“You’ll end up with a fat belly like your father,” she adds, though we both know that wouldn’t happen however hard I might try. And I’ve tried very hard. No amount of carbohydrate appears to grow curves on me—I will be the closest thing to a son my mother will ever hope to have. My sister, on the other hand, more than makes up for it. She’s in the bedroom now, coaxing her son into appropriate clothing for Zia Piera’s memorial mass later this morning. Her husband is calling it the memorial chase because he knows he will spend it running after their toddler, Nicoló, in the square outside while friends and family pay their respects to Zia Piera within.
“Gianetta’s gone for bread,” my mother says, bringing a pot of coffee from the stove to the table. Mum’s hair has grown back in chemical curls; we like to refer to it as her chemo souvenir. Her cheeks are rosy again. She’s wearing one of the colorful silk shirts she bought last week, having celebrated her remission with an overhaul of her wardrobe and a small spending spree on a new one. My mother appears to have affronted the mortal threat with grace and good humor; she’s even risen to top student in her watercolor and mosaic classes. Her reward is an extended lease on earth and renewed zeal for life on it.
A mouthwatering waft of freshly baked pane fino heralds Zia Gianetta’s arrival. “Must be hungry, yes?” Zia Gianetta smiles, dropping her wide bread parcel onto the table. “Still eat anchovies for breakfast?”
I smirk. “’Course.”
“I have some ready.”
She makes her way to the larder, surfacing with jars of anchovies marinated in herbs and lustrous green olive oil, home-grown mini bell peppers stuffed with soft cheese, and a generous slab of smoked ricotta. It’s good to be with the feeders again, even if Zia Piera’s favorite chair by the stove is empty, tucked in under the table.
Incense hangs in the aromatic, stony air of the church of Santa Lucia. There is a picture of Zia Piera, the same that will go onto her headstone, upon the steps before the altar, flanked by half a florist’s shop’s worth of white lilies and chrysanthemums. No memorial is complete without chrysanthemums in Simius. My mother, passionate and knowledgeable about almost every flower, especially her beloved orchids that she nurtures like small children on her window sill back in London, cannot abide them. She’s the one who insisted that a dozen lush red roses were scattered among the white, because Piera loved them. It’s a scandalous move, but one that none of her cousins will challenge the bereaved over.
The priest is young and witty; he wouldn’t look out of place bopping at the local discothèque to Ministry of Sound anthems. He’d talked us through the order of things a few days earlier, inviting us into one of the cavernous antechambers, its high walls lined with paintings of past priests, all looking down on us, thin lipped and scowling.
My cousin was married here a few years ago. She was a radiant bride dressed in a simple modern take on traditional Sardinian costume. Along the length of her cream tunic, wheat sheaths were embroidered in soft, golden thread. Her fringed cream headscarf reminded me of a demure Arabian princess. The traditional chaos had started at her parents’ home with plate smashing (to ward off the evil eye), grain throwing (to augur fertility), and petal strewing (for happiness). Then a caravan of fifty cars honked through the skinny streets to this church. There was a lot of singing and crying, followed by the consumption of enough food for the Russian army: antipasti, two pastas, one seafood risotto, grilled king prawns, fresh mussels, oven-baked sea bass, grilled suckling pig, fruit salad, sorbet, and semifreddo—a dessert somewhere in between cake and ice cream. The hours of dancing that followed helped everyone digest, before trays of pecorino, olives, and salami were pushed out to the floor as the newlyweds spooned sugared almonds into little sacks for the guests.
I remember how even Zia Piera had danced that day, the first time I had seen her do so in my life. She had thrown her hands in the air, joining in with the women as they shuffled traditional steps to the accordion player’s music. Then I remember an older man taking her gently by the elbow. I had watched them speak in a corner. When she returned to our table, she looked pale. After some persuasion on my part and reluctance on hers, she said, “That was Franco’s brother.”
I didn’t reply, knowing that more prodding would likely have the opposite effect.
“He wanted to apologize.”
I remained silent, hoping she would continue.
“He told me that all he remembers was our families being close and then suddenly never seeing any of us again. He never knew why. He told me . . .”
She stopped, tears in her eyes, which she rarely let fall. I watched her dab them with a serviette from the table. “He just wanted to say sorry. That is all.” And with that she closed the conversation.
It was futile to bombard her with whys. A short lifetime of them had never led me anywhere in particular other than familiar dead ends. Everyone clammed up on the subject, from my closest relatives to distant aunts and neighbors.
These memories float away as the congregation inside the cool church stands to sing. It’s in a minor key, a musical heritage line to the Arab invaders of years gone by, coupled with the haunting Byzantium chords of a time when Sardinia was its own kingdom. I can’t follow all the words—my Sardinian is no way near as fluent as my Italian—but I catch the gist: There is wailing about loss, love, and salvation.
My mother wanted me to wear black. The idea of mourning being represented by attire doesn’t chime with me. I remember writing a piece on Bali, where I had witnessed a funeral. The entire family danced around a huge pyre, in the middle of the woods, all dressed in light layers of white. They watched their loved one’s body being consumed by the flames, an idea of cleansing and release that moved me. As did their open expressions—void of pain; no loss could be read there. What a world away from our weary Western idea of death—life’s failure.
The singing ends and everyone takes their seats. Many of the women are wiping their eyes. After Communion, it’s not long before the whole ritual is over and we start to file out of the huge doors. I stay behind a moment and let the rest of the family go on, watching the sea of people flow outside.
A crooked man on the opposite side of the aisle catches my eye. I do a double take, thinking him an uncle, but something about the profile tells me otherwise. His stubble is white. He shuffles instead of walking, dragging one of his legs behind like a weight. He turns toward the altar. That’s when I recognize him. My heart begins to gallop. Before I can move toward him there’s a tug at my arm. It’s my sister, Antonia. “Mina, stop dawdling. Mum needs us out there. We’re supposed to be in line.”
She takes my hand. I look back for the man. He’s gone.
Only immediate family come with us to the cemetery. We watch a fine demonstration of physical comedy as the gravediggers try to hoe a hole big enough for the urn to slide down into the family tomb—and fail. An aunt speaks in stage whispers to her husband, ordering him to get down and help the imbeciles. When he doesn’t spring into action she kneels down herself, clawing at the earth alongside the workers. A few minutes later, everyone in the group offers a hand. Turns out it’s not something they are used to doing around these parts, shunting an urn inside a tomb, but I welcome our sobs being forced into chuckles. Her death has been one of the most surreal moments of my life, so it is only fitting that her burial elicits the same feeling. Eventually, after some pushing and shoving, the magic dust version of her lies in the ground next to her parents. Their photos are next to one another on the tombstone, reunited at last.
As we tear ourselves away and toward the feast at an aunt’s house, I meet Zio Bacchisio, my mother’s cousin, and give him a gentle tap on the shoulder.
He turns. “Mina, so sad am I to see this day. No tears now, girl. Piera was a fierce woman in life as in death.”
“Grazie, Zio. May I ask you something?”
He stops for a moment and faces me straight on. His beard is something to behold, several kilos of thick, black curls—somet
hing no hipster in East London could even begin to aspire to, let alone cultivate.
“You once told me that Franco lived near here,” I say.
His face drops. “Mina, this is a day of rest.”
“That’s why I’m asking you which house it is.”
He shifts from foot to foot. “I thought we had buried all this. I told you last time, let sleeping dogs lie. What sense in dragging up the past? For what? For who? Think of your family.”
“I am. Please, Zio, no one will know it’s you who told me, I promise.”
“You promised you’d let this go.”
“I promised I wouldn’t hurt anyone. I leave tomorrow. It would mean everything to me.”
He begins to relent, and then mutters the address. I tell my sister I’m taking a moment alone. Off her frown I assure her I will not miss all of the lunch. Then I turn out of the cemetery gates and head downhill toward Franco’s villa.
I pass three or four ostentatious homes on my way downhill. This is the part of town that families move to for more space, a sense of living in the country while being close to town. There are houses with three floors and several terraces, long driveways, and as many testaments to success as they can buy: elaborate railings, large cars, strips of lawn. I reach his home—a square, concrete, 1960s build, which I find neither palatial nor garish. It’s the kind of house that doesn’t invite attention, sanitary almost. Metal roll-up shutters are closed tight. It’s painted a pale mustard color. There are no pots of flowers on the gray-tiled pathway to the door but a meager terra-cotta dish with a few succulents fighting for life. I ring the bell, imagining my sister’s expression if she knew I were here. The gray silhouette of a figure shuffles toward the mottled glass door. My hands are clammy. The door opens.
There he is.
Bent over.
Cheeks hollowing.
He looks at me, confused. “Sì?”
“Franco?”
“Signor Falchi.”
Is this the man who had so terrified Zia Piera? Who had so slanted her lifelong view of men, to where she had never felt able to trust a man, even Luigi, ever again? Wasn’t Franco the reason she had broken all of her engagements? Wasn’t Franco the one responsible for Carmela’s death—a view not held by the courts but by everyone else I’d ever met.
“Sono Mina. Piera’s niece.” I thought I would feel panic, vehemence, anguish, but none of these emotions surface. A surprising calm takes their place. His eyes give away nothing. I don’t know what I’d expected from him. Some kind of dramatic reaction I could commit to word? None materializes. “I saw you in church today.”
His eyes narrow.
Now or never, Mina. “I have something for you.” I hold it out. His eyebrows furrow again. “Please, Signore, take it. We have no use for it now.”
He reaches out a hesitant palm. I place the locket in his hand. He pulls up the thin chain and squints. The inscription is minuscule and beginning to fade. I can see he is struggling to make it out. It’s two words, in Italian italics: Per Sempre. Forever.
I have kept it with me since my mother gave it to me as a teenager. I had been romancing the kind of boy who needed to know my whereabouts every minute of the day. Something my naïve younger self mistook for love. On the day he stormed out of the house after a stupid (loud) argument over nothing, she had sat me down and did a stunning job of warning a young girl about the perils of domineering young men. My admiration for her mastery stays with me to this day. Knowing the kind of headstrong, contrary person I was, she was artful to not send me running straight back into his arms out of rebellion against my parents. It’s the sole possession we have of Carmela.
I only know he has recognized it when he loses his footing. I step forward out of instinct. He is, after all, a frail man, but he waves me off.
I watch him crumble.
The Bronx—September 2008
It’s reassuring to find Arthur Avenue bustling with the same Italian American verve it had from when I last visited. Some years back I signed up for a three-month writing course here in New York City and used every spare slice of time I had to lose myself around it. My yearning for my mother’s pasta sauce had brought me up here to the Bronx, on recommendation. Every time I’m back in the city I devote an entire afternoon to pacing myself through several courses. Today I’ve taken a spot on the corner of one of the huge wooden tables at the center of Arthur Avenue Italian Deli, a vast hangar of salty prosciutto and mature cheese air. Open barrels of olives, artichokes, and stuffed peppers line the aisles. Sausages hang from metal bars above the counters, along the edges of the huge space. It echoes with office workers getting an authentic slice of Italy on their lunch hour.
I’m visiting my favorite merchant, Salvatore, whose antipasti I have paid worship to for several years now, and who is the subject of my latest article for a broadsheet back home.
“Usual, Mina?”
“Of course!”
“You know the wife got me to wear my best shirt for you today.”
“You look as good as I remember—but the photographer won’t be here till tomorrow, you know.”
“So I got to look like this two days in a row? That hurts.”
His face creases into a wide grin and his black eyes twinkle. I watch him disappear behind his counter. It won’t be long before I can dive into three types of cheese—one Sardinian, especially for me—paper-thin twirls of prosciutto and stuffed calamari. Three small portions of homemade pastas will follow, each with different sauces: usually a marinara, a pesto, and a wild card—ricotta and toasted walnuts maybe, or crushed hazelnuts with pecorino. Sometimes he throws in a small taste of whatever risotto he’s created that morning. I lose all sense of reality when it’s a saffron risotto day, though I feel a traitor for considering it even better than my Zia Piera’s. I always eat here early. That way I might even have digested this feast before I collapse into whichever friend’s couch has been loaned for the duration of my trip.
My plates are wiped clean. My wineglass is empty. I kick back a strong, creamy espresso and straighten up for work. Salvatore is the perfect subject. Like most people, with some gentle probing he loves to talk about himself, his life, his family, and most important his roots. Sellers here are passionate about their Italian heritage and snub any mention of Little Italy down on Mulberry Street—a brash of Russian mafia imitation. The real deal is right here.
I’m standing by his counter, listening to his stories, watching his hands dance in the air, when something catches my eye. Behind the stacks of huge, fresh loaves there is a painting I had never noticed before. I interrupt his flow—“Sorry, Salvatore, that picture is beautiful. I can’t take my eyes off of it.”
“I bet—it’s Sardinia.”
“I know that place!”
“’Course you do.”
“No, I mean, I know that exact view. It’s a huge rock of an island off the coast.”
“I forget the name, my friend told me—he painted it.”
“It’s called Tavolara. You can see it from the beach where my family always goes in the summers. I mean, it’s right in front.”
“Oh yeah? I just loved the colors when he showed it to me, and he let me have it.”
I walk toward the picture. It’s the exact view that’s etched into my memory from childhood. The turquoise water is dashed with flecks of sun. Every year my family and I would take a boat trip out there. My sister and I learned to dive in the deep, crystal-clear waters that surround it. We could see right to the rocky depths. Every year we’d spend the whole day out at sea, grab a bowl of linguini twisted around fresh clams doused in garlic along the shore of the singular tavern upon the rock before steering our rented boat back to Simius.
I’m right beside the picture now, the quick, thick brushstrokes a mess of color. My eye darts to the signature on the bottom right corner: J. CRUICKSHANK.
“Not a very Italian name, Salvatore.”
“He was a friend of my father’s. Captain Joe, we
called him. Loved Sardinia, as if he were born there!”
“Captain Joe?”
“Yeah. I guess his mother was quite the painter. He changed his name to hers after he came back to the States. Some guys are never the same after their mammas go. I don’t even like to think about it.”
I nod. Something’s stirring in my mind I don’t want to even admit.
“You know what name he went by before that?”
“Now you’re asking—I knew it. . . .” A frown creases his olive-skinned brow. He looks up to answer, but a customer commands his attention. “I know he lives up north, some place called Ogunquit, Maine—all the rich Boston guys head up there, I guess. Fancy stores and overpriced gelato, he’d say.” Salvatore talks, all the while wrapping a hunk of fresh Parmesan in waxed paper, handing it over to the woman. “Sorry, Mina, I’m no good with names.”
“If you do remember, text me, okay? I’d really like to know.”
“You got it.”
When we finish the interview we give each other a hug and, like always, I promise to eat at his place on my next visit. I step through the damp wall of August humidity outside, hoping to silence the improbable scenarios playing out in my mind. Inside a sliver of a bar, I indulge in a couple minutes of air conditioning and order a liqueur. Leaving this area is never easy. As I swirl my Sambuca around the hunks of ice my phone buzzes. It’s a message from Salvatore. I read the solitary word he’s written.
My heart skips:
KAVANAGH
It’s early evening by the time I’m pounding up Ogunquit’s Main Street. My mind flits like a moth, alternating between an inventory of everything it sees and a flurry of numbing doubts; the smear of warm chocolate upon the marble slab at the homemade candy shop, the wooden ticket booth of the old movie theatre, a tiny dressmaking shop with miniature shoes dressing the window, the shuffle steps of the vacationers, the smell of fried clams. I make a flimsy attempt at steadying my mind by focusing on the cigarette paper I’m twisting around a pinch of tobacco. It fails. Uncertainty takes over. Will he wish I’d never come? Is the grief too much to bear? Does his family know about his time in Sardinia? Should I have come here at all?
Under a Sardinian Sky Page 32
