Solitaria (14 page)

As well, Vito was most often absent, and perhaps it was that absence that attracted me, the unknown life he lived away from us. Until then, I had only existed within the boundaries of our family, the duty expected of me. Vito lived on the periphery of our quotidian lives, and exemplified what I dreamed of and what I feared — a life without responsibilities, without reproach. Sometimes, I daydreamed that he was not my brother at all, but a stray boy my parents had taken in and sent away and welcomed back, a boy I could fall in love with without the shame, a boy who would usher me into the pages of a romantic novel, with whom I would live happily ever after.

For three months, all was well. Because of Sandro's reputation, Vito secured contracts in houses and shops both in Locorotondo and in Belisolano. He was charming and persuasive. Papà was proud of him, of the money he brought home, of the new kitchen table, the fancy dish for Mamma, the expensive new bicycle for Renato. With only Daniela at home now, I could go to the field and help Papà on afternoons when Mamma was better. Vito treated me casually at home, hardly noticed me. But on those days when I was out in the field, he would find me under the canopy of leaves, and whisper, “You're mine. I love you,” though I turned away, my cheeks hot, my heart beating erratically.

Sandro Valente continued to visit. One evening in November, as Sandro was leaving, he slipped me a note, asking if I would come to his office.

The following morning, when the children were at school and Mamma and Daniela were napping, I put a sweater over my best skirt and blouse and went out. I
crossed the tracks and took a dirt trail that circled to the right, until I reached the road that led to the hilltop. At either side, rows upon rows of vines spread their arms beneath the mammoth nets that protected the grapes from hail, like prisoners praying for rescue, their legs tied, their heads back, faces to the merciless sun. As I walked, the sky darkened with thunderclouds, and I pulled my sweater closer to my body. I reached the station before it rained, and rode the train to Belisolano. When I arrived, t
he housekeeper let me in, and asked me to wait in the
sala d'ingresso
— a large lobby that opened onto the various rooms in the house.

I was not comfortable enough to sit on either the couch or the two chairs, but walked around instead and stared at the bleak oil portraits of joyless men and women framed on the walls. Petrarch's words echoed in my head:
He who has the courage to laugh owns the world.
And then I glimpsed my own reflection — and cringed at the dreary determined eyes, the austere downturn of my mouth.

“
Signorina
Santoro,” Sandro said, his hands out to take mine. “What a pleasure.”

I gave him my hand. He led me into his office, a dark-panelled room, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with thick hardback books. An enormous desk separated him from clients. I stood across from him, waiting.

“I need to speak to you about two matters of great importance,” he said, gesturing me into a chair. He came and sat beside me. He appeared nervous, which surprised me.

I said nothing, and stared at the hands on my lap.

“One is about your brother, Vito,” he said.

“What about him?” I cried. “Has something happened? Is he all right?” I pressed my hand against my chest.

“Please,
Signorina
, do not worry. Your brother is perfectly all right. However,” he said, and paused, as if reluctant to continue.

“What is it? What's happened?” I asked, moving forward in my chair.

“I'm afraid your brother has misplaced a large sum of money,” he said, flushing.

I sat stiffly.
Misplaced
, I thought. A euphemism for the sake of courtesy. I didn't know what to say.

“How much is this large sum of money?” I asked.

“Over five thousand dollars,” he said, and went on to explain that Vito had gathered the money from the townspeople as deposits for the air conditioners, but had managed to spend it all, with nothing to show for it.

I sank into the chair, ice spreading in my chest. We're ruined, I thought. Our whole family disgraced. Poor Papà. What had he ever done to deserve this? I closed my eyes, and breathed deeply.

“I believe I may be able to help,
Signorina
,” Sandro said quietly. “And perhaps to accomplish the goal with the utmost discretion.”

I looked up at him. “What do you mean?” I asked.

I could see he was extremely agitated, his cheeks flushed. He reached for my hand, and held it awkwardly. “I would be very honoured if you would agree to be my wife,” he said.

I drew in my breath.

“You need not reply immediately,” he said quickly. “Think about it for a few days. If you agree, only your father need know about your brother. I will arrange a job for Vito in Milan.”

I let the tears fall, for Papà, for Clarissa who loved Sandro, for Vito who could swindle a town without a thought for us, and for myself, because I could save us all. Sandro sat beside me, stroking my hand.

Finally, when I had composed myself, I said, “I am indebted to you,
Professore.
”

Within days, Papà announced that I would marry Sandro. The family honour saved.

“Whatever you say, Papà,” I said, demurely.

“Vito has duped us all,” Papà said, falling into a chair, his head in his hands. “He's a disgrace, with no regard for any of us.” His brow was furrowed, and his shoulders sagged. “
Disgraziato
!” He banged his fist on the table.

Mamma sat, silent and dejected, darning the elbow in a sweater of Papà's. She was slowly turning into a Mamma we did not recognize: not the Mamma who laughed and held our family together, not the Mamma who used to sing us beautiful arias. Ever since her breakdown after Daniela's birth, she had stopped singing. “Papà,” she said. “Don't get yourself worked up.”

“Papà's fine, Mamma,” I said. “Everything's fine.” I stood near her, and patted her back.

“What has Sandro to do with this?” Clarissa asked. She had been standing by, quiet.

“Sandro has offered his help,” Papà said. “That saint of a man. Meanwhile, if your brother shows his face here, I'll kill him.”

Clarissa blanched at the news. “You can't marry Sandro,” she said to me when we were alone, upstairs in bed. “You know that I'm in love with him.” She looked so young, so vulnerable.

“Has he spoken to you? Has he made a promise?” I asked.

“No, not exactly, but I'm sure —” Then, “but you don't love him!”

“He is a decent man,” I said.

“I hate you! I hate you!” Clarissa said, and fell, sobbing, on the bed.

Two weeks before the wedding, Sandro sent me money and a note instructing me to go to Bari to buy a navy blue hat adorned with feathers.

I had never seen a hat with feathers on it, and thought the idea absurd. Feathers belonged on birds, not on people's heads. However, I boarded the train for the thirty miles to Bari, a city that frightened me with its vibrancy, its elegant men and women, its night clubs and restaurants, its American and British soldiers riding their jeeps along the
lungomare
. While we in Locorotondo were starving, in Bari there could well be women wearing feathered hats, even during the war, women who might have been past lovers of the man I was to marry.

I tried on several hats before the shopkeeper said, “This is the one,
Signorina
.”

I stared at the hat — it framed my face well, turning my skin white and translucent — but I frowned at the single blue feather hardly visible against the felt. Hadn't Sandro specifically told me to buy a hat with feathers? I hesitated, but the shopgirl was busy folding tissue paper into a blue velvet hatbox, gold papered on the inside. She slipped in the hat, and passed me the gold braid handle which I held gingerly, because I had never owned a purse this extravagant, let alone a hatbox. When I arrived home, Mamma covered it in paper and hung it from a nail in a ceiling rafter, so that neither the children nor any animal might disturb it.

A week before the wedding, while we sat outside in the shadows, Sandro presented me with a black-and-gold hand-painted jewelry box. “This is your bridal gift,” he said.

“But you've already given me so much,” I protested, worried that I would be expected to reciprocate with a precious gift that Mamma and Papà could not afford.

“This is something special,” he said. “Open it.”

I pressed the clasp, and when the lid sprang up, drew in my breath. Inside were earrings: two diamond clusters the size of large buttons. I had never seen diamonds close up. For a moment, I felt like Cinderella at the end of the story, and I closed my eyes.

“They belonged to my grandmother,” he whispered. “She passed them down to my mother. Now they belong to you.” He touched my earlobes.

When I went inside, all the children and Mamma and Papà gathered around to touch the earrings. They gasped and sighed, and I was proud.

“I guess you won't be talking to us any more once you put those on,” Papà joked.

Mimí cried, “Who will look after me?” Although seven, she could be as babyish as Daniela, who was barely two.

Renato slapped her on the back. “Don't be ridiculous,” he said, his tone much harder than it needed to be. “Papà was joking. Of course Piera will speak to us. In fact, she might sell those earrings instead of wearing them, so we can buy a house.”

“These earrings,” I said, shocked by the bitterness in his words, the unveiled envy, “are family heirlooms. They are not for me to sell.”

Renato shrugged, and curled his lips into a jaded smile. More and more lately, I was uncomfortable around him. There was something in his manner, an aloofness that worried me. He had a way of keeping us all off guard with his snide remarks and his incisive criticisms, which he always shrugged off as jokes, while we all knew he was serious.

Mamma stepped in, took the box out of Renato's hands, and snapped shut the lid. “I'll keep these safe until the wedding.”

The next day, we went to the address of a woman who would pierce my ears for a reasonable sum. Her door was open, exposing a dirt floor and a small house very much like our own. I hesitated, and Mamma said, “What's the matter?”

“I thought we were going to a shop,” I said.

“What shop?” Mamma said. “What do you think you're going to buy? Holes?”

My cheeks burned. “But how will she do it?” Truthfully, I was worried about what she would use in a place so dark and dirty, but I didn't want to say this to Mamma, who might have taken it as a personal criticism.

“Oh Piera, don't be ridiculous. She'll take a needle and put it through your ear lobe. She's done most of the women in the village.” Mamma walked into the house, knocking as she went.

Inside, a woman rose from her chair. She was Mamma's age, and wore a flowered apron over a long black dress. When Mamma explained why we were here, she scrutinized me, and I squirmed, keeping my gaze fixed on the floor. She probably already knew all about my engagement because Sandro was known to everyone. Mamma reached into the front of her dress, pulled out the jewelry box, and flipped open the lid. Even in the dark of that room, the earrings sparkled.

“
Madre Dio
!” the woman said, and reached for one. They placed the earrings on the backs of their fingers like rings, held them up to their ears in front of a hand-mirror. I watched them, an unbearable shame creeping up my body to think that Mamma had never owned anything so precious.

A scruffy boy burst through the doorway, breaking the spell.

“Get out!” the woman shrieked at the boy, who ran out, startled or frightened by her intensity.

Mamma replaced the earrings in the satin-lined box. She stuffed the box down her bra.

The woman scowled at me, then motioned me into a chair. From her sewing box, she chose a needle so large I almost fainted. Mamma bent down and patted my shoulder, murmuring, “It's fine. You won't feel a thing. Don't look at the needle.”