by D. L. Smith
“You knew my father. Tell me the truth, okay? Did he seem . . . kind of dumb to you?”
“What! Are you crazy? No, he wasn’t dumb. He was smart. Why would you ask a crazy question like that?”
“He married my mother. How smart could he have been to have married my mother?”
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Leo exploded. “Why would you say a smart-aleck thing like that? All day you’ve been at your mother. Knock it off, okay?”
“Okay. I thought at least you’d understand.” “Understand what?”
“You know how she is. I see how mean she treats you.” “How your mother treats me is none of your damn business. Maybe she has her reasons. What’s she ever done to you—except watch out for you and worry about you and want what’s best for you?”
“How would she know what’s best for me. She’s never been anywhere and she’s never done anything. She spent her whole stupid life in this stupid little town and she acts like she knows everything. She knows nothing.”
Leo stood motionless for a moment, as if he were lost in some difficult decision—and when he finally did move across the room it was so sudden, Carmen thought for a moment he was going to strike her. She was already backing up when he put his index finger on her chest and pushed. Carmen fell into the chair that was waiting behind her.
“Stay there.”
On the far side of the living room was an old cedar trunk covered with a lace shawl that stored the most meaningful of the Pizzola family treasures. It didn’t contain ancestral jewels, or ancient deeds, forgotten land grants, or valuable coins. This chest was reserved for much more important treasures, those that are irreplaceable and beyond value— the shawl his great-grandmother wore on her wedding day, yellowed family pictures that dated back to the invention of the camera, precious letters, delicate baby clothes. It was a hodgepodge of cherished mementos whose origins were dim—but Leo knew them all. He knelt before the trunk and carefully dug through his past. He lifted out a large Bible that was so old the leather was turning to dust and Leo noticed that his hands were shaking as he set it gently on the floor. He was especially careful not to disturb any of the paper-thin flowers that had been gathered by generations of his family and pressed between the dry pages. Then he carefully lifted out three old magazines.
“At one time I’ll bet every house in Santo Fico had at least one of these and most had a couple,” he muttered softly, talking half to himself and half to Carmen. “I think we have the full collection.”
He closed the lid and carefully set the magazines on top. Then, with a sigh, Leo sat on the floor, put his back against the trunk, and began his story.
“A long time ago, way before you were born, when your mother was just about your age, a whole bunch of people from Milano came here, to Santo Fico. They were fashion people from some magazine and they were here to take pictures. They were here for a few days and they stayed at the hotel. There was a photographer and people who took care of the clothes they brought, all kinds of people; I never could figure out what they all did. And three tall, beautiful, skinny women to wear the clothes. They went all over the town taking pictures. The harbor, the cliffs, the beach, the hotel, the church—all over the place.
“The first day they were here the photographer was sitting in front of the hotel when your mother came back from the church. She must have taken Father Elio his lunch or something. Now, she usually went around the back way to the kitchen, but the fashion people were here and she was curious, so that day she walked right across the piazza and in the front door of the hotel. And all the time she’s walking across the piazza, this photographer is sitting at a table on the verandah and looking at your mother through his camera. But he doesn’t take any pictures. He just keeps looking at her through the camera. Then he gets up and follows her right inside, still just looking through the camera.
“This photographer guy wants to use your mother in some of the pictures. Well, your grandpa said no, but your grandma said yes—and when this photographer told your grandpa about how much money they would pay your mama, he said yes too. So they took pictures of your mother for that fashion magazine. And when it came time for them to go back to Milano, your mama went with them. Come here.”
Carmen joined him on the floor and they used the trunk as a table. The magazines were yellowed around the edges and had obviously been perused many times, but they had also been handled carefully and were smooth and unwrinkled. The fashion pictures on the covers looked funny and out of style to Carmen, but she knew the names of the magazines. Inside were pictures of her mother. She was young and beautiful and she looked like Carmen.
“You haven’t seen these? You’ve never heard about this?” Carmen just shook her head and reverently turned the pages.
“She was gone for almost three months. Then, all of a sudden, she came home. She said she didn’t like Milano. But when that photographer called, your grandma asked this guy why Marta came home and he told her that your mama said there was someone in Santo Fico she loved and she couldn’t stand being away from him. The photographer told your grandma that your mother could have made a lot of money in Milano, maybe even been famous—but your mama knew all that before she came home.”
“She came back here because she loved my father?”
Leo only shrugged. “I have to go into town. I’ll be back later. If Paolo Lombolo comes by, tell him I need to talk to him.”
He left Carmen alone with the pictures of the beautiful young girl who might have been famous, but loved someone too much, and he appreciated that she was careful not to let any tears spill on the pages.
Outside, Leo headed up the path toward town. He had a great deal to do and not much time. The air was thick and sticky. Clouds were building in the west. There was going to be a storm all right. Even he could see it.
For all his unpleasant traits, there was one area where Solly Puce could never be faulted—punctuality. Some residents of Santo Fico checked their clocks when they heard the sound of the Vespa chugging up the hill—not to see what time it was, but rather to make sure they were running accurately. Solly took his job of hauling mail up and down the goat trails of this section of the Toscana coast seriously. The fact that so many of the tiny villages had incredibly beautiful girls who were isolated and lonely was simply one of the job’s perks. So it was no surprise to anyone when at precisely 11:40 A.M., the Vespa spewed its trail of blue smoke across the piazza and pulled to a halt in front of the Palazzo Urbano—as usual.
Solly dug through the worn leather saddlebags on the back of the scooter and glanced around the piazza. Usually on a day like today, what with the heat, this square would be empty—except, of course, for that screwy old man by the fountain with his dog. But today, like every other day since the resurrection of that ridiculous geyser, there must have been more than a dozen people either coming or going or gossiping by the edge of the fountain, or playing dominoes at the verandah tables of the hotel. The whole character of the piazza was different, Solly thought, all because of some dumb spray of water. He liked it better before—dead. But for all these people, Solly still couldn’t find the one face he was looking for. Maybe Carmen didn’t hear the scooter. Impossible!
He found Santo Fico’s packet of letters, magazines, and flyers and was carrying it into the Ufficio Postale when he noticed a sinister-looking guy leaning against the corner of the palazzo. The shifty little man was sucking on a toothpick and openly staring at him. Solly was struck with the notion that this short fellow with the weak chin and close-set eyes looked dangerous. But then, Solly thought most men, and a fair percentage of women as well, looked dangerous. As he entered the palazzo, he tossed his imaginary hair, rolled his shoulder, and shook his body into place and then he felt better. Even though it had long since become second nature, Solly still sensed his gyration announced to the world that he was not a fellow you wanted to mess with.
But when he came back outside, there was that short guy with the toothpick st
anding right by the Vespa.
“Nice scooter,” Topo observed dangerously.
Solly grunted and quickly placed the meager outgoing mail packet in the saddlebag, but the mousy fellow crowded in on him and Solly felt his mouth going dry. Topo spoke in a secretive whisper, the bent toothpick still in his mouth.
“Are you Solly Puce?”
Solly heard himself grunt an acknowledgment.
“I have a message for you from Carmen Fortino. She wants you to meet her tonight.”
“She wants to meet me?”
“Yeah. You know Brusco Point, north of town by the old wall?”
Solly nodded.
“Meet her there tonight at ten o’clock—sharp. No earlier, no later. Ten sharp.”
“Why?”
“Why?” The toothpick jumped from one corner of his mouth to the other in amazement. “I heard you were smart. Why do you think a hot number like Carmen Fortino would want to meet a young stud like you at Brusco Point, by the old wall, at ten o’clock?”
“I thought she was mad at me after the other night . . .” “Yeah, sure, that’s why she wanted me to give you this message—because she’s mad. You probably think, when a girl says no, she means no. Hey, it’s up to you. Be at Brusco Point tonight at ten and be ready to be a man or don’t. I think maybe she’s too much woman for you, but it doesn’t matter to me. I’m just the messenger boy.”
Topo hitched his pants the way Cagney used to and sauntered across the piazza. Solly Puce climbed back on his motor scooter and kicked it to life. His mind whirled with Topo’s words as he tore out of town—“Brusco Point . . . Ten o’clock . . . Too much woman . . . !”
As Topo rounded the corner by the hotel he gave Leo, who had secretly watched the whole exchange, a wink and a solid thumbs-up.
It was already after lunch by the time Leo was able to head back down the coast road. He clipped along at a brisk pace because he wasn’t sure what time Paolo was bringing the horses. If he brought them while Leo was gone and didn’t come by the house, or if he did and Carmen didn’t tell him to wait, then he might have already left. And if Leo missed talking to Paolo, then everything would be ruined. He needn’t have hurried.
As he approached the house he saw the dappled mare tied up under a tree and Carmen and Paolo sitting on the porch. Leo watched them for a moment. They talked easily with each other and laughed a great deal. That was good, but Leo suddenly had a new, more immediate concern. He had eyed that picnic basket all morning. Now, even from a distance, he could see its contents spread out before Carmen and Paolo. “Oh, my God,” he gasped. “She’s given him my lunch!”
By the time he arrived at the porch Paolo was on his feet and greeting his host with a stiff formality. Everything was “Signore” this and “Signore” that—all that formality only made Leo feel old, and besides, they had eaten his lunch! He cringed as he poked through the remains of their feast. There had been two kinds of pasta, some sort of marinated shrimp, a torta, salad, bread, fruit, cookies, wine—although Carmen did point out some bread, a small wedge of cheese, and an orange that Leo was welcome to. She spoke with girlish delight of Paolo’s ravenous appetite and Paolo raved that Carmen was a wonderful cook.
“My mother helped a little,” Carmen confessed and her eyes begged Leo to please shut up, which, of course, he did. And at last it dawned on him: This lunch had not, even for an instant, been prepared with him in mind. He should be grateful he got an orange.
The three of them spent a few pleasant moments chatting on the porch, but it was obvious that Leo’s arrival had seriously dampened any glow that was sparking. Still he wasn’t about to leave—not right now. He had things to do. Soon it was time for Paolo to ride north and for Carmen to return to her housecleaning. Leo walked Paolo over to the mare as Carmen gathered things in the basket and went inside.
“Carmen said you wanted to ask me something.”
Ask him something? He vaguely recalled saying something like that to Carmen before he left, but only as a means of getting Paolo to stay until he got back from town. Ask him something . . .
“Uh, yes. How . . . many horses did you say you were bringing today?”
“Six.”
“Oh, six!”
“Is that still all right? Is six too many?”
“No, no, no. Six is fine. By the way, Paolo . . .”
Leo became secretive and leaned in and Paolo could see that it was important Carmen not overhear what was about to be said man-to-man, even though she was already inside the house.
“. . . Did Carmen say anything about meeting you tonight at ten o’clock at Brusco Point?”
“No,” Paolo whispered.
“You swear to me, you didn’t agree to meet her tonight at Brusco Point at ten o’clock?”
“No, signore, I swear it.”
“Do you know where it is? I mean, do you know Brusco Point . . . behind the old—?”
“Yes, signore, behind the old wall. I know Brusco Point. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I heard a rumor in town this morning that Carmen was going to meet some boy at Brusco Point tonight at ten o’clock. The rumor was that this boy said he was going to . . . Well, never mind. Santo Fico is a small, stupid town with hundreds of stupid rumors every day. You know how it is. Anyway, Carmen’s a big girl. I’m sure she can take care of herself if some greasy boy tries to . . . Well, never mind. Too bad she never had a father or even a big brother to protect her . . . Oh well, never mind. Thanks for coming by.”
Leo took the stunned boy by the arm and guided him to his saddle. Paolo mounted his horse out of sheer instinct, since his mind was a chaos of horrible images.
“Signore Pizzola,” he stammered. “If you think there might be some danger for Carmen . . .”
“Danger? No. The whole thing’s just a rumor. Besides, if that girl is crazy enough to go out tonight—at ten o’clock— to meet some wild, greasy, sex-starved kid—at Brusco Point, behind that old wall—then she deserves whatever happens to her. Listen, Paolo, you tell your father you can keep your horses here as long as you need to. Good-bye.”
Leo stepped away from the horse and gave its rump a swat. Up at the house Carmen was at the door, offering Paolo her smile and a wave of farewell. Leo watched his face as he rode away and thought to himself, it probably would have been kinder to the boy if he had just driven red-hot pokers through his ears and straight into his brain.
Once Paolo had disappeared down over the slope toward the sea, Leo raised his arm in the air and shook his fist at where Paolo had been. Then he turned and stomped across the porch toward the house. Carmen had been standing at a window watching Paolo as long as she could, but when she saw Leo’s fury and the way he stormed toward the house, she ran back to her broom. Leo stood in the doorway and glared at her and his voice boomed off the walls and rattled what windows were left.
“What exactly did he say to you, young woman?” Carmen was staggered by his rage. “Nothing . . . What . . . About what?”
“Don’t lie to me! What plans did you two make?” “None. No plans. What are you talking about?”
“Why would he tell me to remind you about Brusco Point, behind that old wall, at ten o’clock tonight?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about it.” “Carmen Fortino, swear to me you don’t have any notions about sneaking out tonight and meeting that boy at Brusco Point, behind the old wall at ten o’clock!”
Carmen shook her head in terror. “I swear.”
“Well, then . . . Good! We’ll just let him go to Brusco Point tonight at ten o’clock and he can spend the night there. That’ll give him the message he needs and then you won’t be bothered by him again.”
The fear of never seeing Paolo Lombolo again glazed her eyes and it was obvious that Leo’s performance was effective. His fear was that he had been too effective. Maybe he’d frightened her so much she hadn’t understood the information she needed. So, just to make sure, he mumbled to himself one more time as he wal
ked out the door, “Brusco Point. . . behind the old wall . . . ten o’clock sharp . . . Indeed!”
He thought it might look odd if he immediately had to make another trip into town, so Leo worked around the house for a while. This also gave him a chance to change moods for Carmen. Within an hour she was convinced that any concerns he might have had about her sneaking out to meet Paolo Lombolo were quite forgotten and soon the soft music of her humming again filled whatever room she was in. Leo was sure that her cheerful humor was in anticipation of this evening, but he didn’t care. He liked having her in the house. He liked the soft, rustling sounds she made as she moved from room to room, leaving a wake of spotless order behind her. Leo had never given much thought to children. What was the point? But today he found himself thinking, for no particular reason, “She might have been my daughter. She could have been. And Nina too.” What surprised him most about these occasional fantastical thoughts about fatherhood and Carmen and Nina and what might have been was that they didn’t bother him. In fact, he enjoyed them. He also liked the way Carmen would occasionally return to the cedar trunk. When she thought he wasn’t looking she would thumb through them for a moment, pore over a new picture of her mother, and then return to work.
Finally, enough time passed and it was safe for him to suddenly discover that he’d forgotten to “order new glass for the windows,” and reluctantly trudge back up the road toward town.
He had put off confronting Marta as long as possible. Up until this point, if any pieces of his scheme had fallen through, then there would have been no need to speak to Marta at all. But so far everything had gone surprisingly well and now it was time to face her.
