by Judy Nunn
They were not. Of course, the girls liked to think they were. Each year they came back over the mountain with fresh tales of what was happening in the outside world. ‘An Italian opera called La Tosca is famous throughout Europe,’ they would boast. Or ‘There is a famine in Russia and hundreds are dying.’ But they did not really understand what they were saying. The farms and villages nestled in the Alpine valleys were rarely affected by the dramas of their far distant neighbours.
Next the girls gave Caterina an English lesson. It was the most useful language by far, they told her. Americans did not speak anything else.
All four of them were panting by now as the walk grew more strenuous, but still they talked. Caterina learned ‘good morning’, ‘good afternoon’, ‘good evening’ and ‘thank you’. One of the girls had a favourite phrase, ‘I do beg your pardon’, which she had learned from a very nice English woman the previous season, and they all agreed it seemed a very complicated way of saying ‘scusi’.
Gradually the track became steeper and the girls’ conversation finally dwindled as they conserved their energy for the climb ahead.
AS THE MEN gathered their tools and prepared for the day’s digging, Giovanni nudged Rico and signalled him to wait until the two workers who shared their tent had gone.
The workers’ camp was comprised of four tents, the larger one a communal mess and the other three sleeping accommodation for between four to six men. Supplied by the company and constructed of strong canvas with solid wood supports, the tents were designed to withstand the harsh winter. A new tunnel was being built through the Alps and the men were contracted to dig and remove debris after the blastings.
‘You are a fool, Rico,’ Giovanni said when they were alone. ‘Being so open with Teresa. If her father finds out he will kill you.’
But Rico only laughed. ‘You worry too much.’
He looked like their father, Salvatore, when he laughed, Giovanni thought. Strong and confident, his sturdy body constantly poised as if to charge, Rico seemed afraid of nothing and Giovanni often envied him.
‘There is no one here at the camp who comes from Santa Lena,’ Rico continued. ‘There is no one who knows Teresa or her father, so who is going to tell him?’
‘What about her friends?’
‘Girls never tell, Gio. They band together and keep their secrets to themselves. You think Teresa is the only girl in Santa Lena who is no longer a virgin?’
Giovanni felt irritated. It was always annoying when Rico patronised him. At twenty-two, his brother was only two years older than he was, so what right did he have to act as though he knew so much more of the world? ‘You are so clever,’ Giovanni said, ‘but what happens if you get her with child, eh? What happens then?’
Rico shrugged dismissively. ‘So what?’ he scoffed. ‘We love each other. We will marry one day. Who cares whether it is sooner or later?’
Picks and shovels over their shoulders, they joined the rest of the men for the ten-minute walk from the camp to the tunnel face.
Glancing sideways at Giovanni as they walked, Rico chastised himself. He should not have been so condescending; Giovanni was offended, he could tell. Gentle Gio, with his man’s body and his boy’s face. Framed in soft brown curls, it was the face of their mother before time and hardship had greyed her hair and weathered her skin. And he had her eyes too, the same intense hazel which turned brown in anger. They were brown now.
There were depths to Giovanni which Rico could not understand. Why complicate life? he thought. One should simply grab it, devour it. Giovanni thought too much, that was his problem. He was too serious, too earnest. It made him vulnerable. The only time he seemed able to give himself up to the simple joy of living was when he had his concertina in his hands and his voice was raised in song.
Rico felt protective of his younger brother. Overprotective, he chided himself. He must stop treating Giovanni like a child, he was a man now. Indeed, when they wrestled it was all Rico could do to best him. Besides, how could Giovanni possibly be a child when he was seducing the most desirable woman in Santa Lena?
‘You are one to talk,’ he jested, trying to tease him out of his ill-humour. ‘I am to worry about Teresa and her father? What about the widow?’ He had Giovanni’s attention now and he ignored the fact that his brother’s eyes still flashed a warning. ‘I risk the wrath of a village blacksmith,’ he continued, ‘and you risk the vengeance of the De Cretico family.’ He shook his head in mock admiration. ‘And you call me the fool. Ah, Gio, you are a brave man.’
Giovanni knew his brother was teasing him and usually he allowed himself to be humoured, but not this time. He wished he had not told Rico about Sarina.
But Rico continued regardless. ‘Come, do not look so serious. If it were not for the De Cretico brothers I would boast to my friends of your conquest. The widow is the most desirable woman in the village—you should be proud.’
Still Giovanni did not rise to the bait. But there was no longer annoyance in his eyes. He was troubled; Rico could sense it. ‘What is it, Gio? Something worries you. Is it the De Cretico brothers?’ He slowed his pace a little. ‘Tell me, I can help.’
But Giovanni did not slow his pace and Rico was forced to keep up. ‘If there is any danger of discovery then you should be worried.’ His tone was no longer flippant. ‘The De Creticos are far more of a threat than Teresa’s father.’
Rico was right. Giovanni knew that only too well. The widow was no longer an adventure—she was dangerous, and Giovanni would do anything to be free of her. But he did not want to admit his fear to his brother. With their father and two older brothers away on contract work for most of the year, it was Rico who was the head of the Gianni family. When any Gianni was threatened, Rico became fiercely protective and that worried Giovanni. If, in defending him, his headstrong brother were to take on the widow and the De Cretico family, God only knew what might happen.
‘I can look after myself,’ he muttered.
‘Oh yes, I know you are discreet, I know you meet in secret. But I tell you, Gio, you make sure you leave her alone when the De Creticos come to the village.’
Giovanni finally slowed his pace and looked squarely at his brother. ‘I said I can look after myself.’
‘Oh you can, can you?’ Rico smiled to himself. He was indeed proud that his younger brother was the secret lover of the proud wealthy widow who lived in the big house on the hill. If it were not for Sarina De Cretico’s brothers-in-law he would most certainly have boasted to his friends about it. He nudged Giovanni with his elbow and grinned. ‘You say you worry about me and Teresa—what happens if you get the widow with child, eh?’
Giovanni smiled back. It was impossible to be cross with Rico for long, he was so irresistibly good-natured. ‘No chance of that, she is too clever.’
Rico roared with laughter. He had guessed as much.
THE MEN WORKED a six-day week. Sunday was their day of rest when, to a man, scrubbed up and looking their best, they walked the seven kilometres into Santa Lena to church. Sometimes the young unmarried men went into the village on the Saturday night and ate at the local tavern overlooking the piazza. After they had dined they would gather around the rough-hewn wooden bar and sing along to the piano accordion or take a bottle of chianti into the back room and play cards beside the open fireplace. Then, in the early hours of the morning, they crossed the road to the boarding house where they slept in clean, fresh beds. The married men never went into the village on a Saturday night. The married men always slept at the camp. Contract work paid well and they saved every lire they could, taking their earnings back to their villages and farms to help tide their families through the hard times.
Rico and Giovanni Gianni were the envy of the rest of the workers. They could go home every Sunday, see their family, sleep in their own beds. No matter that they had to set off before dawn on the Monday to return to the work site, it was worth it, the others agreed.
Rico and Giovanni often returned to the
village on Saturday night also, but it was not to see their family as the men assumed. In the dead of night Rico would meet Teresa in the stables where her father worked and Giovanni would walk up the hill to the big house and Sarina De Cretico. Before it was light they would return to the small cottage on the outskirts of the village and steal into the back room they had shared throughout their childhood; when the family awoke, no one would be any the wiser. It was accepted that they returned late from the work camp and did not wish to disturb the sleeping household.
The following morning they would chop wood for the kitchen fire or watch their mother and their sisters make polenta for the evening meal and then the whole family, dressed in their best, would walk together to the church, just as they had done for as long as Rico and Giovanni could remember.
There was no reason for Rico to go to the village this Saturday. Without the anticipation of Teresa and her warm, luscious body waiting for him in the stables, there was no real incentive to make the trip which was always tiring after a hard week’s work. He would see his family in the morning. Tonight it would be more relaxing to sit around the campfire and drink wine and tell stories.
Giovanni wished he could stay the night at the camp too, but he did not dare. Although he had been living at the camp for over three months now, the widow still demanded he see her every fortnight. Even if she were to demand a weekly visit he would have to oblige, he dared not refuse.
Rico gave him a lascivious wink as he set off. ‘Can’t leave her alone and keep your poor forsaken brother company, eh?’ Before Giovanni could answer, he raised his tin mug of wine in salute. ‘Go on, I envy you. Mine will have shrivelled and dropped off by the time Teresa returns.’ And Giovanni started down the mountain track alone.
His thoughts were grim as he hugged his thick woollen coat and scarf tightly about him and jogged to keep warm. It was not that the widow had ceased to excite him in bed. Far from it. Even now, as he thought of her body and her abandonment and the tricks she played, he could feel the stirring of desire. But she had trapped him. Like a rabbit in a snare, he was powerless to free himself. And each time he went to her, and their passion was spent, he loathed himself for his fear and weakness.
He jogged faster to distract himself but still he felt like a man going to the gallows.
The blackmail had started nearly four months ago, when Sarina had announced, quite casually, that Mario and Luigi De Cretico were coming to stay with her. Everyone in the village was fearful of the De Cretico brothers, although no one knew precisely why. The De Cretico family had long since moved from Santa Lena to their wealthy homes and businesses in Milano and Bologna. They were rarely seen and they had done no harm to anyone in the village. Indeed, they had contributed generously to the local church and needy families. Perhaps it was simply because the De Cretico family had once been the most powerful in the district and the brothers still owned the tavern and many other properties in the village, not to mention several outlying farms and a large vineyard to the south. Perhaps it was because of the rumours that their city businesses had Famiglia connections. Whatever it was, the brothers were treated warily and with the utmost respect.
‘They arrive tomorrow,’ Sarina had said. Giovanni had simply stared back at her. The De Creticos had not been seen in the village for nearly a year, not since the funeral of their younger brother Marcello.
Sarina had laughed at Giovanni’s dumbfounded expression. ‘Oh do not be so frightened, my little bull. They will be here for only two weeks.’ She always called him her piccolo toro and he usually liked it, but that night Giovanni realised the enormity of what he had done. If the De Cretico brothers ever found out that he had been making love to their brother’s widow, they would kill him.
Sarina had kissed him as he left. ‘Two whole weeks without mio piccolo toro,’ she had said, and she’d pouted attractively before she closed the door.
Giovanni had not gone back. For a whole month he had not gone back. And when he saw her at church on Sundays, in her widow’s black, he avoided her.
Then, one day, she was waiting for him outside. Waiting in the shadow cast by the heavy open church door. She had glided up to him. ‘Come to me tonight,’ she whispered. He could barely see her face behind the dark veil and he had tried to ignore her. ‘Your life is in danger if you do not come to me tonight,’ she insisted, then she strolled over to her trap where her servant waited.
And so he had gone to her. Late that night, as he had done so many times before, he stole up to the servants’ entrance at the rear of the big house. And, as usual, she was waiting for him, her finger to her lips. Not a word was spoken between them as they crept through the narrow whitewashed corridor with its low wooden doors on either side. Giovanni held his breath—behind those doors were the servants’ quarters.
He had always worried that the married couple who had been employed by Marcello would report Sarina’s infidelity to the De Cretico brothers. But she dismissed the notion. They were elderly, she said; they retired early and their quarters were far from her bedroom.
Not a word as the lovers crossed the interior courtyard and climbed the wide stone steps to the surrounding balconies. Not a word passed their lips until they were upstairs in her bedroom with its tiny open balcony overlooking the village.
In the safety of her bedroom, Giovanni whispered, ‘What danger, what has happened—do they know?’
‘Not now,’ she had murmured, slowly opening her gown. She was naked beneath and she placed his hand on her breast. As she unfastened his belt she caressed him through the fabric of his trousers. ‘Not now. Make love to me. Mio piccolo toro, make love to me.’
And then they were on the bed together and she was moaning and thrusting herself back at him. Then riding him on top. Then pulling him ever deeper and deeper into her, ankles around his neck. She was insatiable. Fingernails digging into his naked back until the pain was exquisite. Biting his neck. Whispering obscenities in his ear. Giovanni had been as transported by her abandonment as he always was. There was nothing but the two of them and the blackness of the night and the heat of their passion. Nothing else had mattered. Nothing. Still he had the presence of mind to pull away from her just before he ejaculated. She had taught him that.
She was ready for him as usual, the small hand-cloth beside the bed instantly to the fore. It never ceased to amaze him. But, as she had explained, there must be no sign of semen on the linen when the servant did the laundry. She could surreptitiously wash a small hand-cloth herself; if she were to wash bed linen it would naturally arouse suspicion. It nevertheless amazed him that at the height of her uncontrolled passion she could display such presence of mind.
They’d lain panting for several moments. Then Giovanni had turned to her. ‘What has happened? You said my life was in danger.’ But she appeared not to have heard him.
‘Why have you not come to me, Giovanni?’ she asked. ‘It’s been a whole month.’
‘Your brothers-in-law …’
‘Mario and Luigi left the village a fortnight ago. You know that, everyone does.’
‘You said danger,’ he had insisted. ‘Why could my life be in danger? Do they suspect something?’
Sarina’s pretty face had hardened. When she frowned she looked every bit of her thirty-three years. The difference was quite extraordinary. Animated and smiling, with her soft blonde hair and her dimpled cheeks, she could easily pass for a twenty-two-year-old.
‘Answer me, Sarina. Do they suspect something?’
She sat up, not bothering to cover her nakedness. ‘Not yet.’
‘Then why did you say—’
‘But they will if you stop coming to me.’ He had looked at her, puzzled for a moment. ‘If you stop coming to me I will tell them,’ she had said simply and her eyes had been hard and ruthless. Unable to speak, Giovanni had stared back at her, his expression one of utter disbelief. ‘I will send a message to Mario in Bologne. I will tell him that you raped me.’
GIOVANNI COULD
SEE the village in the valley below. The black sky above it was clustered with smoke from the fires which would burn slowly throughout the night. It was late; only a few cottages displayed the lights of their candles or lamps. There was no light evident at the big house but he knew Sarina would be waiting for him, there in the dark.
His life had changed since that night. He had tried to reason with her. He had even tried to pretend that she was joking, although he knew she was not.
‘But how can there be any joy in our meeting?’ he had finally argued.
‘It is not joy I want from you, Giovanni,’ she said. ‘If you value your life you will come to me.’ Sarina did not want to sound hard and ruthless, she knew it was not attractive. She would much prefer to have beguiled him. To have sat on his strong young thighs, her legs linked around his waist, running her tongue along his perfect boy’s lips and pretending surprise as she felt him become rigid beneath her. But that would not work, not this time. He was too frightened. Everyone was too frightened of the De Creticos. So she had to be hard. If she remained celibate until the brothers found her the husband they promised, she might never know a man again. ‘And you will continue to come to me for as long as I wish,’ she said.
From that night on Giovanni’s entire existence had become one of self-loathing. He loathed the fact that Sarina continued to excite him. He loathed the fact that he served her like a stallion. He wished he could make himself impotent—then the widow would quickly be rid of him.
But as he crept around the outskirts of the village, passing his family’s cottage in the dark, even as his pulse quickened with fear at the thought of discovery, Giovanni could feel the contemptible fire in his groin.
Sarina had started prowling the house shortly after sundown, impatient for Giovanni. There was no sense going outside to wait in the bitter cold, he would not come for hours yet.
