Arturo's Island Read online

  None of us spoke. She was utterly intent on observing the town. From her expression, she seemed to imagine that she was entering some historic city, Baghdad or Istanbul, not the island of Procida, which isn’t very far from Naples! Every so often I gave her a sidelong glance and saw again her large eyes, shining in astonishment, the lashes rayed like the points of a star. In the half-light of the carriage, her face, with those big, wide-open eyes, seemed jeweled. Her thick eyebrows, irregular in shape, and joined on her brow, reminded me of portraits of barbarian girls and women I’d seen in books.

  At the intersection of the main street, passing a niche where, behind a grate, there was a portrait of the Virgin Mary, she raised her right hand, and, with a serious and concentrated air, made the sign of the cross, then kissed the tips of her fingers. Seeing that, I immediately looked at my father, sure of meeting at least a mocking or a pitying smile; but, slouched back in the seat, he was paying no attention to her.

  When we reached the square, we could see the great curve of a rainbow rising from the sea and passing through the vault of the sky almost to the center. In the brightening air, amid the countless reflections of the storm, the ancient structures of the fortress appeared, very close, almost above us. Seeing them, the bride made a gesture of extraordinary admiration, and nudged my father with her elbow, asking, in a knowing tone:

  “Is that . . . our house?”

  I laughed loudly. My father shrugged one shoulder and said to her: “Oh, no!” Then he explained, turning to me, stressing his words:

  “I told her that we live in a magnificent castle,” and he smiled at me, with an astonishing expression of almost childish and rascally complicity, which left me doubtful. The possibility that my father had given the bride to understand some exaggerations or even nonsense had never occurred to me; on the other hand, I had never presumed till today that the Casa dei Guaglioni was a castle!

  My stepmother blushed. My father, raising his eyebrows, with a half-indulgent, half-sarcastic look, said to her:

  “You know what that is, that beautiful villa up there? It’s the prison!”

  “The prison!”

  “Yes! The prison of Procida!”

  “There is the prison!” she exclaimed dreamily, looking at those walls with different eyes. “Ah, you told me about it! That not even in Rome is there such a big and important prison! And criminals are brought there from everywhere! Madonna! One can’t look! It seems an insult, to think that we pass here below in a carriage, and up there, those poor youths . . .”

  But having said this, she pulled herself together and, assuming a severe expression, as if to force her own feelings to a superior morality, concluded:

  “Yet! It’s justice! They’ve done bad things and now they’re paying!”

  Here I commented by letting out a faint whistle, since such a concept deserved all my contempt: as we know, I was always on the side of the outlaws. But she didn’t seem to understand my evident disapproval; completely absorbed, perhaps she hadn’t even heard me. Probably it wasn’t worth the trouble of wasting a whistle, to point out a mature idea to a dull, primitive being like her.

  When we turned the corner, toward the bay, the full extent of the prison was visible in the distance, from the ancient fortress to the new buildings; and the bride’s eyes returned for an instant in that direction, full of bewilderment and compassion, but, still, with obvious respect for the established authority! Then, without looking again at that enormous house of punishment, she burrowed into the back of the carriage.

  The Three of Us Arrive

  During the last stretch of the journey, a subtle interest began to prick at me: in fact, this was the first time in many years that the Casa dei Guaglioni had received a woman, and my incredulity was toying with a certain curious anticipation. What would happen when, very soon, we crossed the threshold with her? I almost began to expect some mysterious warning sign, the walls shaking violently . . . but really nothing happened. As usual, I found under a rock, where I had placed it before going out, the key to the entrance door, which opened obediently; and, a little damp from the drive in the open air, we entered the quiet castle of the Geraces. The house was deserted (as usual, Costante had returned to his farm at midday), and my father preceded us through the icy, silent rooms, opening doors and windows as always upon arrival. Some doors banged, shut by the north wind, which had risen and cleared the sky to infinity.

  The bride advanced through the rooms as if she were visiting a church: I think that, in her existence, she had never seen a dwelling as imposing as ours. More than all the rest, however, the kitchen impressed her. It seemed that such a large room, equipped with so many burners, and used only for cooking, was an extraordinary marvel to her. Yet she wanted to let us know that a lady, an acquaintance of her sister, also had a kitchen in her house, where she went only to cook and to eat: of course, however, it wasn’t as big as ours. At that speech, my father laughed in the bride’s face, and, speaking to me, explained that in her girlhood home in Naples, where she lived with her whole family, the kitchen was only a burner on a tripod, which in winter was lighted inside, on the floor, and in summer in the street, in front of the door. They even made the pasta in the bedroom, and hung it to dry on the bars of the bed.

  The bride, listening to my father’s explanations, gazed at us with her big eyes and said nothing. “And she,” he continued in the same tone of mockery and pity, “knows how to do only these three things: make pasta, take head lice out of her mother’s hair, and say the Hail Mary and the Our Father.”

  Here she appeared confused, and gave my father a little nudge with her elbow, as if to ask him not to continue, because she was ashamed. My father eyed her as if she had no importance, with a repressed laugh. “Starting today, though,” he added, with an air of boasting, “she’s a great lady: Signora Gerace, the mistress of all Procida.” Then, taking me by surprise, he asked me an unexpected question:

  “By the way, moro, you, when you speak to her, to this bride, what are you going to call her? You have to come to some agreement.” (Moro, dark-haired kid, was what he called me.)

  I stayed on guard, and kept my mouth shut, frowning and proud. She looked at me timidly, finally smiled, and with much blushing, lowering her eyes, answered my father in my place:

  “He never knew his mother, poor boy. I feel like a mother to him. Tell him he can call me Ma and I’ll be happy.”

  This was really the boldest, most insulting provocation that the two of them could make! My face must have expressed a revolt so savage that I impressed even my father. He said in an indifferent, almost lightly mocking tone:

  “Nothing to do about it. He doesn’t want to call you Ma. Well, kid, call her what you like, call her by her name, Nunziata, or Nunziatella.”

  (Instead, not only that day but later, too, I avoided calling her by her name. If I wanted to speak to her, or get her attention, I’d say, listen, say, you, or even whistled. But that name, Nunziata, Nunziatella, I had no wish to utter.)

  At my father’s words, the bride raised her eyelids. Little by little, the blush receded from her face, leaving her, it seemed to me, paler than before, and so intimidated that I seemed to see her tremble. And yet she had displayed a certain audacity in proposing that I call her Ma. Haughty and contemptuous, I stared at her: wrapped in the large black shawl, with those big eyes, she looked like an owl, who never sees the sun; she had a face of wax, like the moon! And who knows what important secrets she kept in that purse of torn, mangy leather: since I’d seen her arrive on the dock, until now, she hadn’t let go of it for a second, and she held it closed with her fingers, as if fearing an attack by bandits!

  While I considered her in this way, the bride said nothing, seeming to lack even the courage to breathe. Then, suddenly, realizing that I was looking at her, she answered my stormy gaze with a spontaneous smile, which again brought a fleeting color to her cheeks. And as if to consecrate, from that moment, our family, she said with a kind of solemnity,
pointing to one after the other, with her red, rough little hand:

  “Then this is Vilèlm, this is Arturo, and this is Nunziata.”

  My father had leaned against the marble edge of the sink, and was almost sitting there, one foot dangling and the other on the floor, in an indolent, distracted position. His half-lowered eyelids allowed a glimpse of the dark blue of his eyes, like the color of water muddied by winter, in certain hidden caves where no boat can enter. His thin hands, with the long, neglected nails, were clasped idly. And his hair, at that moment of the light, was all mixed with gold.

  The bride seemed to wonder if now, here in the kitchen, we could consider that we had arrived at our house and her honeymoon was over. At first she interrogated my father with her eyes; but since just then he was paying no attention to her, she made up her mind and resolutely took off the high-heeled shoes. Evidently, she couldn’t wait to be free of them. With great respect she placed them on a chair, and I never again saw them on her. She kept them hidden, like sacred treasures, along with other ornaments from her trousseau that she never used.

  I was pleased to see her become shorter, without those high heels: now the difference in our height, which was so humiliating to me, seemed almost negligible. Over her long silk stockings she wore short, dark wool socks, much darned; her feet were small, but stubby and not very shapely; her ankles were rather thick, and her legs still had an almost childish roughness.

  After the shoes, she took off the shawl, which was wrapped around her head and fastened under her chin by a pin, and her hair appeared, pulled up, and bound with a quantity of combs, barrettes, and hairpins. This revived my father’s attention, and he began to laugh. “What have you done!” he said to her. “You’ve put up your hair! It was your mamma! No, I don’t like it. Anyway, it’s obvious just the same that you’re not a grown woman. Come here, I want to make you pretty again, the way I like you.”

  She looked at us, submissive but hesitant, and because of this hesitation my father’s desire became stronger. With unexpected, violent animation, he called her over again. Then I could see the enormous fear she had of him: it was as if she had to face an armed bandit, and she stood there, struggling between obedience and disobedience, unable to decide which of the two frightened her more. In one step my father reached her and grabbed her: she trembled, with a wild expression, as if he had seized her in order to beat her.

  In Western Light

  Meanwhile, my father, laughing, tore off clips and combs, and mussed up her hair with both hands, as the little combs and hairpins fell everywhere. A grand black head of hair, all natural curls and ringlets, like the fur of a wild animal, fell in disarray around her face, down to her shoulders. Her face became shadowy and almost arrogant, and her eyes were alight with bright tears. But she didn’t dare escape from my father; only, when he had finished messing up her hair, she shook her head hard, in an action you sometimes see in horses, or even cats.

  I looked curiously at all those curls, partly because I remembered a certain remark made a few minutes earlier by my father, but he guessed my suspicion and said:

  “What do you imagine, Arturo? No, no: they deloused her thoroughly for her wedding.”

  He held her by the skirt, but she didn’t even try to flee. With one hand she clasped her precious purse, hiding it slightly behind her hip, to protect it from my father’s violence, and she remained docile, between the two of us, in front of the glass door. Now her irises, which in the shadowy light were so black, revealed various streaks, like rooster feathers, whereas the circle that outlined the irises was really as black as a mulberry, like velvet trim. And around it the white of the eye preserved a violet-blue tint, as in small creatures.

  Her cheeks were full and round, as in those faces that haven’t yet assumed the precise shape of youth. And her lips, slightly cracked by the cold, resembled some small red fruits (always slightly gnawed by the squirrels or the wild rabbits) that grow on Vivara.

  Now, when I saw her for the first time in brighter light, her face looked even younger than it had earlier, on the dock. If her body, which was tall and developed, hadn’t denied it, one would have thought, seeing her, that she was still a child. Her skin was clear, pure, and smooth, as if even the towel with which she dried her face had been careful not to damage it. Being a woman, she had surely spent her whole life shut up inside: even on her forehead, and around the eyes, where the rest of us, accustomed to the sun, always have some wrinkles or spots, she had no mark. Her temples were of an almost transparent whiteness: and in the hollows under the eyes the smooth, untouched white skin resembled those delicate petals that, once opened, do not last even a day, and darken as soon as you pick the flower.

  Her neck, under that great head of hair, seemed very thin, but from the throat to the chin there was a broad, tender curve. There the skin was of an even whiter color than her face; and now, nearby, a black curl had fallen. Two longer curling locks touched one shoulder, and behind the nape, almost under her ear, some short curls sprouted, like a goat’s. Big heavy curls covered her forehead to the eyebrows; while on her temple she had a light, fine short curl that moved at every breath.

  Her hair seemed to have grown capriciously, following fancy. For me, who had never seen such curls and ringlets before, it was entertainment to observe them; but for her, used to them since she was a child, they must have seemed ordinary, something natural. She wrapped one around a finger, to hide the extreme agitation into which my father had thrown her; and soon afterward, ashamed of being so disheveled, with her hand she casually pushed the hair away from her face. Then her ears were exposed, which were small and shapely, and had a rosy tint that distinguished them from the whiteness of her face and neck. As is customary among women, the lobes were pierced; and in them she wore two small circles of gold, the kind that girls receive as a gift from their godmother when they’re baptized.

  While instinctively she smoothed her hair, she still couldn’t free herself from her mysterious fear, and, near my father, she had an uneasy expression of alarm. My father violently shook the edge of the skirt he was holding, and let it go. In a petulant, hostile tone, he declared, “I chose a curly-haired fiancée, and I want a curly-haired wife.” She answered, in a meek and trembling voice:

  “But I’m not angry, if you took my hair down. Tell me your wish, and I’ll do what you want.”

  “And what are you hiding there?” my father said to her. “Come on, show us your jewels.”

  And with an aggressive laugh he snatched the famous purse from her hands, spilling out onto the table everything it contained. It really was jewels! A pile of bracelets, pins, necklaces, almost all given to her by my father during the engagement. I didn’t know much about such things, and thought, at first, that they were real gold, real topazes, rubies, pearls, and diamonds. Instead they were fake trinkets, bought at fairs or from peddlers’ carts. My father had won her with pieces of glass, like a savage.

  The only objects of value in that pile were some branches of coral and a small silver ring, with a Madonna engraved on it, which her godmother had given her at her confirmation, and which no longer fit.

  (She never wore any of this jewelry: she kept it hidden in the wardrobe, with religious adoration. She never wore anything but the earrings from her godmother, a silver medallion with the Sacred Heart, which hung on a thin string, and her wedding ring: but these for her weren’t even jewels, they were part of her body, like the curls.)

  For a while my father amused himself by playing idly with the jewels, then he got tired of it, and left the bride in peace. Drawn by the fine weather that had returned, he told us to wait for him, and he went out toward the edge of the yard to look at the sea. Then the bride, who was standing apart, in a corner, came over again to the table where the jewelry was, like a defenseless wild beast who, as soon as the threat grows distant, comes out of her forest lair.

  The glass door was open: and the grand sunset over the sea, cleared by the wind, lighted up the whole kitc
hen with the last colors of the sun: even the waves of the high sea, down below, threw back on the whitewashed wall their quivering reflection, which gradually faded. Still alarmed, and standing motionless near the jewelry with a jealous expression, she seemed like a swallow or a dove hovering near its nest of little eggs. In the end, making up her mind, she almost furiously piled up all the jewels and put them back in the purse, with a sigh of comfort. Then she got down on the floor and, moving here and there on her knees like an animal, with the hair falling in her face, began to gather in her lap the combs and hairpins. My duty, as a man, should have been to help her: I wasn’t ignorant, and I knew it. But recalling that on the dock, not long before, she hadn’t trusted me to carry the purse, I remained scornfully in my place.

  When she finished, she stood up again, and dumped combs and hairpins on the chair, near the high-heeled shoes. Then she shook her hair back and gave me a small smile of friendship. I looked at her harshly. And she stopped smiling, but didn’t seem offended. Her lashes were still wet with those earlier childish, mysterious tears: but in her eyes the wetness of the tears didn’t seem bitter and burning, as with the rest of us: it seemed like a suspended vapor that sparkles as it plays with irises and pupils. And her gaze, submissive but very frank, and full of dignity, and always illumined by joy and a kind of prayerfulness, reminded me of someone . . . that’s who! Immacolatella! She had a similar gaze, as if she could always see the miraculous God.

  I sat on the doorstep to wait for my father. That part of the house was sheltered from the north wind, and the sun lingered there before setting, affording some warmth. Soon afterward, she, too, came and sat on the step next to me, and began to untangle her hair as well as she could with one of those toothless little combs she had picked up. You could hear the sea pounding on my beach and every so often the whistle of the north wind over the island. I was mute. She said: