The Golden Lion

by Pamela Haines

  ‘You like first class, mister?’

  ‘Second was heavily booked – and overcrowded into the bargain by some hundred and forty.’ He sat back, hands in his pockets. ‘I like my creature comforts, you see.’

  There was a large box of candies on a table nearby. He untied the ribbon. ‘Tuck in. They’re meant for my family, but I’ve plenty more.’

  She was greedy and ate several. Her mouth full of pistachio fondant, she craned her neck to look at his books: Rafael Sabatini, The Sea Hawk, Nat Gould, Wizard of the Turf.

  ‘You like reading?’ he asked. Scooping up a paper with one hand: ‘It says here in the Cunard Daily Bulletin there’s a strong possibility of Italy coming into the war as our ally. You’ve family over there still?’

  ‘Yes, sir. My brother Mastro and Rosalia, that’s my sister, they’re married. They’re in Monteleone where we lived. And I got two brothers, Rocco and Gaetano, they’re in Detroit. They came with us. Papa died. He got sick, something with his bones. We’d a bad time, mister – till the Ricciardis …’

  She chattered on. He seemed really interested. When she’d done: ‘My word,’ he said, ‘that’s a lot to fit into eleven years … And now you’re off to England?’

  ‘I am, mister. Is where you live the middle of England?’

  He smiled. ‘No. Middlesbrough. That’s in the north, by the sea. We’ve another house near the moors, where my family, our four children, spend much of the summer … Shall I show you my family?’

  From the desk he took out several framed photographs.

  ‘Here’s James, our eldest – taken before he enlisted. He’s in France now.’ A blond moustachioed young man stared confidently at the camera: ‘He’s a fine-looking lad, is James. I rather depend on him … Then Ida.’ Rimless spectacles, a large friendly face, smiling broadly. ‘And Dick next.’ A dark-haired intense boy, his mouth in a half smile. ‘He’s been very poorly, has Dick. Pneumonia. He’s convalescing at Moorgarth, our house I told you of, at the moment.’ Beside him was another boy, younger, dark, his features a heavier version of his brother’s. He looked pleased with himself. ‘And Peter. He’s fourteen. And at school of course …’

  Also in the picture with the two boys was a woman wearing pince-nez and her hair scraped back severely from a heavy-jowled face. She looked bad-tempered.

  ‘And that’s the boys’ mother, Mrs Grainger … Now, here, we’ve a group. Dick, Ida, James – and our great family friend, Eleanor Dennison.’ A tall woman, rather plain, smiled at the camera.

  He took up the last picture. ‘And this little one here,’ pointing to a girl of about Maria’s age with slant eyes and a pretty mouth, ‘Jenny’s eleven, like you –’

  ‘But that makes five,’ Maria said. ‘You told me four.’

  He said hastily, ‘It’s five. Five. Three boys and the two girls.’ He took the pictures from her. ‘And now, you wanted to hear the phonograph …’

  It appeared that Dick loved ragtime. As well as some pianola rolls (‘Clarence M. Johnson, that sort of thing,’) his father had bought him a number of records. ‘Irving Berlin – it may not be what he wants but I’m enjoying them.’ He rang for some tea and they drank it together while the phonograph played, I want to be back in Dixie, and He’s a ragpicker. Maria sang along.

  ‘That’s a bonny little voice,’ he said. ‘I shall have to listen out for you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ve got to go now,’ she said suddenly. ‘But I could come back, I guess. If you ask me –’

  ‘I shall,’ he said solemnly, as he saw her to the door.

  She dreamed heavily. Maybe she’d eaten too many candies. She was shut in the wardrobe in Mr Grainger’s cabin. Oddly, it wasn’t upright, but flat on the floor. She didn’t try to get out. She was safe in there. Safe from the Lion. She heard Mr Grainger’s voice. Then doors opening and shutting. A creaking and a roaring. Mr Grainger said, ‘You’ve no witnesses. You can’t do this. My family …’ The wardrobe swayed. Swayed with the waves on the sea. But it’s bolted to the floor, she told herself. It’s bolted.

  ‘The Lion has a heart of stone,’ one of the voices said.

  ‘Have pity on me,’ Mr Grainger said, ‘I only did it for my family, for my five children.’

  All at once she realized where she was. It was a linen chest, not a wardrobe. She wasn’t safe at all. She must get out. She must escape, and save her cousin. She banged, desperate, afraid, on the lid of the chest. As it swayed with the sea, she thought: we shall all drown. Agniulu Dei chie doje spiccata munti. Mamma, help me, help me …

  She woke suddenly. Mamma was shaking her. ‘A bad dream, eh?’ Ettore set up a thin wail, pulling at the sides of the cot. ‘Now you’ve woken that bad boy …’

  ‘I was dreaming of old times,’ Maria said. ‘It was a nightmare of old times.’

  Her mouth buzzed. She could hear the flies, as she could feel them crawl about her mouth. Prickly pears, sweet painful taste. She had been eating a prickly pear. Pain and pleasure. In the heat the flies came to her sore, sweet, bloodstained mouth, lips torn by prickles. She tried to fight, to push at the humming mass. Someone took her hands away. She cried. This was her first memory.

  Voices said, ‘Hit her, she was told not … Hit her, she’ll learn … Poor little one, wash her, throw water … Who has water to spare these days? She’s with her sister. Let her sister take her back …’

  Only one sister, Rosalia. Ten years older, and angry. Her dark heavy hair shaking with exasperation as she dragged or pushed Maria about. Maria, always straying that little too far from home – in the village of Monteleone, up in the mountains. Vines and olive trees, sheep, shepherds, a main street that climbed, cobbled, with alleys twisting and turning off it. A little square with fountains where they went for water, of which there was never enough. A few years more and it would be Maria to fetch it, to stagger under the weight of the earthenware pitcher, her brother Arasimu groaning the other side.

  Their house had two rooms, and a hole behind a door for a lavatory. She played on the floor which was made of mud. Indoors or outdoors – kneeling on the ground, absorbed, she didn’t know which was which. The walls of the room were painted blue, like the sky. Some hens lived with the family. There was a copper stove for when it was cold, and an alcove with a decorated curtain, fringed with silk: she liked to twist and twist its tassels, then let them spin. Someone smacked her for that. Above the alcove was a loft, with wood for the stove, and grain.

  On the walls were pictures of Sant’ Antonio, Santa Rosalia, the Virgin Mary. Rosalia, Maria – how to tell the saints from the sinners, the living from the dead? Grandfather, two uncles she’d never seen, their photographs grouped together, flyblown, faded, moustachioed: the dead. The living were Mamma, and Papa who was thin and a little bent, but strong. Her eldest brother, Mastro, was thin too and his moustache grew low towards his chin in the same way. After Rosalia came Rocco and Gaetano, two brothers so close together they might have been twins – and so much older than Maria that they had always seemed large, vigorous. No photographs to remember the next two brothers – each had died after a few days. Then came Arasimu, two years older than Maria.

  Arasimu. They fought like kittens, like puppies, in play, in anger. At night he shared the bed with her and Mamma and Papa. Then suddenly he was not there. Sounds of weeping and wailing. They wailed and then were silent, mourning Arasimu who had died of brain fever. She could remember nothing of his illness. They had sent her to her aunt’s, to Za Rosetta’s, five minutes away at the far end of the village. Her aunt’s home was only one room, and the hole. Her husband, Zu Orazio, Papa’s brother, was ill. Had always been ill. They lived on others’ kindness and what Minicu, their son, got from work. Zu Orazio often sat outside the house with the women, his thin hands shelling beans. Za Rosetta had more time for her than her own mother. So did Minicu. Minicu was mischievous and curious. Wiry, small, like all that family. He was a tease and never minded his own business.

  Za Rosetta told her stories a
nd sang to her, Maria squatting beside her, as she made sweets which Minicu took up to people who were better off and would buy them. The doctor, for instance, or Don Cataldo, who lived in a large house not far from the church with only his housekeeper, and whom people called The Lion. (‘Why?’ she asked, for she was always asking questions. But either no one heard or they weren’t telling, because they only answered, ‘Why not?’)

  Once Mamma had taken her to see Don Cataldo. The room had a lot of furniture and was dark and frightening, as was Don Cataldo, although his manner was kindly. He had a great mane of white hair and a furrowed face. He stroked Maria’s head. Mamma told her to kneel down. ‘Down, down, Maria.’ Then Don Cataldo asked some questions and gave her a blessing.

  It must have been about then that Don Cataldo became confused in her mind with the Golden Lion of Za Rosetta’s story. Maria’s favourite.

  A very rich man with lots to eat had three sons. The eldest asked to see the world so the father built him a ship and he sailed away till he reached land and saw a notice: ‘Find the King’s daughter in eight days and you can marry her. If you don’t, your head will be chopped off.’ He looked all over the palace and in every linen chest, but he couldn’t find her so they cut off his head. At home the second son asked for a ship to look for his brother. The wind blew him into the same harbour. ‘I’II try and find the Princess,’ but though he looked all over the palace and in every linen chest, he had his head cut off too. Then the youngest son set sail and a high wind blew him into the same place. On his way to find the Princess, he met an old beggar-woman and gave her some money. ‘Can I help you, kind boy?’ He told her about his brothers. She said, ‘Go to a goldsmith, ask him to make a lion of gold with crystals for eyes and a music box inside.’ Then she put the boy inside the golden lion and had it taken to the King, who wanted to buy it. But she refused, so he persuaded her to leave it for one night for his daughter to play with.

  When she had gone the King lifted up some wooden floorboards. Underneath was a secret staircase. He took the Lion down, along a passage and through one door, then another … The boy, who could see through the crystal eyes, counted seven. Then in a beautiful hall, he saw twelve girls all dressed the same. ‘However shall I tell which is the Princess?’ he thought sadly. When the King left, they all stroked the Lion and rode on his back till they got tired. The girl they called the Princess said she wanted the Lion to sleep with her. In bed, she said: ‘Golden Lion, I love you. You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.’ Then she stroked and kissed him. Suddenly the boy spoke from inside the Lion: ‘How much I have suffered to find you!’

  The Princess, frightened, began to scream, but her friends thought she was dreaming so they did not come. The boy spoke again: ‘My two brothers died looking for you. I want to make you my wife – so I am hiding inside the Golden Lion.’ When she understood this she was frightened again because she knew he would be killed too. How was he to know her from the others? ‘You must give me a sign,’ he said. So she promised to put a blue belt round her waist.

  The next morning when he had been let out, the boy went to the King. ‘I want to find the Princess.’ The King was sad because he knew he would lose his head like the others. The boy lived seven days in the palace, eating fine food and drinking wine. He pretended to look everywhere and in every linen chest. On the last day he went into the King’s room and asked to lift up some floorboards. The King was surprised but said nothing. The boy went down the stairs and along the passage and through a door … till he had been through seven doors. Then he was in a hall with twelve girls, all dressed the same. Just then one girl took from her pocket a blue belt – just like the Virgin wears with her white dress in the statues – and put it round her waist. ‘She is the Princess!’ the boy cried, ‘and she shall be my wife.’

  After the wedding feast, the boy sailed home with his princess, a shipload of treasures and the Golden Lion. To the old woman he gave money so that she would never be hungry again. And they all lived happily ever after …

  Like the old beggarwoman, Maria knew what it was to be hungry. It was the little animal inside which chewed at your stomach, ran around biting it after carelessly you’d let drop some crusts – lost them and cried for more. Many days in the winter there were none. Better in the summer, stealing the beans which Mamma sat shelling. Raw, hard. Another sort of pain. Bad days and good days – God sent them both but the Virgin took the bad ones away. Sometimes, if the talk was to be believed, it was the Lion’s fault. She was confused. ‘Not the Golden Lion. He helps people,’ she said. ‘What Golden Lion?’ they asked, only half listening … ‘Oh, some story of Rosetta’s,’ they said.

  Or Minicu’s. He told stories too, ones Maria could never remember, or didn’t want to, full as they were of two-headed monsters, bears, hungry wolves on the mountain eating people. (‘And all the village went up to look for little ‘Ntonia and to hunt the wolf, but they found only bones…’) She had bad dreams, and worried when Minicu went up into the mountains looking for herbs. ‘Aren’t you afraid?’ But he only laughed at her.

  Sometimes there was bread in the mornings, dry bread. Oh, it tasted good – with fresh water if they’d been to the fountain. Herbs perhaps. Stolen scraps, uncooked pasta fallen to the ground. At night a plate of pasta, the sauce so hot it made her eyes run. All eating together from two great dishes. Rocco with his big appetite, always the hungriest just as he was the largest and strongest. The dark hairs grew on his forearms and on his chest, a thick mat – curly like his head. He could frighten her. Not like Minicu but in a different way. When she knew he was angry, she was afraid. It was as if he turned into stone.

  It was the summer before they left for ‘Merica that Minicu disappeared. All Maria’s family were going except Mastro and Rosalia: she was to marry a boy from Monteleone, Mastro a girl from the next village with a good dowry. Minicu could not go because of his parents.

  She knew ‘Merica was further than Palermo. But Palermo, for all she knew of it, could have been a village just beyond Monteleone. To go to ‘Merica, they must sail on the sea. No one cried when people took the cart to Palermo, but Za Rosetta, whenever she spoke of their going to ‘Merica, wiped tears from her eyes with her black headscarf, bit her moustachioed lip.

  ‘Merica. Enough to eat. And money to send home. The Licari brothers were spoken of. Fifteen years ago they had come back on a visit with gold in their pockets and fine wool trousers and silk shirts and jewellery.

  For some months now, she had been running errands for the trattoria at the foot of the village, taking the little money she earned straight home. One evening, she heard that Minicu was missing. He hadn’t come down from the mountain. Za Rosetta sent Rocco and Gaetano searching. She and Mamma and other women from the village sat outside the next evening, waiting for news. Mamma was dandling the new baby from next door. Mamma loved babies. Maria was meant to be sewing but, worried about Minicu, could not sit still. She was making a stocking and her needle was rusty. She rubbed it in her hair as she’d seen the others do. Talk went on round her. Wailing. Za Rosetta sat with them and was comforted. There wasn’t a man in sight. ‘I should have gone to church,’ Za Rosetta said, ‘O Lamb of God, find me my son, find me my Minicu.’

  A kitten rubbed its head against Maria’s legs, then flinched as she raised her hand to caress it. She was silly about animals, worrying even about the hens and turkeys. A scrap of material dangling in the air floated to the kitten who caught it and tossed it. His bones showed through his scraggy parted fur. ‘Give that me,’ she called. But he slunk off. From boredom, from distress – she ran after him. He darted up an alley, down another. Barefoot, panting, she followed.

  The houses came to an end: round the open door of the last one the kitten disappeared. She followed. Inside, a room like any other, but no alcove and curtain. A hunk of dry bread stood on the table. There was no sign of the cat. Of anyone. A hen scrabbled in the corner. She was hungry and thought of biting at the bread. But if someo
ne should come? If someone was pissing in the closet? And she was curious. Had always been curious. ‘Little cat, where are you?’ she whispered. I won’t think about Minicu. She decided to peep in the linen chest, lifting the lid carefully: it was half full of coarse sheets.

  Then she heard voices. Sacru miu Gesù, if I’m seen. She hurtled into the chest, lying quiet, crouched. Scarcely daring to breathe as they came into the room.

  ‘Bolt the door. Quick. Look around. The watercloset, anyone over the hole?’

  ‘No one – she’s at church praying for Granddad’s soul.’

  ‘Keep your voice down. Quick – they’re asking about Minicu … What happened?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Just tell me. You were there. They told you to dispatch Gaspare, didn’t they? I’d have been there if I hadn’t been sick … The Lion’s orders, were they?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Getting rid of Gaspare – it wasn’t difficult?’

  ‘Alone with his sheep. He’d barely turned his head before we –’

  ‘All right – he had it coming to him. Pass that carafe, I’ve a dusty thirst … Just tell me where Minicu comes into it.’

  ‘The shot – he couldn’t not have heard.’ The voice had a tremble, an edge. ‘And he saw us, two of us with guns. I hid my face, but Pietro, he knows Pietro. We couldn’t … We’d no choice.’

  ‘The body?’

  ‘Ask the vultures –’

  ‘Who ordered it, then, dispatching Gaspare?’

  ‘The Lion, who else?’

  From somewhere, the kitten mewed.

  ‘We only did what we … A man must obey. And who can one trust? Were we to trust Minicu? My life would go if I –’

  ‘The Lion … The Lion has a heart of stone …’

  The voices stopped. The door was unbolted. Steps fading away. Silence.