The Sicilian Woman's Daughter

by Linda Lo Scuro

  In the large living room of the house, I recognise a few faces. Provvi looks amazing. Her hair is shiny and curls bob up and down as she dances with Giulio. It is touching to watch her dance with that limp. A little clumsy, but she is enjoying herself. Has he stopped beating her since they’ve been in Sicily? Does having to stay with relatives stop him from lashing out at her? This place isn’t as anonymous as London. The coward can probably restrain himself when he wants to. In my view, this makes his behaviour even less acceptable. He inflicts pain on his wife when he can get away with it – without any negative consequences for himself.

  Provvi rushes over when she catches sight of me. “Nice to see you again. How are you?” She shakes Humps’s hand.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I’ve been worried about you. But you look wonderful.”

  “I feel wonderful.”

  I didn’t want us to refer to her husband’s behaviour with Humps standing there. It might embarrass her.

  “I’ll catch up with you later,” I say, “I want to say hello to a few people.”

  With that Humps and I take our presents over to the twins. We’ve bought them a Sicilian terracotta vase each. They are thrilled with their gifts and Angelina, in particular, looks radiant. Once Humps and I have rid ourselves of the parcels, we have a waltz around the floor. All that spinning gives me a chance to see who else is there. People watch us. Not because we are good dancers, nothing of the sort. They will have whispered amongst themselves informing each other that we are related to Young Cushi. That I married a foreigner. Humps, as the typical Englishman, is overdressed. Lots of jeans and T-shirts here, on this hot evening, while Humps wears a suit, albeit a summer one, silk tie, and the cufflinks I gave him for our anniversary.

  After the dance, we go over to Zia and Susi. “I need speak to you in private,” Zia says.

  “Susi,” I say, “wouldn’t you like to dance with Humps?” I trust Humps. They whirl off. I am anxious to hear what has happened on the Adriano front. Curving her way through dancers, Zia heads over to Beatrice. I follow her among the laughing and chatting in the smoke-filled room. She asks Beatrice if we can use her bedroom for a while for a private talk. Beatrice nods. I signal to Humps that I’m going out to speak to Zia, “Won’t be long.” I mouth to him from a distance. I sit down on the bed ready to listen to what Zia has to say.

  Zia tells me that Adriano, Bella and Rosa’s brother, has appointed a private detective to investigate his sisters’ disappearance. A lead came from an article in a Sicilian newspaper that had published the photo of the bus driver. Adriano’s detective tracked the driver down. Apparently, through the sleuth, Adriano offered the driver money in exchange for information. “I no know how much.” The driver provided the number plate of the taxi Bella and Rosa had been bundled into, before they were driven to a road-construction site.

  “Bella and Rosa have met their maker, and it looks like Adriano is also heading that way,” I say.

  Adriano took the car registration number to the police. One of Young Cushi’s infiltrated men at the police station told Young Cushi.

  “Young Cushi say taxi-car no problem. Stolen.” Zia says. “But we kill him. He hard-head man. He no give up.”

  “So what’s going to happen now?”

  “One school friend of Giulio go ricotta mangiare in morning, with Adriano and Giulio. School friend is a Young Cushi man. Shepherd also Young Cushi man.”

  “So, are Adriano and Giulio going to be killed in the morning?” It was obvious they were. It was a stupid question. But I was saying it more to myself, to get my thoughts straight rather than asking Zia a question.

  “We no talk about now. Friday I let you know if all OK. I tell you all about in London.”

  We go back to the party. Susi and Humps come and ask if we want a drink. I am still a little shaken. “Yes, of course. Thank you,” I say, “I could really do with a drink.” They have armed themselves with some iced-lemon-liquor cocktail. “I’ll go and get Zia and you some,” Humps says. When he is back with the drinks, Humps asks: “Are you OK, darling?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine. I think the heat’s getting at me, that’s all.” I sit and sip my drink trying to come to. Then I ask Humps to keep Zia company a moment as I want to speak to Susi.

  “You know about tomorrow morning?” I say to her.

  “No, what’s happening?”

  “I thought your mother would have told you.”

  “She doesn’t tell me much. She trusts you more than me because she sees your mother in you. She told me that,” Susi says.

  “Well, maybe because I’ve been visiting her a lot lately, and we have stronger ties than before.”

  “So what’s happening, then?” Susi asks again.

  “I think Adriano’s day has come.”

  “What do you mean?”

  There you go. That’s why Zia doesn’t trust Susi. Proper Sicilians understand nuances. You don’t have to spell these things out. Maybe that’s why Zia is more inclined to confide in me. I change my mind. I don’t want to tell her. Zia wouldn’t like it anyway.

  “Adriano’s going to mangiare ricotta. I’ll bet he hasn’t done that for a while.”

  “And what’s that to me?”

  “Well, they’re all excited about it...”

  “I’m not,” Susi says, “I couldn’t care less about what he does.”

  From a distance I see a woman walking fast towards us with a big smile on her face.

  “Maria!” she calls out as she approaches us. “Maria!”

  I don’t recognise her.

  “Sono Patrizia. Remember!”

  I try to lift my spirits.

  “Oh, Patrizia! Oh, my God! How lovely to see you again. After all this time.” We hugged and hugged.

  “You look great. You’re a lady,” she says.

  “And look at you! You look so lovely. You’ve changed so much, too. Tell me about yourself. So you never made it to Rome.”

  “No, I didn’t go in the end.”

  That was mainly because her father hadn’t shown signs of wanting her anywhere near him. Without a job or a place to live in the capital, she couldn’t summon up the courage to go out into the big wide world alone. Especially as she had never left the village. Then, she met the love of her life, married him and stayed. She was quite the lady of the village because, to my huge dismay, she had married Cushi. Yes, Young Cushi!

  I am speechless for a moment or two. Hoping my inner turmoil doesn’t show on my face and become visible. I manage to blurt out: “Oh, how wonderful,” in shock at this revelation. All the time Zia was talking about Young Cushi, I didn’t realise that he’d married the best friend I’d had in Sicily. Patrizia and I have never kept in touch. I have no idea how much she knows of his affairs.

  I don’t want to call Humps, but Patrizia points to him: “Is that your husband?” When Humps realises we are talking about him, he makes a beeline to us, and I introduce them to each other. A little after, what must be Young Cushi himself appears. It is him! We all shake hands and Young Cushi invites us over to the bar. “What’ll you have?” he says. Patrizia wants a Marsala, so we all go with that. Young Cushi is actually a distinguished looking man. Eloquent and softly spoken. Average build. He has his grandmother’s sharp blue eyes. He says he remembers me from our teenage years, when I spent some time at The Village. He was even at the wedding reception when Luca and I married. In fact, he danced with Patrizia most of the time, he tells me. And Patrizia has always spoken highly of me, it seems.

  A shiver runs down my spine. So, even in those days, unbeknown to me, I had ‘a man of honour,’ a mafioso, at my wedding – who knows how many more of them were there. It’s not as if they have it written across their foreheads. At the time, I was so wrapped up in trying to get back to England that I hadn’t taken much notice of what went on around me, at my own wedding reception, or in The Village.

  Young Cushi takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor. I’m still in a daze. A cha-c
ha. Humps and Patrizia follow us and start dancing, too. Zia is intermittently watching us and talking to a little group of women. Susi is flirting with a couple of men. Young Cushi asks, “Are you enjoying your holiday?”

  “Very much,” I say. Lost for words.

  “Does your husband like it here? I hear from Zia that it’s the first time he’s been,” Young Cushi says with a hint of disdain.

  “Well, I’ve always worked hard and didn’t have much time for holidays.” He knew I was fabricating.

  “Such a pity,” he says. “You are a thoroughbred Sicilian. Like me. Sicily flows in our veins. You should be proud. Marrying an Englishman doesn’t dilute your blood.”

  They keep wanting to reclaim me back. I just smile at him. I don’t know what to say. Thankfully, the dance is over. Patrizia and Humps join us. Young Cushi looks at Humps, “Humphrey, Patrizia and I would be delighted if you and your good lady came to our house for lunch on Friday. You can bring your children as well, if they want.” He looks at Patrizia and asks: “We’re free on Friday, aren’t we?“

  “Yes, we are,” she says. “What a beautiful idea! Zia and Susi can come, too.” Humps is pleased to accept. “Let’s go over and invite Zia as well,” Young Cushi says. We follow him like obedient poodles. I say to Patrizia that Clara would be happy to join us, but not to count on Emma and Mark because they had told me that they’d rather spend the rest of the holiday on the beach.

  Zia had told me, when we were back in London, that Young Cushi is the only man in The Village that the Madonna bows down to. Once a year the Madonna statue is taken out of the local church and paraded through the streets. Women hang their best embroidered sheets over their balconies to decorate the streets along her route. As she passes, the villagers elbow their way to the statue to pin money to her dress to pay homage to her. But when the statue passes Young Cushi’s house, it is the Madonna who pays homage to him by bowing down in front of his gate. He and his family watch from their balcony.

  At the party, people keep coming over to pay their respects to Young Cushi, who is still sitting with us. I know hardly any of the villagers. But amongst them are Luca and his wife. They sit with us. And again we are taken to the dance floor – this time me waltzing with Luca, and Humps with Luca’s wife.

  After the dance I warn Humps that if we keep drinking like this, we won’t be able to leave The Village this evening. I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to be here when the Giulio and Adriano deed happens in the morning. Humps reckons Sicily is great fun. He’s now taken off his jacket and tie and has rolled his shirt sleeves up. Still drinking. Ready for more. At that point, I realise I will have to drive him back. Then he blurts out a sentence that freezes me.

  “I’d love to go to that ricotta experience with Adriano and Giulio tomorrow morning.”

  “What?” Someone must have told him about it. I wasn’t expecting this.

  “I want to go mangiare ricotta with Adriano and Giulio in the morning.”

  “You can’t.” My legs begin to tremble.

  “Why not?”

  “B-because we’re going back to the hotel tonight.”

  “Can’t we stay here?”

  “Where?”

  “At Peppina’s,” he says, “we can sleep in the attic.”

  “No! No, we can’t. Don’t be silly. She hasn’t got room. Zia and Susi are staying there. You can’t be the only man amongst women. It’s not a done thing here. We need to go back to our hotel where our kids are.”

  “They won’t miss us. It only takes a phone call.”

  “Please Humps. Please listen to me. You can’t go, and that’s the end of the story.”

  “Oh, I do love a bossy woman.”

  After more dancing and drinking, especially on Humps’s behalf, we leave.

  “Come on, get in the car,” I say, holding open the front passenger door. He’s tipsy.

  “Are you driving?” he asks.

  “Well, of course, you can’t drive in that state. We’d finish up in some deep ravine.”

  “I love Sicily,” Humps says, in his dazed stupor. “Why haven’t we been here before?”

  “Because it’s not all as wonderful as you think. It has a very dangerous side to it.”

  “All I see are fun people, sun, sea, beautiful dark women, incredible food.”

  “Darling, this is the land of the mafia.”

  “Rubbish.” he says. He’s drunk. “Maybe it was once. It’s not half as bad as you make out.”

  “It’s double as bad as I make out,” I say.

  “They look nice enough to me. Take Luca, he couldn’t have been more friendly.”

  Humps is falling asleep. But not quite there yet. I don’t bother to explain that if Luca has a profitable bakery then he will be paying protection money. There is a short silence, then Humps begins again.

  “You’d have six grandchildren if you’d stayed with Luca. I can imagine you with that wooden paddle in your hands. Threatening. That’s what you’d be. Bloody dangerous woman.”

  “Alright, darling, see if you can nod off.”

  “Bloody dangerous woman,” he repeats.

  “Darling, now, can you get some shut-eye so I can concentrate on the road, please?”

  FORTY-THREE

  Thursday 28th September

  Down for breakfast at 10 o’clock, just before it shut. The kids are still having breakfast. I tell them about Young Cushi’s invitation. Emma and Mark turn their noses up. Clara says: “You bet I want to go. Just don’t leave me behind.” As we are enjoying our fresh croissants and cappuccino by the sea, thoughts of Adriano and Giulio flitter by in my mind. I keep trying to bring my focus back to us sitting under the sun amongst the sound of waves breaking, and seagulls squawking.

  Giulio and Adriano’s day has come. Brothers in death. Two men who’ve played their cards wrong. Who have hit above their height and tumbled down. Others might have got away with what they did, but these two operated under the shadow of an unforgiving and relentless justice, which is far bigger and powerful than they were. The Ancient Greeks called it hubris leading to tragedy. The Ancient Sicilians call it vendetta leading to justice, without any right to appeal.

  After breakfast, we join the kids on the beach. And in the afternoon, mostly due to my insistence we, finally, manage to get around to visiting the archaeological site. The excavations. Needless to say, I spend most of the time thinking of Bella and Rosa. Underground. In their final resting place under a motorway. Would they be found in the distant future? Would archaeologists be thrilled to inspect their skeletons, lay them out on stainless steel worktops to scrutinise them? Study their earrings, necklaces, rings. Wonder why they weren’t buried in sacred ground? Would they trace them back to England? How did they get there? Their fillings. Was the amalgam different from that used by dentists in Sicily? Would dental specialists discover that? And, what about Adriano and Giulio? Were they lying in some dry, sandy soil out in the back of beyond of the Sicilian campagna. Could these other two bodies be traced back to England in the far-flung future?

  In the afternoon, Susi phones me. She asks if we can pop in to see Zia before going to Young Cushi’s. “I don’t think we’ll have time.”

  “Oh, just a few minutes. Mum’s made some cakes and wants you to take them to Cushi’s. We’re walking, we can’t carry trays. The cakes’ll go off in this heat, anyway.”

  “OK, I’ll see what we can do.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Friday 29th September

  So in the morning Humps, Clara, and I arrive at Peppina’s again, to pick up Zia’s cakes. “I so love this house,” Clara says, “it’s so Sicilian. It feels like Don Corleone is going to walk in any minute.” She doesn’t know what I went through here. Her life has been so easy. She simply hasn’t a clue.

  “Susi, you give Humphrey and Clara cake, make cuppa tea for them. I come back in minute. I speak to Maria in attic,” Zia says.

  She takes me by the arm and marches me upstairs.
<
br />   “Zia, what’s this. What are you doing?”

  “I want tell you what happen to Giulio and Adriano yesterday. One minute. You my poor sister daughter. You like daughter to me.”

  “Yes, I was thinking about them yesterday. So what happened?”

  Zia has received information from Young Cushi and his men.

  All was still and dark when the two men were picked up yesterday at five o’clock in the morning by a trattorino, by Adriano’s school friend, who is now part of Young Cushi’s family. Family is of utmost importance in Sicily; with brothers and sisters in blood as the highest form of family.

  The trattorino went to Giulio’s first, then Adriano’s. Literally translated, trattorino means ‘little tractor.’ Trattorini have replaced the mules of our grandfathers. Farmers now use a trattorino as a means of transport to their land because it climbs over the most rocky and hostile ground. They proceeded to travel through this barren moonscape-like land, until they reached the sheep farm in the middle of nowhere. Silence. Nothing stirred. Until the shepherd came to welcome them, interrupting milking his sheep.

  Adriano and Giulio were encouraged to try their hand at milking without much success. Then they followed the farmer into his shack to take part in the ricotta-making process. They ate some of that pure white cheese washing it down with home-made white wine. Then they squeezed ricotta into little plastic colanders to take back with them, but that ricotta would never make it to The Village.

  “Ah, you don’t get this in England, do you?” said the shepherd.

  “No, we have a very different life there, we’re always indoors,” said Giulio, “always working; house and work, that’s what we have there.”

  “I couldn’t live in London,” said the shepherd, though he’d never been there. “All that traffic, noise and filthy air. Give me the Sicilian campagna any day.”

  “We emigrated for work. For money. This is a God-forsaken place,” said Adriano. “I like my life in London and wouldn’t want to come back here.”