Kal

by Judy Nunn

  Marcello never questioned whether his new wife was satisfied with their love-making. It would never have occurred to him to do so. All of his sexual experiences had been with high-class prostitutes—his brothers’ associates always entertained the De Creticos well when they were doing business. As a result Marcello was accustomed to using a woman’s body rather than making love to it.

  But it was a price Sarina was prepared to pay. After all, when they returned home she would rule the village. Marcello would be king, she would be his queen and together they would reign. Sarina did not know which excited her more—the travel and the shopping, or the prospect of being the wealthiest and most envied woman in Santa Lena. Yes, a loveless marriage was a price she was more than prepared to pay for her idyllic existence.

  But six months after the couple’s return to the village, Sarina discovered to her dismay that, far from wishing to reign alongside his beautiful queen, Marcello wanted to become one of the common herd.

  Marcello had never known popularity. In the past he had always been ‘the young De Cretico’. The De Cretico name demanded respect, but the ‘young’ had always been dismissive and Marcello knew he had only been accepted into the ruggedly masculine company he and his brothers kept because of Mario and Luigi. Even his brothers’ wives and his two older sisters considered him weak.

  Now, amongst the villagers and itinerant workers who ate and drank at the tavern, he had discovered a sense of belonging. Marcello was not a stupid man. He realised at the outset that Armando, the innkeeper, saw him as a business asset and that his drinking companions were attracted more by the copious quantities of mulled wine and chianti he bought than they were by his company. But after a while, Armando did appear to genuinely enjoy Marcello’s company. With pride he introduced his new friend to all as ‘the boss’. ‘Come, meet il padrone. He is a good man. One of us,’ he would boast.

  As for the men who enjoyed the alcohol he paid for, it was not long before they realised that Marcello was not merely buying their favour, he was genuinely interested in them. And they returned the compliment in kind. Of course they realised that Sarina wanted no part of them. But then Sarina never had, had she? Even when she had been one of them. And so Marcello was invited into their homes and their farms, and the closer the friendships he forged with the peasants, the greater the rift it created with his wife.

  When, a year after their marriage, Marcello agreed to become godfather to a farmer’s first son, Sarina was outraged. ‘Guiseppe Lorenzelli is one of the poorest farmers in the district,’ she complained.

  ‘It is a great honour he bestows upon me,’ Marcello insisted as he struggled with the stopper in a bottle. It was late, he had just returned from a night of camaraderie at the tavern and he’d had quite enough to drink, but these days he found himself needing several shots of schnapps to fortify himself against Sarina’s nagging. ‘Guiseppe is a fine man, he has three daughters and this is his first son. It is a great honour.’

  ‘Guiseppe Lorenzelli is not a fine man at all. He is a lazy drunkard who drinks away the little he earns whilst his wife and daughters wear rags to church.’

  ‘That is enough, Sarina,’ Marcello suddenly snapped. ‘It is my responsibility to befriend the local people. Mario has instructed me to do so.’ He hoped that would keep her quiet, but he was not being altogether truthful.

  ‘It is good that the local people like you and trust you, Marcello,’ Mario had said on one of his rare visits. ‘But there is no necessity to get drunk with them. You must retain their respect.’

  Word had reached Mario of his younger brother’s excessive drinking and, exasperating as it was, he resigned himself to it. He loved Marcello but the boy had always been weak and indulgent. He was not likely to change. Perhaps it was for the best, after all, that Marcello had married his local peasant. It was convenient having him preside over the family’s Santa Lena properties; his overseeing duties were simple and there was little harm he could come to way up here amongst the farmers and villagers. One aspect of the marriage, however, displeased Mario greatly.

  ‘You have been married nearly a whole year and Sarina is not yet with child. I trust there is nothing wrong.’

  ‘It is certainly not for want of trying, Mario, I can assure you,’ Marcello grinned. ‘Do not concern yourself. It will happen.’

  But a further year later the situation remained the same and Mario grew to detest Sarina. The woman emanated sexuality like a brood mare and yet she was barren. What good was she to the family? He never accused her to her face but Sarina knew he blamed her for his younger brother’s fruitless marriage. Of course it could not be Marcello’s fault, could it? she thought bitterly. Of course the fertility of a De Cretico could never be questioned. But it had to be Marcello, did it not? She had born a son to Carlo all those years ago.

  Sarina had attempted to defend herself. But only once. Mario and Luigi had brought their wives and children with them on this occasion and, although she had met the wives only twice, she could sense their hostility.

  She had been playing with the two younger children on the front patio overlooking the valley below when a voice behind her had said, ‘Go to your mothers.’ As the children ran inside, Sarina turned to see Mario standing by the main doors. She did not know how long he had been there. He walked slowly down the several steps leading to the patio and stood barely an arm’s length from her. It was moments before he spoke.

  ‘The children like you,’ he said, but it was not meant as a compliment.

  ‘I like children,’ she answered.

  ‘Yet you have none of your own.’ It was an accusation.

  Sarina stood her ground. She felt herself flush, but with anger not fear.

  ‘I said, you have no children of your own.’ Now there was menace in his voice.

  ‘I did once,’ Sarina replied quietly.

  She had told Marcello about her baby a year after they were married, but she knew he had never mentioned it to his brothers. He dismissed her failure to conceive, saying such things took time, the baby would come when it wished to. And he had spoken no more on the matter, refusing to believe his own fertility could be in doubt.

  ‘I had a child to my first husband. A son. He died when he was nine months old.’

  Mario knew she was telling the truth. ‘You are saying my brother is not man enough?’ He stepped closer to her until his breath fanned her cheek, but she did not flinch. Mario hated her more than ever because she was right-his brother was not man enough. He hated her for making him despise Marcello. He hated her because he wanted her. He could have her here, now, on the courtyard paving stones, and he knew that she would cry out her pleasure. ‘Is that what you are saying?’ he repeated.

  Still she was silent, but her eyes held a glint of triumph. Had she read his desire? Mario turned away from her. He would die before he would touch her; it was what the whore wanted, he knew it.

  ‘You will say nothing about your child, do you understand me? The fruitlessness of your marriage will be seen as God’s will.’ He turned back to her. ‘If you say anything to the contrary I will kill you.’

  Mario’s jibes about his brother’s childless marriage had ceased from that day on but his lust and loathing for Sarina remained undiminished.

  As for Sarina, she took out her frustration and loneliness on Marcello, nagging him about his drinking and the company he kept. Slowly but surely, she drove him from her until, eventually, she found herself alone each evening with only the company of the servants while Marcello drank with his friends at the tavern.

  The local chianti was no longer strong enough for Marcello and he developed a taste for the Bavarian schnapps which Armando purchased from a contact of his across the border. The harsh, rough liquor took its toll and in the early hours of many a morning, Marcello would stagger home in a state of complete inebriation. When he arrived, exhausted, he would invariably sit on the stone steps in the courtyard before climbing up to the bedrooms, and invariably it was there he
would pass out and be found by one of the servants at dawn.

  IT HAPPENED NOT long after Marcello and Sarina’s third anniversary. On a fine day in late spring. It must have occurred just before dawn but the body was not discovered until mid-morning. It would have been found earlier-the road to the village was busy-but there had been a light snowfall during the night. It was only when the rays of the mid-morning sun had melted the fine white shroud of snow that Marcello’s body could be seen sprawled face-down in the roadside gully.

  He had not fallen far and the wound to his head was superficial, but in his drunken state he had lapsed into unconsciousness and exposure to the elements had killed him. There was no evidence of foul play. His purse and its contents remained intact in the breast pocket of his waistcoat. An ignominious death. Sarina despised him all the more for it. And she became even more bitter. Was she destined to remain a widow forever?

  It gave her no heart when the brothers promised to find her a husband. ‘Two years’ mourning,’ Mario told her and it was an order; there was no sympathy in his eyes. ‘Two years and then we will find a husband for you. But it must be the right man. A man who can control our interests in Santa Lena. A man to be trusted.’

  She knew what that meant. They wanted a lackey and she would be the prize. Sarina De Cretico and the beautiful house on the hill—they would be the incentives for the man the brothers would buy to best serve their interests.

  Sarina would receive an allowance, and she could retain the services of Ernesto and Guiseppina Mascani, the elderly couple Marcello had hired, but the other servants would be dismissed.

  ‘You must learn to govern your own household sparingly, like a woman of good breeding,’ Mario had instructed her scathingly, ‘and in time we will find you a husband.’

  Mario detested Sarina more than ever. And more than ever he detested his lust for her. Even in her widowhood she exuded sexuality. He convinced himself that Sarina had killed his young brother with her lustfulness. Unable to satisfy his wife’s sexual greed, Marcello had been driven to drink. Well, Mario would not provide a husband who would satisfy her wants. He would search for a man, perhaps much older, a man who did not desire women. Mario was determined not to sate the whore’s carnal desires.

  And so Sarina was left a lonely prisoner in her beautiful house with her beautiful statue. Occasionally she entertained the mayor and the merchant and their wives but she had long since tired of their toadying. Besides, it was not friends she was in need of. It was a lover.

  The boredom of her long lonely nights fed the demons of her sexuality until she could stand it no longer. She plotted and planned who her lover might be. He should be older, married, with a family and responsibilities to ensure discretion. She must choose carefully. Selectively. She would be risking her life. But her body was choosing for her and her body was neither careful nor selective. Her body was responding urgently to the strong, healthy young men of the village. It was youth she wanted. Strong, virile, sturdy youth with hard bodies and fine skin.

  In church on Sundays Sarina could not tear her eyes from the young Gianni brothers. Over the years she had often seen the family around the village, but the Gianni boys had been children then. When had they become such fine-looking young men?

  Sarina had set her sights on the older of the brothers, Enrico, until she noticed the regular exchange of looks between him and the blacksmith’s daughter. They were lovers, there could be no doubting it. She turned her attention to the younger brother, and decided he was her preference anyway. Giovanni, with his finely muscled man’s body and his boy’s face. He looked so young. Eighteen, perhaps nineteen. So very young. And those eyes. Intense and, as yet, ingenuous—a young man on the brink of discovery. It was the face of a virgin, Sarina decided. Yes, she was sure he was a virgin. Oh, the tricks she could teach him.

  It was easy. So easy. Shopping for supplies one Saturday morning, she ran into the boy. ‘Giovanni, is it not?’ smiling her dimpled smile. ‘I have met your father.’ Giovanni nodding back self-consciously. He knew who she was, of course, and was flattered that she should speak to him. ‘Perhaps you could assist Ernesto. He is getting old and the sack is heavy.’

  Ernesto had assured her they were not in need of horse grain—there were two sacks still in the stables at the rear of the house—but she had insisted they purchase another.

  And so Giovanni accompanied Sarina and the elderly servant home in order to help unload the sack of grain.

  ‘Thank you, Ernesto, young Giovanni can manage.’ She nodded dismissively. ‘Unharness and water the horse.’ She held the stable door open for the boy and allowed it to swing closed behind them as if by accident.

  ‘Over here, beside the others,’ she instructed, admiring in the half-light the strong forearms that balanced the sack with ease upon the fine broad shoulder.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said when he had carefully placed it down. Then she put her hand upon the same broad shoulder and felt the firmness of his flesh. She knew that beneath the rough fabric of his shirt the skin would be smooth and silken. ‘You have grown, Giovanni. You are a young man now when only yesterday you were a boy.’

  Giovanni was surprised. Who would have thought Signora De Cretico would notice him, she noticed no one. As her fingers slowly moved across his shoulder and down his arm until her hand was clasping his, Giovanni held his breath. He was confused. What did the widow want? Surely not … But his flesh tingled at her touch.

  With her other hand, Sarina played with the soft brown curls that framed his face. Then she caressed his cheek. ‘Thank you for your help.’ And slowly, very, very slowly, she kissed him upon the mouth. A demure kiss. A mere brush of her lips. ‘Come to me tonight and I will reward you.’ He opened his mouth. He was not sure whether it was to say something or to kiss her back, but she gently pulled away. ‘Midnight,’ she whispered. ‘By the stable doors.’ And she was gone.

  As Giovanni stepped out into the sunlight she was standing by the rear doors of the house which led to the servants’ quarters. ‘Goodbye, Giovanni,’ she called, waving to him. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  AT MIDNIGHT, AS Giovanni crept around the side of the house, his whole body was quivering with anticipation. The expectations aroused by the furtive kisses and fumbling caresses he had exchanged with the village girls were about to be fulfilled. Uninhibited by the restrictions of virginal vows, the widow was going to allow him to take her amongst the hay on the stable floor.

  But Giovanni was wrong. Finger to her lips, Sarina led him away from the stables and through the rear door of the house. Past the servants’ quarters, across the courtyard and up the stairs to her bedroom.

  She undressed him, touching his body, tantalising herself as much as she did him. His body was as magnificent as she had known it would be. The muscles hard and toned beneath the velvet bloom of youthful skin. She ran her fingers over his back and his buttocks and his groin. She licked his chest and his neck and his lips until Giovanni could bear no more and he clutched her breasts and her buttocks and ground his mouth upon hers.

  She broke away from him. ‘Si,’ she panted. ‘Si, si.’

  Then they were upon the bed and Giovanni was only vaguely aware of the sheets beneath him, a silky texture he had never before felt. And then the texture of Sarina as she lowered herself upon him. Then he lost himself, forgetting everything but the feel and the taste and the smell of her.

  It did not last long. Not that first time. But Sarina had not expected it to. She kept him with her until it was nearly dawn. They made love again twice and the third time it was Sarina who lost herself. She was like a woman possessed and Giovanni marvelled at his control and the power he had over her.

  They barely spoke throughout but, as Sarina ushered him back into the night, she whispered close into his ear, ‘Mio piccolo toro, come to me again tomorrow. At midnight. I will be waiting.’

  They met each night for a whole week until Sarina came to her senses and realised that she was courting dis
covery. Once a week must suffice, she told herself. But the days between each Saturday midnight dragged slowly. And when Giovanni left for the railway work camp and his visits dwindled to only twice a month, she thought she would go mad.

  Sarina had become insatiable. She did not love the boy, she knew that. But she loved what he did for her. He freed her. It was only in Giovanni’s embrace, at the height of her passion, that she felt alive. The rest of her existence was cold and empty.

  SARINA STOPPED PROWLING the balconies. Looking through the open doors of the upstairs salon, she saw the grandfather clock read a quarter before midnight. She would go downstairs and wait for him in case he arrived early.

  She knew Giovanni wanted to be free of her. She knew he was fearful of the De Cretico brothers, and he had good reason to be, but she cared nothing for his fear. She needed him desperately, and she would continue to need him until Mario found her a husband.

  Sarina pulled her red velvet gown about her as she quietly opened the rear door. This waiting, she cursed, it was beyond endurance.

  Nearly half an hour later, shivering with cold despite the heavy velvet gown, Sarina dragged Giovanni inside. ‘You are late,’ she hissed.

  Giovanni looked with some alarm at the doors to the servants’ quarters, but Sarina was already hurrying on ahead of him, through the corridor, across the courtyard. He followed.

  Behind them, one of the doors opened and two pairs of eyes watched as they climbed the stairs.

  Guiseppina and Ernesto looked at each other and Guiseppina shook her head with more than disapproval. Such indiscretion was dangerous. Her mistress was becoming less and less mindful of the jeopardy in which she was placing them. It would cost them all dear if the signora were to become too careless.

  Quietly, Guiseppina closed the door.