Under a Sardinian Sky

by Sara Alexander

  “I knew it the moment he walked in here with his little pawns. I watched you at the picnic. You hid it well. Piera doesn’t suspect. You kept everything locked away, almost from me, even.”

  Carmela’s reputation lay in the palm of his well-manicured hands. But in the suffused light of his tiny office she felt a brief feeling of lightness. Her breath returned to something close to normal. “They’re keeping him there, indefinitely.”

  Antonio nodded.

  She met his eye. “You console me like I’m a widow. So stupid. Nothing happened, Antonio. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “I believe love when I see it and when I feel it. So you got dealt a good hand on a crappy round? Your future is not in a daydream, Carmela. Everyone has tempting detours on the road, but they just serve to make us clear about where we really need to go. Your future is across the piazza there, a sewing empire for the taking, and you the most talented and beautiful queen they could wish for.”

  She lifted a stray thread from her skirt. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “You’re the sister my mother should have ruined.”

  Carmela let out a watery laugh, and for a moment they swayed on a hammock of silence. “What happened to her?”

  Antonio cocked his head, as if confused.

  “You never told me who stole your heart.”

  His voice quivered. “In hell you know what you’re up against. In purgatory there are no exit signs. I don’t think I’ve left yet.” Then he straightened, shifting out of the spotlight. “You look like you had a fight with a drunken donkey. Go to the bathroom and splash your face. Walk into that studio like it’s yours already.”

  She nodded.

  He wiped a tear from under her eyes with his thumb. “I’m here. Always.” And then he left her in the tiny space, alone.

  She looked at the faded green paint on the door and, for a breath, the numb feeling disappeared. The image of her five-year-old self skipping up the fountain steps seeped through, then Yolanda hovering over her as she drew her first pattern. Running home to tell Mamma she had qualified for apprenticeship. Helping her papa with the lambing, holding her baby sister for the first time, shelling pine nuts in the shade with Piera, the wailing gramophone on her uncle’s starlit terrace, the safety of Zio Raimondo’s shoe shop. The pleasure of an orange dawn, the reassurance of a purple sunset, the hopeful white sun of a winter morning. The relentlessness of the wilderness, the seasons, the moon, the winds, the unstoppable pulse of life.

  Her breathing edged toward normal.

  The enemy of pointlessness is love.

  Yolanda’s studio was a buzzing hive. Several trousseau orders had been received within days of each other, and the early October deadline loomed. Over the next few weeks there were half a dozen brides on the island who looked forward to a lifetime of wedded bliss with an entire new wardrobe to match. They would look impeccable for their grooms from their virginal first night through the winter ice, spring’s victory, and summer’s excess. The girls sang to lighten the monotony. As Carmela stepped in, they had reached the third verse of “Non Potho Reposare,” at the glissando where the woman cries out to her true love away in the war. She cannot rest, so she says, till he is once more by her side. Carmela stood before the singing seamstresses for a moment. The music ricocheted in warm waves down from the stucco ceilings. She was glad no one noticed her come in. She was relieved that the tears had dried up.

  “Carmela, dear,” Yolanda greeted her, swinging by with several swathes of material, “I didn’t expect you till later this afternoon.”

  “My interpreting duties are finished,” she replied, impressed with her matter-of-fact delivery.

  Yolanda tilted her head a little. “Well, that’s the best news I’ve had all week.”

  Performance accepted.

  “It’s one thing to be gallivanting in the summer, but it’s almost October now, our busiest time of year. I needn’t remind you of that.”

  Carmela nodded and walked to her station. Agnes stopped singing and looked up. Carmela snapped to her, back straight, arms lank by her sides.

  “I’m sorry you think I stole your lover,” Carmela said. “There are girls who would kill to sit where you are now.”

  Agnes gaped.

  “I am here to work. I don’t care enough about you to want to hurt you,” Carmela continued. “The past is a trick of the memory. Everything is here.”

  She didn’t pause for a reaction, but tied her apron around her waist and collected her rough sketches of the gowns she had made for the party. As she watched them furl up in the wastebasket, she decided that any memory could be discarded in the same manner if there was enough will behind it. For the first time, she felt honored to descend from a long line of stubborn men and tireless women, Sardinians who could rise at dawn and work till dusk with but a sip of water. Iron ran through their veins, fearlessness in their bones, and a determination that could not be shaken. They were born of the same rock that rose high into the mountains of Barbagia. Ancient. Diffident. Proud.

  If not the lover, she would be the fighter.

  CHAPTER 17

  By October 1952, the rows of vines at the farm hung heavy with plump fruit. Tomas did a bad job of hiding his excitement. “Well, Silvio,” he said to Franco’s father, patting his back, “no counting chickens and eggs and all that, but my God we are blessed this year!” Silvio adjusted his collar. It was five years since Tomas and Peppe had taken the farm beside his, and this year was the best harvest to date. Carmela lifted a final basket and moved toward the back of the house to place it on top of the others.

  The farmer’s daughter would soon enough become part of the town’s elite—with a life her parents could only have dreamed of. Carmela knew they looked toward her impending future with excitement. Their chests would swell with pride as she flanked the wealthiest young man in town, her head high, her seamstress fingers busy with decorating the wealthy women on their island. When Tomas’s back ached, when his fingers were sore from the never-ending swings of the scythe or the grip of a pick, Carmela knew her oncoming marriage gave him the energy to rise with the sun and trudge through his childhood hills to the farm. Because of their tireless work, she would want for nothing. She owed her promised freedom to her parents. She ought to give thanks to God. She ought to feel warmed by their focus on her future. She ought to feel excited that Franco was always ready to offer an extra pair of hands. How he loved to hover around the farm. He and Carmela had left tussled memories among most of the pines surrounding the fields.

  Every morning Carmela pretended she hadn’t counted the days since Kavanagh left. When Franco tried to reach into her skirts, she would push his hand away with assumed tenderness, offering selfless acts of pleasure on him alone, which he mistook for devotion. She surprised herself at her ability to control her emotions, to the point of feeling nothing whatsoever. In this quiet emptiness it was impossible to summon the strength to change the trajectory of their relationship. It was time to make peace with the man who was intended for her after all. If her mind ran away, she would train herself to draw a complete blank. It cushioned the pain. While she manufactured impeccable performances, in the hopes that she might even convince herself, inside she thought of clouds until everything turned white. There was some semblance of true pleasure in acquiescing to this nothingness, this silence, as if in rehearsal of a peaceful death.

  But today was different.

  Franco cornered her behind the wine shed where the towers of grape baskets were stacked in preparation for the small crowd of helpers due to arrive to assist with the harvest. Time was of the essence to make wine. The fruit would need to be picked and pressed within hours to extract the full flavor and quality of the juice. The dawn had just peeked over the valley when Carmela felt Franco nuzzle her neck.

  “Don’t creep up like that!”

  Franco placed a hand over mouth and pulled her skirts up with the other.

  Carmela wrestled free. “Stop i
t, Franco! They’ll be here any minute!”

  “Don’t waste time then.” He lunged forward and took her buttocks in his hands. “Touch me.”

  She thrust back. “Not today, it’s not safe.”

  He pushed her hand onto his trousers. Their trysts had become a ritualistic war dance that Franco mistook for passion. “You get wet when you argue. I know you better than you know yourself.”

  Carmela turned on her heels. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her into him. His tongue was shooting down into her throat when footsteps approached. By the time Piera poked her head around the wall, Franco was bashful personified.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, hesitant. “I just wanted to bring around some of the baskets.” Piera tapered off, misunderstanding Carmela’s pleading look.

  “You look out for yourself today, Piera,” Franco said, his face stretching into a broad grin. “I heard a certain Luigi is trying his hand at the land just to get a closer look at one of the farm girls.”

  Piera flushed. Franco had caught her off-guard.

  Carmela watched her sister disappear around the corner, perplexed by her decision not to defend herself or brush off Franco’s insinuations about Luigi.

  Franco stepped behind Carmela and pressed himself against her. A shiver raced up her spine—fear and arousal had become awkward cousins. “I’ll taste you later.”

  By midmorning the vineyard was swarming with sweaty Simiuns charging up and down the rows with overflowing purple loads in the deep baskets. Tomas stood at the helm, by the press, loading the grapes into the enormous wooden vat. A row of young men sat on squat stools with enamel bowls of warm water on the ground in front of them, where a girl knelt and took great pains to clean their feet. It was a job most fought over since it provided a rare opportunity for intimacy. This year Piera had taken the unusual step of declaring she would wash. Her parents, accustomed to her shrewish attitude, understood this for nothing more than unusual dutiful willingness. When Carmela saw that Luigi was sitting before her, however, all her suspicions were confirmed. When had Piera worn her hair plaited rather than scraped back away from her face like it was some tiresome inconvenience? When had she donned a floral blouse for Vendemia?

  Carmela looked at Luigi’s expression. The other men jeered and teased the women, shouted out mock insults at their cleaning technique or tall tales of what they had stepped in the night before. Piera and Luigi, however, floated in their own impenetrable bubble. She cradled his foot firmly but gently. Her face gave nothing away, not a hint of any feeling, but the way Piera’s hands moved was proof of everything Carmela was searching for. Luigi looked down at her, his expression nothing more than a gentleman having his hem measured at a tailor’s. And yet, Carmela blushed. It was as if she was watching her sister make love through a half-open door.

  “Carmela! Salvatore said a bad word and he won’t say sorry!” Vittoria was hopping from foot to foot, slit-eyed with annoyance.

  Carmela almost took her eyes off Piera. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

  “I need him to say sorry!”

  “Vittoria, stop stomping and start playing. Are you going to waste the day fighting? There’s work to do.”

  By lunchtime, half the rows had been harvested. The raucous crowd, high on sunshine and song, became hungry. Carmela’s aunt rang a sheep’s bell from the house, and the crowds dropped their last loads into the vat and made their way to the front of the house, to a table flanked by narrow benches. Maria, to cheers, carried out her largest metal pan, full of steaming gnocchetti. Vendemia was about gratitude. Hope. Nature’s bounty, pregnant excess. Carmela’s mind flitted into the dark quiet of the farmhouse where Rosa was, hiding in the shadows. What was she feeling as the songs floated in through the shutters? When people asked after her and everyone told part of the lie so as not to take the full responsibility of her sin? When her unwanted kicked at her sides, clawed at her spine?

  Carmela felt nothing. Not until her mother handed out the first plate of gnocchetti swimming in rich red sauce, oozy pecorino, steam spiraling to the cloudless sky. Only then did her mind crash back to Kavanagh’s first unexpected visit. She summoned her well-rehearsed tricks. She concentrated on clouds, a complicated pattern for an evening gown, counting the gnocchetti on the plate her mother was ladling. Her heart thudded and her palms were clammy. She closed her hands into tight fists, but Kavanagh shuffled up to the party regardless, his head cocked to one side like he had that day, his eyes smiling. The transparent figure turned his smile to her. She thought he told her he loved her. A deep love that only a soul who has found its heaven-sent match could feel. Complicit. Simple. His eyes turned up to the autumn sun and glistened. Was he sorry? Would he return?

  Madness was at the end of the table.

  Her breath caught. She slipped away, and, when the vines sheltered her, her march turned to a run and then a sprint till her ankle gave way over a small rock and she fell. The hard earth was dry on her lips. She lay motionless. Her head pounded. How long had she lain there before easing herself back up? An hour? She turned, stiff. From the far end of the row of vines the hungry gaze of Franco brought her back to stillness. She didn’t feign surprise or happiness or desire. He mistook her emptiness for invitation. He was on top of her now, murmuring words she refused to hear. His breath was hot. Her arms flayed, her feet threw fruitless kicks into nowhere. She gave up the fight because his hand was so tight around her throat. She looked beside her at the base of a vine as she rocked back and forth against the ground. Franco took the final piece of her.

  The diners’ laughter rose and fell in unison.

  Her tears were silent.

  CHAPTER 18

  On the eve of All Souls’ Day, all the women in the household prepared to welcome the ghosts of those who had passed. Maria finished clearing the table. Then she moved to the dresser for her best tablecloth—cream-colored cotton with elaborate lacework along the trim. Carmela watched her mother smooth it over the table with care, paying great attention to every crease and fold. When she was satisfied, she signaled to Gianetta and Vittoria to lay the plates. They balanced high towers of the family’s finest china and set down a delicate plate at six place settings, with smaller dishes on top. Icca, meanwhile, was counting the napkin rings, the only pieces of silver in the house, and began her fastidious polishing, checking her skewed reflection every now and then as she did.

  “But how do they know how to find us?” Vittoria asked.

  “They just know, stupid,” Gianetta said.

  “Language, Gianetta,” Maria called from the other side of the kitchen.

  “Sorry, Mamma.”

  “But I mean,” Vittoria said, breaking the brief silence, “do you think it’s far from heaven? Do they have to have a map or something to get down here?”

  “Come and help me wash our dinner plates, Vitto’,” Carmela said. Her youngest sister joined her reluctantly. They washed without talking.

  As Carmela finished drying the final dish, Piera entered carrying a wide circular basket loaded with almonds, hazelnuts, dried figs, and plums. Under her arm she had a heavy rock, and in the sack hanging from her arm there were more of the same. Several metal hammers lay upon the nuts. The women took their seats around the table. A few moments later they all had a rock before them, a hammer in hand, and were deep into the meticulous work of shelling. The light from the single bulb above suffused the room in a somber glow. It was a well-rehearsed dance, performed each November, before the dead were honored on the second day of the month.

  Vittoria, still unconvinced, piped up over the hammering, “What if they don’t like nuts?”

  “Who doesn’t like nuts?” Piera asked.

  “If you’re dead you don’t get to choose what you eat, do you?” Gianetta said.

  “Enough. We will think of them. And we will pray for them. We needn’t harp on with this silly talk.” Maria closed the conversation.

  After a little while, the pile of shells grew, as if a small mo
untain, and each woman drifted into her own thoughts. Icca suddenly looked up at the ceiling and burst into a fervent wail.

  Her grandchildren and daughter-in-law watched, without surprise. Maria wrapped an arm around her.

  “Why?!” Icca bellowed. “Why did He rip him from my arms too soon?!”

  Carmela wondered how much of her grandmother’s performance was simply that. No one doubted she had loved her husband, in her own peculiar stranglehold manner, but it struck Carmela that Icca’s well-timed outbursts expressed more than a longing for a lost love. Icca raised her fists, as if Jesus himself were hovering just above her, where she might pelt him. Carmela felt a flicker of sympathy for this gnarled woman. After all, who deserved a daughter who flung herself into the arms of a married man and plunged the entire family into possible ruin?

  Perhaps Icca should be thanking Jesus? Wasn’t it He who gave her the genius idea of sending her daughter to an imaginary relative in Venice, for whom she would supposedly be a devout assistant in all matters domestic, most especially the care of their young children? Wasn’t it He who gave her the idea to make sure her time with this “relative” would last the exact time of her confinement, birthing, and adoption? Carmela tried to picture her manicured aunt, fragrant with the latest Paris scent, perched upon impossible heels, chasing after a handful of these imagined Venetian toddlers. Carmela wondered how adept Rosa would be in creating an elaborate tale of her time there. Would she procure violet essence for the younger girls as a souvenir? Perhaps she would describe St. Mark’s Square in detail, reminisce about those canal journeys. The pink dawns, through which she had scurried to collect the fresh bread. The narrow viccoli she squeezed through taking the children to their nursery.

  What did it matter if all those tales were improbable fiction? The storyteller is the weaver; the listener can choose how they believe. In the end, Carmela reminded herself over and over, the truth is only what we decide. Her brief sojourn at the base was just that, not the beginning of an expansive career that might take her beyond the edges of her island. The warm smile from Kavanagh was nothing more than pleasantry. The eyes of the onlookers pick the story they want to see. Venice exists. Rosa’s imagined time there would exist, around this table at least, and that is all that mattered.