The terrace at the back of the villa was paved with large terracotta tiles, framed with a delicate marine mosaic of waves and fishes. Overhead, passiflora and clematis wove a thick, fragrant canopy. Piera and Carmela took out a linen tablecloth, four plates, and four heavy green glasses from the wooden sideboard that stood against the wall of the house and laid the table with them. On each plate they positioned a rolled linen napkin wrapped around a knife, spoon, and fork. A thin bottle of dark green olive oil, a small pot of grated pecorino, and a pepper mill were placed in the center of the table, along with all the plates of food and breads. On top of the sideboard was a basket of velveteen peaches and purple-green plums, for after dinner.
Mr. Curwin came out first, holding a glass of cold, white vermentino, a book tucked under his arm. “Buona sera, ladies, this looks wonderful.” He pulled his linen trousers up an inch as he took his seat and then he straightened his collar. His skin was not as bronzed as his wife’s. Mr. Curwin preferred the cool of the shade in which to read historical accounts or biographies to the dazzling rays in which his wife and children basked. His eyes were small and light brown, bright with an intelligence he reserved for well-timed, dry quips. The boys raced up from the back of the garden, where they had been playing around the lemon and fig trees, and hopped into their respective seats.
“Hands, boys,” Mr. Curwin said. They marched inside.
Mrs. Curwin made her entrance in a simple, yellow cotton crossover dress that was tied in a bow at the back. It showed off her sun-kissed skin. A cluster of citrine sparkled in each ear. “How we will ever go back to English food escapes me, Marito, really.”
“Yes, you remind me every time we come, dear,” he replied, reaching forward to snap off a crisp of pane carusau.
“Then take my advice and buy these girls plane tickets!” She smiled, half joking.
Carmela imagined Franco’s expression if she were to tell him she had packed for a London life. Her mind flew back to the time an uncle had asked her whether she would accompany him on one of his salesman’s trips to the south of the island. He had been trying to earn commission on the sale of sewing equipment and told Carmela she would be the best person to demonstrate how good such and such a needle was, and so forth. She remembered sitting on the front step outside the house before daybreak the following morning, clutching a small overnight bag. When the morning sun slit across the violet dawn and he still hadn’t shown up, she realized he had been teasing. How foolish she had felt to even think her grandmother would have let her go, or that her uncle would have seriously thought about taking her. What kind of impression would he have made traveling alone with a young, unmarried girl, only sixteen at the time, even if she was his niece? Piera hadn’t stopped laughing at her until they fell asleep that night, probably relieved, Carmela had since realized, that her sister hadn’t left her alone, forgoing the predictability of a Simius life for the adventure of life on the road.
“Now, ladies, before you go and the night girls take over,” Mrs. Curwin said, “have a think about our party, yes?”
“Party?” asked Piera.
“Yes. Next week. Marito has invited about thirty people. Fellows from the base, mostly. The charming captain introduced me to his chief lieutenant—even Marito had to admit he was a darling American—”
“I used that word?”
“Absolutely! He’s the most marvelous specimen either of us had clapped eyes on. They’re pretty new around here, so they told me—how Americans do love to talk—and we thought we’d give them a proper welcome, if you like.”
She lifted her glass, and Mr. Curwin filled it with vermentino. “In truth, it’s a bit of a belated birthday bash for me, actually. Wear your dancing shoes, won’t you, girls? Everyone needs a break sometime!” She raised her glass toward her husband. They drank. Carmela pictured her grandmother watching, agog, as two of her grandchildren left for work in their best shoes.
“We’ll talk about the menu over the next few days,” Mrs. Curwin continued, running a swift hand through her hair, lifting it higher off her face. “Just thought I ought to mention it now in case you need to order anything special from the salumeria, and so forth.”
“Of course, Signora,” Carmela answered.
“Suzie, darling, please. Now head on before it’s too dark.”
Carmela and Piera turned back to the kitchen and laid the skillets to soak in the deep ceramic sink. Two young girls came in to take over for the night shift and exchanged a perfunctory greeting. Piera and Carmela stepped outside and began their winding walk back to Simius in silence, under the canopy of a starlit, purple dusk.
“Ticket to London?” Piera asked after a while, kicking a stone.
“Tickets.”
“Franco’s always wanted to meet the Queen, no?”
The daydream brought a broad smile to Carmela’s face. Considering even the slightest possibility of a life beyond her shores was seductive. She breathed in the cool, scented air of the evening, aromatic with sun-toasted juniper and thyme. In the near distance, the lights of Simius twinkled; beyond it, the cobalt sea. Franco was right, of course; this island was the perfect place for them. Paradise was underfoot. How foolish to even entertain the idea of chasing dreams in London, or Marseilles, or Munich, like many of their contemporaries, running after invisible riches.
The sliver of a moon crept up over the distant hills, jagged silhouettes of the surrounding valley. Carmela thought about the woman playing on the beach in Antonio’s magazine. That life was nothing more than a photograph, after all.
CHAPTER 5
Carmela and Piera reached Simius just as their family prepared to sit for dinner. They washed their hands and took their respective places around the long wooden table, a formidable island in a narrow strait.
“Nel nome del padre, e figlio, e spiritu santu,” Grandmother Icca intoned from her chair at the head of the table. She crossed herself.
“Amen,” Maria and her children echoed.
Carmela looked down at the tiny piece of meat in her bowl. It lay adrift at the center of her bowl, surrounded by a thin red sauce, the reluctant survivor of a shipwreck. All flavor had been simmered away. Wilted runner beans floated about it with a scant helping of potato pieces. Carmela returned to the Curwin villa in her mind, imagining the satisfied couple relaxing on their terrace after their meal, bellies full of fresh ravioli, moon rising to the underscore of cicadas’ serenades as they savored their way through the bowl of plump, fresh fruit.
“Admiring your reflection or waiting for the cow to raise from the dead?” Icca asked.
Carmela looked up. It took a moment for her to realize the comment was directed at her. “It’s delicious, Nonna.”
“It’s overdone.” Icca switched her gaze to her daughter-in-law, at the opposite end of the table. “Maria, take greater care over my recipes.”
“Yes, Nonna,” Maria answered in the placid tones she’d mastered to deflect Icca’s criticism. Carmela tore some pane fino from the small pile on the table.
“Plenty of time to fatten up after you’re married,” Icca said, reaching out her hand. Carmela knew better than to do anything other than place the entire piece in Icca’s hand. The family returned to silence but for the percussive tinkle of their spoons against the enamel bowls.
Vittoria, sitting on the opposite side of the table, had almost devoured her entire helping. It would seem graduation to the Angels had finally given her an appetite. “Buonissimo, Mamma!” she squealed, searching for remnants of sauce with a lick of each corner of her mouth. Gianetta, two years Vittoria’s senior, sat beside her and had separated each of the vegetables. She chewed every studious mouthful several times, her mane of straight, jet locks motionless, relishing having the family’s meat dish in the middle of the week as opposed to Sunday. Tore, Maria’s only son, sat on Carmela’s left, hunched over his plate under the weight of his adolescent world, brooding over his stockpiled bread beside his glass. No one would rob him of it on account
of him being the only boy of the house and apt to need the extra energy to help his father at the farm the following day. Tomas was spending the entire week out at the farm, thus tightening Grandmother’s stranglehold. Piera, on Carmela’s right, wiped her plate clean with a slipper of pane fino.
Carmela glanced over at her mother, enjoying her meal. It was hard to imagine her as the young woman described to her by Lucia, defying her father and marrying Tomas. One day, when they found themselves alone in a snatched moment between chores, Lucia had recounted the tale of Maria’s father, how he had warned his daughter that she would cry every day of her life if she went ahead and married a man he did not approve of. Days after the wedding, which only a few of her siblings attended, Maria lost her mother. Carmela imagined a newlywed Maria, honoring her duties as a wife while stepping in to become her siblings’ substitute mother. Her mother lifted her eyes from her plate. Carmela watched their chestnut warmth glisten despite the pallid light of the bare bulb overhead.
Icca bore into Carmela. “She gets her faraway from your side of the family, Maria. Spends all her day looking at those magazines with the customers. Fills a girl with foolish ideas. My boys’ bones are for working.” A tiny spit of bread flew out of her mouth and landed in Carmela’s bowl. “This house wasn’t built on air.”
“I am sorry, Nonna. I’m dreaming up food. Mrs. Curwin plans a party.”
“Indeed? The wretches south of here have no shoes and under our noses we fatten up the foreigners.”
Maria turned toward her firstborn. “I can see you have little appetite, Carmela—I’m sure Vittoria and Gianetta will be glad for a bit extra. Why not go upstairs to finish your sewing work.” She followed her instructions without reply, sliding off her chair and stifling the guilt she felt for her escape. As she climbed the granite stairs to the bedroom she shared with Piera, Icca’s voice echoed, “You’ll be sorry you raised her with a soft hand, Maria, you mark my words.”
On Mrs. Curwin’s insistence, the driveway to the villa had been lined with glass lanterns. The candlelights flickered in the early evening, leading the guests toward the main doors. Tore stood before them, assuming the role of butler, but summoned up little more than a begrudging half nod to the invitees as they entered.
First to arrive were the Villanova family from Milan, who pounded up the gravel drive like they had a train to catch, noses pointed in the air as if a bad smell followed them. Signor Villanova was the director of a bank back home and was careful to make sure everyone knew it. His wife Gironema, descended from Piedmont aristocracy, had a bouncing gait, emphasizing her short-waisted frame. Her eyes traced over Tore as she approached, then dismissed him like someone looking at a poor imitation of a famous sculpture. They considered themselves intrepid explorers by visiting the undiscovered villages of Sardinia for their summers, though a small army of domestics made sure their rented villa was pristine and all meals were prepared in timely fashion.
“Buona sera, darlings!” Mrs. Curwin exclaimed, throwing her arms high in the air. A drop of her gin and tonic fell onto Signor Villanova’s bald patch. “Do come on in, please, I’m so glad you could make it.” She placed a welcoming hand on the small of Signora Villanova’s back, leading them through the dining room to the terrace.
The Fadda clan followed soon after. They lived year-round in the next villa, but the two daughters’ translucent skin revealed a life spent indoors. Their black locks were scraped away from their faces and knotted into a severe bun at the base of their necks. Their dresses were simple, without ostentation, and made of dark cotton that did little to add any form to their bony frames. Signor Fadda waddled close behind, almost a foot shorter than his wife, with the portly belly of a man who had come from poverty and ate his way through his newfound riches.
In the kitchen, Piera and Carmela performed a frantic dance. All the pans were off their hooks on the white stone wall and in use. Piera reached over Carmela, who was laying out thin slices of sausage on the inside of a small length of cork tree bark that formed a natural tray. Piera tasted a small piece of poached calamari steaming in a ceramic serving bowl, adjusted the seasoning, then butchered a handful of parsley and threw it over them. She mixed in a glug of olive oil, a crushed garlic clove, and the juice of half a lemon.
“Antipasti should be out by now!” Piera puffed. “Stay in front of what you’re doing and you’ll get it done faster.”
Carmela was unruffled, not allowing Piera’s frenzy to distract her from the care she took over her dish of cold cuts.
“Gianetta! Vittoria!” Piera called. Her sisters dashed into the room.
“Signora Villanova has got a ring the size of my eyeball!” Vittoria exclaimed, pantomiming the woman’s strut around the table.
“That’s enough,” Carmela said. “Take these two trays and offer all the guests. No dropping!”
Vittoria and Gianetta balanced the cork in their hands and gazed down at the load with hungry eyes. They breathed in the salty olive oil of the warmed pane carusau, the herbs of the sausage, the pungent cubes of pecorino, the paper-thin prosciutto ribbons. It was barely resistible.
“I’ve saved you both a plate. For later. No fingers.”
“Sì, Carmela,” they replied in unison before turning on their heels for the terrace.
Outside, Mrs. Curwin held court and poured the drinks. Mr. Curwin engaged in serious conversation with Signor Villanova, over a salad of broken Italian and English. The Curwin boys were the first to accost Vittoria and Gianetta, grabbing handfuls of cheese at such speed that Vittoria nearly dropped her entire tray, before they dashed back out to the darkened fruit trees. The boys were followed by Salvatore, Peppe and Lucia’s middle boy, here at the party to be an assistant to his father, in charge of roasting, though no one had pinned the child down since their arrival. He shoved a fistful of salami into his mouth and another into his pockets before he too disappeared toward the brush beyond the garden.
A caravan of lights appeared, snaking round the bend in the near distance.
“The party has arrived!” Mrs. Curwin exclaimed, glancing over to the silhouette of the hills. “Excuse me, everyone.” And with that she sauntered to the front door. The dress that Carmela made cinched at Mrs. Curwin’s tiny waist and skimmed her hips in a pencil skirt cut to accentuate their toned curve. The smooth bodice drew attention to her bare décolletage with a delicate sweep of heart-shaped trim that extended beyond the shoulder line. She had opted to experiment with a deep purple fabric rather than a traditional black, which Carmela decided added a royal flair to what might have been a more conservative cocktail dress. Mrs. Curwin completed the outfit with purple suede open-toed shoes that rose to her delicate ankles, finished with gold trim and a tapered golden heel on which she perched with effortless balance. Her hair was curled away from her face, drawing attention to her bright green, almond-shaped eyes and the bronzed glow. An amethyst circled by tiny diamonds sparkled in each ear.
When Mrs. Curwin reached Tore, American G.I.s were already crammed into the vaulted lobby like a litter of excitable puppies. Bobbing above their heads was the wide horn of a record player, its base held in the crook of a soldier’s arm, while another soldier balanced a heavy card box up on his shoulder, filled with records.
“Welcome, gentlemen!” Mrs. Curwin flashed them a painted smile. “You may help your sisters now, Tore,” she said, adding sotto voce, “these are the last of our guests.” She wafted back out, leaving the scent of violet in the air. The soldiers followed their pied piper and filled the terrace with noise. The Fadda sisters straightened, gawking at the mass of testosterone. Signora Villanova followed close behind her husband, who took great pains to shake each of their hands. Mr. Curwin was quick to fill glasses for each of the men with a generous measure of sparkling rosato, a local, crisp wine with a rose blush. They held them up to the star-dusted sky. “To Sardinian summers!” Mrs. Curwin yelled above the throng. They replied with a bellow and celebratory clinks.
As Mrs. Curwi
n made a second sweep of the fast-empty glasses, one of the soldiers cleared an area on the sideboard and placed the record player on top of it. Another pulled over a chair on which to rest the box of records. Moments later, as Al Martino sang about his heart into the inky night beyond the blossoming canopy, the soldiers polished off two trays of antipasti and three bottles of rosato.
Vittoria and Gianetta entered the kitchen with their empty trays. “There’s thousands of them!” Vittoria squealed. “Do you think they have gum?”
“’Course,” Gianetta answered, sober.
Carmela lifted a basket of warm bread. “Vittoria, take this. Gianetta, you’ll do the shrimp.” Carmela doused the hot skillet with vernaccia—an earthy, aged wine—and shook it over the pink shells till the alcohol evaporated and filled the kitchen with garlic- and wine-scented steam. “Tell Signora Curwin that the risotto will be out soon, understand?” And with that she tipped the shrimp into a ceramic dish, sprinkled a handful of parsley over it, and sent the girls out.
“When you’ve done that, go out and give Zio Peppe some water,” Piera called after them. “He’s in the garden, by the fire.” Gianetta nodded as the girls marched back out.
“Where’s Tore, for the love of God?” Piera said, shaking her head, ladling chicken broth over the rice with one hand and stirring it with the other.
He shuffled in. “I’m here.”
“Could have fooled me,” Piera answered, drizzling another ladle of liquid into the risotto. “Pass me the Parmesan!” She reached out a hand into which he placed an enamel bowl of grated cheese. She grabbed a fistful that became melted ooze in the hot rice. Piera took the pan off the heat and spooned it into a terrine.
“I’ll follow Tore with this,” Carmela said. “Then I’ll let Mr. Curwin know we’ll carve the meat soon.”
Carmela followed her brother onto the terrace, dodging the dancing couples to reach the table of food at the far end. One soldier grabbed onto the younger of the Fadda girls, who giggled in spite of herself as he swung her like a dervish. Signora Villanova, thrilled with her dance partner, looked up at the young man, though from the looks of her unsteady jerks she was not the easiest dancer to lead.
Under a Sardinian Sky Page 7
