by Derek Hansen
Cecilia had been brought up to love her brothers and sisters as much as she loved her parents, and she struggled to come to terms with the fact that they’d shut her out of their lives. She’d felt as every child in a close family does; that her family wasn’t simply a group of individuals but a single functioning unit of which she was an integral part, inseparable from and mutually dependent upon the rest. It hurt and bewildered her to learn otherwise. Fortunately for her, much of the pain was dissipated by the distraction of adapting to her new life, otherwise the loss would have been unendurable. Besides, she knew in her heart that her mother would never abandon her and she drew strength from that. But it also begged a question. Hadn’t she abandoned her mother?
She thought of using a go-between but was no longer sure who she could trust. Children are very quick to pick up on a change in status or a fall from grace of one of their number, and her brothers had left no one in doubt that she’d been thrown out for an unspecified but indescribably shameful deed. Her school friends speculated wildly upon what that deed might have been and distanced themselves from her. In the normal course of events, things like this are soon forgotten, usurped by some other juicy scandal or gossip. But Cecilia compounded the problem by turning up at school in Carmela’s cast-offs. Instantly she ceased to be one of them, the division as clear as it always has been between the haves and the have-nots, between privilege and poverty. Her friends were envious of her fine clothes and good fortune, but their envy was entwined with a sense of betrayal. Her clothes shamed them and she had put herself above them. Who would be her friend now, who could she trust?
One day she saw her opportunity and took it. As she sat alone waiting for classes to begin, she noticed a girl who had once shared her desk and been her friend, arrive through the school gates. Instead of joining the others for a last, frantic few moments of play and gossip, she slunk away to a corner of the playground where she could sit quietly by herself. There was something in the way she walked and slowly sat down that Cecilia couldn’t help but recognise. As if to confirm her suspicions, the girl’s chin slumped down on her chest and, even from a distance, Cecilia could see that she was crying.
Cecilia raced through her morning lessons, completing her work early so that she could write a note to her mother. She folded it and put it in her pocket. Now all she had to do was wait for her class’s turn to gather in the courtyard outside for exercises. Daily exercise was another of Benito Mussolini’s gifts to the school children of Italy. Perhaps he envisioned a super race of Italians in the same way Hitler dreamed of his Aryan master race, or perhaps it was just another act of kindness for which he was well known. Whatever his motive, the boys of the Balilla and the girls of the Piccola Italiana and Giovane Italiana welcomed the break from the mysteries of mathematics and the opportunity to stretch their limbs. Frequently the teachers were somewhat less enthusiastic and, in the time between the first blow of the whistle and the marshalling of their charges, there was often a period of anarchy. This was the moment Cecilia waited for. She held back as the whistle blew and the first wave of students charged towards the doorway and temporary freedom. She sidled unobtrusively up to her target.
‘Giuseppina,’ she said softly.
The girl looked up at her, her face swollen and puffy, desperation in her eyes.
‘Giuseppina,’ she said again, ‘I can tell them that you fell over getting up from your desk and that you’ve hurt your knee. I’ll tell them that you are unable to do the exercises. I’ll tell them I bumped into you. They’ll believe me because they have no reason not to.’
‘Cecilia, I …’
‘Don’t say anything. I’ll tell you a secret. My father used to beat me, too.’ It was a lie, but sometimes lies are told out of kindness. Tears of gratitude and relief flooded Giuseppina’s eyes. The last thing the battered child needed was to leap around an exercise yard.
‘Oh … there’s one thing you can do for me. There’s no hurry. When you feel up to it, would you give this note to my sister Paola and tell her to read it to my mother when they are alone. Don’t let anyone see you. Okay?’
Giuseppina took the note and nodded, grateful for the chance to return a favour.
‘When you feel up to it. There’s no hurry. You rest now.’ She left Giuseppina and went to find her teachers, convinced that Giuseppina would pass on her note at the very first opportunity, and that at last she’d found a conduit to her mother.
That afternoon there was a change in Cecilia’s routine. She didn’t realise it at the time but it set a pattern that was to govern her next few years at the Villa Carosio. She’d barely changed from her school clothes into her uniform when Signora Mila sent for her. When she saw the Signora’s face she wondered immediately what she’d done wrong.
‘Cecilia, the Count is unwell. He would like you to read to him. Here are some papers from Milan and Rome, and some books he asked for.’ The Signora paused and took a deep breath. ‘I have asked Stefano to set up a chair by the Count’s bed. When you read to him you will sit in the chair. Stefano has also set up a table and a lamp beside the chair so you have light to read by. Are you listening to me, Cecilia?’
‘Yes, Signora. Stefano has placed a chair by the Count’s bed and I am to sit in it while I read to him.’ The instruction was so simple Cecilia had no idea why the Signora wished her to repeat it. Or why her tone of voice was so brusque.
‘Very good, Cecilia. Begin by reading the newspapers. Perhaps you can find some reason to discuss our beloved Duce.’ There was something in the way the Signora said the word ‘beloved’ which suggested Il Duce was not necessarily beloved by her. Cecilia was confused. ‘Oh, one more thing, it would be a good idea to impress upon the Count that you have lots of homework to do tonight.’
‘No, Signora, I have no homework.’
‘Cecilia, I asked you before, are you listening to me?’
‘Yes, Signora. I must impress upon the Count that I have a lot of homework to complete tonight.’
The Signora stared steadily at Cecilia. If anything, her attitude had grown harder and Cecilia was at a loss to know why. Perhaps she was jealous that the Count was showing a preference for her over her daughter, Carmela. Perhaps she wanted her daughter to read to the Count. But Carmela struggled with her reading and read in a flat monotone. Who would want to listen to that?
‘Go now, Cecilia, and remember what I told you. Oh … and report to me afterwards.’
‘Yes, Signora.’ Cecilia gathered up the newspapers and books and headed for the Count’s bedroom. She knew it intimately. She’d helped Anna change the bed linen many times and scrubbed the huge enamelled bath more often than she cared to think about. This was the first time she’d been allowed to enter the Count’s chambers while he occupied them, but what difference did that make? Why all the fuss? She knocked gently on the Count’s door and waited, uncertain whether to enter or not. To her surprise the door opened and it was Signor Calosci not the Count who opened it. He beckoned her in.
‘Good afternoon, Signor Calosci,’ she said politely, fully expecting him to smile in reply. But there was no smile. He wouldn’t meet her look. He as good as ignored her.
‘Ah … my little angel is here! Come in Cecilia and sit down.’
But for the fact that his eyes were more watery and his breathing more laboured, Cecilia thought that the Count looked much the same as usual. She curtsied as was her custom.
‘Good afternoon, Count d’Alatri, I’m sorry to hear you are unwell.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing child, just the burden of age. Come sit down. Stefano has made a little throne for you to sit upon.’
Cecilia looked at the enormous maroon and gilt chair beside the bed. She recognised it as belonging to one of the reception rooms below. It was a mystery to Cecilia why Signora Mila had seen fit to have this chair carted up the stairs when there were other perfectly suitable chairs in the Count’s room. Nevertheless she sat upon it as instructed and nearly disappeared in its depths.
‘Thank you, Signor Calosci, that will be all.’ The Count dismissed his servant and waited until he’d left the room and closed the door behind him. ‘Now Cecilia, where are you? I can’t see you!’
If Signora Mila’s intention was to put as much distance between Cecilia and the Count then her good intentions were about to backfire.
‘Cecilia, that chair is ridiculous! I like to see people when I’m talking to them. I want to see you when you’re reading to me. Otherwise I may just as well be listening to the radio. Come child! Sit here.’
Cecilia didn’t argue, not that she had any choice in the matter. But it was plainly foolish to remain in the big antique chair where neither she nor the Count could see each other. So she slid off the chair and climbed up onto the edge of his bed.
‘Not there. Here. Closer so I don’t have to strain to hear you. That’s it, good girl.’ He patted her thigh. ‘Now what have you brought me?’
‘The newspapers and some books.’ Cecilia remembered what the Signora had said to her. ‘If you like, I will read the newspapers to you. We’ll find out what our beloved Duce is doing.’
‘No. I am tired of the news. I know exactly what Il Duce is doing. The radio is full of it. Read one of the books to me instead. Let me see … yes … read to me from this book.’ He skimmed through the pages. ‘Here. Begin reading here.’
Cecilia took the book from the Count and began to read. She could hardly believe the passage the Count had given her. It described things the boys at school wouldn’t dare whisper about, even at their most wicked. She hesitated.
‘Go on.’ The Count stared at her intently. Cecilia was aware of a tension in his voice and eyes that wasn’t there before. She felt sickened. She hadn’t been raised to read filth like this. This wasn’t why her mother had encouraged her to read.
‘Go on! Read! Do as I say!’ His temper flared and his moustache quivered.
She began to read once more. She was startled and frightened, yet still desperate to please. Her hands trembled and made it difficult for her eyes to follow the lines. She faltered and stumbled over words but the Count didn’t seem to mind. She knew she was reading poorly and for that there was no excuse. In a situation she didn’t understand, she fell back on her training, and exercised the control that came from deep within her. She concentrated on her breathing and keeping her voice steady. The subject no longer mattered as she concentrated less on the words and more on the manner of their delivery. But she didn’t look up from the page as she’d trained herself to do to maintain contact with her audience. She couldn’t bear to. She couldn’t bear to look into that strained and sweat-beaded face. She could hear his breathing becoming more shallow and rapid. She could feel his eyes upon her and knew he hung on to her every word. She read them as they were intended to be read, doing full justice to both meaning and context. But it was the actor in her who was reading, not her. She retreated into her craft, closed her mind off and took in nothing of what she read. She concentrated so hard she wasn’t aware when the Count first began to stroke her back and shoulders, slowly and rhythmically, as a father might to a sick child. But he was not her father nor were his interests paternal. And Cecilia now understood why the Count had overruled Signora Mila and allowed her to join his household.
As soon as she left the Count, Cecilia ran to her room. She wanted to throw herself on her bed and cry her eyes out. But it was not to be. As soon as she opened the door to her room she saw Anna. She closed the door quickly. She wasn’t ready yet to share her shame with anyone. She turned away down the corridor, but where could she go? Then she remembered Signora Mila’s instructions. Had she known what would happen? Of course, that was why she’d had the big chair moved in for her to sit on. Tears of relief began to well in her eyes. She wasn’t alone. She wanted her mother but Signora Mila loomed as a welcome substitute. She set off in search of her and found her in the kitchen reprimanding Stefano, battering and humiliating him with a seemingly endless stream of insults. Cecilia hesitated, wondering what he had done this time to incur the Signora’s wrath. Everyone other than the cook had found work to do as far away from the Signora as possible. They knew when it was prudent to duck for cover. Stefano looked up and saw Cecilia standing in the doorway. He’d heard the rumours and knew an escape route when he saw one.
‘Signora …’
The Signora paused and caught his glance. She turned around and saw Cecilia. One glance was enough to change her priorities.
‘Ah, Cecilia. Stefano, I will finish with you later. Cecilia come with me to my office.’ Cecilia followed the Signora down the hallway to the little room she called her office. The Signora closed the door behind them.
‘Merda! Cretino! That cretin Stefano will be the death of me!’
Cecilia was shocked. She’d never heard the Signora swear before nor ever expected to. And certainly not over Stefano. The Signora put her elbows on the little table she used as her desk, and cupped her head in her hands. Cecilia thought of her mother. She’d often seen her worn out and world weary like this.
‘Cecilia let me tell you some things, though by now I’m sure you will have guessed. The Count, as you are aware, has a wife, though they have not lived together for more than twenty years. They have no children. There have been all sorts of rumours as to why they split up, but they are all gossip and best dismissed. But it is a fact that the Count has certain preferences. It has been rumoured that his preferences have even extended to young boys, but I have no evidence for this and I have lived in this house most of my life. Cecilia, now you know the truth about the Count’s interest in you and why I didn’t want you to come here. Now, tell me what he did to you. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I am all right.’
‘Tell me what he did to you.’
‘He made me promise not to tell anyone.’
‘Of course he would.’
‘He said he’d throw me out onto the streets if I told anyone.’
The Signora grimaced. ‘Look at me, Cecilia. You must understand the way things are. He is rich and powerful and we are nothing. If not for the Count everyone of us here would be out on the streets. That disgusting old man upstairs knows this. Cecilia, this is a lovely house and we have beautiful clothes to wear and nice food to eat. But life here can be unbearable if you don’t have someone to share your troubles with. You can share your troubles with me. I will tell nobody, God as my witness. But I can’t help you unless you tell me everything. You can pretend I am your mother. Don’t you think your mother would like me to look after you while you are here?’
‘Yes, Signora.’
‘So, Cecilia, tell me. Did he touch you?’
Cecilia bowed her head under the weight of the shameful admission.
‘Did he make you take off your clothes?’
‘Yes.’ Her reply was barely audible.
‘Did he touch you between your legs?’
Cecilia nodded. She screwed up her eyes, determined not to cry.
‘Did he put his thing there?’
‘No.’
‘Did he make you touch his thing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just with your hand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did anything happen?’
‘No.’
‘So at least we have his age to be grateful for. Did he do anything else?’
‘He said things to me.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Awful things, disgusting things. Like the book he asked me to read.’
‘Dear Cecilia …’ The Signora’s voice softened and she put her arms around the distressed child. ‘You poor child. What are we going to do?’
‘I hate him!’
‘Yes, apart from Signor Calosci and Andre he doesn’t have many friends here. But that doesn’t answer the question. What are we going to do? You can either remain or leave. If you decide to remain here you now know what to expect. There’s not much I can do to help you. But I want you to know you can always
turn to me as one woman to another. Do you understand me, Cecilia? As one woman to another?’
‘Yes, Signora. Thank you.’
‘Oh, don’t thank me, Cecilia.’ The Signora let go of her and turned away, clearly distressed. ‘I should send you away from here now! But where can I send you? Where can you go? Your father won’t take you back. And if I dismiss you, what will happen to me? And Carmela? This is the only life I know. My parents passed this job onto my husband Guido and I when my father became sick and they went back to Varese. My family have looked after the Villa Carosio for more than sixty years. God knows I wish my husband Guido was here. He wouldn’t stand for this. I curse the Villa Carosio!’ She bit her lips as if regretting her outburst, and used her sleeve to wipe away her bitter tears. Cecilia decided to do nothing. A servant does not presume to show sympathy for her superiors and she wasn’t convinced that the ‘one woman to another’ protocol was yet in place.
‘Lord knows it has been hard enough keeping that dirty old man’s hands off Carmela. Now there are two of you. I suppose I should be glad you are here for her sake, but I’m not. I think my husband would kill the Count if he interfered with her, and I think the Count knows that. But what use is he to us in the army? The Count insisted he join. Ordered him to join as an example to the village. Mussolini had just invaded Ethiopia and in a fit of patriotic fervour that stronzo, that shit upstairs, sent my husband to join them. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I will give him the highest recommendation.” We thought Guido would become a chauffeur for a General, but the Count’s fine recommendation got him a seat in a tank instead as a machine-gunner. What does my Guido know about machine-guns? What will happen to us if he is killed? Our lives are being run by madmen! What will happen to any of us? I don’t know what to do!’ The Signora began to weep silently and bitterly once more.
