Behind the eyes we meet

by Mélissa Verreault

  44.Stop it, Mama, you’re tickling me.

  45.Sergio! Over here! Sergio! Wait! Sergio! Here we are!

  46.Porchetta (meat from a suckling pig that has been oven- or spit-roasted), zucchini blossoms, tagliatelle with porcini mushrooms, English soup (liqueur-soaked sponge cake topped with custard and chocolate)

  47.Dialect of Carpi

  Little Cuts

  december 3, 1945. The total cost of weaponry used during the Second World War was made public: one trillion US dollars. Enough money to buy everyone on the planet something nice for Christmas.

  December 14. The ongoing Nuremberg trials revealed that six million Jews had been exterminated over the course of the conflict.

  December 16. It had been over a month since Sergio returned home. He spent his days eating and sleeping, trying to keep the tuberculosis in check. But that morning, he decided to have a look around the village.

  In spite of the early winter chill, dozens of old men were sitting at the tables outside the bars of the centro storico. While Sergio recognized some of them, they did not appear to place him. It didn’t matter, since he wasn’t in the mood to talk anyway. Over at the newsstand, gamblers discussed the most recent soccer match and debated AC Milan’s chances of winning the championship. In the end Torino would triumph, just like it had the year before and would the following year. But fans of the former Milan Cricket and Football Club could still dream—that was free, after all. Unless, of course, they’d bet half their wages on the wrong team.

  A group of teenagers was smoking on the theatre steps. They made awkward advances at the girls rushing home for lunch, clutching their school bags. Invitations to go out were met with a hasty Vai a cagare or Siete tutti dei coglioni48.

  Behind the gelateria counter, Signor Martinelli seemed bored. The season was drawing to a close and hardly any passersby were stopping for a frozen treat, already shivering from the pesky northern wind. Sergio wanted to support the poor man, but he had barely enough money for the flour his mother had asked him to pick up. He slipped his hand into his pocket and jingled the coins, making sure they were still there. To fingers that hadn’t touched money in years, the handful of lire rang out like infinite treasure. In his battered palms, coins had long ago been replaced by cuts. Painful and bloody ones. Invisible scars.

  The priest was out in the church square, taking in the fresh air and greeting the villagers. Older women waved back enthusiastically and men of a certain age doffed their caps and nodded. The younger generation bashfully tried to avoid meeting his gaze, ashamed at having missed mass for months.

  Sergio smiled as he watched the goings-on. He had been apprehensive about returning to a normal life, one peppered with trivial conversations and undue flattery. But he was pleasantly surprised to find comfort in the actions of those who still had some faith in a future.

  He stopped before a boarded-up storefront with a sign on it. Si vende.49 It was Signor Colarusso’s old haberdashery, also closed down by the war. Sergio was suddenly hit with a crazy, baffling urge: he wanted to buy the place and open his own shop. What he would sell, he didn’t know yet. It would come to him in time. Tableware, beauty products, clothing, art, shoes—he would figure it out. Now that the war was over, people were eager to create new needs; whatever he chose to sell, Sergio would likely be successful. People wanted to buy, buy, buy, as if that might keep them from wondering what good it was all for. There was no harm in trying to make a bit of money off them.

  But before it came to profit, Sergio needed to find the funds to start his business. He had no idea where he could get such a sum, but he recalled a conversation between two young men outside the Modena bus station. Apparently, banks were giving out mortgages to boost the economy. Perhaps they’d lend him money if he came up with a convincing proposal?

  Sergio put his hands in his pockets, fingered the coins, and turned back, smiling broadly as he walked home. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he forgot to buy the flour. When he got home and realized his oversight, the profuse apologies to his mother ended in a violent bout of coughing. With his present condition so up in the air, his projects for the future would have to wait.

  * * *

  48.Fuck off—bunch of assholes!

  49.For sale

  11:11

  rosina’s contractions started at dawn. She went about her daily tasks despite the cramps, wincing only when her children weren’t looking. She refused to let her pain or worry show. Times were tough as it was, and there was no need to add to the prevailing pessimism by sharing her own preoccupations, she thought. Wasn’t it a mother’s job to sacrifice a little more of herself each day and keep everyone happy? She had already miscarried twice and lost three children in infancy, including a set of twins. She had survived that, though, just as she would get through another loss, if that’s what was to be. Sinking into grief was not an option.

  The spasms got closer and closer together as she prepared supper, and it became harder to cover up her grimaces. When Ambrogio came in from the fields and saw the contorted expression on his wife’s face, he chided her.

  “The baby’s coming, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “It’s too early. It can’t come now.”

  “Looks like it has other plans.”

  Ambrogio nodded at the puddle of whitish liquid on the floor: Rosina’s water had broken. The baby would come that night. Whether it survived or not. Ambrogio sent his eldest, Massimiliano, to fetch Doctor Franzoni. His daughter Irene went off to get Loredana, the neighbour who had helped Rosina with previous deliveries.

  Loredana arrived at the Cavaletti home out of breath, asking to see Rosina. Ambrogio nodded over at the master bedroom. He was already a man of few words and when he was nervous he lost the ability to speak entirely, expressing himself solely by nodding with his chin. Every delivery was torture; he feared losing the baby, or Rosina, or both. He didn’t know how he would survive without her. His hands could do nothing but work in the vineyard. He didn’t know the first thing about preparing polenta, darning a wool sock, or making sure the clothes smelled clean and fresh, despite years of wear and tear, generations of sweat, and the high price of soap.

  Oh but he loved his Rosina. Theirs was a country love, a teenage love cut short when a stolen kiss gave way to a pregnancy that needed to be hidden at all costs. A hasty wedding before the belly began to swell. A blue wedding, done up in white just the same to spare the family’s reputation and avoid a scandal. Rosina and her copper curls. Rosina and her billowing skirts astride her Dutch bicycle.

  “Fa che non muoia a causa del parto, Signore.”50

  Ambrogio implored God as one begs a father to spare a spanking: with trembling voice, eyes fixed on the ground, shame written across his brow. It was his fault, after all. He had made this baby. If it survived, he promised to leave his wife alone. To let her rest at last.

  Bloodcurdling screams came from the next room. Rosina’s shrieks of pain could be heard even through the closed door. They spread throughout the house like smoke from a candle that has burned itself out. Irene, Giuliana, Giorgio, and Rita sat anxiously, rooted to the sofa. Rita, the youngest, covered her ears with her hands to muffle her mother’s suffering. Ambrogio paced back and forth before the wood stove, which had been cold for at least an hour. No one had thought to feed the fire. Autumn had fully set in and the nights were chilly; someone should have remembered to throw on a few extra logs. It often takes more than body heat to warm our hearts.

  A newborn’s cries rang out at last.

  The lungs seemed to be working, despite the weeks of development they lacked.

  At that moment Massimiliano walked into the house followed by Doctor Franzoni, who rushed to Rosina’s bedside. She was smiling blissfully in spite of the impressive quantities of
blood soaking the cotton sheets. She was just happy to be rid of the terrible cramps that had wracked her body since daybreak. They would need to buy new sheets, even if it meant digging deep into Ambrogio’s pockets. He was already crippled by debts and the shame of not being able to provide more for his family.

  Doctor Franzoni examined the baby and declared in a steady voice he hoped would mask his doubts, “Se passa attraverso la notte, dovrebbe cavarsela. Vi consiglio di mettere un po’ di legna nella stufa però, avrà bisogno di molto calore.”51

  Ambrogio filled the fireside with kindling and twigs straightaway. He dragged over a chest of drawers, placing it near the wood stove, and laid the newborn in the top drawer among the camisoles and cotton undershirts. The infant didn’t make a sound; he seemed contented with very little—a bit of love, a crackling fire, a few drops of milk.

  It was just as well. Lately the little had outweighed the lot.

  September, 1920.

  It had been a disastrous harvest for Emilia-Romagna; aphids had destroyed most of the grapevines. On the 28th day of the ninth month of the year, at precisely 11:11 p.m., no one made a wish. After only seven months in his mother’s womb, Sergio Cavaletti, son of Ambrogio Cavaletti and Rosina Gentilini Cavaletti, was born. Although hearts and minds had been silent at the time of his birth, Sergio would survive this ill-fated season, unlike most of the family grapevines, and go on to survive many more.

  And his father would continue to love his mother, but only from a distance.

  * * *

  50.Lord, don’t let her die in childbirth.

  51.If he makes it through the night, he should be fine. But put some wood in the stove. He’ll need to keep very warm.

  PART III

  Kamikaze Bees

  There is so much you don’t know

  this is the first time I’ve been back to Italy since I left for Canada. My parents came to visit a few times. Sandra, too. But I haven’t made the trip. It feels strange to be here, especially given the circumstances. I’d somehow gotten the impression that I’d never see my homeland again. Something told me that when you choose to leave your home, there is no going back.

  As if immigration were a one-way ticket.

  •

  Not much has changed since I left. The world turns much slower than we think. People stay the same, as do their habits. My mother still eats half a grapefruit every morning and my father still takes his evening walk, otherwise he can’t fall asleep.

  Yet everything is foreign.

  This is no longer my home.

  My childhood bedroom hasn’t been touched. Trainspotting and Tintin posters on the walls, a photo taken while on a trip to Turkey that I blew up and framed—a reminder that elsewhere life exists beyond what we know.

  My mother bought new sheets when she found out I was coming. They smell of citrus detergent. Lying here in the same bed that so often witnessed the solitary pleasures of a teenager too shy to talk to girls, I feel like a little boy again.

  •

  The day after my arrival: funeral home from nine to five to receive condolences from dozens of people, mostly strangers. They remember me as a kid, but I have no recollection of them. Our memories forget. It’s better that way. If we had to remember everything we’d ever known, seen, or felt, we would collapse under the weight of so many words, faces, and disappointments.

  But there are images, stories, and smells we think we’ve forgotten that are simply lurking behind the curtain of consciousness. Then suddenly, dramatically, they reappear when we least expect it.

  •

  I had forgotten my grandfather was so old.

  It was a shock to see his wizened body in the coffin, his skeletal features, grey skin, scalp covered in a fine down. In my memory, my grandfather was the man in the overalls and felt cap, the one who took me along when he attended to his carrier pigeons, who smiled all the time but never said a word. He was someone of unfailing health, a steadfast rock, the pillar of a loving tribe. He had started the family business after returning from war and worked hard his whole life. My grandfather was immune to death. I was sure of it.

  And then I was urgently called back from overseas because the inevitable had finally gotten the better of him.

  •

  My mother had told me just how much his health had deteriorated over the past three years. He struggled to feed himself and was plied with medication. There were injections to control his sugar levels and melatonin to help him sleep. He had trouble remembering things, even if they had been repeated a hundred times. And there were tantrums where he acted like a child denied a second piece of cake. He who had always been withdrawn, reserved, and gentle, who had never raised his voice or interrupted a soul.

  My mother had told me, but I hadn’t believed her. Or I’d pretended not to understand. Even my grandfather’s life would someday come to an end.

  The hardest thing to accept isn’t so much that my grandfather is dead. At almost ninety-three, he had led a long and fulfilling life. There is nothing unfair about his passing. But it reminds me that I can’t escape death, either. Immortality doesn’t run in the family.

  I’m haunted by a brutal truth: I’d better begin living my life before it ends.

  •

  Giuliano knew that I was in town and suggested we grab a drink with the gang. The ones that are still around, at least. The ones who were weak enough—or brave enough, depending on how you looked at it—to make a life in Carpi.

  •

  Alice is sitting at a table at Trentanove sipping a spritz52, completely oblivious to her surroundings. Her eyes are glued to her phone, the cigarette dangling in her left hand burning itself out. She has no idea that I’m looking at her. That I always have.

  I’m not sure why I couldn’t ever bring myself to tell her I was in love with her. Now she’s married with a child, hoping for a second. Telling her I’ve had a crush on her since the first year of medie53 probably wouldn’t have changed a thing. She’s happy, by the sound of things. And when you love someone, you try not to bring them down too much.

  “Hey, Alice.”

  “Fabio! What are you doing here?”

  “I’m back for two weeks. My grandfather died.”

  “Cavalo, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  There is so much you don’t know, Alice.

  •

  Giuliano, Veronica, Mattia, Annabella, Vincenzo, and Davide all came to meet us. They pretend they’re happy to see me, but I can see the reproach in their faces. An innocuous resentment, accumulated over time like one collects model trains or planes. They act as if I’d abandoned them by going to Montreal, but the truth is I left Carpi well before I left Italy. I spent my last years in Rome, Milan, and Bologna. Moving away to a different area of the country was acceptable; turning my back on my country while it still needed me was harder to forgive.

  •

  Alice is talking about her new shoes to Annabella, who lies and says she likes them. Mattia is checking out Veronica’s cleavage. His girlfriend had a tennis lesson and couldn’t come. Vincenzo and Davide tuck into the chips and hash out the last soccer game they caught at the local stadium. Which was two months ago. Carpi’s team has been doing so well lately that it was just promoted to Serie B54. Everyone pretends to be thrilled, but in reality they couldn’t care less.

  Giuliano is the only one who asks about Montreal. He’s thinking of moving, too, but he isn’t sure where yet. Montreal is an option, but he’s worried he won’t be able to handle the cold. Does it really snow eight months out of the year? Is it true that Canadian girls have lots of character? Is it hard to find a job? Don’t you miss real pizza? He laughs when I tell him that in Quebec there’s a lunchmeat called “bologna” which is a lot like mortadella. I bet it tastes like shit, Vincenzo jumps in. He’s always gotten on my nerves, that one. I don’t answer
. No point arguing with an idiot.

  •

  9:30 p.m. Giuliano suggests we grab a pizza da San Francesco next door. Alice isn’t hungry; she’s going home to her family. I don’t have much of an appetite, either. I’m tired. Tired of pretending I’ve got things to say to friends I can hardly recognize. The funeral is tomorrow. I know that I won’t sleep if I go home, so I might as well throw back a few pitchers and put away a margherita con cipolla55.

  “Do they have beer in Canada?”

  “Yes, Vincenzo, there’s beer. And it’s better than ours.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I’m telling you.”

  “Well their wine must be disgusting.”

  “Have you ever tried wine from the Okanagan Valley or Ontario?”

  “No, but it can’t be good. It isn’t Italian!”

  That’s one of the reasons I left Italy: to get away from all the Vincenzos in a country where I no longer feel I belong.

  * * *

  52.Cocktail of sparkling wine and bitter liqueur

  53.High school

  54.The Italian second division

  55.Margherita pizza with onions

  Grief is personal

  we meet at the san nicolò church to say our final goodbyes. I didn’t know my grandfather had so many friends. Many drove two, three, four hours to come pay their respects. Most are pigeon fanciers he raced birds with. And they have brought doves. I can tell I’m going to cry.

  There are also a few distant cousins, uncles, and aunts—mostly older people who know their time is coming, too. But for now, they’re glad it isn’t them in the wooden box at the end of the aisle leading to the altar. My grandmother looks lost, like she doesn’t understand what is happening. No one thought to bring her to the salon beforehand. Her hair is a mess. She’s a mess, inside and out. It’s important to be consistent, I suppose. To show what we’re going through. Scattered thoughts, battered soul, unkempt hair.