The Mafia Emblem

by Michael Hillier

  - 23 -

  Now the betrothal was about to take place. Behind Ben there was a muted click as the departing Emilio softly closed the dining room door. The little sound seemed to increase his feeling of isolation. He felt acutely embarrassed at blundering into a strange family ceremony where nobody wanted him to be. Desperately he searched the room, but he could not see Francesca, who at least might have welcomed him with a smile.

  “Will you have a drink, Signor Cartwright?” asked Sylvia, her eyes now cold and distant. Had she actually been in his room only half an hour ago?

  “Later, thank you. First I should like to have a word with Signora Cimbrone.”

  She gave him a warning look. “Please be brief and do not mention Toni. She understands very little these days.” She returned to her station beside her brother.

  Hesitantly Ben approached Toni’s mama. The old lady was sitting in a large upright chair near the window with her back half towards the rest of the company. He was even more shocked by her deterioration than he had been by that of Alfredo. When he had last seen her she had aged, but he could tell that she had once been a splendid woman. Toni had told him that she had been the centre of power in the family, occupying the position of the traditional matriarch. Now she seemed to have become very old and bowed, broken by the tragedies which had swept over her.

  Ben thought she resembled nothing so much as a great old, shapeless cushion thrust into the chair and sagging in the middle. She was dressed all in black linen with her white hands projecting from the centre of the large bundle at awkward angles, twisted and gnarled like driftwood on a beach. A piece of black lace was pinned to her nicotine-coloured hair, as if left there by a casual gust of wind. Beneath, her face was startlingly white with the grey lips scarred across it. But the age and the sorrow couldn’t completely obscure the dark, gimlet eyes which seemed to open straight into the back of her mind. In them he could detect a gleam of hatred and despair at the unknown people who were destroying her family.

  He reached forward and held her hand. He gathered together the best he could of his halting Italian. “Mi dispiace mama,” he murmured. “Mi dispiace per Papa. Mi dispiace per Toni.”

  For a second her eyes fluttered up to meet his and she gripped his hand with surprising strength. She looked as though she was going to say something of importance to him.

  But, after a long pause, all she whispered was “Oh-oh, grazie.” Then her gaze fell to her lap again and she was once more immersed in her private grief.

  Ben crouched beside her wondering whether to say more - wondering how to say more to her. He felt he should not get up too soon and move away. However he was saved by the arrival of Francesca. All eyes swivelled away from him and alighted on her with relief as she swept into the room.

  She was attired as though for a summer party, in a dress of a variety of shades of green and blue. The top was loose and light and with a surprisingly low-cut neckline for a young girl who was about to become betrothed. The skirt flared out from the waist and licked around her calves as she walked. Ben thought that she brought sunshine into the dismal dining room. Like all the others, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.

  He was surprised that she hadn’t dressed herself in something more demure to suit the occasion. And from his covert glance at the faces of the other people in the room, Ben judged that their conservative values had been profoundly shocked by her irreverent clothing. He heard a sharp intake of breath from Mama. He also noticed that the priest’s mouth had dropped wide open.

  Sylvia quickly crossed the room and spoke to her urgently in a low voice. The girl tossed her head. Although Ben couldn’t hear what was said it was obvious that she was refusing to comply with a request made by the other woman. Sylvia’s next comment had more of a pleading note to it, but Francesca pointedly turned away. Ben thought what a handful she must be for the rest of the family when she was in this mood.

  The next moment her eyes alighted on him and she came across the room to greet him. Ben had a nasty feeling that Francesca had decided to make use of his unexpected arrival to divert herself at his expense. There was a little forced smile on her face but her eyes were upset and angry.

  “Thank you for coming, Benjamin. I want you to tell me all about London and what life there is like with Toni.” Her voice seemed overloud.

  “Oh, my God,” thought Ben. “What do I do now?”

  Fortunately Sylvia came to his rescue. “That will have to wait until later. Now that we are all here we will start the meal. Francesca, you are to sit at the head of the table to the right of Father Paoli.”

  Ben gratefully concentrated on taking the place allocated to him. He found he was squashed in to a position on the far side between Mama and Sylvia. Dino was on Father Paoli’s left and next to Sylvia. Alfredo was at the foot of the table and the couple with the unknown name was seated opposite him.

  The next hour held little pleasure for Ben. Sylvia addressed no more than the odd formal comment to him regarding the food. On his other side Mama seemed to be completely unaware of any of the other persons present. She sat hunched over her plate and ate negligible amounts of the food given to her.

  The food consisted of a seemingly interminable string of small dishes, mostly pasta or vegetables. The latter were normally eaten cold, shaken in oil and vinegar. Occasionally there were other individual dishes of highly spiced fish or very chewy, half-cooked meat. Fortunately it appeared to be perfectly acceptable that one should only eat as much as one wished of each dish, leaving the remainder to be collected by the maid before the next small offering was served. Only the middle-aged couple and Father Paoli seemed anxious to finish up everything that they were given.

  The whole meal was a subdued affair with very little conversation, and what there was of course took place in Italian. So Ben tried to occupy his time by studying the personalities around the table as betrayed by their eating habits. He noticed that the priest stuffed the food into his mouth with a frantic enthusiasm, seldom leaving any on the plate, as though afraid that the succour was about to be spirited away from him at any second. All the while his shifty eyes ranged restlessly round the table like an infected bluebottle – hovering, yet never quite alighting.

  Ben could hardly observe Dino without leaning too far forward. He only noticed that the man appeared to peck at his food with the quick yet savage action of a hawk, almost seeming to flick the morsels from the plate to his mouth. He ignored all the others around the table, Francesca included. But occasionally he addressed brief comments to Sylvia in his harsh, sharp monotone. Ben was now quite sure that his was the third, unseen voice he had heard in the argument that afternoon.

  Francesca picked over her food with disinterest, normally keeping her eyes lowered. Occasionally she flashed a glance at Ben. If he returned the look she would flush and hastily drop her eyes again. He wondered if she had also had a warning from Sylvia. Ben found it difficult to keep his eyes off her face. He thought her colouring was delightful. Her hair was dark, yet fine and glossy. Her skin seemed unusually pale and creamy for an Italian, but she had a blush on her cheeks like a ripe peach.

  The couple who were sitting opposite him said little, even to each other, but they ate much. It seemed to Ben that this meal was being treated by them as a sort of reward for services rendered. Maybe they were independent witnesses to the main event of the evening – the betrothal. Ben wondered just what kind of event this was going to be.

  His attention moved on to Alfredo. Seated at the foot of the table he appeared to be detached from what was going on. There was a strange dilation to the pupils of his eyes which puzzled Ben. It almost seemed as if he was suffering from some kind of shock to his system. He seldom spoke, occasionally addressing a comment to the lady on either side of him, but hardly ever receiving a response. All in all, Ben concluded that there was little atmosphere of celebration around the table.