Under a Sardinian Sky

by Sara Alexander

  “A little.”

  “Sorry,” he said, wiping the corners of his mouth again. “I’m trying to say that I may be able to offer you some work.”

  Carmela wasn’t sure whether to allow herself to feel excited or maintain a cool appearance of professional calm.

  He appeared to mistake the absence of any reaction for rejection. “Only if you’re interested, of course,” he added, hesitant.

  Carmela put her sandwich back onto her plate. What little appetite she had evaporated.

  “I have work. Yolanda, Mrs. Curwin.”

  “Yes. This kind of work would not be full time. I’d figure in your commitments.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He cleared his throat again. If she didn’t know better, she could have mistaken it for nerves.

  “How would you like to be my interpreter, Carmela?”

  She froze, hoping she’d understood. “Interpreter?”

  “Yes.”

  Excitement rippled through her. A door swung open onto a whole new world. This man was offering for her to work beside him? Was she even qualified for the post? What on earth would be expected of her? Not an interpreter. His. She pictured herself beside him, and chose to ignore the dizzying swell in her chest. In but a few words he had made her feel chosen. Special. And not because of how she did or didn’t look, whose daughter she may or not be, but because of a skill she had almost taught herself. Other girls had records from America and England. Other girls had worked for English families, but only she had committed to learning more than what was expected or needed. Only she had sought to bite into another culture with everything she had, to understand, educate herself, expand. How many girls in Simius were blessed and cursed with this curiosity? She had been looking past the horizon of Simius for longer than she realized. The further it took her, the smaller her hometown became. Kavanagh was so capable, so calm, yet he needed her in some way. It was an honor. Her mind convinced her she felt nothing more than flattered. It was shock at the surprise offer, nothing more. She was overwhelmed only because of the night’s events. It was the only way to explain this exhilarating rush in her chest, like a child darting down the grassy bank of a hill, sun streaming on her, wind whistling through her fingers.

  “I don’t understand—” she fibbed, heart still running.

  “I’m heading a project in the area. We’re under orders to involve local workers—a mandatory requirement from the Italian government. Sort of in return for letting us be here in the first place.”

  She straightened, her back lengthening like an alert, wide-eyed cat scanning a townscape from a high window.

  “We’ve got to become part of Simius, Carmela,” he explained, though Carmela couldn’t shake the feeling he was trying to convince her, more than make her an offer. “I’m about to start paying visits to all the local farmers, like I did your father, and landowners too. You’re the first person I’ve met whose English comes anywhere close to what I would need.” His cheeks flushed again. “My Italian . . .”

  She smiled, smoothing a strand of hair that bounced straight back up into a frazzled curl. “Enough to ask for pasta, no?”

  “First thing I learned.”

  A brief silence. Even under the angular shadows of hospital equipment, his eyes beamed. “Before the base was established, Casler and I did a reconnaissance of the island. Parts of the wilderness took my breath away—forest-lined gorges, waterfalls fighting out of the rocks, untouched lagoons. Have you ever seen them?”

  “No. I’ve never left Simius.”

  “We traveled far south too, to your capital, Cagliari, of course, but also to Chia and the surrounding bays.”

  She licked her lips. “My uncle travels south often. He told me he wouldn’t have believed the sea could be that color unless he had seen it with his own eyes.”

  “I stood on those jagged cliffs, gazing out toward Africa, wishing I was an artist or a writer, just so I could describe it with the majesty it deserved.” The timbre and rhythm of his voice changed as he painted her island with his words. He spoke with the light of someone describing a new lover.

  “He’s told me many stories of those places—my uncle is a traveling salesman.”

  “I’ll be traveling back there and, of course, connecting with the locals here.”

  “An adventure.”

  He cleared his throat. “Sure. But I can’t do it alone. If fellow Simiuns saw a familiar face, they’d feel comfortable.”

  The wilderness was a mystical place she had always dreamed of exploring, and the capital, a day’s travel away on the south coast, conjured up images of an exotic metropolis. She pictured herself beside Kavanagh, rattling through the rocky hills in his jeep, sporting a crisp civilian uniform, the wind in her hair, as they wove through the valleys visiting local farmers and shepherds. She thought about the wide plains inland, dotted with crumbling ancient fortresses. She pictured them climbing the untouched expanse of Barbagia to the center of her island, majestic home to Mount Gennargentu and a cluster of isolated towns infamous for squat, mustached women who dabbled in magic. Her breath quickened with anticipation.

  He shifted in his seat a little. “The food here is everything they told me it would be too.”

  “I’m sure you have good food at home, no?”

  “I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t go for some of my Virginia’s fried chicken!”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  Carmela watched his eyes darken. He missed her—that much was obvious. For a moment it seemed as if he was about to elaborate, but then he straightened his collar and sipped his water. She admonished herself for prying; he was inviting her to work for him, and she needed to prove her professionalism.

  “Will you think about it, Carmela?”

  Think about it? She wanted to ask when her first day would be. Then her mind crashed back to her duties at Yolanda’s and Mrs. Curwin’s. She hoped the waves of nausea were thanks to the pink sausage and not the thought of Franco’s face when she’d tell him of her possible new role. It was impossible to imagine him excited at the prospect of her working alongside this handsome stranger, impossible to picture Franco wrapping his arms around her, congratulating her on the unexpected job offer. Now that she thought about it, she couldn’t remember when he had ever praised her work. She didn’t remember ever needing this from him. Why now? Vanity? Ambition she had kept secret from everyone, even herself? It was unnerving. She pictured Franco’s face folding into a glare after she revealed the news. She heard his bombardment of questions, woven together with mistrust, affront. He’d pretend not to care about the extra money they might save for their wedding. He would think only of his pride, of how it would look to others. And for the first time she acknowledged that he would always put that ahead of how she felt. These foreign thoughts were disorientating. Her hands felt cold. She decided not mention it to Franco for the time being. After all, didn’t Kavanagh say the orders had not yet been made official from his senior officers?

  “I will think about it, Lieutenant.”

  “Please call me Joe.”

  “I will think about it—Joe,” she answered, feeling like someone high above was either having a joke at her expense or shining a sunbeam down on her.

  CHAPTER 7

  Carmela and Salvatore stepped out onto the hot tarmac outside the military hospital doors. Antonio waved from the opposite side of the parking lot. He walked over to them and took Salvatore’s hand in his. “Gave us quite the scare, boy,” he said, pinching Salvatore’s cheek between two fingers. “Though not as terrifying as what your mamma is going to do to you after you’re completely healed!”

  “Are we your first passengers?” Carmela asked, pleased to see a familiar face. A month or so ago, Antonio had revealed his plans to become Simius’s first taxi driver, on top of running the bar. She had teased him at the time, reminding him how most places were reachable on foot, but he had reassured her that the growing tourism would br
ing in good business.

  “It’s not quite the girl’s maiden voyage,” he said, tapping the hood of his Fiat, “but no one ever built up a taxi business overnight. When I heard what happened, I drove to Mrs. Curwin’s in case anyone needed rides over here. She wanted to pay me to pick you up this morning. Of course I told her no.”

  Carmela was touched. “I hope you let the woman at the desk know about Simius’s premiere taxi service.”

  “You’re the sister I never had—’course I did. They don’t walk any place, those Yankees. I never forget your grandfather telling me about the motor cars over there, God rest his soul.”

  Antonio opened the back door for Salvatore and Carmela. Salvatore shunted along the polished seats, breathing in the smell of new leather and gawking at the chrome dash.

  “Listen,” Antonio began, his entrepreneur eyes bright in the rearview mirror, just above the swinging rosary, “there are imbeciles who still don’t want them making a base here, but this could be the making of our town, Carme’. Let those bigots stay in their hillside huts following sheep around all day moaning to one another—I’ll be busy building my sea-view villa with Yankee dollars.”

  “I’m starving!” Salvatore squawked, fingering the window lever. “They gave me hard square bread in there and crunchy pebbles with milk.”

  “We can stop in at my bar on the way if you want, Carme’—on the house?”

  “I’m sure Zia Lucia’s cooking enough for a small army,” Carmela said with a smile, gently taking Salvatore’s hand off the knob and placing it on his lap.

  “Are they going to have a party at my house this time?” Salvatore asked, eyes wide.

  Carmela smoothed his hair. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for a while, don’t you?” she asked, though it felt good to see the beginnings of Salvatore’s mischief rosy his cheeks again.

  Antonio pulled out onto the main road back to town and began the climb. Carmela peered down out of her window at the steep drop down to the sea, shimmering bright azure in the morning sun. Along the craggy coast, rock rose and old juniper scrubs clung to the ancient stone, the sand a dazzling white under the unforgiving beams.

  “Life is exciting, boy, don’t you listen to her,” Antonio said, negotiating a bend. “You don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, do you hear me? You die happy only if you dream big.”

  The cool quiet of the house was a great relief after the hot drive and the exhaustion of the past few days. A pot of sauce sat upon the stove in the deserted kitchen. With lunch just about prepared, Carmela entertained the idea of an indulgent nap before the family returned from cathedral mass. Grandmother lived for Sunday mornings. Priest Vaccari was her personal favorite. She preached that his command of Latin was good for the girls’ souls.

  Carmela headed toward the stairs when the creak of a floorboard overhead stopped her in her tracks. She looked up, as if her eyes might bore through the wood into Zia Rosa’s room. Rosa was the apple of Icca’s eye. All love lost on Icca’s grandchildren was showered on her only daughter, who took residence in the largest master bedroom as if it were her own private wing in a palace. There was the low rumble of a man’s voice. Carmela’s heart pounded.

  Footsteps.

  She shot a panicked look to the door.

  Then a woman’s laughter rippled down the stairwell. Carmela froze behind the kitchen door, left ajar. Through the slit between the door and the frame Carmela saw Zia Rosa.

  Carmela caught Rosa’s head fling back as she flicked her tousled locks off her face. Signor Rossi, the local doctor, followed soon after. What she saw next nailed her to the spot before she had a chance to move around and greet them. Her eyes widened.

  Rosa and Rossi’s arms raced around each other. They locked together in a clamorous embrace. Rossi raised the lace hem of her aunt’s slip. Carmela’s ears committed the sounds of their hungry kisses to unwanted memory—her aunt’s gasps as he lifted her up against the wall, his moans as her slim thighs wrapped around him. Unsure of what to do, or how to breathe, Carmela decided to escape through the main door out to the terrace. After only a couple of her steps, the lovers fell silent. Carmela stopped, wobbling on the tips of her feet.

  In the shuttered shadows three hearts beat a fast dance. Each chose their lie.

  How the doctor had pulled up his trousers, smoothed his hair, and swallowed his guilt in the short time it took for him to appear around the door Carmela would never know. Nothing about his crisp, white linen shirt or fitted suit trousers painted anything other than the perfect picture of decorum. Once more the pillar of the community, the father to three well-dressed children, faithful and stylish husband to a porcelain-skinned wife who need not crease her hands in the fields.

  “Buon giorno, Carmela,” he said, without even the faintest whisper of embarrassment.

  Carmela thought she answered but couldn’t hear herself for the blood pulsating in her ears. “Please tell your grandmother I’m sorry I missed her. I’ll be sure to stop by during the week, instead. I’ll see myself out, please don’t trouble yourself.” And with a half nod he walked by her.

  Carmela watched him cross the terrace, then disappear down the far steps to her mother’s garden on the lower terrace.

  The gate clicked shut.

  He was gone.

  Rosa appeared in the doorway. Her face was darkened against the light in the hallway behind her, where the sun streamed in through a tiny window facing the terrace. She reached an arm up onto the frame in a languid stretch. The third button of her shirt was in the second hole. Her lipstick was eaten away. Her pencil skirt, clenching the delicate curve of her hips, was creased.

  “I’ll let Mother know the doctor stopped by for her,” she purred. “I’ll rest now. No one’s to wake me, do you hear?” She pivoted away from Carmela and left.

  Carmela, trembling with disbelief, listened to her aunt’s heels tap up the granite stairs and across her bedroom floorboards. When all fell silent, Carmela shuffled to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair. She sat down, pale. An avalanche of thoughts tumbled into a mess of white noise.

  Soon enough Piera returned home, her lean legs pacing across the kitchen before she dropped down into a chair. “You look like a ghost! Anyone would think you had sat through Vaccari’s five-hour sermon!” She flopped her head onto her forearms.

  “Where are the others?” Carmela asked.

  “Stopped at the bottom of the hill. Nonna is getting the gossip from number twenty-three.”

  Carmela grabbed Piera’s wrist, yanked her out of the kitchen and into the darkness of the sitting room reserved for visitors on the opposite side of the stairwell.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shhh!”

  “Whatever’s the matter?”

  Carmela’s breath became shallow. “I can hardly believe what I’m about to say.” Her voice came out in choked whispers, which Piera mirrored.

  “What’s happened? Is it Americans? Any of them laid a hand on you?”

  “Worse.”

  Piera’s forehead creased into a severe frown. “That wild light in your eyes is scaring me.”

  Carmela shut the door without a sound. “Rosa and the doctor are having an affair.”

  The whites of Piera’s eyes doubled.

  Carmela nodded. “I saw them.”

  Piera stared at her without moving.

  “On the other side of this door. I don’t know who’s going to hell first. Me or her.”

  A smile began to unfurl the corners of Piera’s lips.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Thinking about the look on Nonna’s face when she finds out.”

  “She won’t find out!” Carmela’s chest tightened.

  “We don’t all have a Franco waiting for us.”

  “What’s Franco got to do with this?”

  “You’ll be married before her. It’s killing her. A handsome man gives her attention, ’course she’ll take it.”

  “In the house?”
>
  “Would it make it any different if they were down an alley?”

  Carmela’s mind darted back to the shadowy viccolo where Franco watched her being stuffed into a tiny costume. “He’s married!”

  “She’s desperate! We should feel sorry for her.” Piera reached up and clasped Carmela’s face. “Pull yourself together. Everyone’s coming in.”

  “What are we going to do?!”

  “Nothing.”

  Carmela shot Piera a frantic look.

  “This is what we’ll do, Carmela: We go back to the kitchen before Nonna finds us hiding in the dark and gets suspicious. We talk like we would normally, understand?”

  “I’m shaking.”

  “Pretend you’re fine. Come on.”

  Piera opened the door and began an impressive performance. “The Angels and Cherubs at the convent youth group are having an early San Giovanna celebration. Gianetta gets to sit at the High Table, apparently. You should have seen them, had ants up their bottoms!”

  Piera glanced back at her unsmiling sister, then plowed on. “We stopped in on Lucia on the way back from church. Salvatore’s already running around. Zia said she was going to tie him to the chair with a belt so he would eat his lunch.”

  Piera’s chuckle was not reciprocated.

  “Hard at work, I see?” Icca announced, crashing through Piera’s patter. Carmela stiffened. Then she followed Piera’s lead as she began preparations for lunch. A fistful of gnocchetti per person was measured out into a pot of boiling water, plus an extra one in case Tomas made it back from the farm in time. Sunday was the one day Icca could be a little more lenient on portion size. As Carmela tipped the dried pasta shapes in, however, several of them missed the pot and rattled down onto the floor. Piera shot her a look.

  “I enjoyed Monsignor Vaccari’s sermon immensely today, didn’t you, Maria?” Icca asked as the women untied their black head scarves.

  “Yes, Nonna, very much.” Maria answered, walking over to Carmela. They gave each other a kiss on either cheek. “Thank you for taking such care of Salvatore. God bless him.”