Sweet Bitter Cane

by G S Johnston

  A crowd had gathered, the air already close. Clara took Amelia’s fur coat, and hers, to the cloakroom. Most of the men wore fascist-black shirts. Italo too. Some of the wives had prepared a supper, which they fussed over to the side of the stage. Although it was a club, it had no licence to serve alcohol, so once it was dark the men would disappear through the side entrance to drink beer at the tray of a truck in the dark of the nearby field.

  Amelia introduced Clara to some of the women, Signora Appiani, Signora Guarneri and Anna Nanni. Could these women, on this victorious evening, not give up the aloofness they directed to her? Grossi came from the other end of the hall to greet them.

  ‘I’m so pleased you could make it,’ he said.

  Whilst he addressed them as a group, he looked only at Clara. Even though she still wore widow weeds, Grossi clearly saw this as no barrier. Amelia wished he would delay an avowal, as Clara was still too raw and would refute any advance. But Clara was an intelligent woman and would make her own way.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve not given your school the attention it deserves,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve been active,’ Clara said. ‘The petition has a hundred signatures.’

  Grossi raised his eyebrows.

  ‘And thirty assurances of enrolment,’ Amelia said.

  ‘That’s quite something,’ he said.

  Men began to file onto the stage, marking the commencement of the formal part of the evening. Grossi’s attention was lost. He slipped from Amelia’s fingers again, nodding to the women and walking away. Amelia had wanted to press him for another meeting and felt vexed. He disappeared into a room at the side and reappeared onstage. Burattini and the other office-bearers crowded the stage. Antonio Fontana, the founder of the Italian Returned Soldiers’ Organisation, joined them.

  Before anything was said, the crowd rose in thunderous applause.

  ‘This evening,’ Grossi said, his voice raised over the applause. ‘I invite you to cry, Viva il Duce!’

  Unsynchronised, the crowd spluttered, but soon came to one voice – Viva il Duce! Viva il Duce! – with such force she felt as if shoes pounded the floor. Amelia looked to Clara, but she remained tight-lipped. The other women to their side had joined the call. Signora Guarneri looked at her, her mouth opening and closing to the chant. She felt a rush of excitement inhibited only by Clara. It would be unseemly not to join, and so Amelia began the chant. Clara remained mute.

  Grossi smiled at the crowd and then at his compatriots on stage. The crowd saw no reason to stop, and Amelia continued as loud as she could. Grossi stepped back from the lectern, as if all that had to be said had been said. When he finally stepped forward, raised his two hands in front of him, the chant wound down.

  ‘The height of this victory, the importance for Italy, cannot be underscored.’

  He spoke of the beauty of the strategies in the final battles to take control of Addis Ababa. He spoke of Mussolini’s vision, ability and grace.

  ‘The Babinda Fascist Organisation has cabled our congratulations directly to Il Duce and to Marshal Badoglio, the commander in chief of the victorious army.’

  Such a thing, that a message from Babinda could be sent to those of such importance. Grossi spoke more, of the role of Italians living aboard, who’d offered support by any means they could.

  ‘The little Italy of the past is not the one of today. New Italy has changed her face. Completely. And not only do Italians know this, but the whole world bears witness.’

  The club erupted, out of which grew the chant Viva il Duce. Carried away, Amelia joined, shouting with all the force she could find, shouting it too for Clara, who stood mute and steeled at her side. How could she not be moved by this patriotism?

  Grossi gave the fascist salute, and the men in the hall came to attention and returned the gesture. A small orchestra came onstage. Even then, as they settled and tuned their instruments, the roar of the crowd continued until they struck the opening of La Giovinezza, the fascists’ anthem. The noise continued until the crowd settled to its part, a solid, insistent voice. Amelia sang,

  Youth, Youth,

  Spring of beauty,

  In the hardship of life

  Your song rings and goes!

  And for Benito Mussolini,

  And for our beautiful Fatherland.

  The men rose again to the fascist salute, their hands forced proud above their shoulders. The women raised their hands and applauded the anthem.

  This state continued as the men left the stage, even while they cleared the tables and lectern. The men came from the side of the stage, out into the crowd, which reignited the din. People shook their hands, these men who represented Mussolini.

  The orchestra struck a waltz. Some of the men drained from the hall to the nearby field, but those remaining partnered with the women. Amelia and Clara stood together. Italo wasn’t to be seen, but she didn’t mind he’d gone outside to drink with the men. Grossi came to them, smiling.

  ‘An inspiring speech,’ Amelia said.

  ‘I’m not much of an orator, but Mussolini inspires us to new heights.’ He turned to Clara. ‘Signora, would you like to dance?’

  He offered his arm. Clara flushed scarlet and stepped back.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t dance.’

  ‘Then let the evening inspire you.’

  He smiled again, although an insecurity had entered it, something Amelia had never seen brush his face. Clara stepped back, shook her head slightly and walked away, leaving Amelia with Grossi.

  ‘It’s too soon,’ she said.

  He nodded, and she left to find Clara at the back of the hall.

  ‘Are you tired?’ Amelia said to Clara.

  ‘I don’t feel like dancing. But I can sit if you and Italo would like to.’

  Amelia looked around the hall. Despite the good feelings, she had no desire to be further judged by these people. Italo had returned from the field and was standing to the far side of the hall.

  Amelia raised her eyebrows. ‘I run a farm. I’ve no energy for dancing.’

  She caught Italo’s eye and motioned to her watch, a sign to leave. Amelia went to collect their coats. Signora Guarneri approached her.

  ‘I’ve heard an exciting rumour,’ Signora Guarneri said, drawing Amelia closer. ‘The Babinda Fascists are to open an Italian school.’

  This woman hadn’t spoken to Amelia for years. Why would she choose to tell her something she already knew?

  ‘It’s no rumour,’ Amelia said. ‘If you’d like to sign our petition, I’m in charge of it.’

  The woman pulled back slightly. ‘But I’d heard the idea was Signora Burattini’s, and she leads the planning.’

  Amelia stared at the woman. ‘Then you’ve heard most incorrectly.’

  Signora Guarneri shrunk back. ‘Perhaps I have.’

  ‘If you’ll call at my house tomorrow, you can sign our petition.’

  The woman nodded slowly, as if uncertain. Amelia gathered their coats, but in the hall she could see no sign of Italo or Clara and assumed they were outside. The damn fool woman, a gossip always, and she peddled inaccuracy. Amelia said goodnight, only by nodding, on the way from the hall. In the small portico, Clara was talking with Signora Appiani. She handed Clara her coat and walked down one of the sets of steps. It was past mid-May, nearly to winter, such as that was. The night air was chilled, sharp against the heat of the hall. She pulled her coat in around her shoulders. She couldn’t see Italo. She turned back to Clara, who was still in the portico.

  ‘Have you seen Italo?’ she said.

  Clara looked at her. ‘I thought he was with you.’

  Amelia waved to Signora Appiani, and Clara said goodbye and came down the stair.

  ‘Where is he?’ Amelia said.

  ‘Perhaps he’s at the car,’ Clara said.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought he’d go without us. Nor his coat.’ She looked in the direction of the car, but it was too dark to see anything. ‘Let’s walk.�
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  They started in that direction.

  ‘The speeches were so positive,’ Amelia said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Amelia laughed. ‘Only Clara could pack doubt into a word with the opposite meaning.’

  Clara huffed and looked away. Amelia linked her arm through hers and they continued to the car.

  ‘A woman just approached me about the school,’ Amelia said. ‘She was under the impression Signora Burattini was organising it.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I disabused her of the idea. Such a gossip, and on—’

  ‘What’s that?’ Clara said, stopping, her arm slipping from Amelia’s.

  ‘What?’ Amelia peered into the darkness.

  ‘By the car.’

  Amelia looked. The cloud-filtered moonlight illuminated little. There was something, like a large canvas bag, lying at the vehicle’s rear. She looked closer. It was a man, collapsed.

  ‘Some drunken fool,’ Amelia said. ‘So drunk he’s lost his way back from the field.’

  Amelia strained to see more, but it was too dark.

  ‘We should go back for Italo,’ Clara said.

  The clouds parted, and what little there was of moonlight came through. They turned back towards the club. But as they walked, Amelia heard a groan from the car and glanced back.

  ‘That looks like Italo,’ Clara said, taking her arm from Amelia’s.

  Amelia took several steps and peered. Her heart began to race. She took another step and quickly another. It was him. She could see his face, bloodied around the nose and mouth.

  ‘Italo,’ she yelled.

  She dropped to her knees beside him. He was unconscious, his shirt ripped open, his tie pulled tight. His left eye was swollen, the skin to the side of the upper lid torn and bleeding. There was the iron smell of blood, but something rank, full of sulphur, like rotten eggs.

  ‘Italo,’ she yelled again.

  But he didn’t stir. She put her hand to his face, felt its warmth, which brought some assurance – he was alive. His chest heaved, covered in a slimy liquid.

  He opened his eyes, raised his bloodied hand to her arm. Clara was now by their side.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Clara said.

  ‘Perhaps he fell,’ Amelia said, bewildered, grappling to make sense. ‘Did he have that much to drink?’

  Clara knelt. She shook her head. Italo breathed and shuddered. Amelia heard something, someone’s step on the gravel of the road near them, but in the dark. There was a figure, a man.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Clara said.

  The figure moved forward, just a step or two. At first Amelia thought she was mistaken but was sure it was Flavio.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said. ‘Come and help.’

  The figure advanced a little closer.

  ‘Help me get your father to his feet,’ she said.

  Still crouching, she looked at him. He remained in the darkness. He was dressed in clothes she’d never seen, a white shirt and jacket and long pants. He wore a hat. And then she looked closer. Under some mysterious command, she stood, her legs trembling. She glared into the dark, but he didn’t move so she stepped to him.

  ‘Fergus?’ she said.

  Clara gasped but remained by Italo.

  A cold numbness washed over Amelia. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. But she could see his face. He remained impassive, as if nothing of any great significance was happening. She felt no dread. Just sharp inquisition.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

  She searched him. In all the years, he’d not changed greatly.

  ‘Let’s get him up,’ Clara said.

  Amelia looked at Italo and Clara. Fergus stepped forward, passed within a few feet. He placed his steady hands under Italo’s arms and hauled him, sat him against the rear wheel of the car and then stepped away.

  ‘Italo,’ Clara said, still crouched beside him.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said, his voice hoarse and faint.

  Amelia stood rooted to the spot, between Italo and Fergus. Italo coughed, softly at first and then more violently. Fergus stepped back. Amelia crouched beside him. His eyes were shut. She looked at Clara, concern on her face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Italo said, and leant to the side and vomited, a volume of putrid liquid hitting the ground, pooling where he sat.

  She passed her hand in small circles on his back.

  ‘The more he can bring up the better,’ Clara said.

  Once he’d stopped, he sat up, his face raised to the stars.

  ‘I’ll go and find a doctor,’ Clara said.

  Amelia agreed and was glad that Clara had taken command.

  ‘Just take me home,’ Italo said. ‘Nothing is broken. I’m just sore. Just take me home.’

  The two women stood. Fergus stepped forward and squatted in front of Italo, who seemed to be unaware of his presence. In one motion, such was his strength, he pulled Italo to his feet. Italo groaned. Clara found a travel rug in the back of the car and lay it along the back seat. Amelia stood to the side. She wrung her hands. What could she do? Fergus lowered him and then stood and moved back.

  Despite the stench surrounding Italo, she could smell Fergus. Italo pushed himself along the seat, but such a tall man had to crumple to fit in such a position.

  ‘Did you see what happened?’ Amelia said, without looking at Fergus.

  ‘I was in the village,’ Fergus said. ‘I heard the noise out here and came to see what was happening. I was walking away when I saw you.’

  ‘Let’s just get home,’ Clara said, her voice impatient and cold.

  Amelia couldn’t face Fergus. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Would you like me to come to the house?’

  Amelia turned to Clara, who shook her head. ‘We can manage,’ Clara said.

  She looked into his eyes. How many times she’d longed for this. How many questions flickered, but each seemed inappropriate. Why did life tear her between two extremes? She bowed her head and walked to the driver’s side of the car. Clara sat in the passenger’s and closed the door. Fergus moved around to Amelia’s.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said again, the only words she could muster.

  He raised his closed lips to a half smile and nodded.

  Amelia drove from the hall, towards the farm. In the mirror, she caught his frame, still, until the light was too weak and he faded.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Clara said. ‘Not here, not now.’

  And neither did she. To quell her mind, she concentrated on driving. Italo groaned. She kept the pace as fast as she could. Once they’d curved around the hill, she parked near the gate and hauled him out and between them walked him slowly to the front door. Meggsy had heard the car and opened the door, gasping when she saw Italo’s state.

  ‘Take him through to the kitchen,’ Amelia said.

  Meggsy ran ahead. Italo’s gait was strained and uneven, but Amelia clasped him around the waist. Meggsy placed an old chair on the tiled kitchen floor.

  ‘Get him some water,’ Amelia said.

  She took off his tie, loosened what was left of the black-shirt collar. The shirt and his jacket were covered in the oily, sulphur-smelling yellow liquid. Amelia took the glass from Meggsy and asked her to fetch a basin of warm water, some soap and an old towel.

  Italo drank a small amount.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Amelia asked.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t find either of you and thought you must still be in the club. I thought I’d bring the car closer. I was only a few hundred feet away when I heard someone moving behind me. But it was dark, and I couldn’t see anyone, and after such an agreeable evening I didn’t think much of it.’

  He stopped, took another sip of water.

  ‘The next thing, well … I’m not sure. Someone hit me over the head. It felled me. And then there was a mob, kicking me in the stomach, in the head. Everywhere.’

  Meggsy re
turned with the basin of warm water. She put it on the table, and Amelia dipped the cloth, lathered it from a bar of soap and dabbed at the liquid and blood on his face.

  ‘What is all this?’ she said.

  ‘They forced a funnel in my mouth. They yelled, “Take that, you fucking fascist pig”. I don’t know how much I swallowed. They only stopped because you two came.’

  There were rumours for years – everyone had heard them – that Mussolini had coerced his opponents to cooperate with castor oil, ‘the golden nectar of nausea’. Amelia had dismissed them. But Italo was a member of the Babinda Fascist Organisation, and clearly he’d been attacked for being at an evening run by this organisation. That much was certain.

  Clara glared at her. ‘We should get a doctor.’

  Italo winced, put a hand to his ribs. ‘There’s nothing to be done.’

  ‘But you’re injured. We should get the police.’

  ‘I’m hurting, but nothing’s damaged.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘I only saw them when they were forcing the oil.’ He stopped. ‘I didn’t recognise any of them.’

  ‘They must be Australians,’ Clara said. ‘Was Fergus amongst them?’

  ‘No …’ His face screwed to query. He started to cough. ‘They spoke Italian.’ He stood slowly, his face wizened. ‘I’ll go and clean myself.’

  Amelia watched him walk from the kitchen. She took the basin to the sink and drained the water.

  ‘He’s going to be very ill,’ Clara said. ‘The castor oil will give him terrible diarrhoea.’

  ‘The oil is rank. Why would Italians do this?’

  ‘We don’t all hold the same opinion.’

  Clara turned away. The remark slapped Amelia, something callous and chiding in it. Amelia ground her teeth and wouldn’t say anything. Too much had happened too quickly. To see Fergus … When had he returned? She’d heard no gossip of it, but the women pursed their lips whenever she walked by. Why was he there? The confusion exhausted her.