Sunday and we are alone in the house. It is raining outside, and traffic noises are muted.
“Not possible.”
She wipes her tears and says to me firmly: “You eat your
tiramisù
. I’ll be back in a moment.”
She was back an hour later, out of breath with haste, but even more so with outrage.
“Madama Erminia has told everyone that we wanted no visits. It seems she’s had it printed in the newspaper as well. She just about stopped short of sticking posters all over town – just about!”
She was furious, and wept more than usual. She sensed how those missed visits were another wound for me, how in that way I was once again excluded.
“And then play, my child. You play! Save yourself!” She takes my hands in hers, delicately, as if she were praying: “You have life in your hands. Let us thank the Virgin and the Christ Child!”
She carries me upstairs, sits me at the piano and says:
“Play something that’ll make us cry all of our tears, and let’s be done with it!”
She let herself fall into the little white armchair in which my father used to sit in the evening, and sat listening, bolt upright, still wearing her jacket and hat. I chose a sad
siciliana
and played it with the anxious relief of one who can finally breathe again after risking suffocation.
And in the end someone did ring our doorbell – the next day, a few minutes before five. Maddalena and I went to open at the same moment, and found ourselves facing Miss Albertina. She was holding by the hand an extraordinarily dressed-up Lucilla.
“God bless you!” Maddalena says forcefully, taking hold of Miss Albertina’s hand and sweeping her inside together with Lucilla. “God bless you both! We are just having tea. Will you join us?”
“With pleasure, thank you,” Miss Albertina says, her hair bobbing up and down.
Lucilla links her arm through mine, and lingering a few steps behind Maddalena and Miss Albertina as we make our way upstairs she whispers:
“It was me who told my aunt that you’d cer-tain-ly be at home for your five o’clock tea! At school we had some surprises ready for you, some poems and letters to bring you: my aunt got us to make them. But then Murari, the son of the newspaper director, said your Aunt Erminia had spoken to the journalist who wrote the article about your mother, and dic-ta-ted to her that there were to be ab-so-lu-tely no visits. None-at-all. To respect your grieving, you understand? Then we thought we would give you all these things when you came back to school. But noth-ing-do-ing. No sign of you. So then I said to Aunt Albertina: ‘We’re going!’ It’s mewho solves the problems in our house, as my Mamma always says. And here we are. How are you? Lovely dress. I’ve dressed up too. My Mamma wanted to come as well, but Aunt Albertina said no, it would feel like an in-va-sion. Everyone’s thinking strange things about all this because …”
“What?” I say, interrupting her as I stop dead on the stairs.
“I real-ly-should-not tell you this. I’ve prom-ised. But they say that your father is finally free from a night-mare. That a handsome young man like him could ab-so-lu-tely not live like that, no way.”
“Like what?”
“Like a gelding, they say.”
“A gelding?”
“Someone who never makes love. You understand? A monk. Because clearly she never did, even though many say he must surely have found ways to con-sole-him-self.”
“Who says that? How …?” I realise I do not even know what questions to ask.
“Where is your father now?”
“I don’t know.”
“And your Aunt Erminia?”
“I don’t know. They are very busy with all the paperwork.”
“All day long? They’re who knows where, waiting for calm-on-the-troubled-waters.”
“What waters?”
“Did you hear her fall?” she asks, very softly so as not to be overheard. “And why was your Aunt Erminia at the house that night?”
I can see myself standing next to the little table in the salon,where
“Not possible.”
She wipes her tears and says to me firmly: “You eat your
tiramisù
. I’ll be back in a moment.”
She was back an hour later, out of breath with haste, but even more so with outrage.
“Madama Erminia has told everyone that we wanted no visits. It seems she’s had it printed in the newspaper as well. She just about stopped short of sticking posters all over town – just about!”
She was furious, and wept more than usual. She sensed how those missed visits were another wound for me, how in that way I was once again excluded.
“And then play, my child. You play! Save yourself!” She takes my hands in hers, delicately, as if she were praying: “You have life in your hands. Let us thank the Virgin and the Christ Child!”
She carries me upstairs, sits me at the piano and says:
“Play something that’ll make us cry all of our tears, and let’s be done with it!”
She let herself fall into the little white armchair in which my father used to sit in the evening, and sat listening, bolt upright, still wearing her jacket and hat. I chose a sad
siciliana
and played it with the anxious relief of one who can finally breathe again after risking suffocation.
And in the end someone did ring our doorbell – the next day, a few minutes before five. Maddalena and I went to open at the same moment, and found ourselves facing Miss Albertina. She was holding by the hand an extraordinarily dressed-up Lucilla.
“God bless you!” Maddalena says forcefully, taking hold of Miss Albertina’s hand and sweeping her inside together with Lucilla. “God bless you both! We are just having tea. Will you join us?”
“With pleasure, thank you,” Miss Albertina says, her hair bobbing up and down.
Lucilla links her arm through mine, and lingering a few steps behind Maddalena and Miss Albertina as we make our way upstairs she whispers:
“It was me who told my aunt that you’d cer-tain-ly be at home for your five o’clock tea! At school we had some surprises ready for you, some poems and letters to bring you: my aunt got us to make them. But then Murari, the son of the newspaper director, said your Aunt Erminia had spoken to the journalist who wrote the article about your mother, and dic-ta-ted to her that there were to be ab-so-lu-tely no visits. None-at-all. To respect your grieving, you understand? Then we thought we would give you all these things when you came back to school. But noth-ing-do-ing. No sign of you. So then I said to Aunt Albertina: ‘We’re going!’ It’s mewho solves the problems in our house, as my Mamma always says. And here we are. How are you? Lovely dress. I’ve dressed up too. My Mamma wanted to come as well, but Aunt Albertina said no, it would feel like an in-va-sion. Everyone’s thinking strange things about all this because …”
“What?” I say, interrupting her as I stop dead on the stairs.
“I real-ly-should-not tell you this. I’ve prom-ised. But they say that your father is finally free from a night-mare. That a handsome young man like him could ab-so-lu-tely not live like that, no way.”
“Like what?”
“Like a gelding, they say.”
“A gelding?”
“Someone who never makes love. You understand? A monk. Because clearly she never did, even though many say he must surely have found ways to con-sole-him-self.”
“Who says that? How …?” I realise I do not even know what questions to ask.
“Where is your father now?”
“I don’t know.”
“And your Aunt Erminia?”
“I don’t know. They are very busy with all the paperwork.”
“All day long? They’re who knows where, waiting for calm-on-the-troubled-waters.”
“What waters?”
“Did you hear her fall?” she asks, very softly so as not to be overheard. “And why was your Aunt Erminia at the house that night?”
I can see myself standing next to the little table in the salon,where
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