by Adele Parks
18
14 February
I prise back the enormous shutters with some effort and look out of the window. Hurrah, it's not raining. It's rained pretty much non-stop since we arrived here, which, I have to confess, has been a big shock to me. I hadn't expected rain. Although it still feels chilly, today the sky is a vivid, exciting blue and it's beckoning me out to play. I take a deep breath and try to absorb as much of Italy as I can squeeze into my lungs.
As I reach for my robe I discover a small blue tube of three Bacci chocolates lying on the dressing table. They are the type of chocolates you can find in any bar or supermarket in Italy and so in some ways unremarkable, but they cause me to squeal with delight. Bacci means kisses in Italian. Roberto has left me kisses and they are all the more thoughtful because of the time in my cycle.
The week before my period is often a tricky time for Roberto and me. We don't row but we warily prowl around one another with our opposing viewpoints. I love this time of the month, when maybe everything is possible. Maybe I am pregnant and maybe my body is finally cooperating. Often I begin to feel the symptoms of pregnancy: my breasts become tender, my stomach swells to a rumour-making size and I feel overwhelmed by an extraordinary tiredness. I like to revel in these symptoms and enjoy the inconvenience with a masochistic pleasure as I anticipate the little blue line indicating a positive life, on the stick of the pregnancy kit.
Roberto hates this time, as after seven or eight false alarms he accepts I simply suffer from PMT – the symptoms being cruelly similar to pregnancy.
How thoughtful of him to know that this is such an important week for us, perhaps our most important for years. After our first full month in Italy is he thinking what I'm thinking? Maybe baby.
I dash to the bathroom, shower and dress in record time. I haven't got a plan as to exactly what I should do with myself today but I'm certain that I don't want to spend my first dry day in Italy poking at grunge behind the kitchen sink or flinging out old boxes of moth-eaten bric-a-brac. I'm having a day off.
When I wander downstairs I find Raffaella has already cleared away breakfast and Roberto has left for work. I go into the kitchen and find her sitting at the table, peeling potatoes.
In Italian I say, 'Good morning.'
'Morning.'
'I am sorry I missed breakfast.'
She shrugs but doesn't appear irritated, 'There is a plate in fridge.'
Sure enough there is a huge plate in the fridge – of salami.
'Do you mind if I use the eggs?' I continue in Italian.
She tuts and violently shakes her head with what I think to be disproportionate alarm. 'No eggs, no eggs. Eggs for pasta-making.'
There are twelve eggs, which seems to be enough to go round, but I don't say as much; I have no idea how many eggs are required for fresh pasta. I glance around the kitchen and spot a heaving fruit bowl. Fresh fruit, an ideal breakfast for a tiny embryo!
'No problem, I'll just have fruit.' As I stretch towards the bowl Raffaella's arm darts out of nowhere and she deftly snatches it from me.
'Breakfast, seven to eight in my house,' she says curdy. I doubt this, because yesterday I was up at seven and she didn't serve until eight fifteen, which is exactly what time it is now. She holds the bowl of fruit close to her body and I almost laugh. This situation is comical. I count to ten. I might be pregnant. I might be pregnant.
That thought gives me the strength to smile, with a studied lightness I don't feel.
'No problem, I'll pick up a brioche in the piazza. I'm having a day off work today.' I don't know why I feel I need to tell her. I've worked every day since we got here. I'm not even being paid.
Raffaella says something in Italian. I think she says, 'Pigra'
I'm not certain but I think pigra means lazy. I could be wrong, so I don't know how to respond. Lord, how do I respond if I'm right? I stand for a moment, unsure as to what to do with myself next. Pathetically, I decide there is nothing I can do and I sneak out of the door. Despite having an empty stomach I have a heavy feeling.
19
Even before I reach the end of the street I've dialled Alison's number.
'Hi, this is a nice surprise. How goes it?'
I decide to confess all, isn't that why I called her? 'Not well. Frankly, my high-grade charm offensive towards my mother-in-law is not working. It's becoming clear that my ambition of developing a warm, intimate relationship with her is going to be so much more than an uphill struggle, it's going to be a one-girl trek to the top of Everest without so much as a bar of Kendal mint cake for sustenance.'
Alison laughs at my image but then more seriously adds, 'I knew you were holding something back last week; if you could have described your mother-in-law as a doll, you would have. Go on, spill.'
'For reasons which I don't at present totally understand, Raffaella sees me as the enemy, and while she fights with stealth, she fights relentlessly and aggressively.'
'But why would she dislike you?'
'I don't know; you hear it all the time, don't you, mothers being jealous of their sons' wives.'
'I suppose.'
'Maybe she blames me for all those years that they didn't talk.'
'That's unreasonable – they'd already fallen out before he met you.'
'I know, but love can be unreasonable. Who knows what's going on in her mind? All I know is that we didn't get off to a very good start and things have got progressively worse ever since.'
I think back to the excruciatingly embarrassing night of our arrival. It takes quite some humour and guts, but I describe the scene to Alison and I tell her about Raffaella changing my order at the restaurant the other week and her denying me a bite this morning. I'm hoping she'll laugh and tell me not to worry. I want her to buoy me up and say hiccups are to be expected. Which they are, I know that. But she stays quiet, suggesting that she too thinks I'm up against more than a hiccup.
'I think she hates me,' I conclude.
'Really?'
'Yes.'
'You don't think you are being a tiny bit melodramatic?'
'Do you?'
'I don't know, I'm not there. What does Roberto think?'
'He doesn't see any of it.' I sigh my exasperation.
'You sound irritated with him. Are you irritated with him?'
'No. Not him.'
I know it's not his fault that the family business is a time-intensive, profitless bar rather than a wealthy beatific vineyard, and it's not his fault his mother is a battleaxe, and he can't be blamed that it's cold and I don't know the language, so I'm struggling to make conversation, let alone friends. I know none of this is his fault but –
'Are you pre-menstrual?' Alison is the only person in the world who would dare ask me this question and even then it would only be over a phone line.
'Good God, I really, really hope not.'
Falling pregnant is the only thing that will make me happy. Falling pregnant would undoubtedly win Raffaella over, and even if it didn't I'd be immune to her digs then. I'd be protected – I'd live in a big bag of bliss.
I wonder if Raffaella wants a grandchild almost as much as I want a baby. Maybe that's why she dislikes me, because I've failed to produce one for her. Suddenly, I almost understand why she wouldn't open the gifts I brought her from England. I can respect her disdain; all she wants from me is her son's child. The thought almost floors me as it stands big and proud; a reasonable conclusion, an unequivocal truth. Everything will be OK if I'm pregnant.
If.
'Cheer me up,' I wail.
Alison is silent for a second and then says, 'Fiona and I are getting along brilliantly. I'm seeing her tonight, actually, which is quite special.' I can't think why tonight might be 'quite special'. Alison's birthday is November. I suppose it might be Fiona's birthday? I don't care enough to enquire. 'In fact, speaking of which, I'm really sorry to cut you short but I have to go. I have a lunchtime appointment to have my bikini line waxed.'
As she hangs u
p I feel a powerful wave of dreary spirits slosh over me. Talking to her was supposed to cheer me up but it's left me feeling homesick. I can't help but think it would be fun to spend time sitting in Alison's flat watching her paint her nails and choose her outfit for her big date, more fun than struggling to take orders in the bar. I decide I need a cup of coffee – it will cheer me up, or at the very least warm me up.
That will have to do.
20
As I sit eking out my cup of coffee I have time to notice that lots of people ride bikes here (both push and motor), but there are also cars and complicated parking restrictions – like at home. Veganze is old and quaint but it resists cliché. I tell myself it's unreasonable to feel cheated that it isn't quite as I imagined. At exactly midday I notice the local village misfit shuffle into the square. I wonder why he's so late today. I've seen him every morning as I head to work; he is out in all weathers. He shuffles up to me and asks me for a cigarette, as he has done every day, whenever I've sat to enjoy a coffee. The fact that every time he's asked I have told him that I don't smoke has not deterred him from asking again.
I've tried 'Io no fumo' and 'Io fumo no', and the more straightforward 'No fumo', because I'm not sure which is correct. One of them must be, yet he still doesn't seem to understand. After a few meetings I began to realize this isn't a language barrier; the guy is ill. I'm unsure if he's suffering from something like Alzheimer's or if he has always been this way, I'm no doctor.
Forgetful Man is probably in his late sixties. I have no idea who he lives with, but someone must take care of him because he is always well dressed and clean. British misfits never look dapper. I imagine a mamma, aged about ninety, laboriously and lovingly pressing his shirts every morning. I watch as he walks endless routes around the town, stopping at each bar on every lap. Today, because it's dry, he does not go inside any of the establishments, he's more interested in the people occupying the outdoor seats. His routine is to pull up a seat, sit, pause for a minute, then stand and approach the customers; he works in a clockwise direction, relentlessly trying to bum a cigarette. Some customers sitting for an hour or more can be approached four or even six times. Each time he greets us as though he has never set eyes on any one of us before, and maybe he hasn't.
I watch this endless drudge with fascination. I've always hated smoking and never so much as taken a drag, but, for the first time in my life, I wish I had a cigarette in my bag so I'd be able to hand it over. His pathetic shuffling, and the wary look in his eyes, saddens me. Even though his shirts are pressed, he is still an outsider, I empathize.
I notice that the reactions he stirs in others vary from embarrassment to irritation. He is never treated rudely or aggressively, but then neither does he find compassion. Younger people are often wary and uncomfortable around him, the older locals are anaesthetized to him. Forgetful Man must have pushed himself into their presence thousands of times over the years. He's part of the scenery; like a fountain or a statue.
Today, as usual, I shake my head. I've considered buying him a packet of cigarettes but wonder whether I should encourage such an unhealthy habit. His shoulders drop a fraction and he shuffles on. He picks up a discarded butt from the street and lights it, then sucks on the stub as though his very life depends on it, when in fact the opposite is true. In all the time I've watched him, I've never seen him receive a cigarette, so I take note when the next guy he asks, the guy sitting behind me, says, 'Sure buddy,' and pulls out a fresh packet of ciggies.
I realize I'm staring and try to quickly flick my expression from nosy to smiley as Cigarette Guy lights Forgetful Man's smoke.
'Glad the rain has stopped, it's a beautiful day,' says Cigarette Guy.
'Yes,' I smile. 'Is that an American accent?'
'Yup.'
Forgetful Man has shuffled on now. He showed no more or less appreciation to Cigarette Guy, who did furnish him with a cigarette, than he does to everyone who refuses. I watch him disappear around the corner. I expect I'll see him again in ten minutes or so.
'Are you a tourist?' I realize that my question might seem a little brutal, but I'm all out of small talk. Speaking in pidgin Italian means I've lost the gift of the gab.
'No, I live here in Veganze.'
'I haven't seen you before.' I hit the wrong tone and my comment sounds suspicious. Who am I? Neighbourhood watch chairman?
Cigarette Guy does not take offence. He grins. His is a wide, generous smile.
'I'm a teacher at the language school in Bassano del Grappa. Normally I'm teaching right now, but it's half-term so I get to loaf around instead.'
'I see. It's just that I know most faces.' He's handsome. I'm sure I'd have remembered him if I'd seen him, even if he is handsome in a blond way. I manage to keep this gem to myself, proving I haven't entirely lost sight of all social norms. Instead I comment, 'My husband's family own the bar on the corner of via Mazzini, so I thought I knew most locals by sight at least. Obviously not.'
'Your husband's family own Bruno's?'
'Yes.' I feel slightly embarrassed by this. Bruno's is not what you'd call a cool haunt and this guy looks as though he only visits very trendy places. I remind myself I'm not a teenager and my response is ridiculous. What do I care if I impress this stranger or not? 'I guess it's not your sort of place as it stands.' I hazard, 'But we are doing a refit, you should check it out.'
When did the phrase 'check it out' creep into my vocab? I have no idea why I've started to talk in American speak. Or worse, in what I perceive to be American speak – terms gleaned from the movies I watch, no doubt wildly inaccurate.
'Yeah, I will. I haven't been going out much in Veganze recently. My girlfriend lives in Bassano del Grappa too. So since Christmas I've been spending most of my time over there. Made sense since I work there.'
It's great that he has a girlfriend and I have a husband and we both just got those facts out there early on in the conversation. I always find that sort of thing tricky when I'm talking to attractive men. He's not my type but he won't know that. All he'll know is that he is attractive, and the problem with attractive men is that they are always so vain and they tend to think they are way beyond attractive and are, in fact, irresistible.
Roberto is a bit vain, it comes with the territory. He often gets chatting to some girl or other (say in a queue or at work) and then says to me, 'She is hot for me.' It always makes me laugh. Truth is, maybe the girl might fancy him a bit, he is fanciable, but really! Men! They should know we can chat without having the hots. We do think of other things too. Like babies and food. Anyway, I'm glad that this American guy and I just got our non-single status out there to save any confusion. It's not the kind of thing you can ask, because if you do ask a guy if he has a wife or a serious girlfriend, they always think you are fishing for them and the truth might be the opposite. You might be just trying to establish that they are safe to talk to, without the risk of gossip or messy misunderstandings. And I'm not in the slightest bit disappointed that he has a serious girlfriend, with whom he spends practically every night. Why should I be?
'But we've split up now, so maybe you'll see more of me around here from now on.' And I'm not delighted to hear that either.
I'm not.
Really.
21
The reason I say the American is not my type is as follows. Roberto is my type. Full stop. He's my husband. End of story.
But honestly? That should read: Roberto is my type; semi-colon. Because everyone knows that when you get married you don't suddenly become blind, deaf and mute. Yet Roberto and I have a healthy attitude towards such stuff. We acknowledge that there are other attractive people out there but we know that acting on an attraction, in any way, would result in a very slow and painful death. Trust me, if Roberto was unfaithful, I would consider a bitter and costly divorce, shredded clothes and cress seeds sown into the carpet as an under-reaction.
Still, I'm deadly serious that the American guy is not my type. For a start he's not It
alian, he's American, and for a second he's got green eyes and light brown (almost blond) hair. I've only ever been attracted to men with dark hair and chocolate-coloured eyes. The American guy is taller and bulkier than the men I generally go for. Italians are lean and lithe and I like that. He's not fat but he's big. His forearms are about as wide as my thighs, he clearly works out and I can't stand all that nonsense. Men are vain even if they look like pigs; men who visit the gym regularly to pump iron and know more than women do about the calorie content of a BLT sandwich are off-the-scale losers.
In my opinion.
The American guy paid for his coffee and left almost immediately after our chat. I notice he left a cigarette on the table which Forgetful Man duly collected within five minutes.
Oddly, despite believing that the American guy is an off-the-scale loser, I find my thoughts drifting to him all day and I can't concentrate on my novel (even though the plot is good) or my lunch (even though the pasta sauce is sublime). I'm not being weird or inappropriate – it's just that I think it would be nice to have someone to chat to in English. That's all.
I thoroughly enjoy my day off. I spend it mooching around Veganze's streets and then lying in my room snoozing. The constant early mornings and late nights have built up quite a sleep debt. I set the alarm so I don't sleep through supper; without being expressly told, I'm sure the consequences of such an act would be gruesome.
I'd sent Roberto a text to say I fancied a day off and he was totally cool with that. Raffaella clearly isn't as relaxed. The minute I walk into dinner she starts to fuss about the entire family having to get to the bar to watch the staff and therefore insisting that there isn't time for a leisurely meal. It's no great loss. Roberto is often very agitated and anxious to get back to business, and seems to find the multiple courses gruelling rather than a delight. He sometimes eats speedily and silently ruminates. Or he spends the entire meal talking about work – the problems, his plans, past mistakes, future goals – I've started to tune out a little bit when he chats about the bar. I am interested but I find myself drifting and thinking about stuff like our baby's first Christmas. Can you imagine how much fun Christmas will be once we have children! Sadly, Paolina is often physically absent or at least mentally distracted too. They work her very hard at the solicitor's firm.
