The Gulf Between

by Maxine Alterio

  ‘Don’t be silly, Francesca. I love you,’ I said, ‘but I have to go to your nonna.’

  Ernesto said, ‘Set up the draughtboard, Francesca. I’ll teach you to think like a male.’

  I wasn’t sure this was a good idea, but I didn’t want to sound like a spoilsport. ‘Only if you’re free.’

  ‘Nothing’s as important as making my little girl happy.’ He tapped her on the chin and ran his finger down her T-shirt, stopping at her belly button and giving it a wiggle. ‘You like playing with me, don’t you?’

  ‘Make it a competition,’ she said, brightening up. ‘Best of five.’

  ‘Snuggle up close,’ he said.

  These games became a regular Saturday-night fixture, freeing me to sit with Alessia when she was at her most restless. We settled into a routine. I sponge-bathed her and put her in a fresh nightgown. Rosa brought in two glasses of rosolio for Alessia and me to enjoy while we discussed matters such as whether the figs were ripening on the trees, if Carlo had tied up the beans, if the new netting on the strawberries deterred the birds. Ironically, Alessia was shaping up to be the least objectionable Moretti under this roof.

  28

  At the tail end of summer Alessia’s health worsened. She frequently vomited or wet the bed, sometimes gushing simultaneously at both ends. Two uneventful days in a row was unusual, three a blessing. Over the weekend I had washed and dried her bedding five times. No surprise then on Monday morning as I descended the lower level of stairs to hear a familiar hack coming from her room, accompanied by an explosive graunch of evacuating bowels, and her calling for me. ‘Christ, she’s off again,’ I moaned to Ben as he caught up with me.

  ‘You had better see to her, Julia. Quick.’

  I took the last six steps two at a time. Cursed as my elbow collided with a finial, swung into her room rubbing skin and bone. Her bedcover had fallen to the floor. She was kneeling in shit and spew. The stench almost made me retch. ‘I can hardly breathe,’ she said between gasps.

  ‘Copy me.’ I took her hand, placed it over my abdomen. ‘In and out, nice and slow, that’s better. You’re doing well. You’re a star.’

  ‘Nuisance.’

  ‘Not to me.’

  Her eyes watered. She swiped her arm across her face.

  I washed and changed her, disposed of the stinking sheets, fetched fresh ones, grateful that the rubber had kept the mattress dry, settled her, had a quick shower and clock-watched until it was a reasonable hour to telephone the doctor. He came before opening his surgery. I hung around while he tapped her chest and listened to her lungs, anxious for her and also concerned that her state might stymie my chances of meeting Ilaria.

  ‘You need extra oxygen,’ the doctor told Alessia. He returned the stethoscope to his medical bag. ‘I’ll drop off a cylinder when I’m on my rounds. In the meantime,’ he said to me, ‘keep her propped up and calm,’ which meant foregoing my outing.

  At dinnertime I flopped into a chair. No lipstick. Lank hair. Tired out. Ernesto was filling the wine jug. All day he’d ducked in and out to see his mother. Was she comfortable? Did she need water? Had I given her a segment of orange to suck? I answered his questions with an affable smile, elastic from overuse.

  ‘An impressive vintage, Julia,’ he said, tilting back his head and raising the jug for a smell. His nostrils were stacked with black hairs. He poured me a generous glass.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘I need a pick-me-up.’ I had already taken a light supper through to Alessia on a tray. Hopefully it wouldn’t end up in her bed or on the floor if she had another bad bout of coughing.

  Rosa brought in the roast fowl I had prepared and placed in the oven under her supervision, and Francesca followed with a bowl of crispy root vegetables and, on a second trip, a dish of mixed greens. ‘Can I have a wing, please?’ Francesca said, taking her seat as Rosa forked the chicken into pieces.

  ‘As long as you sit up straight,’ Ben said.

  ‘Frannie doesn’t know how, Papa,’ Matteo said. He nudged her in the side.

  ‘I do so.’ She adopted the requisite pose. ‘See. We practise at school.’

  ‘Good girl,’ Ernesto said, inserting a napkin into the neckline of her dress.

  ‘Football practice going well, Matteo?’ Ernesto leaned towards him. ‘If you do whatever the coach wants, I guarantee that in the not too distant future he’ll pick you to play for a regional team in our flash new San Paolo football stadium. I donated a fortune towards its construction. Anyone would think I knew you were coming.’

  While the three males talked about premier-league games, I made lists in my head of what I still had to do before retiring for the night: check Matteo’s homework, read a bedtime story to Francesca, wash the dishes, clean the shoes, settle Alessia, wring out sheets I’d left soaking in the washhouse. The work is never-ending, I thought, as Ernesto refilled my glass.

  ‘An agreeable chocolate and plum aroma, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘And there’s plenty more.’

  29

  Not quite hungover but with a vague headache hovering, I came downstairs on the seventh of September to a double batch of sfogliatella riccia stuffed with orange-scented cream set out on a tray and Matteo counting his savings on the kitchen table. ‘What’s happening?’ I said. ‘It’s barely light.’

  Rosa fetched the coffee pot from the stove and poured me a cup.

  ‘Thank you.’ No one made coffee like her. ‘Well?’ I said to my son.

  Rosa answered for him. ‘Yesterday Matteo, he tells me he has plenty lire for a model plane. So I bake for the signor. Matteo, he made a deal.’

  Her last sentence sounded like something Ernesto would say, or lately Ben. The previous week Rosa had given Ben a phone message that sent him into a right old flap. I had assumed it was factory-related until the same day I escaped to Chiaia for an hour and to my surprise spied Ben with the cash satchel, talking to a chap in overalls on the waterfront. Before I could make out what they were up to the two men disappeared into a space between two buildings. Hours later Ben slunk into the villa, reeking of sweat and grease and the sea. Ernesto followed him upstairs speaking their local language in a harassing tone.

  ‘Signor Ruggiero is a kind-hearted man,’ I said to Rosa, ‘not greedy or manipulative.’

  She clicked her tongue. ‘Napoletani, we have built-in cash registers.’

  Amazingly Ben had agreed to accompany us. Or was he checking up on Roberto?

  At 1 p.m. I put out a light spread of cheese, salami, and tomato and cucumber salad. While Rosa sliced bread I went upstairs and changed from my housedress into a swish sea-green skirt and matching top, the last purchase I had made with the money Muz and Wiggin gave me the Christmas they went to Spain.

  After lunch, we set off, Ben smoothing his hair, Matteo carrying the box of pastries and Francesca a bouquet of amaryllis lilies Carlo had picked for her so she had a present to give Roberto, too.

  At the end of the street we met throngs of revellers heading down the hill. Ben flung up his arms. ‘Blast, I forgot about the Festa di Piedigrotta.’

  ‘What’s it celebrating?’ I asked. Festivals outnumbered stray cats in this city.

  ‘Something to do with fertility rites. It’ll be impossible to get through the streets with all the people flocking to see the floats. And anyone with a half-decent voice enters the singing contest.’

  He belted out a line from ‘O Sole Mio’, the song he’d serenaded me with the month before Matteo’s birth. We’d been walking home after a pleasant supper at the home of a couple who lived a short distance from us, Ben a little drunk. As we turned into our street he launched into a hearty rendition. Mindful of our slumbering neighbours I silenced him with a lingering kiss. ‘Remember, Ben?’ I said, lifting Francesca off the wall she walked along, arms outstretched to aid her balance. He gave me a playful grin. It was good to see him relax.

  ‘Take me to the floats, Papa, please,’ Francesca said. She skipped in front of him and made what we called h
er ‘bewitching smile’. ‘I promise to hold your hand.’

  ‘What do you reckon, Mattie?’ Ben said.

  ‘I want to go to the model shop.’

  ‘That settles it. I’ll take Frannie to the parade and Mamma can accompany you to Roberto’s. No hijinks, though,’ he said with a laugh. Francesca handed me the lilies and hollered like a banshee, her hand linked in Ben’s as they galloped off. Here in Naples his gaiety took the form of restless energy with a touch of wild melancholia.

  Relieved that he no longer perceived Roberto as a threat, I edged with Matteo along the crowded footpath. We hadn’t gone far when I felt a feather touch on my bare arm. I whirled around to see a youth fleeing into a narrow alley with my purse. Pickpockets were common on ordinary days, endemic during festivals. Wise to their tricks after almost seventeen months, I never carried more cash on me than I needed or took my best handbag. ‘The rotter,’ I said. ‘He won’t be so cocky when he finds he only nabbed a handful of coins and a lipstick worn almost to the base. Thank goodness he didn’t snatch your rucksack, Matteo, with your hard-earned cash in it.’

  ‘He should work for his money.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s can’t find a job.’

  ‘I’d sooner starve than take what wasn’t mine.’

  ‘Life’s not always clear-cut,’ I said, flushing as I wondered if he had seen me steal from his father. ‘Have you decided which model to buy?’

  ‘Yes, but I want to surprise you.’

  ‘How long will it take to assemble?’

  While Matteo pondered the question, I battled with my conscience. If Ben were more generous with money, I wouldn’t be devious. These days he rarely considered anything from my perspective or put me before Ernesto. He never asked if I missed Marsha, Diann and Clinty. The previous year Clinty had fired off amusing postcards in response to mine, and sent a couple of letters and sketches of new clothing designs. So far this year she hadn’t bothered or, if she had, they’d been withheld or burnt in the firebox. Marsha expected me to phone her — ‘You and Ben have loads more money than me and Simon’ — and Diann was travelling.

  ‘I’m not sure, Mamma,’ Matteo said. ‘I haven’t made a model from scratch before.’

  Roberto was behind the counter, sorting through bundles of plastic arms and legs, his gnarled hands seeming out of place against the dolls’ smooth limbs. He lifted his head when we came in. ‘Welcome, Matteo, Julia. How are you both?’

  We assured him we were well and enquired after his health. Apart from an arthritic knee, he claimed to be in fine fettle, and to prove it he lifted the flap of the counter and came through to our side, arms bent at the elbows, pumping the air. ‘I eat plenty of greens.’ His impersonation of Popeye the comic character made us laugh. Something I hadn’t done for weeks. It felt good.

  As he and I talked about the importance of staying active and making the most of simple pleasures, Matteo waited for a break in the conversation. When it came, he said, ‘I worked hard and saved up for a model, Signor Ruggiero.’

  ‘Well done, young man. Drop the surname. Signor Roberto is fine.’ He ushered us into the back room, fetched a dozen boxes from a shelf and placed them end-to-end on the bench. Each one had a picture of the contents on the front. ‘Take your pick.’

  While Matteo studied the options, I set down Rosa’s cardboard box and the lilies on the bench. ‘For you, Roberto.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, and he lifted a pot of coffee from the hotplate and filled two cups. Between sips, we discussed the cost of lavish festival displays. Whenever he broke into Napoletano, I relied on facial expressions and gestures to get the gist of what he meant. Thanks to Ilaria’s lessons, I picked up that it was his fifty-fifth birthday. ‘Congratulations. Have you any plans to slow down?’

  ‘Never,’ he said and he encircled his neck with both hands to indicate that he would sooner strangle himself. ‘Better to make children happy.’

  The jangle of the bell over his front door curbed his antics. ‘Stay here,’ he said, and he parted the curtain and ducked into the shop. I couldn’t resist a peek. A bulky envelope passed from his workman’s hands into a pair as smooth and creamy as a cosseted infant’s without a word being spoken.

  I thought of the payments Ilaria had told me the Camorra required from shopkeepers. Was Roberto a victim of this practice?

  Another jangle and he rejoined us as if nothing disagreeable had taken place. ‘Matteo, which is your favourite?’

  ‘This one, Signor Roberto,’ he said, pointing to a biplane.

  ‘A fine choice.’ He scribbled a price on the lid of the box.

  Far less than it was worth, I thought. Matteo counted out the exact amount.

  ‘Thank you,’ Roberto said, stuffing the lire into his apron pocket and knotting the ties across his stomach. Transaction completed, he put the lilies in a jar of water near his photos and lifted a corner of the pastry box. ‘Superb. I’ll share them with my scopa buddies.’

  Everyone played this card game, at home, on the street and at work. If a butcher or a fruit seller said ‘Aspetta un’attimo’, wait a moment, we knew we wouldn’t be served until the last round was won or lost. Not that we minded. It was fun watching the rivalry between players, especially when scowls turned to cheers.

  Roberto waited for Matteo to read the instructions before he spread the pieces on the table. Matteo’s face was aglow as Roberto talked him through the steps. I thought of him missing out on Wiggin’s companionship and outings with Muz. Their premature deaths had left a massive hole in our lives.

  While the model plane on the table took shape I dipped in and out of the backroom conversation. Sometimes imagining what my friends were up to in London, other times recalling memories of the pleasure my parents had given the children. They organised heaps of treasure hunts, and once they put on an Alice in Wonderland-themed Easter party. Wiggin decked out as the March Hare and Muz as the Queen of Hearts waiting on the porch to greet us had tipped us into hysterical laughter. There were outfits for us, too. We had fun dressing up and adapting the orginal storyline to suit our purposes, Ben ad-libbing more than the rest of us because he wasn’t familiar with the book. Fearful of becoming morose I tuned into what Roberto was telling Matteo about the model, but his instructions were too technical to hold my attention and I drifted off again.

  The sound of four hands clapping pulled me from another recollection involving my parents. A joyless memory due to the disappointment I had detected in their voices as they explained to a couple they hadn’t seen for years that I had chosen marriage over a career. I looked up and found fabric already covering the wings of the biplane. There was a small motor in the centre and three wheels beneath the wooden framework. ‘Magnificent, Mattie,’ I said. ‘Well done, son.’

  ‘Signor Roberto designed this model. He based it on the 1910 Duigan plane. Now we have to wait for the glue to dry.’

  ‘Since it’s Roberto’s birthday perhaps we could take him for a treat?’

  Matteo looked at the model-maker. ‘Say yes, please.’

  Roberto grinned. ‘I would be honoured.’

  He took a cap from a hook on the wall. Dark stains ranged across the lining, a by-product of the Brilliantine I guessed he applied often, for, like his planes, Roberto’s hair gave the impression it was ready to take off. Women of a similar vintage cooked their tresses with perming solutions. Those who frequented the salons left with easy-to-manage curls while the others made do with cheap home treatments, usually finishing up with an unattractive frizz. I asked Alessia once if she’d had a perm. ‘Who wants to look like a puffed-up poodle?’ she answered. ‘New-fangled fads can’t beat a stylish haircut and a good dye job. The same goes for clothes.’ No mention where the money came from to pay for her expensive tastes.

  ‘Mamma,’ Matteo said, shaking my arm.

  ‘Are we ready to go?’ I asked.

  As Roberto flipped over the ‘Closed’ sign on the shop door and picked up his box camera, I fished a stash of emerg
ency lire from my bra. We walked into fresh air, a welcome change from the glue-filled fug of the back room.

  At a café in a piazza, we ordered dita degli apostoli, crêpes filled with sweetened ricotta, difficult to eat without making a mess. In the end, we abandoned our manners and tucked in.

  Roberto offered to take a photo of Matteo and me. Bellies full and chins wiped clean with paper serviettes, we posed like movie stars until he got a decent shot.

  30

  New Zealand, 1994

  The whiteness of the walls in ICU reminds me of avalanche country, potential suffocation. It’s either eerily silent or frantically noisy, never in between. A registrar and two nurses rush a crash-trolley into the adjoining room. Stricken-faced relatives huddle nearby. Death stalks the corridor. I close Matteo’s door.

  The ward sister has been to see me. ‘The best thing you can do for your son,’ she’d said, ‘is to sit quietly and let him heal.’

  So this is what I’m doing when a bug-eyed chaplain drops in, his spiky white hair in the style favoured by the actor Terence Stamp.

  ‘Will you join me in a prayer?’ he says, bringing his hands together.

  ‘I’m not a believer.’

  ‘Comfort comes to those who seek guidance from a higher being.’

  His belief in a deity irks me as much as the intrusion. ‘I have what I need right here,’ I say, and imitating Alessia on a bad day I dismiss him with a flick of my wrist.

  I don’t want to think about religion or death, the former a minefield, the latter, when it happens prematurely, a calamity. Nor do I want to descend into morbid musings. Instead I recall the love that once existed between Matteo and Francesca. I’m puzzled as to why they never contacted each other in adulthood. Maybe they were in touch but kept it from me. I’m contemplating the possibilities when the glassy-eyed nurse opens the door and gives a polite cough. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Come in.’