The Sicilian Woman's Daughter

by Linda Lo Scuro

  “Zia, Adriano was your husband’s nephew, he’s nothing to me. And Giulio isn’t related to either of us.”

  “But Provvi...”

  I interrupt before she gets too mellifluous. “Provvi is relieved. She will go home and make a better life for herself and hopefully be able to take those sharp edges off her boys’ personalities. With time they may come right. No, sorry, I’m leaving. I’m sure you can manage, you know everyone here. And Young Cushi will help you out. And you’ve got Susi.”

  “Susi, she different. She no like you.”

  “Maybe, it’s just as well she’s not like me,” I say.

  “Alright you go.”

  I kiss Zia on both cheeks. “I’ll see you in London.”

  Her next comment chills me to the bones.

  “Peppina go up down stair all life. She never slip. Never slip.”

  I am not going to bother answering that. Zia has nothing on me. Uncle Tony in the pantry is my insurance. She knows that.

  We leave.

  PART III

  London and Dorset, 2017

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Weekend: Saturday 30th September and Sunday 1st October

  Peering out of the porthole, I see a dark sky with clouds hanging down low. A miserable grey Saturday when we land at Heathrow. Hard rain bounces off the tarmac. Pouring down and not quite as romantic as crystal raindrops dripping from trees along the Thames towpath. What a relief to get back to the safety of our home. Though I am now feeling better than I did before we left. The ball of anger I’ve carried around with me all my life has gone. I’ve avenged the degradation Peppina and my mother put me through. I realise why Susi has never felt anger towards her father. It’s because she killed him. Revenge relieves anger by dissipating it. I feel like a different person. One holiday is all it took. Never mind that Clara admired Peppina. And my family, who are about to disembark from the plane with me, don’t know what I did in Sicily. But now they know about my family connections, and I won’t be able to hide that from them any more. I also feel relief because I can now talk to Humps and Clara openly about my family, if not about what I did. Emma, however, will have to remain in the dark and, consequently so will Mark. Luckily, they didn’t come to Young Cushi’s house. And, hopefully, the Peppina episode in the piazza didn’t resonate with them.

  Sunday was one of those marital, stay-at-home days. I have always loved the calm and the serenity of our home. I don’t know if I can reshape and recreate that contentment Humps and I had before going to Sicily. Now that he knows, will it be possible to find a route back to it?

  Humps and I mostly talk about our recent holiday. What else? After all that bright sunny light, we are back to dim London drizzle. The kind that seems about to stop, but goes on incessantly instead. That’s how I feel inside. I’m still thinking about what I did to Peppina. I felt a rush inside. Something that started at the bottom of my stomach and came up to my throat. My hand reacted to that. I simply don’t want to think about Peppina’s death, though it keeps surfacing in my mind. It was a spur of the moment thing. Everything she’d done to me culminated in that instant.

  “We finally got around to visiting the place of your origins,” Humps says, “how can I say... It was all very interesting.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “I did very much. Apart from those bloody roads. Young Cushi’s house! Never seen anything like it. Heaven on earth. And everything in it. The style of it.”

  “That would mostly be down to Patrizia’s good taste, I believe. Plus, of course, it’s easier when you’ve got the cash to splash around.”

  “Oh, yes. She’s some woman,” he sighs.

  “Hey, what’s this I hear? You’re not to even let such thoughts enter into the anti-chamber of your brain. You as much as look at a Sicilian man’s wife the wrong way, you know what happens, don’t you?”

  “I have some idea, but wouldn’t like to imagine it in detail.”

  “No, of course, you wouldn’t. Snip, snip,” I say, making a scissor-like gesture with two fingers.

  “Ouch, ouch, and bloody ouch.”

  “Would be a great pity.”

  We laugh together, kiss and cuddle on the sofa. My response is half-hearted. I don’t deserve him. God knows what he thinks of me now.

  The awkward questions don’t take long to surface.

  “What does Young Cushi do for a living?”

  “He’s a businessman of some sort.”

  “What sort?”

  “The sort you don’t ask questions about.”

  “He doesn’t look like the kind of businessman who reads The Economist every week, and the Financial Times every day.”

  “For all you know, he could have them delivered,” I half joke.

  “They’ll arrive one week late in that place. Though his English is good enough. He’s even got a slight cockney accent.”

  “Yes, well, he lived in London until he was about fifteen. I still remember him well as a child. He was the quiet, pensive type. Not like some of the tearaways in our community.”

  “There can’t be much trade there, in the middle of the back of beyond.”

  “In Sicilian, they’d say it’s the place where Christ lost his shoes.”

  “Apt expression. Gives the idea of desolation well.”

  “Look,” I say, “it’s a different culture. You can’t judge it by your parameters.”

  What he says next shocks me.

  “Probably into fraud, extortion, drugs, or all three. He’s a mafia boss, isn’t he?”

  I flap. “No, you mustn’t use that word. Nobody utters it in Sicily. They say there’s no such thing as mafia, no such thing.”

  Humps is, to say the least, surprised. “Why are you defending the mafia? Darling what are you saying?”

  “I’m not defending anyone,” I say. “So many countries are riddled with crime. Yet, this island, that hardly anyone outside Italy cares much about, is stigmatised, and automatically associated with what is called the mafia. Every Sicilian is suspected of being a mafioso. It’s ridiculous.”

  “You see, you’re still defending them. It’s a ‘family,’ isn’t it?” he says. “It’s a ‘family’ that is more important than your own nuclear and extended family, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so. Please, Humps. You wanted to go to Sicily, and now you’re upset.”

  “I’m not upset. You’re the one who’s distressed. I am sorry to be the cause of that, but it’s such an eye-opener. We have to talk about it. You can’t just shove it under the carpet. I can’t believe you’re related to such people. Can you imagine if the tabloids got hold of the story: Big Bonus Banker related to Big Mafia Boss. That’s national front-page headline stuff.”

  I react by getting angry. “It’s not my fault. Why did you follow me there? I’ve kept you away from them for years and everything’s been fine. But you just waded in.”

  “Yes, go ahead, as I said before, sweep it under the carpet. Trample on it so it doesn’t crawl out. It’ll all be hunky-dory. Just look the other way,” he says.

  “Don’t tell me there are no dirty dealings going on in your bank. And other banks come to that. ‘Oh, let’s not look too closely at where the money’s coming from.’ No, it doesn’t matter if the coffers are full of gold belonging to the world’s nicest dictators starving their population to death. It doesn’t matter because that’s not mafia, is it? No, because The Mafia is only in Sicily. The original.”

  “Darling, please. Don’t get so worked up. You do have a point. But it doesn’t detract from the fact that a serious criminal organisation is present in Sicily. Call it what you will,” he says.

  “Yes, but it’s the way of human beings – it’s the way of the world. People clan together taking away the livelihood of others. Channelling state money to their powerful friends rather than using it to benefit those in need. Remind you of anyone in the UK? Give that a one-word definition.”

  He has a bewildered look on his face. Th
e last thing I want to do is to upset my Humps. It’s not his fault if he married a fake.

  “Darling, can we stop this?” I say. “It’s not doing us any good. I’m not saying my family are angels, it’s just that we are not the only ones. The caricature is that we have it in our genes. We’re here now in our lovely home. Let’s shut the door on the dirty dealings out there.”

  “You can’t,” he says. “What about Clara? You do realise that they are going to launder money through that art gallery they want to open here, don’t you? That means my daughter will be helping the mafia clean their money.”

  “And if they deposit money in your bank from sales of works of art, would your bank refuse it?”

  “We will if it’s criminal money.”

  “But, if it’s been laundered, it won’t be criminal money any more, will it? So you’ll take it?” I say. “Come on, darling, let’s stop this. I don’t want to argue with you.” I try to hug him, but he’s in a huff and doesn’t respond.

  “Why don’t we have a game of Scrabble?” I ask. So we do. Humps’s first move. Starting on a double letter space, he plays out all seven tiles: ‘QUARREL’ gives him 102 points. You couldn’t make it up.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Monday 2nd October

  The holiday aftermath has well overflowed my washing basket. How many machine loads are there? Zia and Susi won’t be back until next Monday. I am full of tension that cleaning seems to appease. I throw myself into housework. I hoover the carpets. And, also for the first time, I hoover our heavy curtains. I mop the kitchen and bathroom floors. And, for the first time, I also mop the walls of both bathrooms with bleach. I have a bleach addiction. ‘Kill all known germs’ has stuck with me. The cleaning frenzy extends to cupboards. Out comes everything. Each item inspected for the expiry date, shelves bleached, and everything back in again.

  When I get round to washing the windows, Adriano comes to mind. He spent his adult life wiping windows. What was the point of it all, when he was dead and buried prematurely? His funeral is tomorrow. Zia and Susi will show a presence and be seen to care about Uncle Tony’s nephew. Even if she wasn’t involved in Adriano’s killing, Susi has got her revenge. Unbeknown to Zia, she has avenged her daughter’s rapist. Adriano’s children and widow are no doubt already there to give their loved one a decent send-off. He will be buried in the same cemetery as his father, Teodoro. Probably next to him. Who, in turn, is buried next to an illegal immigrant posing as his brother Tony. I don’t think they’ll bring Adriano’s body back to London. Dead bodies of the community are nearly always taken to Sicily to be buried. Like my mother was taken to Sicily. Zia already has her space ready. She will be buried with my mother and Peppina, miles away from Uncle Tony.

  Then there’ll be Giulio’s funeral. I wonder how Provvi is coping. Relieved, no doubt. Why wouldn’t she be? No more beatings. A peaceful life awaits her at long last. Just so damn unlucky she had to take that nasty decision. What else could she do?

  What a holiday, eh? Three funerals and not a wedding in sight.

  Unfortunately, I bump into Barbara in Waitrose. I am not in the mood to talk to anyone. “Were you on holiday? I pushed some of your post into the box so as people couldn’t see you were away. Where did you go? Anywhere nice?”

  “We went to Sicily. Had a great time. It’s the first time Humphrey’s been.”

  “Oh, I do hope you weren’t hobnobbing with the mafia, dear.” She has a good belly laugh. Now’s not the time, I think. I give a fake laugh back, pretending her comment is funny. This woman ought to shut up. I probably will have to make her do just that, if she carries on.

  “Well, I was worried about going because I thought you’d have all the London mobsters round while we were away,” I say, and have an even bigger laugh than she had before. She looks shocked. “Oh, and thank you for pushing our post through. You never know who’s keeping an eye on you, do you?”

  “Are you enjoying your retirement?” she asks.

  “Very much, thank you. You know, I’ve been so busy since I retired that I wonder how I ever found the time to work.”

  “Do you miss your students?”

  “I’ve fond memories of them, but it was hard work and I wouldn’t go back to that.”

  “You were teaching at some prestigious schools, I hear.”

  And on it goes. She is trying to extract information from me to relay to others, which only stops when I manage to get away.

  Ironic, isn’t it? I have taught at schools where as a child, they wouldn’t have let me darken their tennis courts with my shadow. They’d have laughed at me then. But I’d gone on to teach the children of some of the most influential people in London. An achievement, or not?

  Surprising what you can do when you’re a chameleon.

  FORTY-NINE

  Monday 9th October

  The day of Zia and Susi’s return has arrived. Driving to Heathrow always stresses me out somewhat. I take the Mercedes. It’s more comfortable than the Golf. On our way back home, they tell me a little about what happened after my family and I left. Young Cushi is going to deal with Peppina’s estate. Apart from the house there is grandfather’s piece of land out in the campagna. Amongst those barren slopes. I make it clear to Zia that I don’t want my share of the land either.

  “You good woman.”

  “No, Zia, I’m not a good woman. Land, house, or whatever, in Sicily, is simply of no interest to me.”

  “When in cemetery for Peppina, I see workmen put new marble on you mother tomb. Now her tomb new like Peppina tomb. I pay from house money. You no worry.”

  “Oh, it was such a sad holiday, Mary,” Susi says.

  “I know, it was all so unlucky.” More planning than bad luck, actually. But I don’t say so.

  “Adele, she come next week. She stay at my house,” Zia says.

  “She couldn’t come with us because she had to go to Switzerland first. She flew to Milan, then she’s flying here,” Susi lets on.

  I will ask Zia about that when we are alone. She won’t tell me the whys and wherefores while Susi is within hearing range.

  “I’ll come and see you tomorrow, Zia. If that’s OK with you?”

  “Yes, you come. I wait for you.”

  “And Susi shall we go for another Italian one evening. Humps is going out for a work dinner on Wednesday evening. What do you think? Are you free Wednesday night?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think I’ve got anything on.”

  “Wednesday it is, then. Seven o’clock at the usual place?”

  “Yeah, lovely,” she says.

  “Oh, before I leave, I want to ask about Provvi? How did she take Giulio’s death?”

  “It was so sad, Mary,” Susi says. “Provvi’s now going to have to bring those kids up on her own. I’m sure she wouldn’t have gone to Sicily, if she had any idea he was going to die in an accident.”

  “She brave woman,” Zia says, “she good mother.”

  “Yeah, and Adriano’s family are already back in London,” Susi says. “So sad for his family. Maybe Susi could tell Zia about Adriano now that he’s dead. But that’s for Susi to decide. I might talk to Susi about it.

  FIFTY

  Tuesday 10th October

  It seems like such a long time ago, when, post-retirement and pre-Sicily, I visited Zia’s so much. Here I am again going to see her. This has to stop, and it’ll have to be gradual. For now, I want to know how she’s taken Peppina’s death. In the sense that, will she make trouble for me? Does she still think I pushed Peppina? And, if so, will she let it go? I will sustain the accident with my teeth. There is no other way. I need to stave off danger. Though I had enjoyed those walks by the Thames on the way to her house, dejection has taken the place of enjoyment now. Everything looks negative to me. The water is dark and dirty. The shouts of children on the football field irritate me.

  When I arrive, Zia is behind the net curtains. I can see her outline. She must have been there waiting for me to arrive. She lets me
in, kisses me on both cheeks and says how happy she is to see me again. No cakes today. Zia hasn’t had time for baking. We have our usual tea. She is ready to tell me about Bella and Rosa. “Quick before some other women arrive,” she says.

  The events were related to Zia by Peppina who, in turn, had been told by Young Cushi himself. Nobody else would even dare mutter a word about this ‘event,’ if they hold their life dear.

  The saying ‘Let sleeping dogs lie,’ in Sicily is extended to: ‘Let sleeping dogs lie and let busy bodies lie, too.’ You do not poke your nose into anybody else’s affairs. If only people were to understand that, they’d keep themselves from entering into potentially lethal situations. You never know who you’re talking to. You never know who’s connected to whom. The most used sentence in the Sicilian dialect is: ‘U ni saccio.’ Which means: ‘I don’t know.’ And if, unfortunately, you find yourself anywhere near a crime scene, or get tangled up in anything involving criminals, through no fault of your own, then you have the choice of either keeping your mouth shut, or accepting the dire consequences. That’s the reason why the first thing you’d say would be that you didn’t see or hear anything. You’d been distracted by something else in the diametrically opposite direction. Something similar came about in Bella and Rosa’s case.

  When the two arrived at Palermo airport they were intercepted by Young Cushi’s men. “Young Cushi know everything. Young Cushi have men in airport. They take photo,” Zia says. Then the women got on the long-distance bus to The Village. On the way it stopped at various small towns and villages. At one of these stops a man got on, bought a ticket from the driver and, as he was paying, told him that in five minutes’ time he’d pull off at the next lay-by, say the bus had broken down and everyone had to get off. And so it was.

  After a while, a minibus and two taxis arrived to pick them up, in the desolate campagna. The two sisters were bundled into one of the taxis. They were driven to a construction site in open fields, where some road building was in process. Only clouds of dust from the gravel as witnesses. Without any ceremony, the women were made to leave the car, were shot and thrown into the roadbed along with their possessions, including suitcases. The roller-compacter moved in to fill the crater with gravel, broken rocks and other fill material. And that was the end of Bella and Rosa. No gravestone, no lying in a peaceful cemetery – but simply decaying under speeding cars, tired lorry drivers, and excited tourists.