Behind the eyes we meet

by Mélissa Verreault

  “She needed to get out and see the world.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Of course. How would you like being stuck behind your ice cream counter all day long?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Same for the hen. It’s exhausting to spend your whole life cooped up.”

  “I see.”

  He gave Sergio a scoop of pistachio, his favourite. Sergio ate it happily, smiling at the passersby who looked fondly over at the boy and his chicken. A few even threw coins at his feet. Sergio pocketed the money and gave it to Signor Martinelli; now he had no debts to repay.

  He put the hen back in its cage once they got home, taking care to thank it for a lovely evening. The next day it began to lay again—sometimes two eggs at once.

  * * *

  23.Historical centre

  24.Ice cream store

  The Unpredictability of the Pigeon

  sergio spent his ninth birthday in the hospital. His poor sister Irene had been in a bicycle accident: she had lost control as she was pedalling to the Biblioteca comunale Castello dei Pio to borrow Salvatore Quasimodo’s Acque e terre for the tenth time. Its esoteric poetry thrilled her to an almost tantric degree.

  As Irene was slowly making her way down the lane, hair flying and skirt billowing out behind her, a pigeon appeared out of nowhere. She had to brake unexpectedly to avoid plowing it down. The bicycle veered off course and hurtled into one of the benches in the Piazza dei Martiri. A handful of old men looked on, bewildered, while the pigeon continued as if nothing had happened, bobbing its head with idiotic pride. It stopped to peck over what had seemed like breadcrumbs but which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be pebbles. Then it continued on its way without so much as a glance in poor Irene’s direction.

  Rodolfo Culpo, a neighbour of the Cavalettis, was out getting his morning paper when he happened upon the accident. Though he felt ill at the sight of blood pouring from Irene’s knee, he managed to contain the nausea and help the girl to the nearby hospital. Irene could not put any weight on her left leg, which had most likely been fractured. A born romantic, Rodolfo felt vested with an important mission and generously took his role of crutch to heart. He would do anything in his power to save the injured child.

  “Non ti lascerò morire, Irene.”25

  It was a slight exaggeration, but Rodolfo was so kind that Irene could not hold his zealousness against him. Once at the pronto soccorso26, Rodolfo insisted that Irene was in grave danger and should be seen immediately. He ran to inform her family only once Irene was settled on a stretcher.

  Sergio opened the door on Rodolfo, who was banging away frantically as though a catastrophe was just around the corner. Rodolfo explained what had happened, spluttering and waving his hands about wildly. Since Sergio was the only one home, it fell to him to keep his sister company and brighten her spirits. It was shaping up to be the worst birthday of his life.

  Irene greeted her brother through tears and a volley of smacks. She had to vent her frustration with the pigeon out on someone. The boy took the beating without flinching. He knew his sister well; there was no point reasoning with her when she was in such a state.

  An X-ray confirmed that Irene had fractured her tibia. She would need a cast and wouldn’t be able to walk on the leg for at least a month. Upon hearing the news, Irene burst into tears and, disregarding her injured leg, stood up and bellowed in pain and frustration, “Li odio! Li odio tutti! Uccelli di merda!”27

  The doctors must have been mistaken; had she fallen on her head instead of her leg? What was she talking about? What did “stupid birds” have to do with anything?

  A nurse came by to calm the patient, who was wailing louder and louder, working herself into a frenzy.

  Teresa.

  Her name was Teresa.

  It was written on the small nameplate pinned to her white shirt, just over her left nipple. She didn’t appear to be wearing a bra. Sergio lost control when faced with such sensuality. He forgot all about his sister and her embarrassing behaviour as well as the birthday that everyone seemed to have overlooked once again. He couldn’t tear his eyes from Teresa and her painfully inviting neckline.

  Heat rose in the pit of his stomach. He’d never felt such a sensation before, except perhaps the time his father had given him ten licks of the belt because he’d run away from home. He hadn’t meant to cause alarm—just to trail the fox that had been sniffing around their garden.

  Like the fox, Teresa was red-haired and nimble; her eyes lit up like a firefly in a thicket on a warm summer’s night. She had a light step and a mischievous smile. The constellations of freckles that peppered her cheeks gave her an impish, seductive look. Every time she opened her mouth to utter one of the hot, poetic words to which she alone knew the secret, dimples creased the edges of her lips below her high cheekbones. She had the endearing habit of swaying her hips as she spoke, a hint of self-consciousness that gave her a rather suave and sensual air.

  Sergio fell helplessly under the spell of her voluptuous beauty.

  Irene continued to rail against all winged creatures, reproaching crows for their stupidity, sparrows for their sluggishness, doves for their naïveté, swallows for their pettiness, and pigeons for their unpredictability. What had the pigeon been thinking, coming between a teenage girl and her appetite for the genius of Italy’s greatest poet of the century? Why had the brainless creature chosen to cross the road at the exact moment she rode ardently onward, one hand steering and the other keeping her beret from flying off into the wind? Whose stupid idea had it been to create these useless animals?

  Irene thundered on with a bombast and fervour Sergio didn’t recognize. Each question had but one answer: the poor creature had undoubtedly gotten tangled up with his sister so that he, nine-year-old Sergio Cavaletti, could meet her, twenty-three-year-old Teresa Marzo. The prettiest girl in Carpi. The love of his life.

  Clearly it was fate.

  From that day on, Irene Cavaletti despised any bird that was smart enough to fly but lacked the brains to look both ways before crossing the street. For his part, Sergio henceforth worshipped them all, especially the domestic pigeon, Columba livia.

  He knew then that his destiny would be forever entwined with that of the unpredictable pigeon.

  * * *

  25.I won’t let you die, Irene.

  26.Emergency room

  27.I hate them! I hate them all! Stupid birds!

  A Pagan Prayer

  sergio could not make up his mind. From inside the rail car bringing him back to Carpi, he dreamed of the moment he would finally set foot at home, when his mother would offer to cook him something to eat. And had no idea what to choose. Deprived of decent food for so long, his chest tightened at the idea of a real meal. Just the thought of a rich, heaping plate tied his stomach in knots. It was no longer accustomed to performing its digestive functions and seemed frightened it might lose the ability completely. A laughable, yet persistent concern.

  Sergio was unable to shake this foolish worry: what would he eat when he got back? What would his first meal be? If he had been a great man, the kind to turn water into wine and claim a certain closeness with the creator of the universe, he would have been more concerned with his last supper. But Sergio wasn’t a devout Christian.

  He spent his days pretending to spread marmellata28 on freshly baked bread, conjuring up stockpots of ragù29, and caressing imaginary prosciutti30. His mother’s frittate31 were delicious, as were her gnocco fritto32 and legendary spaghetti alle vongole33. It was impossible for Sergio to single out a favourite dish, the one he was most looking forward to.

  He’d missed so much over the past few years that he couldn’t choose one meal in particular. He wanted everything.

  Every type of cheese, charcuterie, pastry, cake, red wine, and distillati34; every Sunday a
fternoon family brunch, every church bell that clanged loudly after 4 o’clock mass, every child’s shouts at the end of another school day, every white cotton dress lifted by the wind to reveal the smooth thighs of a radiant young woman, every card game at the Bianco Nero café on Thursday afternoons, every soccer game with school friends, every beer bought for next to nothing at the retirement community centre, every tomato stolen from a neighbour’s garden.

  Sergio could go on and on listing the pleasures he’d missed over the course of his exile.

  He concentrated on trying to recall only the gastronomic delights, afraid of losing himself in the ocean of joys he had been denied.

  “Everybody off the train!”

  An officer threw open the door, barking the order in English and pulling Sergio from his culinary reverie. They had stopped at a tiny station in the middle of nowhere and would be there for some time as the train replenished its coal reserves.

  The men took the opportunity to collect a few twigs and branches in the undergrowth near the station. They would build a fire that evening and cook the ingredients thrown their way, making do with what little water, potatoes, and corn flour they had. No salt, seasonings, or spices: only potato starch mixed with the gluey paste of water and corn flour. A type of polenta, Sergio tried to convince himself.

  “You should eat something, Alfonso,” Sergio cajoled.

  “It looks disgusting.”

  “It’ll fill your stomach at least.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “If you keep this up you won’t have the energy to make it through.”

  “Who bloody cares? I got out of the damn camp, that’s all that matters.”

  “You’d let yourself die?”

  “I’d rather die than eat that shit.”

  Though the mixture tasted like a construction site, it managed to sustain the exhausted men. The unpalatable fare had kept them alive thus far, so they were grateful for whatever landed in their plates. A pagan prayer to thank the gods for this pathetic abundance.

  Still, compared to what Sergio had known in the lager35, it was almost a banquet.

  * * *

  28.Jam

  29.Meat sauce

  30.Cured ham

  31.Omelets

  32.Fried dumplings

  33.Spaghetti with clam sauce

  34.Distilled alcohol

  35.Camp

  Feeding the Multitude

  at first, the Russians were amused to see how the hostages would kill over a mouthful of soup. But they eventually had to put a stop to the deadly impulses of the starving prisoners or they would soon be out of a workforce. They divided the hundred-man groups into smaller groups of ten and gave each a loaf of bread to ration out amongst themselves.

  The Russians tried to instill a sense of responsibility in their captives and point out the importance of being fair. They didn’t realize the futility of teaching good manners to men who hadn’t had a proper meal in months. Holding back a belch after stealing a bread ration and devouring it before disbelieving eyes is about all the courtesy such men are still capable of showing.

  The smaller groups didn’t work. The men continued to lay into each other, fighting over the bread, biting, and threatening one another.

  Sergio had not eaten in three days. He was one of the few that hunger had not turned into a monster. Despite cramps, dizziness, and a survival instinct urging him to step up and claim his share, it was not in his nature to be demanding or violent. He looked on silently as the other men came to blows over a mouthful or two. He had stopped trying to separate the pugilists who routinely jumped to action during mealtimes. He realized his days would be even more numbered if he kept playing the pacifist. He let himself die of hunger, unable to act like a caveman who didn’t know right from wrong.

  After the three days, the Russians intervened once again. They appointed one leader among each hundred-man group who was in charge of convincing his cohort to share the rations of bread and soup equally. They figured that the message might be better received if it came from one of their own. Sergio was chosen to lead his group; he didn’t know if this was an honour or a punishment.

  The next morning, just before rations were distributed, Sergio stepped onto a wood crate and addressed his fellow captives from the improvised podium. He didn’t know which language to speak so that everyone would understand; the group contained more than just Italians. He kept it brief and avoided preaching.

  “You’re hungry. Every one of you. I know, because I’m hungry, too. Like you, I dream of a good hot meal, one of my grandmother’s dishes I could share with loved ones. Unfortunately there are challenges ahead before that will be possible. We’ll have to survive this camp, and to do that we’ll need strength. Each of us. Because everyone has the right to hope to see their mother, wife, and friends again. We have so little to eat that every bite counts. Every man here deserves his portion, not to have it snatched away by someone who claims to be hungrier.”

  “That’s right!” one man shouted.

  “Yes, listen to him!” other voices joined in.

  “You should be in charge of dividing up the rations for our group,” Fausto said. “I for one trust you. I know you’ll be fair.”

  “Yes! Let Sergio do it!” the men cried as they gathered around him.

  “If that’s what you want, I’ll do it,” he answered. “I’ll split up the bread fairly.”

  “Go ahead and feed the multitude, but don’t start going around thinking you’re the son of God!” someone yelled.

  Everyone hooted at the joke, though it wasn’t terribly funny. Men slapped their thighs and bellies and some doubled over with glee; the giggles stopped, then the men burst out into another wave of guffaws. Hunger seemed to have given way to hysteria. The Russian guards bristled at the laughter. One came over to Sergio and asked what was so funny.

  “Nothing, I didn’t say anything. It was one of the men. He made a joke about Christ, and everyone started laughing.”

  “Blasphemy. You bunch of fascists. You’ve got no respect for anything.”

  The soldier cuffed Sergio in the back of the head, spat on the ground, and walked on. Sergio didn’t understand what had insulted the soldier, but he was grateful he hadn’t gotten shot. Others in the camp had died for much less.

  If the Russians had beaten him, they would have paid dearly. It turned out that Sergio was held in high esteem by his colleagues. The group he had unwittingly been assigned to lead became the lager’s most manageable.

  Sergio had never considered himself much of a public speaker, but since the morning of his speech, a relative peace had descended on the barracks. Each day he made sure that everyone received his portion of greenish soup and black bread, wondering why the men had decided to trust him. Sergio’s voice was no stranger to this unexpected reaction. He had a calm, even voice that he never raised in anger, a voice that sometimes lilted and could hold a tune. His voice was young but wise, bearing inexplicable hope. It was as if, when Sergio opened his mouth, the very heavens brightened again.

  Sergio’s father had often said his son had a gift for communicating with animals. This ability turned heads, but his knack for connecting with people was even more baffling.

  The same could not be said for each of the men appointed by the Russians to lead their respective groups. Most of the barracks continued to kick up an unbelievable ruckus at mealtimes. The tension had only increased since the good shepherds had been called to bring their flocks to order. Scuffles and beatings were widespread, with episodes of cannibalism on the rise. At the end of their rope, many of the forced labourers saw the act as their only chance for survival.

  Complexion

  sergio would never have thought he’d see such scenes. He would try hard to forget them. A man who has watched his fe
llow men eat their own rarely boasts of witnessing such a bleak spectacle. The image, however, never fades. Surely it would be liberating to talk about these experiences, to distance oneself from the awful visions by letting them out. But who would believe it? Who could listen to such stories without calling them into question? Not wishing to be called a liar, Sergio never once spoke of these troubling memories.

  He wouldn’t talk about

  the rotting carcasses that littered the path between barracks

  the smell of decomposition that followed you wherever you went

  the mass graves overflowing with decaying, mutilated, mangled, ravaged, and desecrated bodies

  the men who had been devoured as one devours the first sweet kisses of a frenzied wedding night, passion giving way to fury

  the incongruous marriage between one man’s mouth and another man’s cold flesh

  the unbearable chewing noises that echoed through the camp, seemingly amplified by the frosty Mordovian air

  the rumours that human flesh tasted like pork

  the fetid breath of those who had devoured the entrails of their late friends

  the nonchalance with which some approached the bodies as they prepared to carve away a few strips of bloody meat

  the indifferent expressions of the men who bit into their neighbours as they would an apple fallen from a tree.