Kal (7 page)

‘No, no, I must return to my work. Thank you for reading me the letter.'

Mary watched as Caterina walked from the lounge. No glint of a tear, not a shred of emotion. She watched as the girl thrust the piece of notepaper into the pocket of her apron. Mary felt useless. There was nothing she could do, nothing she could say. It was a cowardly letter but in essence it was right. Caterina was a sweet, simple girl, she would not have been happy in America away from her own kind. The writer of the letter knew that. And Mary knew who had written the letter. She recognised the hand. There had been many notes over the past six weeks. Always signed ‘G'.

Mary wondered whether she should tell Caterina that Geoffrey had written the letter. What purpose would that serve? The girl would be tormented; she might even try to follow her lover. If Paul was weak enough to be so influenced by his friends, how would he ever serve as Caterina's protector in a hostile America? She was better off without him. Mary made her decision. If Paul had been abducted against his will, and if he loved Caterina, he would come back for her. In the meantime, it was best to say nothing.

 

‘…
AND
R
OOM
39.'

Caterina took the key thrust to her by the housekeeper and added it to the keyring alongside the other five keys she had been given. The chambermaids were being assigned the vacated rooms to be prepared for the next wave of incoming guests.

Room 39. Paul's room. Caterina had been in a daze for the past two hours since Mary had read her the letter. She kept touching the sheet of paper in her apron pocket. It could not be true, she had told herself. They were only words. Only words Mary had read from a piece of paper.
They were not Paolo's words. Paolo would not say those words.

She opened the door. The two beds on either side of the room were freshly made up. They had not been slept in. She herself had remade those beds the preceding morning. Each day, when the guests left for a morning on the slopes, the maids collected their keys from the concierge and serviced the rooms. Caterina always kissed the pillow when she changed the linen on Paul's bed. Soon her head would be nestled next to his on that very pillow, she would think. But today the key to Room 39 had not been amongst those she had collected from the concierge. Today the housekeeper had given her the key. Could it be true? Had he gone?

She opened the cupboard doors. Nothing. The coats and the suits that smelled of him were no longer there. Nothing but the heavy wooden hangers waiting for the next chalet guest. And the next. And the next.

It was true. He had gone. Caterina lay down on the bunk. Paul's bunk. The narrow bed where they had clung to each other and panted their love. Where they had caressed each other and talked of their plans, of their lives together. Of America. She stared at the ceiling and the tears rolled down her cheeks. Paolo, she thought. Paolo.

For a long time Caterina wept. She wept for her love, and for the girl she had once been and she wept for the girl she would never be again.

Finally there were no more tears. She finished her duties as quickly as she could and that night she went to bed early. She knew she would not sleep, but she needed to rest her body. She must be up before dawn. There was a long walk ahead.

Giovanni was excited. Only one more month to go. Just four short weeks and his contract was over. Not that he minded working for the railroads. He enjoyed the physical labour, digging deep into the heart of the mountain. But one day he would be digging for himself. It would be his own mine and there would be gold at the end of the tunnel. That was his dream. And in one month's time he would embark upon the first step toward the realisation of that dream.

It had all started with a newspaper article. One morning two new workers had arrived on the site. They were replacing two men who had been injured the previous week, one in a minor tunnel collapse, the other in a rock slide. Such occurrences were common. One of the new workers had a copy of a newspaper from Milan. It was over a week old but it did not matter, the article he showed them was inspiring. ‘THE GOLDEN LAND,' its headlines declared, ‘GOLD STRIKES IN AUSTRALIA. PEOPLE RICH OVERNIGHT.'

Neither Rico nor Giovanni could read but the man with the newspaper could. ‘“… They flock from all parts of the globe,”' he read. ‘“Fortunes are made by the bold and the adventurous.”' He stumbled over the names. ‘“Bendigo, Ballarat … Recent strikes in Western Australia …”' There was a map of the vast western State
of the country with areas and placenames pinpointed. ‘“The Kimberleys, the Pilbara, and the latest discoveries to the south, Southern Cross, Coolgardie.”' And there was a picture of the southern port of Albany which had serviced the goldfields until the building of Fremantle, the man-made port on the western coast. Huge ships. People streaming down gangplanks. ‘“They come from America, from South Africa, from Europe,”' the article said. ‘“They flock in their ships to Albany and Fremantle to stake their claims in the golden land.”'

‘That is where I will go,' the man said, folding the newspaper carefully. ‘No more digging for the railroads. I will dig for gold.'

Rico bought the newspaper from the man for a bottle of wine. ‘He talks, Gio,' he said to his younger brother, ‘but that is all he does. We will not talk, we will go to Australia.'

They had lived their dream from that day on, Rico painting the pictures. ‘See it in your head, Gio,' he would say as they crouched over the fire. ‘See it in your head. No longer will we have to dig through a mountain so that a train can get to the other side. We'll dig for gold.
Our
gold. Our families will be wealthy. We'll live in big houses, like your widow's, and our children will grow up wanting for nothing. We will be the ones who live in the big house on the hill, eh?'

He said it as a joke but they both knew that the widow was nothing to laugh about. Giovanni had finally confided in his brother. Sarina was becoming more indiscreet, more audacious, as if she cared nothing for the danger that surrounded them. And when his contract with the railroads was over Giovanni knew her demands would be constant. It would be only a matter of time before their affair became public knowledge in the village. Only a matter of time before the De Cretico brothers knew of her betrayal.

Rico wanted to confront the widow but Giovanni had made him promise to keep away. ‘Then you must leave Santa Lena,' Rico said. ‘You are a fool if you stay, Gio. They will kill you.'

And then the man with the newspaper had arrived. The brothers saw it as a sign. God had delivered them an omen—Australia was to be their destiny.

For weeks now Rico and Giovanni had saved every lire they could. Apart from the money they gave to their mother from their weekly pay packet, and of course the small donation to the church each Sunday, they spent virtually nothing. They stopped drinking wine and gambling with the men at the camp and already they had saved enough to purchase a single boat passage from Genoa to the port of Fremantle in Western Australia.

It was agreed that Giovanni would go on ahead and Rico would join him within six months. ‘That will give me time to marry Teresa when she returns from the chalet,' he said.

‘What if she does not want to go to Australia?' Giovanni asked, but Rico laughed dismissively.

‘Teresa will go to the ends of the earth with me,' he said.

It had been Rico's idea to choose Fremantle over Albany as their port of disembarkation. Fremantle serviced Perth, the capital city of Western Australia, and there would be more likelihood of job opportunities there.

Upon his arrival Giovanni was to find work and send money home to Rico and Teresa. When the brothers were reunited in Fremantle they would continue working until they had sufficient funds and then together they would set off for the eastern goldfields. These were Rico's plans.

One more month to go, Giovanni thought as he
carefully placed the cauldron of coffee to brew on the heated stones. He squatted beside the fire and pulled the tattered newspaper from his pocket. He carried it constantly and several times a day he would pore over the map of Western Australia, accepting with good humour the derision of his workmates. ‘Giovanni and his treasure map,' they laughed. ‘Giovanni and his gold at the bottom of the world.' But, unperturbed, he would simply smile back at them.

Unlike Rico, Giovanni's voyage to the bottom of the earth was more than a bid for riches. Australia was a whole new world to be explored. It was the other side of the earth, the biggest adventure a man could undertake. Beyond Santa Lena and the mountains there was a vast, brown land. That was what the newspaper called it. Giovanni could not possibly imagine what a vast brown land looked like, but the thought of it was thrilling beyond belief.

Giovanni checked the coffee and stoked the fire. It was late afternoon and soon the others would return from the digging. At the end of each working day one man went on ahead to the camp to build the fire and prepare the coffee. It was a pleasurable duty and they took it in turn. If the fire was not burning steadily and the coffee not well brewed when the others arrived, the man forfeited his next turn.

The air was clear and still, but bitterly cold, the feeling of snow imminent. Yes, he thought, there would be a heavy fall tonight. He fetched his concertina from the tent, sat beside the fire and played. He loved the way the sound rang out through the stillness. He started to sing. ‘Torna a Surriento'. His favourite.

As Giovanni sang, he kept looking along the track which led to the work site. He could see no one. They would be another fifteen minutes, he guessed. Yes, the timing of the coffee was right. Then he caught sight of a
lone figure in the distance, walking down the mountain track which led to the border.

He stopped singing. The boy must have been walking for a long time, he thought, it was an eight-hour trek to Steinach, which was the closest village over the mountains. He would offer him a cup of coffee, he thought. It would not be well brewed but it would be warm enough.

He stood and beckoned to the boy, who appeared not to see him. Giovanni walked towards the track to intercept him and then he realised it was not a boy at all. It was her. The beautiful girl who had crossed the mountain with Teresa.

‘Come and warm yourself by the fire,' he said. ‘There is coffee.'

The girl glanced at him vaguely. She looked tired, he thought, tired and cold. ‘Have you come from Steinach?' he asked. ‘You must be weary.'

She nodded and followed him to the fire where she put down her knapsack and squatted beside him. He stirred the half-brewed coffee and ladled some into a tin mug. ‘It is not quite ready yet but it will warm you.'

‘Thank you,' she murmured as she clasped her mittened hands around the mug and gazed into the fire. Then she noticed the concertina on the ground and glanced at him briefly. ‘It was you singing.'

‘Yes.'

‘Ah.' Her gaze returned to the fire.

She had not recognised him, he realised. ‘We have met,' he said. ‘Two months ago, when you crossed the mountain with Teresa.' She looked at him blankly. ‘Teresa is promised to my brother Rico,' he prompted. Still her eyes held no recognition. ‘We talked, you and I. My name is Giovanni.'

‘Ah. Yes,' she said, and her gaze returned to the fire.

She was more than tired, he thought, more than
cold. No longer was there laughter beneath her beauty. Her blue eyes no longer danced. They were lifeless, as if something inside her had died. He wondered what had happened and whether he should ask. He watched as she sipped the coffee.

‘I am sorry it has not yet brewed,' he said. ‘The second cup will be better.'

‘It is good. Thank you.'

Giovanni could not help himself. ‘What has happened?' he asked. And when she said nothing he persevered. ‘You were happy when you crossed the mountain and now you come back over the mountain and you are sad. What has happened?' She looked directly at him for the first time, but still she seemed not to see him. ‘Teresa is not to finish her work at the chalet for a further two months,' he said. Again it was a question but, even as he asked it, he felt guilty. He was prying. Something terrible had happened and the girl did not wish to talk about it.

She looked at him and there was a touch of defiance in her tone. ‘I did not like the work,' she replied. ‘I am going home.'

‘Yes,' he said and he took the mug from her. ‘I am sorry.' He started to ladle more coffee but she rose.

‘I must go now.' She picked up her knapsack.

‘No, don't. Please.' She stopped and looked at him and this time she seemed to see him. ‘I am sorry,' he repeated.

‘Why? You have been very kind. I am warmer now. Thank you.'

‘Please stay. There will be heavy snow tonight. My brother and I have a tent, you will be quite safe, and you can continue your journey in the morning.'

‘No. I must go home.'

She lifted her knapsack onto her back and he watched as she started down the track. He wanted to
stop her, to entreat her to stay, but he knew it would be useless. He watched until she disappeared into the falling snow and then he once more attended to the coffee.

As he stirred the brew, steam rose in gusts from the pot and the strong comforting smell of coffee filled the air, but he hardly noticed. The image of the girl, sad and beautiful, haunted him.

 

C
ATERINA HAD SET
out before dawn and cut across country from the chalet. It had been three hours before she had reached the track and, towards the end, her snowshoes had weighed more and more heavily with each step and her legs had felt like lead. The track, although steep in places, had been easier, firm underfoot, and it had been a relief to be free of her snowshoes. She was exhausted.

She had heard the concertina and the young man's beautiful voice long before she had seen the workmen's camp. She had not known where the music was coming from and she had not much cared, but the loveliness of the singer's voice was a comforting distraction.

Soon she must cut across country again, she thought wearily. She knew she would never reach home before sundown but, if she maintained her pace, she should arrive at her uncle's farm, which was much closer, just before dark. Caterina did not intend to go to the farmhouse. She would spend the night in the shelter of her uncle's barn and set off again before dawn; her uncle and his family would never even know she had been there.

She should probably have accepted the young man's offer, she thought. He was kind, he had a gentle face and she knew she would have been safe with him. But the company of people was more than Caterina could bear at the moment. Exhausting as the walk had been, the concentration on sheer physical effort had helped to
blanket her mind. Even the young man's questions had been confronting and he did not know her. Caterina dared not think of how she would respond to her family's queries. She would tell them nothing. ‘I did not like the work,' she would say. ‘I wanted to come home.' Just as she had said to the young man. But of course they would sense something was wrong. And she would not be able to keep her silence forever. Only too soon she would have to tell them.

Caterina knew she was pregnant. For the full month of her affair with Paul her time had not come. But there was more than the physical evidence of her conception. There was the knowledge, deep within, that she carried his seed. Every time they had made love she had taken him into her wholly and unconditionally. In so becoming one, she had virtually willed the conception. To Caterina such uninhibited, joyful invitation had been part and parcel of their love-making and she had thought it had been the same for her lover.

Caterina had no plan. Indeed, there were no options open to her. She must simply throw herself upon her father's mercy and pray for the strength to bear her shame. But whatever the outcome, she would survive. And so would her child. Paolo's child. Caterina refused to believe that the love she had shared with Paolo was wrong. And if she and the child must bear the burden alone, then they would, she would make sure of that.

 

‘O
NE WEEK
, G
IO
.' Rico clinked his tin mug of red wine against Giovanni's. ‘Just one more week.'

‘To the wide brown land,' Giovanni grinned. ‘
Salute
.'

‘To the gold at the bottom of the world.
Salute
.' Rico had bought the bottle of wine to celebrate their last week at the camp, and the last visit Giovanni would pay the widow. Tonight Giovanni was to tell Sarina that when
he returned to Santa Lena the following Saturday he must spend time with his family, that it would be at least a week before he could see her again. By the time she realised he had left the village it would be too late.

The brothers were sitting on their bunks in their tent, sleeping bags wrapped around them, the newspaper article spread out on the ground between them. The other men were drinking and gambling in the mess tent.

Giovanni and Rico toasted each other again and again, and when they had finished the bottle they felt heady with wine and excitement and love for each other.