wrote an essay about its attractions in Harper’s Bazaar in the Fifties. He described the town as a dream place that didn’t seem real while you were there, but kept calling to you after you left, creating a longing nowhere else satisfied.

  I, too, fell under its spell. Each morning we left the stylish hillside dwelling, which, according to Rosa, Sergio had won in a high-stake card game, and carried our towels, swimming costumes, and food and drink down a cascade of steps. From there we made our way to the gravel and pebbled Spiaggia Grande. Light green shallows graduating to a dark blue sea appeared to merge with the cerulean horizon.

  On the third day Francesca learned to dog-paddle. By the fifth she conquered breaststroke, and on the eighth progressed to over-arm. Well away from her, Matteo was mastering the butterfly stroke, powering through the water, his need to strike out alone another reminder of the closing gap between the last flush of boyhood and the onset of manhood.

  That summer he grew another two inches, a spurt that came with an insatiable appetite. We couldn’t fill him. Ben nicknamed him The Locust after he demolished a five-course meal at a trattoria in Positano. ‘If this carries on,’ he joked to the waiter, ‘I’ll have to wash dishes to cover the bill.’

  In an alcove opposite, two elderly diners — one with a moustache, the other a goatee — exploded with laughter. They’d been casting furtive glances at Ben since we came in. When we stood to leave, they waved us over. The man with the moustache expressed regret at Ben’s return, saying, ‘I admired you for leaving, Benito.’

  As Ben and I undressed for bed, I said, ‘Was Sergio an associate of the Camorra?’

  Instantly he adopted his mask. ‘Wind in your imagination, Julia. Think about shopping like normal women.’

  In the morning he filled my handbag with banknotes, saying, ‘I’ll take Matteo and Francesca down to the sea. You go and buy the dress you admired in a shop window the other day.’

  I didn’t need telling twice. At a shoe stall I saw a pair of smart leather sandals in the style Jackie Onassis was to make famous a few years later and I also bought them. Trusting Ben wouldn’t ask for the change, I ran up to the house and stowed it in my suitcase between two blouses, thinking it would cover the cost of three more lessons with Ilaria.

  Clinty would love my hand-dyed cotton outfit, which I planned to wear the next time Ben took the children and me out for a meal. She wouldn’t be impressed with me stealing, though. I struggled to justify it myself, especially on holiday, because Ben was reverting to his fun-loving self and I was drawn to him for reasons other than duty.

  When I joined him on the beach in my swimsuit he was watching Matteo a few yards offshore teaching Francesca to dive through an inner tube they had picked up from a garage. Grateful they weren’t squabbling, Ben and I headed beyond the lapping waves. We were frolicking when Matteo surfaced nearby and found us kissing in shoulder-deep water.

  ‘Mamma, Papa,’ he said, ‘stop it. It’s disgusting.’

  He swam to shore, leaving Francesca alone and out of her depth. She dog-paddled over to us, bristling with indignation. ‘Boys!’ she said.

  We were also cross with Matteo, until it dawned on me that for most of this year we had shown little or no affection to one another. The failure was ours.

  At the clifftop house, after Matteo and Francesca went to bed, Ben and I sank into loungers under the stars. Honeysuckle and jasmine perfumed the air. A pearly disc glided across a glimmering sky. In the undergrowth insects ceased chattering for the night. ‘We needed this holiday,’ I said.

  He tucked a strand of loose hair behind my ear and said, ‘I still think we should take a quick trip to London.’

  I drew up my legs and clasped my arms around my knees.

  ‘To check on our home and your parents’ house,’ he went on, ‘the business, see Oliver, take a break from Ernesto.’

  ‘Your mother wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘She didn’t complain about us coming here.’

  ‘Positano isn’t far away.’

  ‘We’ve been with her for fifteen months. If she wanted to make her peace with me she would have done so.’

  I gazed at the garden of a house below. Lemon trees heavy with fruit gleamed in the moonlight; beyond was a waterfall of pastel-coloured houses and the Arabic dome of the church of Santa Maria Assunta. ‘In recent months she’s been talking freely to me about her life. I think she’s close to revealing what led to the troubles she has with you.’

  ‘We’re unhappy in Napoli. I want to return to our old life, Julia.’

  I do too. But not yet.’

  ‘You don’t owe her anything.’

  ‘It’s not only about her.’

  ‘What else is bothering you?’

  The reason that had been eluding me surfaced at last. ‘Over here I sometimes forget my parents are gone. At home I’ll have to face the reality head-on.’

  Ben was nibbling on a ribbon of loose skin below his thumbnail. I raised my voice a notch. ‘I’m not ready to walk into their house and not see them.’ Tears pricked at my eyes. ‘I feel rotten about disregarding their wishes.’

  Ben sucked in his cheeks.

  ‘I know they weren’t alive when we made our plans,’ I said, speaking quietly again, ‘but since the anniversary of their deaths I can’t shake off the remorse.’

  He stroked my face. ‘For different reasons we’re both trapped.’

  Three days before we were due back at the Vomero, Ernesto telephoned. Alessia’s bronchitis had flared up. While he and Ben argued, I took Matteo and Francesca outside to collect leaves to press between the pages of a scrapbook. He chose from the palest of palettes. She went after the fierier species, ripping at plants and bushes, favouring quantity over quality.

  On our return we found Ben smoking in an archway at the side of the house. He’d tried giving up completely after the doctor’s warning, but as soon as any pressure came on he relapsed. There was nothing to gain by haranguing him. ‘Do we need to pack?’

  He ground his ciggie into the earth. ‘We’ll leave in the morning.’

  Our last night was eventful for reasons unrelated to Ernesto, or Alessia, or Steinbeck. Driving over the high road from Castellammare de Stabia to Positano I had suspected I was pregnant, as every time Ben rounded a bend I’d felt nauseous. My menstrual cycle had been erratic on the Continent, so I wasn’t sure. And because we had wanted a large family, I had never taken precautions or watched the calendar.

  To begin with, apart from a dragging sensation in my thighs, there was little to indicate something was amiss. I took an aspirin and went to bed. Ben came with me. An hour or so on mild cramps began, also an urge to go to the toilet, although I couldn’t pee when I sat on the pan. After a third fruitless trip Ben switched on the bedside lamp. I clambered into bed, groaning, the cramps closer, and stronger.

  He rubbed my back. ‘Julia, are you expecting?’

  ‘Possibly, but I fear not for much longer.’

  Around 2 a.m., the little kernel of potential life loosened its connection to me, and a greyish-purple mass of tissue in a pool of blood slithered onto the sheets. I burst into tears. Ben couldn’t comfort me. I think we both felt terribly alone.

  After the initial shock wore off we agreed that under the cover of darkness he’d bury the remains in the garden. While he was gone I hugged a pillow and sobbed.

  At daybreak, Ben organised breakfast. ‘Mamma has a touch of sunstroke,’ he told the children. After they’d eaten he sent them to buy soft drinks while he packed the car.

  Curled up on top of the bed I yearned for Muz and her ability to take the hurt away. Thinking of her kindness enabled me, pale and weak, to rise within the hour, have a bath and get dressed.

  We set off midmorning, this time at my instigation taking the serpentine road, described by tourists, Ben explained, as The Divine due to its spectacular views of the Tyrrhenian Sea. For the most part we were quiet as Ben navigated the tight corners, both hands o
n the steering wheel, foot hovering over the brake. But at Bagni di Pozzano Francesca talked Matteo into playing a game of I Spy. She started with ‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with B.’

  ‘Baby,’ he said, pointing to a stroller outside a shop. He can’t have known, but I screamed at him regardless.

  The remainder of the trip passed in a waspish haze.

  Seeing Ernesto outside the villa, loafing against a pillar, one leg crossed over the other, enraged me. I scrambled from the car and retched into a flowerpot. He recoiled in disgust. Francesca screwed up her nose and dashed off to find Carlo, whom she’d left in charge of her menagerie. Recent additions included a one-legged bird and three mottled lizards. While Matteo unloaded the suitcases I stumbled inside. Calling out to Rosa who was in the kitchen that I had tummy troubles — ‘You mean sunstroke,’ shouted Matteo — Ben took me upstairs where I collapsed on the bed, exhausted and distraught.

  Sixteen hours elapsed before I was fit to see Alessia. I found her too weak to burden with my loss. Her eyelids, hatched with purple veins, flew at half-mast.

  I didn’t object to Ernesto pouring me a third glass of red wine over dinner. Its semi-numbing effect enabled me to ignore his grumbles about work piling up in our absence, and to avoid the empty space where the baby had been.

  25

  On a sweltering Saturday after the children returned from school we congregated for lunch on a shady section of the terrace. Rosa ladled her adaptation of gazpacho into our bowls, filling them to the brim, making it difficult to dip in our soup spoons without slices of cucumber and onion slopping over the side and onto the tablecloth. Matteo bent over his and slurped up the excess, a habit of Ernesto’s.