The Gulf Between

by Maxine Alterio

  ‘Manners, Mattie.’ I handed him a chunk of bread.

  ‘Sorry, Mamma, I didn’t think.’

  ‘Manners are important,’ I said, unable to let it go.

  ‘They don’t buy food or a home,’ Ernesto countered. ‘Chase the money, boy.’

  ‘I’m Mattie’s papa, not you,’ Ben said. ‘I tell him what to do.’

  ‘Leave it, Ben, leave it,’ I said.

  Ben banged his spoon against his plate. ‘Enough of the bolshie remarks, Julia.’

  Annoyed that he had spoken crossly to me in front of everyone I mulled over various responses intended to restore my dignity but decided not to utter a single one. I didn’t want to argue with him. We were supposed to support each other. I felt Ernesto’s eyes on me, sensed in him a degree of satisfaction at causing disharmony. He appeared to thrive on it.

  Ilaria suggested at our next rendezvous that we discuss Italy’s political and economic circumstances leading up to the war. ‘It will assist you to come to grips with the challenges we citizens grapple with in this city,’ she said.

  ‘Great. I’m keen to learn more about the place and the people.’

  On a personal level I hoped the anecdotes she was about to tell me might throw some light on what had shaped the Morettis. Still irritated at Ernesto instructing Matteo to worship money, and smarting over Ben’s put-down, I shook two cigarettes from a packet and offered her one. I had hoped to give up totally, but increasingly I found myself craving the momentary calm a smoke brought.

  Ilaria lit hers and then mine. ‘I’ll start with the politicians,’ she said, streaming smoke through her expansive nostrils. ‘The majority amassed debt on the country’s behalf for selfish reasons. Either they owned or held shares in the companies they championed, or they wanted to increase the profits of those registered in the names of family members. And they called in favours to ensure they were elected.’

  ‘Similar arrangements occur in England,’ I said. ‘Politics is an old boys club.’

  Ilaria drew on her ciggie. When she resumed speaking, it was with force. ‘For decades our nation operated on the wrong side of red. With few natural resources and an uneven tax system, as well as high rates of poverty and illiteracy, we lurched from crisis to crisis. A strong sense of regionalism didn’t help.’

  ‘A volatile mix,’ I said in poorly executed Napoletano.

  Ilaria’s eyes blazed with fervour. I pictured her addressing a street rally, megaphone in her hand.

  ‘We need to look to the past to understand the present,’ she said. ‘During the 1890s, significant investments from countries such as Germany, France and Britain enabled our leaders to finance the construction of railway lines. Subsequent governments supported growth in northern regions, mainly heavy industries such as shipbuilding, steel works and automobile factories, initiatives that set the south further back on its heel.’ She slanted her head towards mine. ‘Are you sure you’re interested in this history?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Onto the next instalment then,’ she said with renewed vigour. ‘In Campania we lacked decent housing and there was a culture of bribes, coercion, organised crime and corrupt officials. Thousands fled to America in search of a better life. Those who remained sank deeper into poverty. The collapse of one government after another complicated matters, likewise two world wars. Our failure to remain neutral during the first, and Mussolini underestimating the British in the second and forging Fascist allegiances, decimated the south. This error of judgement led to prolonged bombings.’

  ‘We were pounded in London, but not as bad as here.’ I hesitated, unsure whether to ask the question at the forefront of my mind. Dammit, I have to be brave. ‘Was it the same for everyone, every family?’ There, it was done. I had opened up a gap for her to bring the likes of Sergio into the conversation.

  Ilaria didn’t answer straight off. I had the impression she was choosing her words carefully. ‘Certain families prospered,’ she finally said. ‘There’s a type of man who finds opportunities in unstable politics and rampant poverty.’

  She went on to explain that Mussolini, a socialist before he cosied up to the Fascists, established a secret police force and banned labour strikes. ‘He eroded our freedom one flagstone at a time.’

  These details, together with snippets I’d gleaned from Ben, convinced me that Sergio had feathered his nest at the expense of those less wily or more honest. Whether he knew Mussolini personally or had simply taken advantage of the situation was irrelevant. An opportunist streak, together with an immoral mentality, made him a man to fear.

  I left the flat bearing the weight of Ilaria’s revelations and, having gone beyond the allocated hour, hurriedly made the familiar trek to Francesca’s school. When I turned a corner, I almost bumped into the runty chap I’d seen unloading the van outside Ernesto’s studio, but was running too late to think about the way he changed direction and ducked away from me. As arranged, Matteo had come over from his school. He was on the street verge gripping his sister’s hand. She was struggling to pull free. Grateful he had done as I’d asked, I kissed his cheek. He tapped my watch. ‘You’re late. I thought something bad had happened.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to worry you,’ I said, a little put out. ‘Time ran away.’

  ‘It can’t run,’ Matteo said in an irritated tone.

  ‘I can,’ said Francesca, and she wriggled free and sprinted up the street with Matteo and me trailing behind.

  26

  Halfway into a second blistering summer, the children and I took Mirabella, a celluloid doll with nylon hair, jointed limbs, and eyes that opened and closed, Ernesto’s present to Francesca on her ninth birthday, to a dolls’ hospital. Matteo watched bored rigid as Frannie hoisted Mirabella onto the wooden counter, saying to the man behind it, ‘Signor, please can you fix her?’

  He whistled through tobacco-stained teeth. ‘What happened here?’

  Francesca pulled nervously on the ribbon restraining the bulk of her hair. ‘It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt her.’

  The shopkeeper arched his bushy eyebrows until they almost disappeared beneath a spill of snow-white hair flaring forward from the crown.

  Francesca gave her ribbon another tug, triggering an explosion of curls. In the dim light she resembled a renaissance angel. ‘I left her too close to the rubbish Nonna’s handyman Carlo was burning in a pit.’

  All eyes converged on Mirabella’s scorched legs, and the blackened clumps of plastic, previously feet. ‘If you mend the doll,’ I said, ‘my daughter will take better care of her.’

  Francesca bobbed her head. ‘I truly will.’

  ‘Well,’ the man said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  He hummed and hawed as he inspected Mirabella from top to toe, saying after a while, ‘She needs a good clean-up and brand-new legs. Fortunately for you, little one, I have her size in stock.’ To me, he said, ‘You pay cash, Signora …?’

  ‘Moretti. Yes, that’s fine.’

  Without Ilaria’s tutelage I would’ve missed the momentary tensing of skin around his eyes at the name. I opened my purse, exposing a bundle of five-thousand-lire banknotes which Ben had given me for the repairs. There was a chance there would be a decent amount left over for me to pay Ilaria for another lesson.

  There was no variation in the shopkeeper’s voice or his manner as he said, ‘Very well, Signora. Lift your careless daughter onto the counter so she can see what has to be done.’

  A subdued Francesca watched him remove the damaged limbs, wipe the doll with a clean cloth and check the sockets. He retrieved a shiny pair of legs from a drawer and, angling a hook, attached one and then the other to a contraption inside the cavity. Once they were partially secure, he rummaged through a shoebox of tubes of glue and made his choice. Using a narrow spatula, he daubed small quantities of the substance inside the doll to fix the joints but not render them immobile.

  ‘Signor, are all these glues for dolls?’ Matteo said, running a fi
ngertip along the rim of the box.

  ‘While we wait for the glue to set,’ the man said, ‘I’ll show you what else I make.’ Matteo hesitated. The shopkeeper added, ‘Bring your mamma and sister.’ He pulled aside a curtain. We followed him into a well-lit back room. On the rear wall balsawood boats filled a triple row of shelving. Lined up on a trestle table were German, Italian and British model fighter aircraft in various stages of completion. Strewn among miniature pots of paint, assorted brushes, rags and jars of turpentine I counted five half-drained coffee cups.

  ‘Are these all yours?’ Matteo asked in an incredulous tone.

  ‘Yes. When I’m not repairing dolls, I make models.’

  ‘They’re ace, Signor. Exact replicas.’ Matteo roamed the room, admiring the man’s handiwork. ‘When did you take up this job?’

  ‘In the late 1940s.’

  The lonesome lilt to his voice stirred me into surveying the space for clues of a former life. Above the sink, tucked into the side of a mirror, hairline cracks running down the centre, there was a snap of an attractive young woman holding a small boy on her hip and, alongside, another of a man in an air-force uniform about to climb into the cockpit of a Macchi fighter. He had the same dimpled chin as the model-maker whose index finger now rotated the propeller of a toy aircraft. War strain had likely turned his hair white. This happened to a friend of Muz’s who lost a son at Monte Cassino. I lowered my initial estimation of his age from sixty-five to fifty. I was speculating about the probable hardships and heartaches he and his family had endured when Matteo said, ‘Mamma, look at this plane!’

  The four of us hovered over a Reggiane fighter-bomber under construction, admiring the aerodynamic lines of the fuselage. ‘A Daimler-Benz engine gave the real planes an edge,’ said the model-maker.

  ‘As much as a Curtiss P-40 Warhawk?’ Matteo asked.

  ‘A fine plane at low or moderate altitudes, but it lost power when the pilot took it higher. The best feature is the maker’s symbol.’ He retrieved a replica from a cupboard. We stared at the gaping shark mouth and razor-sharp teeth painted along both sides of the nose cone. ‘Keep it, young man,’ he said. ‘As you can see I’m working on another.’

  ‘Really? You mean it?’ Matteo’s voice lifted in excitement.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll find a sheet of tissue paper and a box.’

  He retrieved these items from a shelf near Francesca. The little monkey had drawn a cat and kittens on scraps of cardboard and was about to cut out their shapes. ‘Can I paint them?’ she asked, waving her artwork in his face. ‘Please!’

  ‘Signor Roberto Ruggiero at your service,’ he answered.

  ‘I’m Francesca. This is my mamma,’ she said, pointing at me. ‘Matteo’s my brother.’

  I thought of shaking his hand until I noticed it was sticky with glue. ‘Call me Julia.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘And Roberto for me.’

  He picked up a tube of red paint, another of green, and squeezed splotches of each into a saucer, blended them with a Popsicle stick to create a carroty shade. ‘Matteo, give this to your sister while I pack your plane.’ He handed him the saucer. ‘Then you can help me finish the Reggiane.’

  For the next three-quarters of an hour Matteo measured and cut balsa, fetched glue and adjusted the five spars of an elliptical wing, a nifty design feature. I watched from a stool in the corner. Across from me, Francesca positioned her litter of cardboard kittens within pouncing distance of a pair of plump cardboard mice she had lined up against the wall. I wondered where the need came from for her to set up a situation that pitted hunters against the hunted. Not wanting to watch her demolish her creations I tuned back into Matteo and Roberto’s conversation, which had shifted to technical factors — not my cup of tea, though I was amused that my son had the ability to learn indoors when a subject interested him.

  I must have slipped into a reverie, because next thing a bell-tower clock struck 4 p.m., and whatever thoughts I had dispersed. With no time to waste I straightened the collar of my blouse and said, ‘Sorry to spoil the fun, children, but we have to leave. Rosa expects me to prepare the vegetables for dinner.’

  Roberto went to the sink, wet a rag under the tap and handed it to Matteo. ‘Clean your hands.’ And to me, he said, ‘Your son is a natural model-maker.’

  Matteo gave a bashful smile.

  ‘Thank you for your assistance,’ Roberto said. He shook the hand of his new assistant, then wiped the blade of the balsa-cutter on a dry cloth. ‘A craftsman always looks after his tools.’

  ‘Signor,’ Matteo said, ‘if I ask Rosa — she’s our nonna’s cook — to bake you a batch of biscuits, will you teach me to build a model from scratch?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Roberto said, looking at me.

  ‘Mamma, please?’

  I couldn’t see the harm. ‘Sounds a fine idea.’

  ‘Thank you! You’re the best mother in the whole world.’

  ‘She’s mine as well,’ said Francesca. ‘You have to share her.’

  Imitating Ben when she confounded him, Matteo gave a drawn-out sigh.

  Francesca edged towards Roberto. ‘Do you have a proper family?’

  ‘Only in my heart,’ he said, patting the region with paint-splattered hands. He picked up a catalogue. ‘Take this home, Matteo. Choose a favourite. When you’ve earned enough money to pay for the materials, we’ll work on your project.’

  ‘I’ll take on extra chores,’ Matteo said. ‘For Papa and my uncle.’

  ‘Their money will be well spent,’ Roberto said.

  Was it not always?

  27

  ‘I don’t want you going there and talking to the owner alone,’ Ben said in bed that night.

  ‘I’m not alone. The children are with me.’

  ‘Don’t be glib.’

  ‘He’s harmless.’

  ‘People will talk.’

  ‘Come with me and meet him yourself.’

  ‘I haven’t the time to waste.’

  ‘Then trust me. If I had the inclination to cheat I’d pick a virile prospect, not a lonely old man,’ I said, fondling Ben’s cock. It stayed flaccid despite vigorous efforts to revive it. In due course I said, ‘A cuddle will do,’ and nestled alongside him.

  ‘It’s too late, Julia.’

  I wasn’t sure if he meant too late for a fuck tonight or too late for us, an important distinction that I should have had him clarify.

  The escalating temperatures were hard on Alessia. She needed sponging down and cold flannels on her forehead. Her breathing, often laboured, meant she hovered between panicking and complaining. If I left to refill a basin she wailed like a child. Rosa and I took turns to sit with her. On one morning of unbearable heat Rosa had to go to the market so I asked Ben to bring in constant supplies of cool water. He’d emptied several basins and brought in chilled replacements before Alessia realised he was coming in and out of her room.

  ‘Doing something useful for a change,’ she huffed at him.

  He stopped in his tracks, looked at her with a mix of surprise and gratitude. ‘I’m here to do whatever I can to make you comfortable.’

  ‘That’s more than I deserve,’ she said, looking first at him and then at me.

  At last, I thought, and I got up to leave them to talk — but Ernesto, whom I hadn’t heard come in, blocked the doorway. ‘Get away from her,’ he shouted at Ben as he pushed me aside, the tips of his ears scarlet. He slammed his palm on the wall above Alessia’s bed, causing a painting of Christ to bounce about.

  Alessia’s head sprang off the pillow and her eyes flew wide open. ‘Ernesto,’ she rasped. ‘I need the help.’

  He pulled himself together, with difficulty I imagine, and adopted an air of superiority. ‘I’ll sort what he does from here on,’ he said. ‘If he sticks to what he was brought here to do, everything will work out. I have your best interests at heart, Mamma.’ He bent over and kissed her on the cheek. I may have been mistaken, but I thoug
ht she stiffened slightly.

  ‘I’m willing to take over the heavier duties for our mother, Ernesto,’ Ben said, taking a step closer to Alessia.

  ‘You haven’t the temperament, little brother. I’ll drum up extra business to keep you occupied. As for you, Julia, tomorrow clean all the windows inside and out. Ask Carlo for a ladder. And,’ he said, looking at Ben, ‘fill your own buckets.’

  These were the daytime jobs. We still had the nights to fill.

  On a whim, Ben decided to teach us the rudiments of chess. ‘Julia hasn’t a logical bone in her body,’ I heard him tell Ernesto after I gave a dismal showing. His efforts to instruct Francesca were equally doomed. ‘Your daughter lacks patience,’ he said, as though gender was responsible for our inability to master abstract calculations. He had better success with Matteo, and was soon boasting about our son’s intuitive knack for knowing which moves needed investigating and which clouded the situation. Like Ben, Matteo interpreted a position from his opponent’s point of view and implemented tactics and strategies to cause the utmost frustration. I think that comparing their results with Francesca’s and mine reinforced in Ben that we were the inferior sex. It’s possible Ernesto stoked this particular fire.

  Whenever Ben set up the chessboard, Francesca hounded me to play Snakes and Ladders with her. I did so if I had the time. However, as Alessia grew weaker, she required additional care, making it harder for me to juggle conflicting demands.

  During a particularly exhausting twenty-four hours, Francesca pushed her luck. With the men and children in the drawing room, Ben and Matteo caught up in a game, I had gone in to fetch their coffee cups.

  ‘Julia, iron my cream shirt for the morning,’ Ben said, moving his rook.

  Matteo tugged at his grubby shorts. ‘Wash these tonight, Mamma. I tore my other pair yesterday.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In my room.’

  ‘Can they be patched?’

  ‘How would I know? I’m not a girl.’

  I was about to reprimand him when a frantic cry from Alessia distracted me. As I turned to leave, Francesca grabbed my arm. ‘Stay here and play a game with me, Mamma. Papa and Matteo tell me to pipe down if I pester them. Nobody cares about me any more.’