by Adele Parks
'She works hard,' I say with a smile.
Raffaella nods and says, 'Si.'
It's a very articulate 'Si', and somehow I believe she's really said, Yes, and she shouldn't be a career woman, how will she find a husband? She needs to put more energy into doing that. Unlike you. You have a husband, so now all you should do is work hard but instead you are lazy and come to breakfast late.' But that could just be my imagination.
There's this picture of Roberto's mother and father on their wedding day, which hangs in the dining room. Increasingly, throughout mealtimes, I have found myself drawn to looking at it for long periods of time. The more I stare at the photo the more mysterious it seems.
I'm told that the picture is thirty-seven years old and I discover Raffaella and Bruno married when they were twenty-three and twenty-six respectively. This, in itself, is a bit of a surprise, as the smiling stars of the pic look even younger than that – little more than a couple of kids; besides, the Raffaella I know is about one hundred and ten so the maths doesn't add up. Roberto once told me that Raffaella and Bruno used to win dancing competitions; they were quite well known throughout the region. I'd always found this as hard to believe as believing in the tooth fairy, until I saw the wedding photo. This Raffaella I can imagine gliding across a dance floor in someone's arms.
I stare at this picture and try to understand how this delightful girl became the woman I know as my mother-in-law.
I can see from the picture that there is a lot of Roberto's father in Roberto. They're both tall and broad-shouldered. Bruno's eyes also twinkled and his grin was as confident and relaxed. I wish Bruno was still alive; I like to think he'd have been my friend and ally. And I sure could do with one of those.
From the wedding picture, it's also possible to see that while Roberto looks like his father, Paolina (rather neatly) takes after her mother (although only physically, thank the lord). The photo is proof that Paolina inherited her graceful limbs and tiny pinched waist from Raffaella -who would have thought it? Her exotic almond-shaped eyes are her mother's too. Raffaella now has large bags under her eyes. Bags so full that her former, pleasanly mystifying eyes are reduced to ugly black currants. At first my heart swelled with sympathy. Given that she's a widow, I wondered whether the bags were a result of struggle and pain, but then I realized that they are because of the wine; it transpires that she likes a glass or two.
I wonder if Paolina's boyfriends look at her mother with total horror. I've heard it said that you marry the daughter but the mother is your wife. The dancing girl has been swallowed by the indolent woman who sits in the kitchen all morning, in the parlour all afternoon and in the bar all evening. Thinking about it, Paolina has yet to bring a boyfriend to the bar. Maybe she's scared her mother will frighten them off – not an unreasonable thought.
I'd like to defy stereotype and reveal that my mother-in-law is a slim, colourfully dressed suffragette, but sadly, I can't. She's what polite people might describe as rotund or fleshy (read fat). Under her floral aprons she wears nothing other than black sweaters that she repeatedly yanks down over her large belly to meet her black skirt. Her tights are American Tan and I have to wonder who her supplier is, I didn't think they were still produced. Bride Raffaella had coal-black hair running like a waterfall down her back. Now her hair is streaked with white, it's a stark contrast, and she looks as though she is wearing a piano keyboard on her head. Her shoes are the only things that suggest a faint echo of the lovely young woman in the wedding picture. Her shoes are made of the highest-quality leather and they are polished like mirrors so that you can probably see up her skirt. But then you'd have to have some sort of masochistic streak if you wanted to see up her skirt.
As I watch her wade through her breakfast it strikes me that she's the literal opposite to the expression 'no flies on me'. Unlike her children, she is lazy and therefore is often still for extended periods, so flies do frequently settle on her. One is crawling up her slack arm right now. I watch with barely disguised disgust as another hides in the folds of her patterned apron. Raffaella seems not to notice the flies, although I can't drag my eyes away from their busy, black backs and hairy legs. For God's sake, it's only March, I didn't think there were flies in March; how did they find her?
Roberto drags me from my thoughts as he dashes around the room leaving behind him startled dust particles. I look up as he's halfway out of the door.
'Where are you going? You've hardly had a bite to eat.'
'I have an appointment. Out of town. I need to be there early, to get back in time for the lunchtime rush.'
'Rush? I know we are a bit busier nowadays but I wouldn't call it a rush,' I say bluntly. I regret the words instantly as Roberto looks disappointed and disgruntled.
'Yes, rush,' he declares staunchly. 'Do you mind being in charge? It will mean going to the bar in time to open up.' He throws me the keys. I catch them quite messily, with two hands and the aid of my right boob. 'Will you manage?'
'Yes, of course. You go ahead.' I'm basking in the light of new responsibility and forget to ask him where his appointment is or what it is about.
I spread honey on to my bread and chew carefully as I ponder what I should wear today. Raffaella starts to clear up around me. I tell myself she's just being efficient and she's not trying to make me feel uncomfortable but I don't believe my own line of consolation – since she's not noted for her efficiency and I know she's always trying to make me feel uneasy.
Raffaella is muttering something or other, a prayer I think. I catch the names Ana and Maria; grandmother and mother of Jesus Christ – Raffaella's personal favourites. I pay little attention. Things are at a pass whereby whenever my mother-in-law claps eyes on me she draws in her breath as though she can't bear to as much as breathe the same air I do. The effect is that her mouth looks like it has been stapled. When we are alone she makes it clear that she thinks of me as one step away from the devil himself; I swear she clasps her hands together to resist making the sign of the cross to ward off my evilness. We are enemies but we fight with stealth. We camouflage our clawing by grumbling about the domestic necessities that structure our days together.
Raffaella complains to Roberto because I don't go to church, because I can't make fresh pasta, because I fold the tablecloths incorrectly when I am clearing away. I hint that I find it annoying because his mother won't meet my eye when she's talking to me, besides which she talks ridiculously quickly so that I can't understand her and she won't allow me to put a lock on the bathroom door. Privacy appears to be a concept she cannot, or at least will not, acknowledge. Roberto's approach to peacekeeping is to largely ignore our problems. He begs her for understanding, me for patience and both of us for tolerance.
I've given this some thought, and I suspect our rows about housekeeping, food, work and privacy are not the true source of our antipathy towards one another. I fear we are arguing about much bigger issues but we are too ashamed and afraid to argue out the questions that we both want answers to. We are women who both want to know who has the biggest claim to Roberto. Who needs him most? Who does he need most? Who loves him most? Who is the most loved? Jealousy is never pretty, and on this occasion it's fairly frightening, as it's unexpected. I did not expect my mother-in-law to be jealous of me but then I did not expect to be small-minded towards her. I hoped Raffaella would be a comfort, a guide, at the very least a source of some decent cooking tips.
'Ana-Maria e molto simpatico,' she tells me. What is she on about? The saints Anne and Mary are very nice? I'm confused. Raffaella stops what she is doing and turns to me; she treats me to a broad but insincere smile. Then in clear, practised English she says, 'He has to be with Ana-Maria today. She grateful.' Then she sighs and looks unbearably sorrowful; after the dramatic pause she adds, 'Ana-Maria is very nice. We all had hope for a marriage with Ana-Maria.'
27
I skip my morning coffee in the square and rush to Bruno's. As I'm my own boss today I can make myself a coffee there. I've
never heard of an Ana-Maria.
I chop salad, polish the bar and glasses and take the coffee machine apart so that I can give it a thorough clean before I reassemble it, plus I serve several customers a morning espresso, but all the time the same two questions keep popping into my head, screwing up my ability to enjoy my efficiency. 'Who is Ana-Maria?' and 'Where is Roberto right now?'
At half past eleven I realize I can't exercise restraint for a moment longer. I dig out my mobile and call Alison.
'Hey, how's it going?' she asks the moment she picks up.
I loosen at the sound of Alison's voice, immediately forgetting that I'm a bit miffed off with her too. I suppose my miffed-off-ness is irrational. I spent the first few weeks here avoiding her calls and the last few wondering why she's not ringing as often as she used to. I can't reflect too long on that inconsistency because it would become undeniably transparent that I'm irritatingly irrational.
'Er, fine,' I lie. I've rung her to talk about this Ana-Maria but find I'm not brave enough to instantly launch into the issue.
'Sorry I didn't call last week. I was out with Fiona every night. I kept meaning to but –'
'It's OK. I understand,' I say nobly.
As unfashionable and undesirable as it is, I have to admit that historically I have been one of those girls who neglected her friends whenever a new boyfriend arrived on the scene. I never meant to do so but it sort of happened. I remember when I first met Roberto I didn't crawl out of bed for a month, let alone think of calling Alison. I guess I can cut her some slack now she's met Fiona. It's just a bit unexpected, that's all. Alison has never put a fledgling relationship in front of friendship before. In a perverse way I ought to be pleased she's neglecting me; everyone needs to be overwhelmed by new love at least once in a lifetime.
Of course I'm not an idiot, I knew that coming to Italy would sluice away some of the immediacy and therefore intimacy of our friendship. Obviously, when Alison worked just a short bus ride away from where I lived it was easy to catch up twice a week, minimum, and we spoke on the phone pretty much daily. I just hadn't expected there to be such an enormous gap where our friendship used to be. I thought I'd be living a thrilling new life, and that when I did call Alison and all my other friends and family, I'd have oodles of news and excitement to relay. Let's face it – I was expecting to be announcing the pattering of tiny feet by now.
'How's work?' I ask. Normally Alison is keen to talk about work and I feel a need to get us on familiar footing.
'I'm having a day away from the office today.'
'You're throwing a sickie?' I ask, unable to hide my surprise. Alison has never, ever thrown a sickie. If she's throwing sickies I have to consider the possibility of body-snatchers.
'No, I'm working from home. Fiona is on holiday,' she adds shyly.
'How is Fiona?' I ask graciously.
Alison talks non-stop for about ten minutes, singing every one of Fiona's many great virtues. No, I had no idea she could play the saxophone; that is amazing. No, I haven't ever seen Good Night Good Luck but if it's Fiona's favourite then I'm sure it must be wonderful. It's just that I prefer colour movies, I even have problems with The Wizard of 0z because that movie can't make up its mind. No, I haven't ever seen anyone skim stones so they hop five times minimum every time; what an achievement.
'Where's Fiona now?' I ask.
'She's out getting the weekly shop.'
' Your weekly shop?'
'Yes, she's so thoughtful. She has a car. You know how I hate dragging bags home on the bus.'
My God, it all sounds very cosy, very established. I haven't even met or vetted this Fiona. Not that she sounds anything other than lovely, it's just that things seem to be moving so fast and I'm not there to be part of any of it.
'I thought you were going to buy online and have the supermarket deliver your groceries because that's greenest. That was your new year's resolution,' I point out, a little tetchily.
'I know. I am going to do that. I just haven't got round to it. I don't seem to have a minute nowadays, although I'm not sure where our time goes. We lost last night just chatting and listening to music. It seemed that one second it was eight p.m., the next it was two in the morning, you know what I mean.'
I do vaguely remember that stage when time flew like a migrating bird in autumn, but such relaxed and cosy intimacy seems a distant memory for Roberto and me. Odd, because isn't intimacy supposed to increase over the years? I mean that's logical, isn't it? But time stands still when he talks about the bar.
'So how are things going for you?' asks Alison.
I tell her what Raffaella said about this Ana-Maria.
'Who do you think she is?' I ask.
'Well, I could reasonably guess that's she's an ex-girlfriend.'
'But Roberto has never uttered her name.'
'Well, maybe he doesn't think she's important.'
Frankly, Alison doesn't sound that convinced or convincing, but I see a glimmer of hope and I surge towards it. 'That's probably why he's never mentioned her, don't you think?'
'I don't know for certain, obviously. You'll have to ask Roberto.'
'So you think I should talk to him about her?'
'Yes!' Alison sounds exasperated. 'What Raffaella said is clearly worrying you; of course you ought to discuss it with Roberto.'
'I don't want to upset him, especially not in the next day or so.'
'Why especially not in the next day or so?'
'It's a good time of the month. I don't want to waste it rowing.'
I hoped that this comment would sound mature and considered, but I am suddenly hit with the thought that if Roberto is having a flirtation with someone then it might be pathetic and sad to ignore it. I couldn't conceive a baby with a man who is having an affair, could I? No, I couldn't, but it's an academic question because Roberto isn't having an affair. Who said affair? A flirtation, maybe. Best not to blow this out of proportion.
I can hear Alison take a deep breath; she sounds exasperated. After a pause she says, 'I think you are going to have to risk that. You need to get to the bottom of this and I can't do that for you.'
'But you think there's a simple explanation?' I ask hopefully.
'Maybe. Look, Elizabeth, I don't know, I'm not the one you should be talking to about this. You have to ask Roberto. Call him now.'
I hang up and then return to cleaning the bar. Alison was the wrong person to call. She's all loved up and people who are loved up are notoriously selfish. I was mad to think she'd be supportive or sympathetic.
'Hi, hoped I'd catch you. How's it going?'
Bugger. Alarm bells fling their way around my head, as I realize I couldn't imagine any voice I'd rather hear interrupt my internal muttering and worrying than this deep, melodious American one. I tell myself that there's nothing odd about that, it's only because he speaks English. If the American guy was an American girl there wouldn't be any alarm bells. I'm being silly.
I'm not sure I believe me.
I look up and am slapped by the intensity of his eyes. Who'd have thought green eyes could have such a punch in the gut effect? I feel a devastating and unprecedented pull internally; starting in my thighs and moving upward, enveloping my belly, chest and throat. What is this? I have encountered sexual attraction before, obviously, but this . . . This is something new. If American Guy was American Girl there wouldn't be this.
I'm suddenly conscious that I dressed in a hurry (and a fury) and didn't even manage to wave the mascara wand anywhere near my eyes. Bugger, I'm wearing my oldest jeans and my hair is tied back in a scruffy (rather than elegant or even casual) pony-tail; I wonder if it is worth-while ironing T-shirts after all.
I give the bar one final rub with my large dusting cloth and then fling it on a shelf, out of sight.
'Not so great if the truth was known,' I splutter without thinking.
'Sorry to hear that.'
'Can I get you a coffee?' I offer.
'I'll take a coke.'
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I join him. One thing my years of being a barmaid and a waitress have taught me is the value of chatting to a sympathetic stranger.
'I've been wondering, how long have you lived here?' I ask as I push the coke towards him across the scuffed bar.
'Four years.'
'And how do you manage?' I almost wail.
'How do you mean?'
'Well, didn't you ever feel lonely, alienated, pointless? How did you manage to settle?'
I feel myself sink and shrink a fraction. I'm too weary to wonder why this man makes me feel able to articulate things that I didn't even want to admit were in my subconscious. All at once, I realize I don't have enough energy to remind myself how great it is that I'm living my dream by being here in Italy. I gasp, vaguely ashamed that my innermost insecurities are brimming over and lying in a puddle between us. I've completely forgotten my line in barmaid small talk. Bloody hell, I don't even know the guy's name.
As if reading my mind he says, 'Chuck Andrews,' and holds out his enormous paw for me to shake. Is he serious? I must look incredulous because he explains, 'Chuck is a common derivative of Charles in the US.'
'I didn't know that. In the UK it's a sort of old-fashioned term of endearment; strictly limited to use in the communities of the ancient, toothless great-aunts of the north.'
Chuck laughs. 'I didn't know that?
It feels good to hear someone laugh at something I've said. It hasn't happened for a while, yet I consider myself humorous. I'm not a genius or a goddess, I get by in those two departments but I do like to have a laugh and it's only hearing such a genuine and hearty laugh that I realize what's been missing since I arrived in Italy.
'I'm Elizabeth and I'm homesick.'
'Day at a time is the only approach,' says Chuck, immediately getting my reference to AA confessionals. 'I kinda gathered as much yesterday.'
