The Sicilian Woman's Daughter

by Linda Lo Scuro

  “There’s not much to see,” I say. “But if that’s what they want, why not?” The sun is beating down. “Let me take Benjamin, then; he’ll suffer in this heat. He’s better off indoors with us. Peppina’s house is just up there. Take that first little alleyway on the right,” I say pointing up the road, “you’ll come to a courtyard. It’s the house in the corner.”

  FORTY

  Tuesday 26th September – afternoon

  As we approach Peppina’s house, we see that the front door is wide open as it always was, during the day, in my grandmother’s time. We walk straight in and I repeatedly call Peppina as we climb up the uneven, stone stairs leading directly to the garden. No answer from Peppina, but Zia shouts out, “We here in garden.” Zia and Angelina are talking animatedly. Provvi and her kids, who are tearing around, are here, too. The women sit in the shade of the house.

  About halfway up the continuous two flights of stairs is another flight leading to the living quarters: on the right is a big bedroom-cum-living-room, where Peppina sleeps. Then, on the left, was my grandmother’s bedroom. From that room another door opens up to yet another stone staircase that leads up to the attic. This is one open space, where the sisters slept as children. There is one toilet, no shower or bath – only a huge tin bath standing in the corner of the kitchen. I had a few baths in that tub as a youngster. Women would walk in and out when I was trying to wash myself. I’d wait for everyone to go, so that I could stand up and wrap myself up quickly in a bath towel before walking through Peppina’s room, through my grandmother’s bedroom, and up to the attic to get dressed.

  You have to go through Peppina’s room to get to the kitchen. From the kitchen you can step out into the beautiful garden. It is definitely the best feature of the house. The big stone oven, where Ziuzza used to come and bake, is still here. The bottom of the garden slopes downwards. The wide open views are in stark contrast to the suffocating, closed-in courtyard at the front of the house.

  We walk towards the women from London. I ask if Peppina’s in. “No, she out at moment,” Zia says. She fetches a couple of chairs from the kitchen, “Asetta, asetta.” They pay compliments to Humps and me about having such a lovely grandson. Little Benjamin coos and waves at them. Angelina and Provvi have never met Humps. Always the gentleman, even in his khaki Bermuda shorts and hairy legs, he shakes their hands and says: “How do you do?” They answer that they are well, thank you. Angelina looks taken aback by him. She probably didn’t realise that I had such a scrumptious husband. She’s intimidated by Humps – maybe by his clipped Oxford English. Humps can’t do cockney like I can. He’s the genuine article, to the manner born. Susi shoots right over abandoning her texting when she sees us, acting all flirty. She’s intimidated by nobody. She’d better keep her paws off Humps. Men seem to be a rare commodity round here.

  Zia brings out a terracotta amphora and pours fresh water from it onto the lemon at the bottom of glasses. “Biviti. Hot in Sicilia. You need water,” she says handing them out, and then pours water into Benjamin’s bottle. We quench our thirst.

  “Come on. I show garden and lot of chicken,” Zia says. Little Benjamin has already seen the chickens and is flapping his hands in their direction. Provvi’s boys are pulling faces at them. Zia beckons to me to follow her inside while the others stay in the garden.

  “What’s the news,” I ask Zia.

  “Adriano think sister Bella and Rosa no alive any more.”

  “He’s not going to get much information from the people here. What do they know, anyway? The sisters didn’t get here,” I say.

  “He can no make problem. He no know where to start.”

  “Has he been to the police?”

  “Ah, he get nothing from police. Nobody talk.”

  The police have spoken to the people on the bus. As witnesses none of them were of any help. They said they didn’t remember a man getting on at a bus stop after the bus left the airport. The driver said he sold the man a ticket, but couldn’t say what he was like. He hardly ever looked passengers in the face, unless they were pretty women. Anyway, he’d never been any good at guessing ages, which led to his upsetting women in his time. The man could have been twenty-five, could have been fifty-five for all he knew. Neither could the driver say how tall he was, or what his build was like. “I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, one step up,” he said, “how can I estimate anyone’s height? And how can I see how fat they are? The safety glass between me and the passengers distorts body shapes.”

  The police didn’t press him for more information. That’s what the driver said and that’s what the police wrote down in their report.

  “How do you know all this?” I ask Zia.

  “From Young Cushi man in police station. You no need know his name. I tell you rest when we in London.”

  “Have you seen Adriano?” I ask.

  “No, I no see. I invite him come see me. Maybe he come in next day. Speak to me. I like mother for him.”

  “What’s happening on the Giulio front?” I ask.

  “Thursday morning early. In countryside. He go mangiare ricotta with Adriano. I no know more.”

  Mangiare ricotta in the early morning, when it is fresh, is something emigrants visiting The Village do as a way of getting an injection of nostalgia of their past lives, or that of their parents, before wholesale emigration opened up after World War II. At that time, about 90% of the villagers were peasants.

  Now shepherds offer mangiare ricotta as a traditional tourist trip in the deepest countryside where their flocks roam. After the first milking of their sheep at dawn, the first batch of ricotta is made in their shacks.

  “There are a couple of things I want to ask you, Zia.”

  Benjamin is getting restless so I give him my phone to play with.

  “The first is: how come the front door’s always open here. It’s been like that since I can remember.”

  “So Peppina no go up-down stair every five minute, let women in when visit.”

  “Yes, but your house in England is like a fortress, and you have women coming and going there, too.”

  “You right. But in The Village people know Peppina. Nobody come rob. My sister can put cash in middle courtyard – nobody touch. Nobody take it.”

  Of course, it makes sense. Everyone in The Village knows about Peppina’s network. How she is close to Young Cushi. They all know they’d pay a very high price if they slight Peppina, never mind take anything from her.

  The second question is:

  “Why does Peppina hate me so much?”

  “I no know.”

  “Yes, you do know. There must be something.”

  “I tell you in England.”

  “No, Zia, I want to know. Please tell me now.”

  After a little more persuasion, she says:

  “She say you and you father, kill you mother.”

  “What? My mother had a terrible illness. You know that!”

  “I know. She say you evil. You mother ill because you evil like you father.”

  “Oh, please. For God’s sake,” I say.

  “You want know. I tell you.”

  “And what about before my mother became ill? When I came here and was a child of twelve?”

  “When Peppina young, she want marry you father.”

  “You’re saying that my mother and her were love rivals?”

  “She want marry you father. But you father want you mother.”

  Zia explained that Peppina had been engaged to my father. That meant my father would visit grandmother’s house to see Peppina. And during those visits, he fell in love with my mother, who, in Zia’s opinion was more beautiful and sparky than Peppina. However, Peppina didn’t blame my mother. The three sisters had always seen themselves as one entity. It was my father Peppina hated. When my mother died, Peppina rekindled high hopes that my father would finally want to marry her. Instead he married someone else.

  “How is that my fault?” I say.

  “I no kno
w. She have silly brain. She no marry other man.”

  “I still don’t see that it’s my fault.”

  “You problem, you look like you father.”

  She doesn’t know any other reason Peppina could hate me for. I believe Zia. Peppina can’t take it out on my father, the real culprit. So she lashed out at me instead, because I was my father, in part.

  “Yes, but you can’t blame an innocent child like that. A child cannot be evil. Anyway, my father also abandoned me when he remarried. You both know that,” I say.

  “You father no-good bastardo man.”

  “Uncle Tony wasn’t any better,” I say.

  “He double no-good bastardo man.”

  “In that case, why did you dedicate that altar to him in your living room?”

  “God forgive me. God save my soul.”

  “Have you confessed your role in his death to your priest?”

  “No. I confess before I die. I no want go to hell.”

  “Zia you will go to hell, if you’re not careful.”

  “I no go to hell, I tell you. You go to hell. You no believe, you godless woman.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Tuesday 26th September – evening

  Peppina’s back. She comes into the room, looks me up and down, then ignores me. She’s in awful shape, fat with unsightly varicose veins showing through her flesh-coloured pop socks. A maroon dress tight around her stomach and loose around her chest. And a pendant depicting Mother Mary on a gold chain round her neck. Her hair is pulled back and tied into a loose pony tail with a big, black slide.

  The door is open, I can hear that my kids and Mark have also arrived. Zia and I follow Peppina into the garden. Peppina sits down and folds her arms as if she were in a huff. She turns her face to her left, bends her head down a little, and spits on the ground. “Vileno,” she says.

  “This is my Aunt Peppina,” I say introducing her to my family.

  Humps says he’s pleased to meet her, and holds out his hand, but she doesn’t take it. Clara smiles and says, “We’ve already met Peppina. We saw her in the piazza.”

  Peppina is staring at Benjamin. I feel a shudder, something sinister. To Humps and Emma I say in a low voice: “You mind Benjamin he could be in danger here, and I don’t mean from the chickens. Aunt P could harm him.” Emma asks Mark to hand Benjamin over to her and Humps keeps close by. They are beginning to understand how vicious this woman is. Peppina is probably wondering what we are saying. Problem for her is she doesn’t understand a word of English. Without uttering a word, she goes indoors.

  I call Clara over to a quiet spot near the chicken house. “Tell me, where did you meet Peppina, then?”

  “Oh, mummy. You should have seen her. We’d just had a drink in the bar and then walked to the middle of the piazza. You remember that cluster of men we saw when we drove through the village? Well, they were all sitting round Peppina.”

  “What?”

  “They were protecting her by sitting tightly around her. When they saw us approaching one of the men got up and stopped us from going any further. It was as if we were at a customs check. The man asked us what we wanted and, in the meantime, another three men circled us.”

  “Jesus. And, what did you say?”

  “We said we were just looking around.”

  “He asked what family we belong to. I told them we are related to Peppina and explained where she lives. ‘She’s our great-aunt, my mother’s aunt, her mother’s sister, I said.’”

  The black-coppola went to the middle of the group, asked Peppina if that was so. “Yes,” she said, “they were supposed to arrive today. Let them through.”

  When she saw my kids she was quite unmoved, said they were beautiful, that you could tell they had the same blood as her own, but that they had been contaminated by my blood. Luckily Mark doesn’t understand Italian.

  “Mum, I’m so in awe of Peppina,” Clara says. “She was wielding power over all those men. All she had to do was to lift a finger and they obeyed. It’s fascinating – you’d have thought she were Margaret Thatcher in the way that she bossed men around.” Clara admired the Iron Lady for her tenacity and determination.

  “Well, that’s a turn-up for the books,” I say. “Are you telling me you admire Peppina?”

  “Yes, mum, she’s powerful. She’s mafiosa, isn’t she?”

  “Um, well, there’s something about her.”

  “Mum, she’s brilliant. I’m telling you, she’s a boss,” Clara says, hitting the nail right on the head. “I could tell by how the men addressed her with deference.”

  “That’s no business of ours,” I say, “just keep away from her.”

  “God, if I didn’t have to go back to work, I’d stay here and find out more,” Clara adds. She’s so excited, “Mum, it’s like being in a mafia film.”

  Angelina and Provvi come to us to say their goodbyes. “See you at my birthday party,” Angelina says to me.

  “Yes, of course, Humps and I will be there.” The mother and daughter leave. Zia says she has to join the rosary, which has just started in the courtyard. Susi is messing about with her phone in the kitchen. We reckon we’d better be off as well.

  As we go through the courtyard, we see Peppina leading the rosary, like she has done every evening for about sixty years. A group of eight women are huddled in a circle shrouded in black, each one holding a string of black beads in their hands, and a small cross, which they kiss. Holding the cross in their left hands, they make the sign of the cross with their right hands, first touching their forehead, then between their breasts, followed by left shoulder and right shoulder. Clara takes a picture of them with her phone. Luckily, they don’t notice. “Put that phone away,” I say. Emma and Mark roll their eyes and can’t wait to get away. I don’t think they’ll want to come back to The Village. Once is enough. They don’t see the folkloristic side of this like Clara does.

  Out of the five mystery categories of the rosary, this evening must have been The Sorrowful Mysteries. They are probably at The Scourging at the Pillar judging by the singsong lament with Peppina invoking the Lamb of God offering his suffering to wash away the sins of humankind. The others seem to be in a muttering trance as they repeat Peppina’s words verbatim, bowing their veiled heads into the circle. And then Peppina asks God for mercy for all sinners who are not worthy of living in His light. The black shrouds repeat. As we distance ourselves from the courtyard, “save us from the fires of hell” can still be heard.

  As we are about to get into our car a scooter whizzes by with a big box balanced on the back wheel advertising a bakery. It makes a sharp U-turn, heads towards us and stops. Speaking in dialect the rider says: “Is that you, Maria?”

  “Yes”, I say, and at the same time realise who it is: “Luca! Oh, my God, Luca!”

  “You haven’t changed much,” he says kindly.

  His hair is littered with grey, he is somewhat thicker around the middle, but definitely recognisable. The man who nursed me and got me out of my mother’s clutches.

  “My family,” I say to him making a sweeping gesture with my arm towards Humps and our children. “This is Luca, my first husband.”

  Mark laughs. He thinks I am joking. Emma nudges him. He looks around bewildered. Clara says: “Oh, my God. I can’t believe this.” Although Humps and our kids know about Luca, they were still agog. Luca looks at them and smiles. Humps is somewhat fazed by Luca. I don’t think Humps ever expected him to be so good-looking. He feels uneasy. Luca had been some haze in my memory for years, and suddenly he’s materialised. The two men shake hands, then the others do the same. Luca compliments me on Benjamin saying he is a lovely baby, blonde hair, blue eyes. He holds up his hands and shows us six fingers; he has six grandchildren.

  Then he insists we go to his home, just down the road. He won’t take no for an answer, wants us to meet his family. We follow downhill until we come to a narrow cobblestone road. As we are approaching the end of the alley we see a bakery sign. A waft of
freshly baked pizzas billows in the air. Pointing to a slat type plastic curtain at the entrance, he says: “This is my bakery. We took it over from my wife’s family. My three children work with us.” He pulls the curtain aside, we enter a huge room, with ovens on either side. A woman is standing in the middle leaning on a long-handled wooden paddle, supposedly used for getting bread out of big ovens. Children are darting all over the place. Little Benjamin joins the merry game and squeals too, adding to the general mayhem.

  The woman leans the paddle against the counter, wipes her hands on her apron, and shakes our hands. “This is my wife,” Luca says. He tells her who I am. Her smiling face becomes serious, she inspects me, glancing all over me, then does the same to Humps. She nods her head, satisfied. No threat from either of us. Luca lifts a red and white, chequered tablecloth covering pizzas in a large basket, from which he takes six of them, then places them in boxes. Humps offers to pay, Luca looks offended, turns and says to me: “Friends don’t pay.”

  On our return journey we stop at the water trough again and eat our pizzas. Little Benjamin gets tomato sauce over his face and clothes, and even in his hair.

  FORTY-TWO

  Wednesday 27th September

  The next day we spend mostly on the beach. In the late afternoon, Humps and I set off for The Village. It is Angelina and Beatrice’s sixtieth birthday party that evening. Apart from weddings, parties are open to everyone in the village – hardly anyone receives an invitation, nearly everybody goes. Word of mouth says there is a party in that particular house on such-and-such an evening. The parties consist of music and dancing, cakes and alcoholic drinks. The success of the party is measured in litres of drink. And if the dancing space in the house isn’t enough, dancing is extended to the street below where music blares through open windows. The street is blocked off by cars parked horizontally across the access roads. Nobody complains. Nobody asks the town hall for permission.