by Jess Foley
His question came from no feeling of solicitousness, Blanche was well aware, but simply from a wish to know her intentions – where she and Adriana were bound.
Raising a hand to cover – casually – the left side of her face, Blanche replied, ‘No, thank you.’
Her tone was cold. She had learned very soon after her initial arrival at the villa that any pleasantness she showed the man was very swiftly construed as a sign of weakness. With the realization she had tried to backtrack, to make up the lost ground, but the damage had been done, the mould set, and she knew that she could never win. The situation had been the same now for the years she had lived in the house. He was always unfailingly polite to her, but she always discerned behind his politeness a thinly-veiled contempt that discomfited her and put her on the defensive. At the beginning she had spoken to Alfredo of Edgardo’s manner towards her, but he had scoffed at her words, saying that it was all her imagination and paranoia. She knew better, though. Also, she had learned since that it would do no good to make any further complaint about the servant. Edgardo was without question Alfredo’s man; devoted to his master, and implicitly trusted by him, there was no doubt where his loyalties lay.
‘If the signore should return … ?’ Edgardo said.
‘You can tell him we shan’t be long,’ Blanche said. ‘We’re only going to the park.’
‘The park?’ Edgardo opened the door, frowning slightly at the English word, feigning non-comprehension. Blanche said shortly:
‘The Giardino Inglese – you know very well where I mean.’
‘Ah – yes, signora.’
Blanche ignored the faintly mocking inclination of his head. As she and Adriana moved down the curving flight of stone steps she could feel Edgardo’s eyes upon the back of her head. Their feeling of antipathy was quite mutual.
The villa, large and spacious, stood on the southern side of the Via Catania. Reaching the corner where in the spring the flower-seller stood surrounded by his banks of brightly coloured flowers, Blanche and Adriana turned to the left onto Palermo’s main corso, the Via della Libertà. Hand in hand they walked along the pavement, past the shops – all open-fronted to all winds and weathers – while beside them along the corso the motor cars and motor omnibuses – the latter a recent innovation – fought for space with the old horse-driven cabs and the donkey- and mule-carts and carriages.
How different it all was from England, and what a place of contrasts. Palermo, a bustling, dusty city, boasted an opera house that was said to be the largest in the world, while the peasants who lived outside the city’s boundaries dwelt in caves and empty tombs. For Adriana, of course, the Sicilian way of life was the only way of life she had ever known, and no part of it seemed to her to be remarkable, but where Blanche herself was concerned she occasionally thought she would never cease to be surprised at the city’s ways.
After a few minutes walk they entered the public park. There, freed from the confines of the house, and with space about her, Adriana let go Blanche’s hand and dashed away, Blanche quickly calling after her not to run too fast in case she should fall. At Blanche’s words Adriana came to a halt and turned.
‘I want to see the fish and feed the ducks,’ she said.
‘Wait for me, then. They won’t go away. We’ll go together.’
Adriana paused for a moment then ran back to Blanche’s side. Hand in hand they strolled on. This early December Saturday morning, with the bright sun reflecting off the cobbles, the weather for their walk was perfect. Before Adriana had started school that past autumn they had taken the walk in the Giardino Inglese almost every morning when the weather allowed. Now, however, their excursions were limited to the weekends.
In one corner of the gardens a group of old men congregated – as they always did when the weather was fine – to play chess and backgammon and to talk of the past. Adriana paused in her step as she and Blanche went by, her eyes as always drawn to the scene.
The two continued on, eventually making their way to the edge of the wide pond, where Adriana took the scraps of bread from the paper bag and tossed them into the water. There was at once a little flurry of activity as the nearby ducks converged on the spot and snapped up the scraps. As the ducks slowly swam away again Adriana straightened, her blue eyes focusing on the stone statue of the two children who, crouching on a rock near the pond’s centre, bent eternally over the water, hands reaching out to the golden fish that darted in the shadows beneath their outstretched fingers.
After a while, Adriana asked, turning to her mother, the stone children momentarily forgotten, ‘When shall I invite Licia and Paulo and Tonio to the party?’
‘Oh, we’ll get that done in a day or two,’ Blanche said. ‘Christmas isn’t for nearly three weeks yet.’
‘D’you think Papa will be here?’
‘At Christmas? I should think so. We’ll have to see.’
Nothing was certain these days where Alfredo’s movements were concerned. He was going off on his various trips more and more frequently of late. Apart from the fact of his absences, though, Blanche knew very little about his movements; of the purpose of them she knew even less – except, she was sure, that their outcome would not be to the good. Where he was at that moment she had no idea. After the scene following breakfast that morning he had left the house, slamming out of the door, giving her no indication of when he would return. And she had known better than to ask; after what had transpired she didn’t want to risk his further anger. He might be still here in Palermo; he might have gone to Messina. Wherever he had gone there was no knowing when he would return. He might not be back for three or four days. As far as she was concerned, she thought bitterly, he could stay away for ever.
There was a vacant bench near the edge of the pond and Blanche sat down upon it. Act in haste; repent at leisure; the words went through her mind. True. And how hastily she had acted. How swiftly everything had happened. The marriage at the register office; the painful goodbye to a shocked, somewhat stunned George – for Clara, who had still been in Weston-Super-Mare, there had been no goodbye at all – and then the departure for Sicily and Alfredo’s villa here in Palermo. And now, that December of 1908, Blanche had been in the city for over five years. Five years. It seemed a great deal longer. And as far as her relationship with Alfredo went, the course of that time had been increasingly downhill.
The pain on her cheek where Alfredo had struck her had now subsided to a dull ache. Perhaps when he returned he would apologize. Not that she cared much. She had long since realized that his apologies made no difference, that they were meaningless – an awareness that even seemed to have touched him of late; expressions of contrition from him in recent times were very few and far between.
Thinking about him, about the events of that morning, Blanche thought again how astonishing it was that one could be so deceived by another person – by someone whom one thought one knew. Not that she had ever consciously believed that she had known Alfredo – but at the same time the little she had learned about him had never prepared her for what was to come. Though perhaps the signs had been there, she sometimes reminded herself; it was just that in her need for the solution to her own problems she had simply not seen them.
In any event, nothing had turned out the way she had hoped it would or expected it to. Everything had turned to ashes, all of it destroyed by one thing or another: most of their material assets had been gambled away, while any affection that she and Alfredo had ever felt for one another had long since been destroyed by his intolerance and his jealousies.
As far as their relationship went its failure came down to the fact that they were totally unsuited to one another. She had soon come to realize that Alfredo expected a wife to be submissive and compliant – to be there when needed, to be decorative, the perfect hostess, and a constant support for his actions, right or wrong. But to his dismay she saw things differently. And in any case she could not fit into such a mould and she had no intention of ever trying to. As a
consequence Alfredo saw her as rebellious, defiant, and generally difficult – and as such she was a continuing challenge to his beliefs and his authority.
Apart from his need to dominate her, she also had to suffer his jealousy – a manifestation that further endorsed her growing doubts that they could ever live in harmony.
His passionate jealousy had first reared its head just three weeks after their arrival in Palermo following their marriage. It had been demonstrated with the arrival from England of a letter for her from George Marsh. In it, after voicing his hopes that she was happy, George had told her that Clara had been much affected at returning to find her, Blanche, gone away, and Jacko dead.
Alfredo’s reaction to the arrival of the letter had astonished Blanche. On taking it from the maid who had brought it to the salon he had asked Blanche who was writing to her from England. Taking the letter from him and looking at the envelope she had recognized the handwriting. It was from George Marsh, she had said.
Alfredo had watched her closely as she read the letter and afterwards asked her what Marsh had said. She told him what Marsh had written about Clara’s reaction to her departure and the loss of the dog.
‘And what else does he say?’
‘What else?’ She looked at him in surprise. ‘There’s nothing else.’
‘Tell me what else he says.’
‘Alfredo –’ she gazed at him, astonished at the intense expression on his face, his piercing eyes, ‘I tell you there’s nothing else of interest. He sends us his best wishes and tells me about Clara. There’s no more.’
‘Clara, Clara,’ Alfredo said impatiently. ‘What else does he say?’
Blanche looked at him a moment longer in disbelief and then, turning, moved away. He was at her side in an instant.
‘Give me the letter.’
And before she could stop him he had reached out and torn the letter from her hand.
‘– Alfredo –’
Ignoring her protests, he tore the letter from the envelope, opened it out and quickly read it. Then in one staccato gesture he handed it back to her. She refolded it, replaced it in the envelope.
‘Are you satisfied now?’ she said disdainfully.
‘For the moment, yes. But I know the man is in love with you.’
‘Alfredo, please –’
‘I’m not a fool, so don’t take me for one.’ He stood glaring at her, then he said:
‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Do?’
‘Are you going to answer it?’
‘Of course I’m going to answer it.’
He paused. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘But I must.’
‘Don’t I make myself clear? I told you – I would prefer that you did not answer the letter.’
‘Don’t be foolish; of course I shall answer it. Anyway, it’s up to me. It’s my letter.’
His hand came out, snatched the letter from her hand. This time, however, he did not give it back but instead tore it across and across. Then with a contemptuous toss of his hand he threw the pieces at her.
‘There is your letter.’
As the pieces fell at her feet he was already turning, striding angrily away. In the open doorway he turned back to face her while she stared at him, aghast.
‘You still do not seem to understand,’ he said, ‘– I am master in my house, and you are now in Sicily. You’re not in England. And the sooner you realize it the happier we shall be.’
He went from the room then, while Blanche stared after him. She could hardly believe what had taken place. The contempt and the anger in his eyes; it had been like seeing a different person. After a moment or two she stooped and gathered up the torn pieces of George’s letter.
She and Alfredo had spent the remainder of that day with silence between them. But then that night he had come to her telling her that he was sorry for his behaviour. His contrition seemed total, and as he had held her in his arms and begged her to forgive him she had been surprised to discover the wetness of tears on his cheek. It was then she had hinted to him that she had an idea that she might be expecting a child. In the dim light of the lamp she had watched the joy on his face as he absorbed the news. A little later he had made love to her – though in his passion he had shown little regard for her own feelings. By that time, however, in the few weeks of their marriage, she had learned, and she no longer expected more from him. And, she told herself in moments of solitude, it was part of the price she must pay for the things she wanted – the promise of security and a name for her coming baby; next to such gains her own personal satisfactions were insignificant trivialities. And there had never been a time when she had expected everything.
In spite of his self-recriminations, however, Alfredo’s exhibition of jealousy over George Marsh’s letter had proved to be not an isolated phenomenon. As the days and weeks passed there were frequent demonstrations of it, so that Blanche began to dread any occasions that would bring her into contact with other men – occasions such as dinner parties when some or other of Alfredo’s business associates would be invited. Usually, Blanche soon discovered, such events would be followed, when they were alone, by accusations levelled at her of flirting with various guests or encouraging familiarities with them. Her denials made no difference; Alfredo seemed unable to see past his own passionate jealousies and what he imagined to be the truth.
His jealousy and his demand for submission soon proved to be matched by the violence of his temper. On several occasions he had struck her and thrown various items at her; a bureau in the library still bore the signs of one of his violent outbursts, showing the deep scar sustained from the points of a pair of scissors which in his rage he had hurled at her. They had missed her by inches.
In time such incidents had brought to the forefront of her mind the notion that she and Alfredo should separate. How could she continue to live in a situation where her physical safety was at risk? – besides which the atmosphere was not one in which to raise a child. Alfredo, though, she knew, would never agree to a separation, and she was afraid to raise the matter. She was certain that the only way to leave him would be to go without his knowledge, to creep away at some time when he was unsuspicious and unaware. Even that exercise, though, would prove very difficult. When Alfredo himself was present there was never an opportunity to make such a move, and when he was away from the house there was always Edgardo about the place, with his keen eyes and ears, watching, listening.
And anyway, where could she go? What could she do? She had hardly any money to speak of. All the shopping for the house was done by the cook, with money allocated by Alfredo, under his instructions the house-hold’s budget and books managed by Edgardo. Blanche received an allowance for clothes and personal expenses, but she had soon found that it was impossible for her to save more than a trifling amount without arousing suspicion. She had been putting aside a little money from time to time, whenever she could, saving it in a purse which she kept in a chest in her room, but the growth of the sum was slow.
As she had no financial means of support in the event of an escape, so neither did she have any nearby friends she could call upon for help in her need. From the very start of their marriage Alfredo had discouraged her forming friendships. It was as if he wanted her to be dependent solely upon himself, and resented her finding amusement or companionship from any other source. So it was that any budding friendships with any other young women in the district that might otherwise have blossomed to the benefit of them both had swiftly been stifled.
Blanche’s relationships with all her older friends had suffered in the same way. She had long ago ceased to keep up any correspondence with George Marsh and Clara; such unpleasant scenes had ensued as a result of her trying to insist on keeping up the friendships that she had deemed it the wiser course to give them up. She had not written to or heard from the Marshes now in over four years.
And with Marianne the situation was almost the same. Since arriving in Sicily
she and Marianne had met only three times. With Marianne and Gentry living in Messina, where some of Alfredo’s own business interests were centred, it would have been the easiest thing for Alfredo sometimes to have taken Blanche and Adriana along on his occasional business trips, and so to have allowed the two women to be reunited. It had happened just once, not too long after Adriana’s birth, but never since that time. On that occasion (as they had done several times since) Marianne and Gentry had invited Blanche and Alfredo and Adriana to stay at their hotel, the luxurious Metropole, but Alfredo had declined, instead reserving a suite for them at another hotel. In the event on that occasion it had still proved satisfactory for Blanche, for while Alfredo had gone about his work during those four days she and Marianne had been able to spend many hours together. Alfredo had clearly resented their closeness, however, notwithstanding that Marianne had done her best to show him a warm welcome by inviting the couple to dinner on two occasions during their stay.
It was clear to Blanche that Alfredo had not viewed her reunion with Marianne and Gentry with pleasure – and neither had he enjoyed either of the dinner parties. Afterwards, returning to Palermo, he had made it clear that such an excursion would not take place a second time, though he refused to go into his reasons for taking such a stand. Blanche simply had to be content with his decision.
The two other occasions when Marianne and Blanche had met had been when Gentry had brought Marianne to Palermo (Gentry had business in the city) and they had called at the villa on the Via Catania. As on both occasions they had arrived unexpectedly Alfredo had been unable to prevent the meetings.
‘But Marianne is like my sister, my family,’ Blanche protested to Alfredo on one occasion, to which he angrily retorted: ‘But she is not your sister. And we are your family, Adriana and I.’
Was it, Blanche asked herself, that he resented any connection she had with her earlier life, her life before her marriage to him? There were such men, men who wanted to pretend that their wives or lovers had known no lives prior to the lives they shared. Or was his jealousy where Marianne was concerned less to do with Marianne and more to do with Gentry? It was possible. Alfredo was jealous of her where any man was concerned.
