Under a Sardinian Sky

by Sara Alexander

  Carmela could only answer with a nod. She wished Kavanagh was asking her father for something else. Then he added with a whisper as he passed, “A day hasn’t seemed this long since I was a kid at Christmas.” He straightened, and the ardent glint in his eyes disappeared. Kavanagh carried on up the garden and the steps that lead to the terrace with a calm, assured air. Politeness replaced passion.

  Kavanagh knocked lightly on the door to the kitchen and then stepped inside.

  Carmela followed closely, then placed an extra cup on the table, filling it with coffee. Her heart raced. The men sat down together. Both men stood as Kavanagh entered the room. Carmela’s heart raced. Tomas gestured toward a chair. The men sat down together. Carmela tried to ignore the way Franco’s eyes darted between her and Kavanagh, as if he was looking for clues, proof even. Her conscience was blurring all sense of truth now, as if she were swimming underwater with her eyes open. For a moment even the sounds of the men’s voices seemed warped and distant.

  “Welcome, Lieutenant!” Tomas beamed. “We’ve been talking, and if you are happy to hire Carmela for the job, we are happy to let her go.”

  “That’s wonderful news!” Kavanagh said, shaking Tomas’s hand. Then he reached out a hand to Franco. The simplicity of the gesture pierced Carmela. Why did that make Kavanagh seem more of an adulterer than even lying with her? Something about his frank friendliness made what they had done more dreadful. Franco didn’t shirk his gaze. “I know you will take care of my fiancée, yes?”

  Both men pretended it wasn’t a threat.

  Carmela looked at Kavanagh. Any trepidation was masked by a steel professionalism. It wasn’t hard to picture him, tactical and focused, in the heat of battle.

  “Carmela, please explain the following to your father. . . .” Kavanagh launched into a detailed schedule of times and routes. He told of the unit performing several stops along the way, of meetings with a government official down in the capital for which his pigeon Italian would not suffice. He explained that having a local to aid the Americans, who knew the base and its members well, would be of supreme assistance. He clung to the facts, and so did Carmela. Her voice did not waiver, nor did his. They both invested in the veil of truth, wove it together. After the comprehensive description of routes and itinerary came to an end, he told Tomas how grateful he was that Carmela could put her studio duties on hold for this short time. Only then did his voice quiver. No one but Carmela appeared to notice. He recovered by taking care to emphasize the increased pay, which appeared to delight Tomas. “The unit leaves before dawn tomorrow and aims to return by nightfall the following day,” he added.

  “Very well.” Tomas stood and shook Kavanagh’s hand again. “Carmela will show you out, Lieutenant.”

  They did not speak as they crossed the terrace, or as they walked down the steps in unison, or as they passed beneath the mauve wisteria blossoms. When they reached the gate, Carmela could think of nothing but the touch of his lips on hers. She opened the gate. He stepped toward his jeep, but when he was almost at his door, he turned. “Thank you, Carmela,” he said, but his eyes glistened with anticipation. Together, they had just granted themselves thirty-six uninterrupted hours in one another’s company, away from anyone they knew, away from the people they were supposed to be. Side by side they would venture down her beloved coast, onward to unexplored lands. They had given themselves a slice of make-believe. Carmela reassured herself that this would be more than just an escape for a pair of sullied adulterers, groping at one another’s bodies.

  This time, the heat inside was not the thrill of being someone’s prize, the racing excitement of being desired. She had mistaken Franco’s chasing for love. She had been too young to know otherwise, too foolish, too vain. Kavanagh looked into her with a tender passion. Was this the man who would offer her the space to blossom into the woman she was meant to be? Was this the man who would become her partner and allow her to stand strong, spread her wings, open her mind, achieve her ambitions? A man who would not be threatened by her resourcefulness, her intelligence, her curiosity? She didn’t dare allow herself to think it, but perhaps this was the man she was meant to stand beside until death wrapped her inside the shadows of its cloak.

  It was not the perfect way to begin a love affair, but what of that? The beautiful morning glory unfurled purple blossoms even among the ugly debris of war. Is it not my responsibility, Carmela thought, to grasp such moments when they pass me by, recognizing them as the gifts that they are?

  She heard footsteps on the terrace. “Many thanks, Lieutenant,” she answered, trying for professional when all she wanted to do was wrap her arms around him and hear him promise that he would never be a day away from her.

  “Good-bye, Lieutenant,” Franco said with a wide grin, slipping in behind Carmela. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck.

  Kavanagh nodded and got into his vehicle. Franco put his hand over hers on the gate.

  “So,” he whispered, sharp, into her ear, “you’ve got quite a job to do, Signorina.” They watched Kavanagh drive down the hill and disappear around the corner.

  Carmela’s heart was pounding.

  Franco traced his tongue behind her ear. “Don’t enjoy yourself too much,” he whispered.

  Then he stepped in front of her, took her face in his hands, and planted the softest kiss on her lips. A tingling of fear slithered down her neck.

  The birds called in the dawn as Carmela checked through her small overnight case. She had lost count of how many times she had done it since last night: a pair of knickers she had pulled aside when doing Rosa’s laundry, her favorite maroon suede shoes from Zio Raimondo, a tiny bottle of perfume she hoped Rosa wouldn’t miss, and Carmela’s only evening dress. In the darkened kitchen, she felt the urge to sob. Upon the table was the bag of an adulterer, complete with costumes and accessories. She would look like her aunt, smell like her. Was this what she was yearning for all along? To be dragged along by a married man? Steal moments of pleasure only to be abandoned like old cattle? Wallow in bitterness? It wasn’t too late to change her mind. Perhaps there was no business to this trip whatsoever.

  She heard a door opening. Carmela looked across toward the hallway, Maria wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. Carmela shut her case and watched her mother walk into the kitchen to begin the morning’s bread making.

  “Buon giorno, Carmela.”

  “The coffee is set to boil when you are ready.”

  “You’re a good daughter, tesoro.”

  The words stung.

  “Here, take this.” Maria opened Carmela’s hand and placed a tiny prayer card to St. Christopher inside it. “I will pray for you all. Come back safely.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “When you were born, the seer at the end of our viccolo told me she had had a dream. In it, a small child walked toward her and told her she would travel far to find happiness. Then she told me that I would have to prepare for the day that my firstborn would leave, for it would be sooner than I would expect.” Her mother’s eyes grew misty. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It came to me just now.” She waved off her tears. Carmela wanted to wrap her arms around her mother but out of instinct held back. “I must be older than I think, Carmela, to get soft over such nonsense!” She turned away from the stove, brushing off the moment, and lit the ring beneath the metal coffeepot, dented and smoke stained from a lifetime of use.

  “I’ve always wanted to see Cagliari, Mamma.”

  “I have also.”

  “Maybe we could go one day? Together?”

  Maria looked back at Carmela and smiled like someone humoring a young child who had asked to fly to the moon.

  “I should wait outside.” Carmela straightened, walked over to her mother, and took her hands in hers. “I love you, Mamma.”

  They planted gentle kisses on either cheek. The pot began to whistle.

  Carmela stepped out before her mother read any truth or guilt between the lines.

  Outside the
air was fresh. The black sky turned midnight blue. Carmela leaned over the wall. Kavanagh was waiting. Her feet trotted down those familiar steps, passed the twinkling lights of Simius beyond her mother’s garden. She unlocked the gate and stepped out into the street. Kavanagh raised his hat. She took her place. After several deft maneuvers, considering the size of his vehicle compared to the narrow leveled area in front of their house, Kavanagh led them out of Simius.

  There was nowhere in the world she would rather be.

  They drove under stars toward the sunrise. Beyond the valley of Simius, winding roads led out from the base to the plains of the surrounding countryside toward the coast. Whenever he could, Kavanagh reached over and took her hand. Carmela traced her fingers along his—kind, strong hands. They reached the coastal route just as the sun rose from behind the water. He slowed down to let them both take in the wide, rugged, deserted beaches of Orosei. On one side, the sight of granite quarries, pink and white stripes of the mountain’s harvest; on the other, wide, white sandy shores stretching as far as the eye could see. The town itself lay a little inland, hidden behind the mountainsides that surrounded it, like a precious toy stuffed into a secret crag by a possessive child. It was an intricate warren of viccoli and minuscule churches that Carmela knew little of, except for the ramblings of Simiuns who warned of the local women’s predisposition for dabbling in magic. After a few more miles Kavanagh pulled over and parked beneath a craggy pine, facing the water. He switched off the engine.

  “Is this our first ‘unit’ stop, Joe?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Carmela turned back toward the sun and enjoyed the warmth on her face. Then she picked up his hand and opened it, tracing her fingers over his wrist and the length of each finger.

  He reached over and took her face in his hands. “I’ve hoped for this on more sleepless nights than I care to think about.” He pressed his warm lips against hers. Then he pulled away. “Wait, you must be starving! I’ve brought breakfast.” He jumped out, ran to the trunk, and reached in for a small hamper. He carried it to the front of the jeep and laid out a blanket.

  Carmela opened her door and went to him, watching as he set out a selection of fresh pastries, a flask of coffee, and a couple of cups.

  “Enough for an army!” Carmela laughed. “Are we pretending there’s a convoy after all?” She thought back to his dubious culinary efforts at the base and how she could finally admit to herself that she had fallen in love with him there and then, that night beside Salvatore’s bed. He poured a cup for her and one for him. They ate the crème-filled puffs, facing the deepening turquoise of the sea. Beside them, tufts of wild poppies swayed in the spring breeze.

  When they finished, Kavanagh cleared everything away and put the hamper to one side. They sat for a moment. He leaned his forehead on hers and breathed in her scent. She turned her lips to his and parted them, inviting him inside. Then his arms searched around her body, which rose and fell to his touch. They lay now, with the ancient sands beneath them, as he ran his fingers up her thighs, as she traced hers along his back, unbuttoning his uniform, pulling it off his shoulders. He moved down past her breasts, the softness of her belly, and tasted her. Her back arched. Every silenced voice and pang of guilt evaporated. No going back now. Now she was the water, the sand, the sky. She was floating high above everything. She gave into him, surrendered fear. Kavanagh cradled her body in his as he searched every part of her. Electricity careened from the tips of her toes to the top of her head as wave after wave of pleasure rippled through her, unlocking her. Her chest rose, her breaths quickened.

  Trembling, she reached for his shoulders and pulled his face to hers. His breaths were fast now. She could taste the unfamiliar scent of herself on him. Her hands raced through his hair, down his back, as she urged him inside of her. He inhaled, stopped, and then rose back up onto his hands. She searched his eyes. Had she done something wrong? Had he changed his mind?

  He smiled. “I don’t want to rush this away.” He eased himself down onto his elbows and cradled her head in his hands. Then he rocked into her. Her hips rose to meet his. Her legs wrapped around him. They moved as one, intuiting every shift in rhythm. With every breath, reality faded, like shifting sands trickling down a ravine. His heart beat against hers.

  Kavanagh stayed inside her as their breathing returned to normal. He rubbed his lips along hers, then on her cheeks, her forehead, her nose. “Nothing I wrote in that letter has changed.”

  Carmela looked into his eyes.

  “We don’t need to talk about real life if you don’t want to,” he said.

  She wanted real earth-and-roots love. She wanted to know every part of him and who he would become. “I want to.”

  He rolled off her and propped his head on his hand. His chest looked beautiful. She ran her fingers along it, then turned in to him and kissed it. He raised her face to meet his.

  “Virginia and I are separated.”

  “Why?”

  “Seymour is not mine.”

  Carmela sat up.

  “Old news back home, I guess.”

  “Oh, Joe, I’m so sorry.” However much she disliked Virginia, she would never have wished this on either of them.

  “I’m not. But our love was brittle and I knew it. I was just too scared to admit it. We wrote each other a war of love letters, clinging to memories of one another. You don’t let go easy after that.”

  Carmela watched him relive the pain, wanting to soothe away everything, knowing she would never be able to, not completely. “Of course.”

  He took her hand in his. “I thought I had felt this way before,” he said, tracing his thumb over hers. “Now I know I didn’t. You free me.”

  The words were a golden light. Carmela acquiesced to the happy tears burning the back of her throat. He took her head in his hands, met her gaze, and held it. Everything about him glowed. His eyes were clearer than she had ever seen them. His cheeks were flushed. If he asked her to jump onto a ship for the mainland right now, she would do it without hesitation. Then her thoughts crashed back to her meeting with her father and Franco. She straightened and wiped her face.

  “I want nothing more in this world than you, Joe. I have fought how much I love you. I drowned every memory of you, but the moment you stepped back inside the farmhouse I knew there was no going back.”

  He wrapped his arms around her. He moved in to kiss her, but she pulled away. “But there is one thing that stands between us and any possible future.”

  “A fiancé.”

  She ignored his comment. “I’m here because my father and Franco think that I can convince you to make Casler rent our land instead of the land of people down south.”

  “Sensible men.”

  “If I don’t go home with the news they’re hoping for, I can’t say what Franco’s going to do. I’m scared, Joe.”

  Kavanagh kissed her cheek. “No one’s going to hurt you, Carmela. I can promise you that.”

  “You can’t promise me anything, Joe,” she said, wishing he could.

  He tossed aside a pebble. “You know it’s not entirely up to me. The consul general in Cagliari is expecting us for dinner this evening to talk about this.”

  “I thought this was just an elaborate escape plan.”

  “It is.”

  They leaned back in toward one another and entwined. Their fingers were on fire now, hungry. Their mouths were hot. Skin pressed against skin so neither could feel where one ended and the other began. Their half-clothed bodies, now woven together, danced under the hopeful rays of a white spring sun.

  After almost an entire day of passing through clusters of tiny stone cottages, solitary shepherds guiding their flocks across the coastal mountains, and miles upon miles of dirt roads, the white stone palazzi of Cagliari spiked the horizon like an ancient metropolis. It was late afternoon, and they were weary. As Kavanagh’s jeep crested the highest point before descending into the maze of viccoli before them, Carmela gasped. Huge pa
lms swayed in the soft afternoon light. Beyond the layers of cream buildings lay the wide-open expanse of the south coast.

  “Let’s find our hotel first. We can explore a little before dinner, if you like,” Kavanagh said over the rumble of the engine and surrounding city noise.

  Men and women, dressed in their fineries, promenaded along the wide vias. Carmela was impressed by their impeccable style. Many looked up at them as they drove on through, but none with the diffident glare of a Simiun. No wonder the army had searched beyond their small town for business.

  Kavanagh took a sharp turn that led them toward the pungent cacophony of the port. Here, the palazzi narrowed, huddled together, fighting for a slim share of space. Sailors, fishermen, and dubious-looking women swarmed around vast baskets of fresh fish. The jeep rattled through, over the cobbles, and turned toward the high walls of the old town. Carmela had read about the place, but seeing it before her, golden in the afternoon light, was like stepping into a fairy tale. She gaped, gasped, and beamed.

  A little way away from the hub of the center, Kavanagh turned down a narrow street and slowed down. Toward the far end he pulled up on the side of the road before a long, blue wooden door.

  “This is it,” he said, running around to open her door and then back to the trunk for their cases. He moved toward the bell and rang it once. It echoed inside. After a short while there was the sound of a key in the lock and a small, old woman creaked the door open.

  “Buona sera,” she said, ushering them in. They followed her as she shuffled to her small wooden desk. A large, ornate pink glass globe light was glowing on it beside a ceramic vase laden with bright dahlias. She was dressed in black from head to foot.

  “Nome?” she croaked, holding her silver fountain pen between arthritic fingers.

  “Kavanagh, Signora.”

  “E lei, e la moglie?” she asked, with an expression that told Carmela she would see through any pretense of her being Kavanagh’s wife.