Under a Sardinian Sky

by Sara Alexander

  No one spoke as they filled their plates. Her sisters had already asked all their questions about her trip, crammed onto her single bed, bombarding her with demands for intricate descriptions that she was glad to relay. She relived every step of that place and, in between the lines, allowed the memory of Kavanagh to wash over her like a golden light. When her sisters had eventually succumbed to sleep, she was left awake with the thought of him. She considered praying for forgiveness, or at least guidance, but there was little point. Any godliness had left her months ago. Only a hypocrite would turn to divine grace now.

  Instead, she stared out her window at the crescent moon—an omen of hope, heralding growth, change, and expansion. The moon offered the peace she sought, not a bearded figure full of wrath and judgment. Then she thought of her mother’s daily attendance at mass and the peace it brought her. Perhaps in Carmela’s new faraway life in Germany she might fall into the same rhythm after all. God had blessed Maria with health, children, a husband who worked hard, and a home to be proud of. What was so different from what Carmela planned for her own life?

  The bell cut through the hungry silence.

  “What is wrong with people?” Icca barked. “The only person who would barge through lunch hour on God’s day is your sister-in-law, Maria! Tell her to come back later.”

  Maria stood up and walked toward the terrace. A little while later she returned to the kitchen. Kavanagh was beside her.

  Tomas stood up and greeted him, then ushered him toward the table.

  “No, Signor Chirigoni, I know it is lunch hour,” he began in jagged Italian. “I came only to give you this.” He handed Tomas a thick envelope. Everyone watched him open it. His eyes scanned the writing at speed and then he handed it directly to Carmela. She willed her fingers not to tremble.

  There it was, her life in black and white. Her family’s security signed and sealed. Her ticket to freedom. “It’s a contract, Papa, for the use of our land, and of the Falchis’ lot beside us. You’re to sign it. Here at the bottom.”

  Tomas and Franco locked eyes. As they did, Carmela found Kavanagh’s for a fleeting moment. No turning back.

  “Papá, it says here that they will pay twenty thousand lire up front and two thousand every year thereafter for a minimum term of ten years. If they choose to move to a different site, they will give six months’ notice. If they choose to extend the term, the rent will be re-negotiated with a minimum of five percent increase.”

  Tomas’s eyes glistened. “Maria, this kind man has just made us a happy family indeed! Feed him!” Tomas grabbed Kavanagh’s hand with both of his, shook it with the gruff warmth for which he was well known, and pulled him to the table. Despite Kavanagh’s best efforts to refuse, he took a place beside Tomas, opposite Franco. A metallic shiver clawed up Carmela’s back.

  Franco again reached for Carmela’s knee under the table. He gave it a gentle squeeze, and then ran his finger up her thigh. She turned to him. He looked at her, his eyes twinkling with unnerving mischief. “Fine work, tesoro.”

  She feigned warmth, feeling as if she was looking at him through glass.

  Carmela watched her family dive into their plates, slurping from hunks of bread, soggy with the fragrant broth of the artichokes. She couldn’t taste anything but salt. Her stomach clamped shut. Her food moved from one cheek to the other. She intuited every one of Kavanagh’s moves without looking at him, catching the tips of his fingers as they broke the bread, feeling his head turn from Tomas to Maria.

  “So, when do you move in, Americano?” Franco called over to him.

  Everyone laughed. Carmela remembered to mimic them just before she caught Piera’s eye.

  Kavanagh smiled, then offered a polite reply. “That’s for my captain to decide. Today, I’m his messenger.”

  “He said—”

  “It’s all right, Carmela,” Franco interrupted, “let the grown man speak for himself!”

  “Grazie, Franco—mio Italiano e poco,” Kavanagh replied.

  Tomas chuckled. “He’s our guest, Franco, no more teasing. He can speak Russian for all I care!”

  Everybody laughed. Carmela noticed Franco shift in his seat. Kavanagh’s cool façade was impeccable. Was hers as convincing?

  Maria cleared away the plates and placed a bowl full of fresh almonds and tiricche in the center of the table. Each mouthful brought Carmela and Kavanagh deeper into the deceit. Her family would look back to this lunch, in the days after her fleeing, with nothing but bitterness. They would think of his smiling face, his carefree charm, and the honest warmth in his eyes. The images would cut like a knife. It might have made her love him less, but even now, with the most precious people in her life surrounding her, she knew she couldn’t risk losing him again. It was the biggest sacrifice of her life, but one she wouldn’t live without. If she could, in time, forgive herself, then surely they would too.

  Kavanagh ate a polite portion before eventually being allowed to stand, his cheeks rosy with wine and mirto. Was there a tiny part of him enjoying the masquerade? Was he relishing his victory over Franco? Carmela caught his eye; all doubts were silenced.

  “Carmela!” Tomas boomed, a voice hot with a bottle of his own fierce wine. “Show this fine man out and tell him, next time we cook a proper meal, no peasant soup, yes?!” He burst into a cheeky cackle and looked twenty years younger.

  Carmela rose, knowing this was the last time Kavanagh would be a welcome guest. They crossed the terrace. The late afternoon had lost its springtime chill. Summer was around the corner.

  Kavanagh stopped beneath her mother’s wisteria. “I want the best for you and your family.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I love you, Carmela.”

  Piera popped her head over the top of the wall down into the garden. “Carmela!” Her eyes whipped from her sister to Kavanagh. She hesitated for a moment, as if she knew she had interrupted something private. “Papá’s dancing! You have to come! He’s switched on the wireless and is jumping up and down!” Then, appearing to succumb to a sudden embarrassment, she fled inside.

  Kavanagh’s face stretched into a wide smile that forced Carmela to forget her sister’s unsettling expression.

  Carmela mirrored his smile. It took every ounce of determination to stop herself from reaching for his hand. “We are all children today, Joe. Because of you.”

  He turned and opened the gate, then stepped into his vehicle. “I’ll be waiting.”

  Carmela nodded and watched him disappear down the hill.

  As afternoon smudged into evening, Tomas’s wine got the better of him and he began warbling up to the ceiling like a demented tenor. Franco rose and offered cordial salutes to his future mother-in-law. Then he kissed Icca on each cheek and departed. Carmela followed and closed the main door quietly behind them. Before they reached the steps he stopped and took her hand.

  Carmela took a breath.

  He placed a gentle finger on her lips to silence her. “Me first. I have something for you, tesoro.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a dark, velvet box and placed it in her hands. She looked at the blue ribbon across the top, and then lifted the lid. Inside, nestled among ruched satin, was a gold locket. “Read the back,” he said.

  She lifted up the chain and watched the locket spin around in the moonlight. He reached out and stopped it, turning it so she could read the inscription: Per Sempre. Forever. She looked at his thick thumb. He lifted the chain to put it over her head. She twisted away from him. “Franco, I can’t . . .”

  Franco didn’t move. His eyes took a moment to hone in on her. “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Here,” he said. “Turn around.”

  Carmela faced the twinkling lights of Simius. The feel of his fumbling fingers at the base of her neck made the little hairs there rise to attention. The clasp closed. He kissed her behind her ear. She flinched. “Sorry, Franco, Mamma and Papa are just over there, it doesn’t feel right to—”
>
  “You’re right.” Before she had a chance to enjoy the surge of relief, he had his hand clasped around hers, pulling her down the stairs toward the lower terrace, hiding them in the shadows of the thick wisteria canopy.

  His hands raced around her body.

  She was being ransacked.

  “Stop, Franco!”

  His fingers were pressed into her thighs now.

  She pushed her hands against him, but he was stronger.

  His palms traced over her breasts.

  She pushed her nails into them.

  He stopped moving for a moment and put his face level with hers. He looked like that young boy who had chased her through the cherry groves. She wavered, but then found a deep breath, wanting to escape without a fight. “We found ourselves as children!”

  “And we will make many more!”

  Carmela tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat. She watched him picture himself a father, a boy playing dress-up with his grandfather’s jacket. It was too late to wish he was sober. She willed herself back into the woods with Kavanagh, back on the coast, reminded herself of the future she would gift herself. “Not like this. Not here.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me, Franco.”

  “I heard some woman speak, but it wasn’t you.”

  Carmela looked down at her hands. She tried to stay calm.

  He grabbed her chin. “There she is. Say it.”

  “Let go of me.”

  His hand covered her mouth. “You haven’t let me touch you in weeks. You think I don’t know what’s going on?”

  Carmela’s eyes pleaded with him.

  He threw her back against the wall and walked a few paces away, looking out toward the town. His back rose up and down with fast breaths. “Carmela.” He shook his head, then turned back to her, menacing. “So you’re nervous about the wedding, so what? I am too! What fool wouldn’t be?” He moved in closer, slamming his hand by Carmela’s head. “Answer me!”

  There were footsteps above. Vittoria appeared at the top of the stairs. “Carmela? Are you there?”

  Franco nodded, hidden by the shadows, out of Vittoria’s view.

  “Yes, Vitto’,” Carmela called up, her voice shaking, “just getting some air, tesoro. Go in to Mamma.”

  Franco waited for the footsteps to fade. “We just got the contract we wanted. We’re supposed to be celebrating!”

  “Move away. I mean it.”

  “Threats now?”

  “Promises.”

  “Do you even know what they are?”

  He grabbed at her skirts. She fought his hands. They scratched her. She slapped him. He clamped his hand onto her underwear. She bit his cheek and lifted her knee deep into his groin. He let out a wail, folded over, and then shuffled backward a few involuntary steps.

  “No husband of mine will ever touch me like that. Do you understand me?” she spat, not caring whether her voice was starting to rise.

  “You ungrateful bitch!” he panted. “You think anyone will want tainted goods? You’re stuck with me and you know it!”

  “Get out!” she said, opening the gate. He walked toward it. As he was just outside she slammed it shut.

  His foot caught in between. “You’ve lost your mind!”

  Carmela’s legs started to tremble.

  He pushed the gate open and slammed it shut behind him. Then he lunged into her. His hands tightened around her neck. She watched him watching her, struggling for breath. She started to splutter.

  White lights.

  Franco let go.

  She stood, bent over, panting. Her hand cradled her bruised neck. He took a few paces from side to side and ran a hand through his hair. “We will talk tomorrow. When you have seen sense.”

  She watched him step out of the gate, and this time shut it quickly behind him.

  “Per sempre?!” she called out, wanting everyone to hear, to bear witness.

  He stopped, turned, and walked back toward the gate, pushing his face against it. “There’s no turning back now.”

  “This isn’t what marriage is, Franco.”

  “You’re tired,” he began, changing tack. “You’ve had a big trip. Get some rest.” He looked at her as if nothing had happened, smiling like the lover he thought he was. “I love you, Carmela.”

  She watched him walk away. When he was almost at the bottom of the hill she shouted out at him, “You don’t know what love is!”

  He sprinted back up to the gate. She felt like a coward for hiding behind the steel. Why not step out, face him like a lioness? Why barricade herself like this? What could he do, right now, with all the neighbors watching and listening between the slats of their shutters? He could have killed her, right then. He was close. But he had stopped. Now was the time to summon her courage. She flung open the catch. The gate hit the low wall beside it. “Show me what a man you are! Spit at me through my gate! Do it! Do it for everyone to see!”

  Franco looked at her, taken aback. “Get inside,” he whispered.

  “I will stand outside my house if I choose.”

  Franco’s face creased into a snarl of a smile. “You want to play?”

  “I want you to stop!”

  He walked up to her. She stood, unflinching. He traced his nose over her cheek, then tried to force his tongue inside her mouth, but she clamped her lips shut. His teeth bit down into her. Fast. Sharp. She gasped. She raised her hand and clutched her lip, finding the metallic taste of her own blood.

  “I don’t play games,” he said, turning away. She watched him saunter down the hill.

  Carmela retreated into the garden and shut the gate, her legs giving in. She sat down on the wall. Carmela reached inside her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. She blotted her lip. There was a noise. She looked up.

  Vittoria’s small face was pale in the sliver of moonlight. Her eyebrows furrowed. She flew down the stairs. “Did he hurt you, Carmela?”

  Carmela bit back her tears. “No.”

  “You were fighting.”

  “You’re not to worry, you hear?” Carmela reached down and smoothed a hand over Vittoria’s cheek. “Fighting is ugly, don’t you think?”

  Vittoria nodded. The sisters sat in silence while Carmela tried to grapple for some semblance of composure, but she knew her sister saw through it. How long had she been listening?

  “I found this,” Vittoria said at last. She held up the locket. “It’s pretty.”

  “It’s for you,” Carmela said, opening her sister’s hand and placing it on her palm. “See what it says under here, Vittoria? I want you to remember those words. You and me—Per sempre. I was the first person to hold you. Don’t forget that, will you? I was the one who cradled you till Mamma took you to her chest.” She started smoothing her sister’s hair, hating herself for succumbing to the tears. “I watched your puffy eyes open and take in this world. You and me, yes?”

  “Sempre,” Vittoria uttered with a sad smile.

  “Let’s not tell Mamma, all right?” Carmela asked, wiping her own face. “We don’t want to worry her, do we?”

  Vittoria shook her head. Carmela kissed her sister. The unbearable burden of guilt washed over her. She would write to Vittoria. Every day she would write long stories of her new life. She would describe the buildings, the food, the look of the blond tresses of the stylish women. She might go to a pasticerria one day and order a cake and sit eating it, thinking of Vittoria, and jot down its every particular. Vittoria wouldn’t feel betrayed. She would learn about a new world. It would feel like Vittoria had moved there with her.

  “Now, go back upstairs and help Mamma.”

  A reluctant Vittoria rose. Carmela watched her take pigeon steps up toward the terrace. After she heard the door close, Carmela’s eyes drifted skyward. The clouds had rolled in from the coast. She couldn’t see the moon.

  CHAPTER 27

  Carmela squinted at the ornate plaster cornice of the doctor’s office ceiling, waiting for f
aces to reveal themselves as if it were a sky of shifting clouds. Light streamed into the white room from the busy city street outside. Sassari was a half-hour bus ride away from Simius and the closest place a woman could hope for any medical privacy.

  The nurse pulled the curtain around Carmela. “You can get dressed now. The doctor is finished.” She left the room. Carmela eased herself off the bed, pulled her underwear back on, and stepped into her skirt. Her hands were trembling. She heard the door open and then the doctor’s voice. “Signorina Chirigoni, please come out when you’re ready.”

  Carmela opened the curtain and took a seat. The leather felt cold. The doctor’s words washed over her as if she were listening to him speak underwater. Carmela nodded in all the right places, offered what she hoped were expressions of contentment to mask the shock and panic. She listened to herself ask whether she would be able to fit into her wedding gown in a month’s time. At the same time, she chastised herself for masquerading a semblance of propriety before this stranger. The pounding of her heart didn’t relent, even as she left the office and stepped out of the palazzo onto a wide via. She headed toward the central piazza, where the tables of the café Mokador were filled with men putting the world to rights.

  Rosa spoke of Sassari as if it were the metropolis of the north, some grand gateway to a better place, but the wide palazzi—elegant apartment blocks with grand stucco frontage that lined the square—failed to impress Carmela. It lacked the richness of Cagliari, the touch of the exotic. It upheld a pretense of history, like a replica painting. Rosa talked of moving to this city. Carmela had memories of listening to her sermons about the place, delivered for the eager ears of Vittoria. Perhaps Rosa had had some fantasy of being closeted inside a velveteen boudoir for the doctor to stop in and visit at leisure. Perhaps she had fashioned some idea of strutting the piazza in the morning and then again in the afternoon, in different outfits of course, with matching nails on hands that did no work, sipping coffee or an aperitif as the sun would dictate—a life of rhythmical luxury. She would imagine this still, no doubt, till her dying day, but her reality was another world.