The Sicilian Woman's Daughter

by Linda Lo Scuro

  “Each to his own,” said the shepherd.

  The shepherd has this conversation with every emigrant visiting him, whether they come from Germany, Belgium, America or any other place he hasn’t visited.

  At about eight o’clock they set off for the return journey to The Village. After half-an-hour’s bumping up and down, they could see a huge pile of rocks in the distance. What wasn’t visible to them, behind the rudimentary wall, were four men, two had rifles. As the trattorino approached the rocks, the driver went full speed, jumping off just in time before it crashed. Adriano and Giulio were catapulted out by the impact, and landed heavily on the rugged ground. The four men ran to the scene, using rocks two of them bludgeoned Adriano and Giulio to death. Then they placed the bodies side by side, went over them with the trattorino, and overturned the trattorino on them. Adriano was placed near the driver’s seat and Giulio at the back. They dismantled the impromptu wall, and scattered the rocks.

  No mobile connection there. The alarm wasn’t given until late afternoon. By Provvi. A search crew was sent out. All they could do was bring the bodies back to their families who’d have to start thinking about making funeral arrangements.

  So, in a sense, Adriano had been luckier than his sisters. At least he would have a grave with his name on it, whereas his sisters have no memorial to commemorate their lives. The sisters started the ball rolling, and their deaths led to their brother’s. And, added to that, it took a long time coming, but Susi’s rapes have now been properly avenged.

  By 12.30, we are already ringing the bell on Patrizia and Young Cushi’s well-polished door, with a tray and a bag each in our hands. It is exactly the time they wanted us there. And we are punctual. A young maid in a black dress, and pristine white starched apron, opens the door. She welcomes us in. Patrizia appears at the top of the wide marble stairway and hurries down to greet us:

  “Ciao, I’m glad you came,” she shakes Humps’s hand, then kisses Clara and me. “I can’t believe you’ve come back after all these years. The times I’ve thought about you,” Patrizia says to me.

  “I know,” I say, “I’ve thought about you so many times, too. Never would I have imagined you’d still be here in The Village. And you’re so happy.” This was actually true, I wasn’t toadying up to her.

  “Yes,” she says, “I decided to stay, and I’ve come to love The Village. It’s strange how we change.”

  “It certainly is,” I reply.

  “Oh, Clara, you must meet my daughter, Adele, she’s the same age as you.”

  The maid is still standing behind us. Patrizia gestures to her to take the trays to the kitchen. We give Patrizia the flowers and bottle of wine we bought for them. She leads us into their magnificent dining-room. Baroque. Blue and white. Huge high windows which look out onto a garden lined with plants – red and pink oleander, lemon and olive trees, and other plants I don’t recognise.

  The whole place is filled with a light we don’t have in England – so bright and clear – a light that sublime artists, like Turner, would love to have captured.

  “What a beautiful house, you have,” Humps says, Clara and I nod in agreement. I think Humps has now understood what I’d never told him: that my family is up to its neck in mafia.

  “Thank you,” she says. “We’ll have our aperitif out on the veranda.”

  “Oh, how beautiful,” I say.

  Young Cushi with a young lady come out to join us and following them close behind is their maid with a tray of flute glasses full of sparkling white wine. “This is our daughter, Adele,” Young Cushi says, introducing her to us.

  A splendid young woman in her thirties, with strong Sicilian features like Patrizia’s. With all this splendour: the house, the food and the women, how am I ever going to drag Humps away from Sicily? Adele can speak perfect English – an American accent. Turns out she graduated in law in the USA. Humps and Clara soon get talking to Adele, while Patrizia and Young Cushi are all over me. We are offered smoked salmon and shrimp antipasto with a cream called froth of champagne.

  “How are you enjoying your stay in Sicily?” Young Cushi asks me again.

  “Oh, it’s brilliant! And Humps and Clara are in love with the island. It’s going to be difficult to get them back home,” I joke.

  “Sicily certainly has its charm,” he says.

  “It does,” I say, “A charm like no other.” What on earth was I saying? I was still smarting from Young Cushi’s rebuke while we were dancing.

  Patrizia gets up “I need to go and talk to the cook for a moment.”

  I smile at her as she walks by.

  “Zia has been telling me about your visits,” Young Cushi begins. “She holds a special place in my affections, like Peppina does, too. My father and your mother and aunts were more like sisters to my father than cousins. The three sisters have been part of my life since I was a toddler. First in London and then here.”

  “I know,” I say, “Zia is special to me, too. I’m very fond of her.” I didn’t mention my mother or Peppina.

  “And intelligent,” he says.

  Zia would not seem so to Londoners. Mostly down to her simplified English. A habit she got into and vehemently holds on to. A kind of endearing trademark. Patrizia, in the meantime, has come back. Sits with Adele, Clara, and Humps. Adele and Clara are laughing their heads off. Humps must be telling them his repertoire of corny jokes.

  “Yes, Zia’s very bright. And she’s had a hard life,” I say to Young Cushi.

  “I remember my father telling me about her violent husband,” he says.

  “I know about that,” I say. “I actually experienced some of the bad side of his character.”

  “My father put things right. He saw it as a mission. God on high required it from him. He was convinced of that. I inherited that belief from him, you know. Zia has the same family mindset. She does help me if need be: though, of course, I have men taking care of more important things in England. Zia is getting a little old now.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Susi is not quite like Zia. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a nice enough woman, but she hasn’t got Zia’s laser mind like you have.”

  Young Cushi has just offered me a position within the organisation in London. But I turn it down by ignoring his veiled offer. And instead I say: “Yes, Zia is much more rational.” I can tell by the look on his face that he’s disappointed.

  “If you need any help,” he says, “of any sort in the future, do let me know. We are family.”

  “Thank you,” I say. That’s generous of him given that I have just refused his proposition.

  “Ah, our first course is ready,” he says, “let’s go to the table,” he holds his hand out for me to take, and accompanies me over to my chair at the elaborately decorated table. He pulls the chair out for me to sit on.

  Over lunch, speaking about Zia and Susi, Patrizia says: “They are joining us later for dessert. They’ll be here at about half past two. Zia said she has a special diet and would rather cook for herself. These older ladies are so set in their ways.”

  “My mother and grandmother were like that, too,” Young Cushi says, and my grandmother, I remember, was always baking, like Zia,” he says talking about Ziuzza, my grandmother’s mafiosa sister, shot in a road, “And she would only eat food she cooked herself. God bless her good soul, and my mother’s.”

  Adele tells us about her adventures in America; where she went and what she did there. Young Cushi told us about Sicily, Patrizia about her house, and we proudly give them a quick talking tour of London. Clara talks about London galleries. Adele says she’ll be visiting London soon and staying with Zia. “That’ll be nice company for Zia. She gets lonely sometimes,” I say.

  “Yes, my wife has grown fond of Zia,” Humps says, “she’s often at her house.”

  Dessert waits for Zia and Susi to arrive. The two are promptly shown in by the maid. We get up to greet them. From then on Zia is the star of the dining-table, until Patrizia sugg
ests that she show us around the garden and then view her collection of precious vases and her art collection. Wandering around the luscious greenery, despite the eternal drought in Sicily, we meet two gardeners, who, to me, look more like bodyguards. Water in these parts is still rationed. Only mafiosi have access to ever running water. We go back in to view the vases. They are lined up against windows so that the light beams through them and shows up their true beauty in all its splendour – cut crystal, mother of pearl, silver, stone, terracotta, Chinese porcelain, enamel, gold inlay – you name the vase, Patrizia has it in her house.

  Then we go up to another floor where Patrizia keeps her art collection. I can’t believe my eyes. They’ve got paintings by Guttoso, De Chirico, Lojacono, and portraits of the Sicilian writers Pirandello, Sciascia, and Camillieri. Then there are paintings that I don’t recognise. “You see, we are buying paintings by upcoming Italian artists, giving priority to Sicilians,” Patrizia says.

  Clara is bursting. She says to Patrizia: “This place is paradise! You know I’m an art historian and interior designer, don’t you?”

  “Yes, we know,” Patrizia says. “You can come and stay here with us anytime you want. With Adele’s help, I am opening a gallery in London.”

  “Another reason I’m going over to London is to look for premises,” Adele says. “We were thinking of the West End. Somewhere around Regent Street.”

  “What about South Bank?” Clara says. “That’s the trendy area for anything artistic now. And there’s more space in that area compared to the crowded West End.”

  “You see,” Adele says, “we need a Londoner to help us. We’d love you to oversee setting up the gallery and managing it when it’s open. I can’t do it. Though I love art, what I crunch best is law and numbers.”

  Clara is enthusiastic. “Directing a gallery in London is a dream for me.”

  “It’s just come true,” Patrizia says. “Who better to do that for us than a member of our family?”

  Humps is uneasy. But he won’t be able to stop this. Clara has a mind of her own and will go ahead with this project. I’m actually happy for her.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Friday 29th September – late afternoon

  We drive Zia and Susi home. Peppina is there in the courtyard. Sitting on a chair with a long face, and arms tightly folded. Probably sulking because she hadn’t been invited. Seeing her after all these years has brought back to me all the pain I went through as a young woman. I still hate her and, even though she’s dead, I still hate my mother. It’s because of Peppina that I’ve lived most of my life with only one kidney. I remember her stamping on my side, and me pleading for her to stop. I was so helpless.

  “Don’t accept anything to eat or drink,” I whisper to Humps and Clara. As usual, Humps probably thinks I am being unfair, or even delusional.

  “Let’s go and sit in the garden,” Susi says.

  “Great idea!” I say.

  Peppina huffs. She makes clear she can’t be bothered to get up, but she does and goes with us all into the garden.

  “I’ll bring some cakes out,” Zia says.

  “We simply can’t eat any more,” I say. “Believe me, we’ve eaten so well. We don’t have space for them.”

  Humps looks as if he could eat one.

  “Look at your waistline,” I say to him. “If you put on any more weight, you won’t be able to get into your suits.”

  He disobeys, as he does more often than not. “I’ll just have a little one.” They are all a similar size. We are leaving tomorrow. I don’t want nasty surprises stopping us getting back, but, rightly enough, he does what he wants.

  Peppina asks me in Sicilian when we are going back. I say the next day. She answers that Sicily will be a better place once our plane has taken off. “You and your filthy English family gone.” I don’t answer that. Instead, I am seething. She has offended me repeatedly since I was a child, and played a crucial role in forcing me into an arranged marriage, along with my mother. Zia didn’t have a hand in that. Peppina helped to weaken me so I became pliable enough to marry Luca and, as a consequence, I had to put up with the insults of his mother and sister. I was a nervous wreck, and my health was very poor, when I got back to England at only eighteen years old. She could have killed me.

  But now Peppina is insulting my family. That is something else. That stings me even more. They are my world. How dare she? This is the drop of anger that makes the proverbial vase overflow. Humps, of course, hasn’t noticed a thing. He and Clara are talking to Zia and Susi.

  “I’d love to see the stables again. I have fond memories of grandpa taking his mules in there. Sometimes they didn’t want to go in. Quite a performance.”

  Peppina says there’s nothing to see down there. It’s a storeroom, a wine cellar now. “Grandpa liked you less than I do,” Peppina says. “Your father’s shenanigans got on his nerves.”

  To be honest, I couldn’t have cared less about my grandfather, nor about what grated his nerves. Susi suggests that we open a bottle of Sicilian white. Peppina lifts herself off the chair and says she’ll fetch a bottle.

  “Fine,” I say. “Let’s go down together.”

  The others decide they’ll go to the bottom of the garden to look at the wide expanse of the rolling campagna. Susi has some binoculars.

  Peppina goes to the top of the stone flight of stairs. I follow her, closely behind. When she is five steps down, and out of the line of sight from the others, I take a deep breath and give her the most almighty push in the small of her back. She falls. She screams. She tumbles down, like a sack of potatoes, rolling over and over, her head slamming on the stone steps as she goes. From top to bottom, her ordeal lasts less than ten seconds. It seems to take eternity. When she comes to a halt, blood is spurting from her mouth. I run down after her, to the bottom where she lies, crying out loud: “Oh, my God! Peppina! Peppina! ...”

  She is moaning. In pain. Writhing. Her voice is hardly audible. “Maria,” she keeps hissing.

  “Oh, my God!” I hold her hand.

  Then I shout: “Call an ambulance! Call a doctor!”

  I look down at her and say: “This is for what you did to me when I was a child,” as the others descend the stairs in shock.

  Just before they arrive, Peppina utters her last “Maria.”

  They are all dumbfounded. Neighbours turn up, attracted by the mayhem. Peppina lies there in her own blood. I force tears out of my eyes. I ask Humps for a handkerchief. “She slipped,” I wipe my eyes and nose. “She slipped from the top, we were about five steps down.” I cry some more. “Oh, my God, oh my God!”

  Humps holds me in his arms “Calm down, darling. Please calm down.”

  “No, I can’t. This is too awful. A nightmare.”

  Eyes peer down at her. Incredulous.

  A neighbour says how dangerous she’s always thought that long flight of stone stairs were. “I warned Peppina, on more than one occasion. She should have had a landing built to break up the two flights. She didn’t listen.”

  Susi seems as if she is in a trance: “This is terrible. Terrible.”

  “What are we going to do now?” Clara asks.

  “Not much we can do,” Humps says.

  It is clear to everyone here that Peppina is dead.

  “Poor Aunt Peppina,” I say, “poor woman. What a sad day!”

  A couple of women nod in agreement.

  We have to stay for the evening.

  FORTY-SIX

  Friday 29th September – evening

  A doctor arrives. He concludes that she has indeed died from the consequences of a fall. Accident, he writes on the death certificate. “That’s three deaths from accidents in the last two days,” he says, “two men died in a trattorino accident in the countryside yesterday. I do hope this tendency is reversed soon. A sad time for our village.”

  A woman nods. The house is full, in no time at all, with women, mostly elderly, a few of them are accompanied by their husbands. They sit aro
und, talking about something or other relating to life and death. How we’re here today and not tomorrow. How we go from nothing to nothing with a short life in between. They list stories of anyone they’ve ever known who has died in accidents. They compare accidents, even ones in which nobody has died. Then another lady starts on illnesses... I have an audience and feel I have to say something. “I feel so guilty,” I lie.

  “Nonsense,” one tall, plump woman, with flared nostrils, says. “You couldn’t do anything about it.”

  “That’s the point,” I reply, crying, “I was there and I couldn’t do anything to help. Peppina was in front of me one moment, and the next moment she was tumbling head over heels down the stairs. I couldn’t reach her. Too fast for me. Oh, God, I wish we hadn’t come here today. I wish I’d gone down to get the wine on my own. Tomorrow we’re going back to London, and I have to take all this emotional turmoil with me. Oh, my God!”

  Humps is getting worried. Maybe I should tone it down. I let the others carry on with their comments until late evening when one-by-one they finally go back to their homes.

  Zia says she can’t leave Sicily until after Peppina’s funeral. She asks if we will stay.

  “I’m sorry, Zia, we have to go back tomorrow. Humps’s workload will be enormous after being away. I need to be there for him.”

  “We have funeral. You no see you mother grave. Crack in marble. Rain go inside.”

  “Sorry, Zia. I know you want me to get it repaired, and I know you want me to stay for the funeral. But I am willing to do neither. I’ll tell you what I will do though. You can inherit the whole of the house. I don’t want it. In fact, you’d do me a favour if you took it off my hands.”

  “You give me house?”

  “Yes, then you can either keep it or sell it. If you decide to sell it, you can use some of the money to pay for Peppina’s funeral and repair my mother’s grave.”

  Zia nods.

  I could have said more but Zia has agreed with my idea. What would be the purpose?

  “Adriano and Giulio funeral?” she says, meaning: wouldn’t I be attending those either?