by David Elvar
The walls were always pretty bare in spare room and Anya days but she also changed that. In came pictures, dozens of them. She covered the walls with them. Some were paintings of religious figures of the kind you’d see in churches. That didn’t surprise me: like religious people everywhere, she was uptight and intolerant. The other stuff was photographs, all black and white with faded borders, like the kind of things you’d get shown in old family albums if you weren’t quick enough to make your excuses and leave. I remembered beloved nonna used to show me similar photos when we visited her in years past, part of the indoctrination process so I would know how lucky I was to be part of her bloodline, and the stuff being put up on the walls left me just as cold.
So she settled in, seemed to slot right into place in my father’s grand order of things. She wasn’t going to cook, though, she made that clear right from the start. So my father mumbled something along the lines of never having expected her to and he would take care of such matters and he glanced meaningfully at me as though to suggest that I might help out in that department and I started wondering just how firm pasta needed to be cooked before it could be guaranteed to break his teeth—I think you get what I’m trying to say here. Maybe fortunately for my stomach and his teeth, all the local pizza joints delivered.
And then the lessons started. I’d already pretty much guessed this wasn’t going to be much fun and I was right. You see, when you’re at school and listening to the teacher droning on about something you have no real interest in, you can just let yourself drift off into a little daydream…maybe gaze out the window…wonder what it would be like to go splashing in the sea on such a hot day instead of sitting here in this sweltering classroom and listening to this crap. You can do that because you’re just one of a whole bunch of maybe thirty or more kids and the teacher isn’t personally interested in any one of you. But you try doing that when you’re the only student and teacher is focussed on you one hundred percent and more. Yeah, you get to learn pretty damn quick that not only is she focussed on you but you have to be focussed on her. I mean, like, in every way, in every word, every diagram, every pointless and mind-numbingly boring fact that she’s trying to hammer into you. Trust me, the only thing going out the window is any chance to relax.
The structure of the day was pretty rigid, too. I’d get dragged out of bed a little after eight, be given fifteen minutes to get washed, dressed and have breakfast (the vomity espresso-and-fatty-biscuit kind—on my father’s orders, I think) before being hauled into the dining room that had been set aside to double as classroom. And she’d be there already, standing beside the new blackboard that had been bought specially for my new education, looking severe and impatient and intolerant that I should even consider stopping to snatch something to eat instead of being at my desk—no, not something more that had been bought but the table on which we took our meals.
We’d go through until midday with one fifteen-minute break. You’ve probably seen film of prisoners being herded out into a yard for exercise. Read garden for yard and me for prisoners and you get the idea. Even here, I wasn’t to be left alone. She’d be there, watching me, glancing at her watch to make sure I didn’t run over time and miss out on the next exciting instalment on the history of cheese making in Italy. Then it was more lessons and lunch, a half-hour respite from the tedium, then the afternoon broken up by another exercise period in the prison yard. Only when the clock struck five was I released on parole.
The lessons themselves? They were something else. I’m talking subjects here. You remember little Silviuccio and his talk on Italian rivers that had earned an extra tweak of the cheek from his proud mama? Well, you’re probably wondering where he’d got his material from. He was taught it. Yeah, you heard me right, he was taught it. You see, they teach stuff like that in Sicilian schools. Useless stuff. Stuff that won’t be any use to you later in life but which the authorities demand you learn anyway. By the end of the first week, I could tell you the…flowed into the…and both then flowed through the city of…before then joining up with the…for the final stretch into the sea. Trust me, if ever I find the conversation at a party beginning to falter, I know I can fall back on my knowledge of Italian rivers to help keep it going. Sure-fire icebreaker.
So that covered Geography, but only Italian Geography. History was Italian history. Language was Italian language. If Maths wasn’t the worldwide certainty it’s accepted to be, I’m pretty sure it would have been Italian Maths. Although thinking about it, there is a version of Italian Maths: it gets used a lot when filing tax returns and involves a lot of numbers magically disappearing, but that’s another story. Whatever. Just what my father expected the U-boat to achieve what the school he’d yanked me out of couldn’t was anybody’s guess, and it kind of confirmed what I’d known all along, that this was to keep me on a short leash until he’d done his legal stuff and got me where he wanted me, away from mum, away from everything I’d known and still wanted. And then? Who knew? I wasn’t even thinking about it. Despite all he was doing, despite the U-boat and her best efforts to bring me into line, I was still working on ways to get back to England. I got an unexpected boost late one afternoon just before we were supposed to be finishing.
It started innocently enough. I was just opening my book of maths exercises when the phone rang in the hallway. I glanced up. We both did. Then she was moving to the doorway, throwing back an instruction to me to get on with my work as she swept from the room. But I didn’t get on with my work. I listened. You see, calls to our house were a rarity. My father didn’t have many friends—no one his intellectual equal, he’d always sniffed—and mum was no longer around, hadn’t been for nearly a year, so this wouldn’t have been one of hers. So yeah, I listened.
It followed the same pattern as when mum phoned but it was unlikely to be her: I knew she’d think twice before phoning here again only to get the same treatment from my father. But this call was different. It went something like this:
‘Hello?…Yes, this is Dr. Pellegrino’s house. Who are you, please?…I see. Well, he is not here right now. Can I take a message?…Yes, she is here but she is in the middle of a lesson right now. Can you call back later?…I see. One moment, please.’
I heard the phone being placed on the side table and her footsteps coming back down the hallway, and I tried hard to look as if I really was studying equations when she reappeared in the doorway.
‘Elisa!’ she rasped. ‘Do you know someone called Eliana?’
I looked up, trying to hide my excitement. ‘Yes, she’s my aunt. Family,’ I added by way of encouraging her.
‘That is what she said. I just had to check. She is on the phone and wishes to speak with you on a matter of some importance, she says.’
I got up but was immediately stopped by the rasp.
‘Have you not forgotten something?’
I hesitated then understood. The new rules, you see. ‘May I be excused for a moment, please?’
‘You may. But be quick. What time you take now will be added onto the end of the lesson.’
I mumbled some vague acknowledgement and left, careful to close the door behind me. So I was being allowed contact with the other black sheep in the family, was I? Clearly, my father had neglected to warn the U-boat about her. Another something he’d overlooked.
I almost snatched up the phone, breathing excitedly into it like it was new invention and I was first in the queue to try it out.
‘Eliana? It’s me!’
‘Hi! Where have you BEEN? I’ve been waiting for you to contact me!’
‘Sorry. Long story. Basically, my dear father has pulled me out of school and is having me home-schooled. That was my teacher you just spoke to.’
‘Then much is explained. I know I’m taking a chance but I had to call, I have a letter from your mother. Can you come and collect it?’
‘From mum? Oh God, what does she say?’
‘Elisa, this is a letter for you. I have not opened it. So when can you
come? I can promise you another beer.’
‘I can’t do it, Eliana. Since the court case, I’m watched day and night. That’s why I’m being home-schooled now, so I can’t make contact with mum, with anyone.’
‘Ah, the court case. I was wondering how it went and why you hadn’t been in touch to tell me.’
‘To answer your second point first, you now know why. As for the first, it didn’t go as my father planned: the judge threw out the Inaudita altera parte bit—like you said he might—and I was asked what I wanted so I told him.’
‘All right, no need to say more. This knee-jerk backlash I can well imagine of him. So what do I do with this letter? It could contain something important.’
‘Even if it doesn’t, I still want it. Look, I don’t suppose you’d mind…you know…reading it for me? Over the phone?’
She laughed. ‘And why not? But won’t your teacher be wondering where you are?’
‘Let her wonder, I need this!’
There was rustling on the other end of the line, the sound of paper being slit apart and unfolded.
‘Oh, that’s interesting!’ she said. ‘There are TWO letters in here and one…one is addressed to me?’
‘Better read that first, then,’ I said. ‘That will be something important.’
A few moments’ silence, then: ‘Oh, that is sweet. It’s your mother thanking me for helping you.’
‘Yeah, that’s mum. Anything else?’
‘Just that she never knew I existed and it would be good to meet up some day and she hopes you’re not being too much of a nuisance—I think I’m going to like her.’
‘If you ever get to meet her,’ I muttered. ‘Any more?’
‘Yes and it’s in a more serious tone. She asks me to help you in whatever way I can, and if any expense is incurred in the process, she will see that it is put right. She doesn’t need to do that, Elisa.’
‘Yeah but that’s mum, that’s the sort of person she is! Now you see why I have to get back to her.’
‘I saw that even before you started telling me about her. Well, let’s see what she has to say to you.’
I could hear the other letter being unfolded and spread out. All at once, I was back in Eliana’s flat, able to see what I was hearing, able to taste again the illicit beer and the swordfish rolls. Then she was speaking and it was like hearing mum saying the words.
‘“Dearest Elisa,
‘“I’m writing this immediately after your call. John is in the kitchen making us both a cup of tea, and I’m sitting here at his computer desk and struggling with words. You don’t know how much it meant to us to hear you just now, just the sound of your voice even over hundreds of miles. I understand why the call had to end so suddenly, really I do, and I want you to know how much we look forward to the next call. Please let it be soon.”’
‘She probably doesn’t know,’ I broke in. ‘Unless the headmaster has told her what’s happened, she doesn’t know there will be no next call.’
‘Leave that to me,’ said Eliana firmly. ‘For the moment, just let me continue.
‘“I also want you to understand one thing, darling. However bad things seem now, your father will NOT win. John was speaking only yesterday to this lawyer he’s hired and he says we have a good case for stopping your father in his tracks. The first thing to be done is to request all the documents from the Italian court and this may take time. But what your father is asking apparently goes against all the legal guidelines set down for custody disputes. What your father is asking is also immoral—though I doubt that carries much weight with him, he is not above lying when it suits him.”’
‘She got that right!’ I muttered. ‘Tell me there’s more, please tell me there’s more.’
‘There is, don’t worry. “We will do whatever we can from here but please try and keep us informed about what your father is doing—especially if it’s something questionable.”’
‘Questionable! Me even being here is “questionable”. I wish I could get word to her of what happened in the first hearing.’
‘It would be good. I’m sure she would take heart from it.’
‘And more! Trust me, I haven’t told you even the half of what happened. My father and his lawyer were not pleased, I can tell you.’
‘When next we meet, give me the full story and I’ll try and get it to her. Anyway, to continue. “In the meantime, let’s look at the practical side of this. Do you need anything? For instance, do you need money and is there any way I can get it to you? Just let us know and we’ll get it to you, whatever it is.
‘“Dearest Elisa, you don’t know how sorry I am for the mistakes I’ve made over your father. I should have known him for what he is a long time ago—a bully, a control freak, a manipulative little man with a big opinion of himself and no regard for the feelings or even the needs of others. The only good thing to have come out of that marriage was you, and I know now I should have taken you away from him long ago and given you the life and the father you deserve. This I intend to put right with the help of John.
‘“Write back to me soon, let us know the situation and what we can do to help.
‘“With love,
‘“Mum
‘“P.S. John is back with the tea and has asked me to tell you there’s a chocolate biscuit with your name on it waiting for you. Talk soon.”
‘And that’s it. A lovely letter, don’t you think?’
I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.
‘Elisa?’
‘Sorry,’ I said thickly. ‘It’s just…I feel so helpless, that’s all. Every time I open a hopeful door, my father slams it in my face and nails it shut again. And hearing from mum again just reminded me of that.’
‘It is difficult, I’ll grant you,’ she said, ‘but not impossible.’
‘I know! But what with being taken out of school and this new governess breathing down my neck 24/7 and now there’s no way I’m going to be allowed to visit you again…what do I do?’
‘I don’t know but the first thing you DON’T do is give up. You’ve come this far and hit your father a lot harder than you ever dared to think, I suspect. You have to go on.’
‘But how? What do I do?’
There was a silence on the other end of the line, like she was considering this one. I didn’t expect a miracle solution, how could I? So when she spoke again, I was ready for the disappointment.
‘Your father took away what is important to you, you must take away what is important to him.’
‘And that’s it?’ I asked.
‘It’s all I have just now, Elisa. Work with it, see what you come up with.’
I thanked her and hung up, but not before promising to find a way to stay in touch. My father had taken away what was important to me, I now had to take away what was important to him. Work with it? Yeah, I’d try, of course I would. But I didn’t see how.
TWENTY EIGHT
So I worked with it. In the blank silence of the long hours in my room, I worked with it, sat with pen and paper and tried to set down just what was most important to my father. And the thing was, I didn’t know.
Let me explain this in a way you’ll understand. You may be wondering how it’s possible to live with someone for fourteen-plus years and not know them. I mean, not know what rocks their boat, what winds them up—all that kind of stuff. Trust me, it can happen. To say that my father and I had never been close falls way short of the mark. There was mum and me, and there was him. I think I said already that this didn’t seem to bother him any, that he just stayed hunched over his laptop while he tried to make a name for himself in Biologists Inc., the place to be if you were anyone who was anyone in the field of science. And as for us, well, as long as his meals were on the table on time and as long as his shirts were ironed in time for his conferences and as long as we said all the right things in all the right places to beloved nonna when we visited, he didn’t really seem to notice whether we were there or not.
It was
n’t as if I didn’t try. I once asked him what music he listened to, what got his juices flowing. He looked up from his laptop, gave me a quizzical stare like he thought the question too far beneath him to be worthy of an answer. I could almost see the cogs whirring in his brain as he tried to marry his high cultural thinking with my shelf of Heavy Metal CDs. It couldn’t have worked because he just shook his head and went back to his laptop, my question tossed aside into the wide gulf between us, the conversation over before it started.
Another time, it was a really hot day, even for Catania, and I suggested we all cool down by going for a swim in the sea. We knew of this little rocky cove that was maybe only a five-minute walk away from the house—no sand, just hardened volcanic rock and clear blue water, the path down to it lined with olive trees that fanned you with shade as you walked. Mum started to say that was a great idea but my father slammed his fist down on the table and yelled at her to be quiet. He was not going, he went on. People who went to the sea to swim and eat pizza from takeaway boxes instead of fine china and drink cola from metal cans instead of proper glasses and generally laze around wasting valuable time were vulgar and uneducated and he had no intention of associating with them! So we went without him. We swam in the sea and ate pizza from takeaway boxes instead of fine china and drank cola from metal cans instead of proper glasses and generally lazed around wasting valuable time and tried to be as vulgar and uneducated as we possibly could. It was great!
There’s more but I won’t bore you with it, I think you get what I’m saying here. Whatever we liked, he didn’t. Whatever we wanted to do, he didn’t. We were like parallel lines, running alongside each other but never meeting. Do I hear some sympathy for mum and what she did in taking me away from him? It happens.
So no, I didn’t know what was important to him and then didn’t know what I could take away from him. I needed help. It came from the last person I would have expected.
