Solitaria (17 page)

“Whew!” David says, as they climb to the third floor. “I can see why you haven't been out. That must be exhausting.”

“It's all right,” Clarissa says. “Don't forget they consider me from here. And there's the whole scandal with Vito. They have a right to speak to us, to find out what's going on.” She runs a hand through her hair. “I shouldn't have gone out. It's my own fault. I forgot the interview was today.”

“I'm glad you did,” David says, and smiles.

When she returns twenty minutes later, she looks cool and calm in a turquoise silk dress with three-quarter sleeves, silver earrings and strappy turquoise sandals.

She shows the crew to the garden where they set up and do the interview. David watches from above. His mother looks gorgeous and composed. He wonders what she could possibly be saying that they don't already know. Most likely, he thinks, it's her face, her fame they want. Higher ratings.

“Here is my visiting card from those days.
Donna Piera Valente
. I remember how alien the name looked to me when the cards were first delivered. Sandro helped me choose the style and the appropriate lettering. In truth, I had my own sense of style, even though I had no money to indulge it. I have always had a very good aesthetic sense. Notice that on the back of the card, I've copied a quotation of John Desmond Bernal's:

‘There are two futures, the future of desire and the future of fate, and man's reason has never learned to separate them.'”

‡
1947–1951. Belisolano / Locorotondo, Italy.
I have always perceived my life as a move towards a particular end, a destiny. Not that I knew or envisioned the future detailed state of my life, but rather its broad contours, the texture of my experience, the scope of possibility. Before my marriage, for example, I used to imagine all my siblings educated and settled into their own trajectories of success, everyone living nearby, intimate as we were in childhood. I had not understood the true dimensions of time and space — their proximity and distance during those years — all of us living in a narrow world defined by hunger, war, by Mamma's neglect and the capricious nature of Papà's will. I was driven by this future of desire where all my siblings' potential was realized, even if it meant giving up my own. I should have paid more attention to nature, perhaps, to fate, given how close we were to it. Poppies, for example, grow wild in fields or between the stones of small walls, their seeds biologically destined to become other poppies, although the wind might carry them to unsuitable ground, birds might scoop down and eat them, a young woman might pick them for a centrepiece, or bake them into a cake. No desire can alter these fates.

This part I've never told anyone, although I've played and replayed it in my head, looking, perhaps, for an aperture I might slide a key into, and with a flick, alter my past and future.

How different things look from this distance. I see myself after the wedding, a seventeen-year-old, naïve, half-frightened by my own determination. We drove to Belisolano, to Sandro's home, to this home. I followed him up the stairs and into the
sala d'ingresso
, recalling the last time I had come. No people waited today, and his office door was closed. I crossed the threshold into this new life I had chosen, walked past the portraits on the wall, their miserable faces, the hard set of the mouths, the narrowing eyes, the arms crossed tight over hearts.

The wedding guests — all thirteen of them — tramping up the stairs, laughing and talking. Two of them had come from Argentina, where they were now living. I could hardly imagine enough money to travel so far for a wedding. I swallowed and concentrated on Sandro's hand which held my wrist and pulled me forward.

I had never been in a house so grand, with floors of polished gold-speckled white marble, in a living room with crystal chandeliers, an antique harpsichord, a gold brocade sofa, a yellow silk chaise lounge with its intricately carved wooden wing, a Queen Anne secretary desk, and two small tables of displays: on one, black-and-white portraits inside pewter frames; and on the other, small exquisite silver filigree boxes.

“Welcome, welcome.” A woman skittered into the room, and pressed my hands in hers, eyes downcast. This was my first introduction to Sandro's twin sister, Domenica. She was a tall, thin woman, with no womanly curves, so that she resembled a giant child. She fluttered to a straight-back chair and sat, hands folded within her long black dress. Now and then, she reached out and tugged the sides of her dress lower, as though it were indecent to expose her ankles.

With her waist-long hair parted in the middle into two braids that wound around her head twice, she looked like a wistful, melancholy saint. Domenica had always lived in this house, first under the care of her parents until they drowned in a freak accident when Domenica was eighteen, and now under Sandro's guardianship. She had consecrated herself to God, and spent her days in prayer.

One of the guests, a cousin of Sandro's, played Mozart on the harpsichord, while I fidgeted, awkwardly trying to communicate with my new relatives, unsure of what to say, unsure what they thought of me. Later, I'd understand that everyone believed Sandro, twenty-five years my senior, had seduced me, and his sister had convinced him to marry me.

When all the guests had either departed or retired to a guest room, Sandro lingering with one of them in the hallway, I sat down and sighed. My earlobes were itchy and inflamed, the holes weighed open by the diamond clusters, an oxymoron of oozing opulence.

Domenica reached out and pushed the hair away from my cheeks, her brow furrowed as she examined my swollen earlobes. “Come,” she said, and led me into the washroom. She shook two aspirins out of a small bottle and handed them to me. I turned on the tap and filled my hand with water, then swallowed the pills. Then Domenica lifted the lid of a glass jar and tore off a thick wad of cotton. She unscrewed the cap of a bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured some onto a cotton ball. “You have to disinfect them,” she whispered, as if it were a secret I was supposed to have known. She undid one earring and slid it out slowly, then pressed the cotton ball around my earlobe. I nearly fainted. Domenica uttered small words of encouragement while she slid out the other earring and repeated the procedure. Involuntary tears streamed down my cheeks. “Hold these in place,” Domenica said, “I'll be right back.”

As soon as she was gone, I stared into the mirror. My eyes were ringed in pink, and my cheeks were blotchy. My hair was pushed behind my ears, and my lobes, which I uncovered, appeared like bulbous orbs. I pressed the cotton balls around them once more, and shut my eyes tight.

Domenica soon returned with a pair of tiny gold hoops which she pushed into the holes, despite my wails. “They'll close over,” she kept repeating, in a pleading voice. Finally, when both hoops were in, she took my hand and squeezed it. “You must use the alcohol every morning and night,” she said, showing me how to turn the hoops to keep them from sticking to the inside of the ear holes. I nodded, and Domenica touched my cheek before she left.

I collected myself, washed my face and combed my hair. The throbbing in my earlobes was subsiding. I took a deep breath and went back out, nervous, not knowing what to expect. Domenica must have told Sandro what had occurred, because he was waiting patiently, his face in a very sympathetic expression. He took my hand and led me down a hallway to the master bedroom — a room larger than our whole
casello
, with open balcony doors, and pale yellow curtains billowing in the humid air. I drew in my breath, overcome, because I had never seen a bedroom such as this, made for privacy, a space in which one could think without interruptions. Across from the balcony, the bed's four posters rose to the ceiling, where they ended under a canopy of the same delicate fabric as that of the curtains.

Sandro pressed his hand against my back, urged me towards the bed, towards the zephyr nightgown that was spread on the coverlet like a wanton woman. He smiled, and backed out of the room. Instead of undressing, I closed the balcony doors, pulled down the shutters, and sat on the bed, disappointed. I had imagined a scene from a romantic novel — my new husband gathering me in his arms, passionate kisses. Sandro was a good man, a kind man. I thought of my mother and father, of Clarissa and the others back at the
casello
.
Vito
, I thought.
Life
. I was doing this for him, to pay his bills. For the family, to protect their honour. For Clarissa, to liberate her to pursue her career. To save them all, but also to save myself.
Vito
. I began to weep, and once started, I could not stop.

“What's this?” Sandro said, coming into the shuttered room. “Are you crying? What's wrong?”

I shook my head.

He took my hands and pulled me up against him. “Come now,” he said. “Don't be frightened. You're such a beautiful child.” And he began to unbutton my blouse.

I let him undress me, standing passive, until I was down to my slip, weeping softly, despite his murmurs. He turned out the light, and removed my slip, bra, and panties. He helped me into the nightgown and urged me onto the bed.

I lay against the crisp cool sheets, eyes closed, embarrassed, mortified, while he embraced me gingerly, patting my back and caressing my shoulders in such a respectful manner that I cried all the harder. There must be something wrong with me, I thought. I'm not attractive enough. I had heard myriad stories of Sandro's legendary sexual prowess, and being ignorant in such matters, I wondered whether it were possible that he had used it up. This set me sobbing anew, and soon Sandro, too, began to sob with me, asking, “What have I done? What have I done?”

I closed my eyes, hands curled into fists at my side.

“You need not be frightened,” Sandro said, sighing. “I won't hurt you.” He lay on his side and gently stroked my face, my hair.

I lay rigid, until I felt him turning onto his back, away from me. I concentrated on Vito, his face, his eyes, on Papà all those years ago, between the legs of that woman, Vito beside me watching.

By morning, we still hadn't consummated our marriage, and I had cried until sparkling flashes of light flitted across the room, my feet tingled, and one of my arms was filled with pins and needles. Beside me, the cliff-face of Sandro's back, the irregular rhythm of his breathing. A zigzag line bolted across the room. Lightning. Thunder in my ears. I was married now. Saved from myself.

This scene repeated not one, two, three nights, but more, a month, two, more, much more. A virgin wife. Everyone envious of my supposed bliss. I was ashamed to go out, afraid everyone would see that I had married half a man. And through it all, I worried that the housekeeper would not have seen the blood on the sheets. I didn't realize that everyone thought Sandro and I were already lovers. All I could think of was that I must maintain appearances.
Fare la bella figura
— the words themselves explaining the concept — to display the proper guise — to make a good impression. I have lived my whole life worrying about what others think of me.

A new name,
Donna Piera
, and a new address.

A new magistrate husband, a cook, and a housekeeper.

New clothes, new acquaintances.

Novels and poetry to read in the afternoons.

Card games at night.

Donna Piera
, the townspeople whispered. Can you help us,
Donna Piera
? You are one of us,
Donna Piera
.

And it was true. I was both one of them and not one of them. Clarissa avoided our house. “I'm not presentable,” she'd say, although I knew it was nothing to do with her appearance. Clarissa could have made a flour sack look like high fashion. Papà also outright refused to visit, although he was subtle about it, made excuses even when none were possible. It was as if they were ashamed of me. And what's more, I felt Papà was going out of his way to embarrass me. For example, he would not go to church with Mamma, even though I asked him repeatedly.

“I haven't been to church before this,” he said. “Why should I go now?”

“But Papà,” I pleaded. “What will people think?”

“Let them think what they want,” he said. “They will anyway.”

And the little ones — Mimí and Daniela. Yes, I thought of them often, because Mamma was so hopeless. Clarissa, who barely spoke to me, had quit her job, and now remained with Mamma until Mimí returned from school, then she took the afternoon train to Bari to continue her lessons. Already Mimí was acting much older than her eight years. Renato squandered his afternoons with a band of boys in the piazza, mooching cigarettes. He was transmuting into a dark, sultry young man, a younger version of Vito. Charismatic, he attracted both girls and boys, but I sensed the dark in him, a cunning that made me wary. Renato mocked me, and triggered my guilt. “
Donna
Piera,” he'd say, “in her big mansion while Mamma and Papà and all of us struggle in a two-room house with a dirt floor.” Of course, as soon as an appropriate time had elapsed, I intended to speak gently to Sandro, to arrange a proper house for my family.

It is my nature to worry, especially about my loved ones. All my life, I've looked over their shoulders like a guardian angel; have tried to simplify everything for them. Why have they all turned against me?

Sandro and I, in that first year. What do we talk about? What do we do? A year vanished from memory. Yet even now, over the phone, across continents, Clarissa is always eager to tell me what went wrong. “That marriage ruined you, Piera. You were indulged and babied. Sandro treated you like a pet, and you loved it. You slept to all hours of the day, and did absolutely nothing except scold everyone. There were housekeepers and cooks to manage the household, so all you did was lie around amusing yourself. You read a thousand books, and then began acting as if you knew everything.”

But there is more. Sandro and I had a deep understanding. He adored me. Yes, he did spoil me, but not in the way Clarissa implies. I was constantly asking him for things for my family and yes, he accommodated my wishes. Where does Clarissa think the clothes and books for the children came from? Who took Renato to the optometrist to buy glasses? Who bought Mamma a sewing machine? Yes, I asked and Sandro indulged me. But I never asked for anything for myself.

What did we do, Sandro and I? He taught me to play cards and on the good days, we played canasta with friends. Sandro was a very animated, charismatic man everyone wanted to surround. He made people laugh; he made everyone feel special. I don't mind admitting that I was often a little afraid when we found ourselves in rooms of beautiful women who all thought him irresistible.