Secrets in Sicily

by Penny Feeny

  ‘We think we have control of our bodies, but I’m not sure that we do. Perhaps God has given you a miracle.’

  ‘I don’t know why He’d do that.’

  ‘Tesora! That’s God’s business. Don’t ask why.’

  ‘I stopped believing He cared for me,’ said Carlotta.

  ‘Well, you were wrong.’

  ‘You think this pregnancy is a good thing?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know if I’ll be any use as a mother.’

  ‘What nonsense! You’re fantastic with Luca. I mean to say, taking on another woman’s child the way you’ve done—’

  ‘He’s not another woman’s child any more. He’s mine.’ Carlotta found this line of argument disturbing. Jessamy McKenzie had done precisely the same thing. ‘And it’s so long since I’ve had practice with babies.’

  ‘You don’t need practice! It’s an instinct. You’re making excuses. And if you’re worried about Nicolo’s reaction…’ Eva put an arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s best that you find out now, before the wedding, no?’

  *

  Approaching the apartment block, Carlotta could see Luca playing football with a group of friends. The memory of their first meeting – his delighted presentation of the peacock feather and then the trauma of his small body somersaulting through the air – was as vivid as ever, but now he was a lithe twelve-year-old who couldn’t seem to stop growing, out-stripping her. The ball bounced on the tarmac and against the side of the building and the sign that read Non Giocare con le Palle. The low sun lit up the boys’ faces, their expressions of glee. Luca, catching sight of her, gave a sporting wave, and then raced towards an opponent. Her spirits generally lifted at his youthful energy and enthusiasm, but today she was in too much turmoil. She fixed a smile on her lips but luckily he wasn’t close enough to spot its lack of spontaneity.

  Nicolo could tell something was wrong, however. She read the puzzlement on his face as she soon as she walked in. She should have been jubilant, fizzing with details of the dress – hints, rather than a full description. She should have danced into his arms.

  ‘Darling,’ he said. ‘Are you still feeling sick?’

  ‘Yes, I’m going to lie down. Will you come and talk to me? I have to explain the reason for this sickness.’

  ‘Ah, so you know?’

  She nodded and he followed her into the bedroom where she lay on the sheets that proclaimed I love you, I love you. He took off her shoes and massaged her feet. ‘How does that feel?’

  ‘Lovely, thank you. Nicolo…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve taken a test. It was Eva’s idea, after she measured me again.’ She said, as neutrally as possible, ‘According to the test, I’m pregnant.’

  ‘I thought that might be the case,’ he said. The massage continued. His hands moved to her ankles and along her calves, drawing out the tension from the muscles, the fatigue that came from serving in the shop all day.

  ‘So you’re not surprised?’

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘You had the symptoms.’

  ‘But you aren’t pleased, are you? Amore, why can’t you be pleased for me?’

  ‘Is it what you want?’ he said.

  Her mind was reeling, taunting her: It’s not what he wants – he already has a child, he doesn’t need another. But he can’t leave me. We’re getting married in three weeks. She said, ‘I don’t know. I was supposed to be infertile so I never imagined I’d find myself in this condition. What about you? Do you hate the idea?’

  ‘Of course I don’t! I love you and I want everything to be right for you.’

  This should have been reassuring, so why did it make her uneasy? What was he holding back? Nicolo took off his own shoes and lay down beside her. He leaned over and unbuttoned her shirt and slid his hand beneath the waistband of her skirt, resting it on her abdomen, with the tiny speck of life inside. ‘I always wondered,’ he said quietly, ‘if you were afraid to have another child, after what happened to your first baby. That kind of loss must be very hard to overcome.’

  Carlotta swallowed. She should have given a fuller explanation of Lily’s visit by now; she’d let the opportunity slip past too often. ‘I have something else to tell you,’ she said.

  His palm was warm on her skin and perfectly still. ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s possible there was a mistake with the identification of Serafina.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I had some news, years ago, but I couldn’t do anything about it. Or rather I tried and failed and had to give up. But I believe my baby may have survived the earthquake after all.’

  ‘Porca miseria! She’s alive somewhere? You know this for a fact?’

  ‘Actually, she came to see me,’ said Carlotta. ‘Last week. Do you remember the young woman called Lily McKenzie? You met her as she was leaving.’ He was silent, stunned. ‘Unfortunately, our meeting didn’t go well because I was so sick. She was like a stranger to me. I fed her and clothed her and cuddled her and sang to her when she was little but I played no part in her upbringing. Now I don’t know what to think or how to feel.’

  Nicolo was looking at her in disbelief. ‘You’re saying your daughter Serafina has grown up in England with the name of Lily McKenzie? She wasn’t killed, as you thought?’

  ‘It seems not. It seems she was rescued and adopted by an English couple.’

  ‘You’re positive of this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He whistled in amazement, made an effort to collect himself.

  She added timidly, ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you before but the information was so uncertain and until this month I couldn’t know if I would ever see her again.’

  His next suggestion was unexpected. ‘Then you should get in touch with her.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve tried! After she left I telephoned to England, but she hasn’t called me back. I’m afraid she’s annoyed with me.’ She’d handled Lily’s request so badly she’d driven her away. What had she been thinking?

  ‘Stai tranquilla. You must take things very easy.’ He patted her abdomen and then re-fastened her buttons one by one. He was as dextrous as ever but his movements were mechanical – there were no sly tickles or caresses during the buttoning – as if he was distracted by something.

  ‘What is it?’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps we should invite her to our wedding?’

  ‘Lily? Do you mean that?’

  ‘Yes, if it would make you happy.’

  ‘Oh, it would! But the journey from England, it’s too far… it’s too much to ask… She wouldn’t accept.’ And Carlotta had only herself to blame. She wriggled on the bed, tossed her head on the pillow. ‘But why aren’t we talking about our new baby, Nico, the one we made together in spite of all the odds? Isn’t that the real miracle?’

  ‘All life is a miracle,’ he said.

  ‘So why are you reacting like this?’

  He took her into his arms and stroked her hair from her brow, but it didn’t feel consoling. It felt as if he were trying to protect her from a sudden onslaught and concerned that he wouldn’t make a very good job of it. ‘Hush,’ he said. ‘Let’s discuss it after you’ve had a scan.’

  ‘But that’s usually at three months, isn’t it? Which will be after the wedding… Dio mio!’ She pushed him away. ‘It’s because you don’t want anyone to know. You’re ashamed!’

  ‘Amore, please…’

  ‘You think this pregnancy makes us look like grubby teenagers, like kids with no self-control. You think Luca will be embarrassed? Okay, that was true of me the first time – I admit it! But we’re already living together, so why wouldn’t everyone be happy for us?’ She drew down the corners of her mouth. ‘Anyway, Eva knows. You can’t stop people talking.’

  ‘I don’t want you to wait three months for a scan. You must have one as soon as possible. I’ll try and make some arrangements when I go in tonight. Maybe you should come with me.’

  This was why she
was frightened. Nicolo wasn’t volatile the way Romans or Sicilians were, but this deliberate calm of his was unnatural, unnerving. ‘Why is it so urgent?’

  ‘Your infertility,’ he said, ‘will be the result of the damage to your fallopian tubes. If they’re badly scarred, no egg can pass.’

  ‘So it is a miracle?’

  ‘A chance in a million. And it would be amazing if we’ve beaten those odds. But it’s also very risky. If the embryo can’t reach the womb, it can’t develop and grow. That’s why, although you have all the symptoms, I don’t want you to build up your hopes before the scan. An ectopic pregnancy wouldn’t be viable.’

  His message was clear. It was just as well she hadn’t conjured up a baby, a little boy similar to Luca, with Nicolo’s serious brown eyes and a wicked smile. It wasn’t like Serafina: you couldn’t mourn what you’d never had. It was merely a prospect that had lived in her head for how long – three hours? – and now dissipated like a puff of wind. Whatever made her think Carlotta Galetti deserved such a piece of fortune? She was guilty of rejecting her living daughter, wasn’t she? She was not fit to mother again.

  ‘Sometimes there can be further complications.’

  His gaze was searching, as if he were trying to compute and collate every bit of her in his memory. This was what he would have done when nursing Maria through her cancer. Carlotta could see the pain of recollection. She shivered. ‘What do you mean?’

  He clasped her hands between his. ‘I mean, it could be dangerous for you too. That’s why we must get you to hospital straight away.’

  31

  The policemen were drinking coffee, ordered in from the bar, and laughing at each other’s jokes. Lily couldn’t follow what they were saying but she suspected they were laughing at her too. Marcello was sitting on a metal chair, rubbing his wrist where the handcuffs had chafed it. His jaw was clenched and there was a whitening around the edges of his nose and mouth. At the counter Lily had been given a form to sign.

  ‘I don’t understand what it’s for,’ she said, casting an anguished glance at Marcello, hoping he’d leap up and translate.

  ‘Sign it,’ he said, without moving. ‘It’s to register your arrival in Sicily, that’s all. Then they’ll give your passport back.’

  Her passport was on the counter in a plastic folder. The number had been copied down and the authorities informed. What authorities? she’d wanted to know. ‘In Inghilterra,’ they’d told her, because it was quite an event for a provincial police station to be involved in matters of international diplomacy. They were accustomed to dealing with petty theft and road accidents (and taking bribes from the Mafia, Marcello had said contemptuously).

  Lily was not much wiser about the reason for her arrest – though they’d explained she was being apprehended, rather than arrested as such. Her details had been flagged up as requiring investigation, but they couldn’t tell her why the order had been issued. They were simply doing their job. And now they needed her to answer a few questions: When did she arrive? Where was she staying? Did she have a return ticket? She’d answered truthfully and then worried whether the Campiones would get into trouble, whether she’d be classed as an illegal worker.

  On arrival at the police station, she and Marcello had been separated. Lily had been cloistered in a bleak waiting area, but he’d been dragged away, presumably to the cells. They’d been threatening to charge him with insulting a police officer. As the hours passed, she guessed they were deciding whether to make good their threat. Alex had warned her about people who wore uniforms of the sort that conferred high-handed powers. Behind a desk they were tin-pot tyrants, behind a riot shield they became ruthless thugs. He’d had first-hand experience during his days of youthful defiance, which he laughed about now. Marcello wasn’t in a mood to see the funny side; he’d been released but he was fuming.

  Lily signed the form and passed it back across the counter. A policeman selected a stamp, rolled it over one of many coloured ink pads and smacked each page with relish. Then he returned her passport.

  ‘Is that it? I’m free to go now?’

  He grunted.

  ‘Both of us?’

  ‘Sì, sì.’ He flicked his fingers towards the door. His fellow officers indicated a collection box on the way out as if a donation was expected but, after their ordeal, neither of them was feeling charitable.

  The street was deserted, baking in the afternoon heat. The boutique and the bank were both closed. They got into the car and Marcello juddered away from the kerb.

  ‘God,’ said Lily. ‘That was a nightmare, wasn’t it?’

  He honked furiously at a truck about to pull out. ‘The police are imbeciles.’

  ‘They didn’t… mistreat you?’ There were no marks on him, apart from the red weal of the handcuffs, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been subjected to brutality. Or humiliation.

  He said in disgust, ‘You know they accused me of abducting you?’

  ‘They didn’t! That’s ridiculous. I’m a consenting adult.’

  He wouldn’t look at her; his beautiful blue eyes were frozen chips of ice. ‘Absolutely, it’s ridiculous! Why would I want to abduct anybody?’

  He was smarting from the indignity and Lily wretchedly interpreted this as why would he want to abduct her? He was attractive and personable, with an acute sense of honour. To be accused of abduction was an insult. ‘Look, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what the original problem was, but you shouldn’t have had to be involved. It was nothing to do with you…’

  ‘Forget it,’ he said, accelerating onto the main road.

  Even if his anger was directed at the police and not at her, the incident created a distance between them. In Lily’s view their relationship had soured before it had a chance to begin. Why would Marcello want to associate with someone who gave him grief when there were plenty of other willing and less troublesome girls around? She gripped the edges of the hot, clammy car seat and abandoned any notion of inviting him into her cubbyhole.

  By the time they returned to the farm, the siesta was over and the workers were in the fields. She joined them in miserable silence. The regulars bantered among themselves, but she hadn’t mastered the dialect and, anyway, she needed to figure out what she should do next. By the end of the afternoon, she’d made up her mind. It only took ten minutes or so to stuff her belongings into her holdall and backpack.

  At dinner, after the main course but before the fruit and cheese, she said, ‘Thank you all so much for having me. I’ve had a terrific week, but this’ll be my last meal. I need to leave tomorrow.’ She’d deliberately made her announcement in public so she couldn’t be dissuaded. Marcello was at the other end of the table; she’d avoided sitting near him. He looked up in surprise.

  Alfredo said, ‘We’ve been working you too hard?’

  Lily was so tired her bones ached but she denied this roundly. ‘No, I’ve enjoyed the work. But I’m afraid I’ll cause trouble for you because I don’t have a permit. The police said there was a problem with my passport – even though there wasn’t – and now they know where I’m staying they might come and hassle you.’

  ‘You are our guest,’ said Signora Campione. ‘Not our employee.’ (This wasn’t strictly accurate, but truth was a slippery concept and could be adjusted.)

  ‘I’ve some friends I promised to visit,’ said Lily.

  Marcello’s voice was sharp. ‘The old Englishman in Villa Ercole? Did you telephone him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she lied, though he must have known she’d had no opportunity. She planned to leave first thing in the morning and phone from a bar over breakfast. If Gerald or Dolly didn’t answer, she’d think of something else.

  ‘How will you get there?’

  ‘I’ll get a bus some of the way, I guess. And then I’ll hitch.’

  Signora Campione said, ‘That is not advisable.’

  ‘But people always give each other lifts in the country. I’ve done it at home and here too, actually.’ (Though gett
ing a ride with Carlotta ten years ago probably didn’t count.)

  ‘But you are a foreigner,’ said Signora Campione.

  Lily wanted to argue: No, I’m not! I come from Sicilian peasant stock, like you. The sun had brought out the melanin in her skin, the smell of tomatoes had impregnated her hands, the soil had worked its way between her toes – it was almost impossible to wash her feet properly in the shower. She was not a straniera. But that was what the farmer in his beat-up truck or the salesman in his dusty Fiat or the motorbike rider would see when she stuck her thumb out. They’d be able to tell from her clothing, from the way she carried herself, that she wasn’t a local.

  Identity is more than bloodline, more than ancestry. It’s the upbringing and culture you are exposed to, the habits and values you take for granted. Spending a week in Sicily didn’t turn her into a Sicilian, not in anyone’s view. And, if she was honest, she could see this life had its limitations; there was a lot of drudgery in it. Lily loved to be outside, loved working with plants, but she wanted to be creative too, which would be a luxury here. Growing, cropping, harvesting, that was the priority. Survival.

  ‘I’ll take you,’ said Marcello.

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Yes, if I can borrow the car again?’

  Signora Campione nodded and went to get the cheese.

  In the morning, Alfredo paid Lily in cash for the days she’d worked, which was good because it meant she didn’t have to risk another trip to the bank. ‘You must visit us again,’ he said. ‘You will be welcome any time.’

  Both the Signoras Campione kissed her and made a great fuss of her, causing the twins to grizzle for attention. She took leave of Fabio and Gilberto, who were casually confident they’d see her again: ‘Ci vediamo, senz’altro.’ Then she got into the Fiat with Marcello.

  Twenty-four hours ago, she thought, we were on our way down this same road. Was he giving her a lift to speed her departure? Out of obligation? Or to make up to her? And if the latter, why didn’t he take his hand off the gear-stick and squeeze her thigh, offer some acknowledgement of his feelings? Would she ever get another kiss? Should she make the first move? She’d no idea how to breach the space between them.