Accabadora (7 page)

ON THE DAY OF BONACATTA'S WEDDING TWO TERRIBLE
things happened besides the wedding itself. First, Maria did something she had promised not to do. While everyone else was busy dressing the bride and doing her hair, she went into her mother's bedroom. The shutters were closed but, even in the semi-darkness, she could make out the shapes under the white cloths spread over the baskets on the bed that contained the bread freshly baked that morning. The two-tone Formica wardrobe covered a whole wall, and the oval mirror on the door in the middle of it glared out at the whole room like the eye of a Cyclops. Maria knew she had very little time. Carefully she lifted the white cloths one by one and searched the bread-baskets until she found what she was looking for, a hamper arranged right under the mirror.

Perfectly circular and decorated with little doves and flowers, her sister's nuptial loaf seemed finer and more beautiful
than when she had last seen it on the baking shovel: a filigree of flour and water, the achievement of an artistry granted to few women. Maria had not been allowed to help her mother and Bonacatta prepare it, and even the simple act of looking at it in secret was a violation with possible consequences that filled her blood with a rush of heat, spiced by the good strong smell with which the room was pregnant. She had no ulterior motive in wanting to look at the loaf, beyond the desire with which those who visit an exhibition of famous pictures buy the ticket which confirms the fact that they will never be able to own them. But as she bent to take a closer look at the bread her eyes fell on the mirror, which showed her not only the bread but also herself.

She could hear the subdued chatter of those dressing the bride deep within the house, but to Maria the scent of the bread was far more powerful than any sound. Sinfully imagining herself in the eyes of another woman's man, she stood up and studied herself without understanding. The bride of the day was not Bonacatta but the self she saw in the mirror, because in that mysterious world of reflections the bridegroom's gaze had fallen on her face like a hand grasping a fragrant
amaretto
. But the little girl in the mirror was not yet ready be a bride: her immature breasts pressed so weakly against the shirt with its faded flowers that not even the thin material could make anything of them. Impulsively, she unbuttoned her shirt in a feverish search for a fuller femininity; but all she could see was the soft and still childish quality of her skin, and the little baptismal chain shining against it as incongruously as a golden wound. She followed the tentative curve of her naked breast to its tiny extremity then stopped, disappointed that nothing
more ample was visible. Her disappointment blinded her to her slender but genuine grace; all she could see through the transparent skin over her ribs was a feeble approximation at being female.

It was to remedy this discourtesy on the part of time that she turned back to the basket at her feet, her attention drawn once more to the special bread for the bridal couple; she was aware that this bread ring was even more important than the rings for their fingers, destined though it was first for the offertory and then for an eternity behind glass, hung on the wall after being sprayed with wood-polish against woodworm and mould. Fully aware of its importance she lifted it with great care and lowered it slowly on to her head, where it fitted as closely as if specially made for her. In the mirror she was beautiful at last, a bread queen celebrated in the forbidden smell of a silent coronation. But even as she smiled, the sound of footsteps in the corridor made her turn in alarm. Or perhaps she was frightened by the inappropriate weight of that malevolent bread, an ornament for a day that was not her own.

Unfortunately her first thought was for her naked breast. As she clumsily tried to ward off approaching danger by searching for the edges of her open shirt, she lurched forward and felt the crown beginning to slip from her head. Her fingers were too slow to save her from disaster, and the bread that was intended to bring good fortune hit the floor with a crisp snap like a breaking of bones. Even so, if this had been all that was lost on the day of Bonacatta's wedding, it would not have been too serious.

What Anna Teresa Listru saw when she opened the door to collect the baskets of bread was nothing but her youngest
daughter standing bare-breasted before the wardrobe mirror. And what the bridegroom's mother saw as she came to help was only the
fill'e anima
of Bonaria Urrai standing alone among the covered bread-baskets like an ancient menhir on the June hills. And all that Bonacatta saw, coming up behind them dressed in white, was her nuptial bread in pieces spread over the wine-red tiles of her mother's bedroom floor. None of the women involved in this disaster of reflections was fully aware of Maria, and in that collective blindness lay her only consolation, the only form of intimacy open to her within the walls of that house. As things turned out, the wedding went ahead just the same with very little sense of any bad omens; while Bonacatta wept in desperation, the bread was temporarily stuck back together with white of egg and put into the warm oven for a few minutes, just long enough for it to play its part in the offertory during the wedding service. Maria was declared to have suffered a sudden indisposition which prevented her from being present in the church and, apart from the younger son of the Bastíu family, the only people who might have had any reason to regret her absence knew how things were and kept quiet. When she got home it was already more than an hour after dark, but Bonaria Urrai was not there.

The journey in the motorcycle sidecar, an ancient model from just after the war that had stubbornly survived on the potholed roads of the Soreni countryside, was short and extremely bumpy. The accabadora was in the passenger seat, and the man who had come to fetch her from her house made no effort whatever at any sort of conversation. When they reached the
farm deep in the countryside, the old woman got out quickly. Two dogs had already announced their arrival by barking furiously, and the young woman in a dark coat at the door had clearly already been waiting for them for several minutes. The damaged plaster on the corner of the façade most exposed to the mistral revealed indistinctly the rough outlines of bricks made from raw clay, while the moon shining from a clear sky made it possible to discern on the threshing-floor a small brick building with an asbestos roof, probably a henhouse. The windows of the main house were shuttered, giving the impression that it was uninhabited. But this was not the case.

“Thank you for coming,” the woman said, conventionally polite.

The
accabadora
merely nodded and pulled her shawl more tightly round herself, unwilling to stay longer than strictly necessary. They went into the house, leaving the dogs outside to guard the motorcycle. Inside six people were waiting, a whole family assembled round a bare table; at her entry they rose to their feet as if in answer to a roll-call. In addition to the man who had brought her, the husband of the woman who had opened the door, two other men of between thirty and forty inclined their heads as a sign of respect; near the fireplace there were also two little girls in pyjamas, with the sleepy eyes of children who would normally have long been asleep at that hour. The younger was holding a ragdoll dog that must have once been white. Quickly deciding who was in charge, the
accabadora
spoke.

“Where is he?”

The woman indicated with her eyes a wooden door at one side of the room, half hidden by an ancient dresser.

“In there, we only ever move him for his sores now.”

The woman set off, followed in silence by the others in procession.

The only lighting in the bedroom was the lamp on the bedside table, which cast shapeless shadows on the skeletal head of the old man lying under the covers with his head supported by two pillows. He seemed to be asleep.

“How long has he been like this?” the
accabadora
said, approaching the bed while the others spontaneously arranged themselves round them.

“Eight months next week. But two years in all, including the time when we could still have him sitting up.”

The woman was the only one who spoke, occasionally exchanging a glance with her husband and brothers. The
accabadora
fixed her with her dark eyes.

“Has he asked for me?”

The other shook her head several times, avoiding her gaze as if on the brink of tears.

“No, he hasn't spoken for weeks.” Then she said, “But I do understand my father.”

Apparently satisfied with this answer, the
accabadora
reached out from her black shawl and lightly touched the old man's bony forehead. At her touch he opened his eyes, silently fixing her with his faded pupils.

“Have you removed his benedictions?”

“All of them. We've also checked the pillows and the mattress. We've even taken off his baptismal medal. There's nothing left to hold him here.” There was something feverish about the woman's voice as she listed the objects. “And we've put the yoke on him too.”

She went to the bed and slipped her hand under the pillow, taking out a small piece of soft wood roughly carved in the shape of a yoke for oxen. The
accabadora
examined this, then looked again at the elderly figure lying on the bed. When she spoke again it was to issue a peremptory command.

“Leave the room, all of you.”

None of the men showed any inclination to disobey her. But the woman of the house made no sign of moving, so the old woman stared at her. Reluctantly, the woman too left the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind her.

Alone with the old man, the
accabadora
examined him. The wide-open eyes of Tziu Jusepi Vargiu had the irreversible immobility of broken things. Bonaria took hold of his skinny hand, carefully feeling his wrist and forearm, and something in this contact made her wince. The old man gave a hoarse cry.

“So they've called you at last . . .”

With a skeletal grip he drew the hand of the
accabadora
closer, forcing the tall dark figure to bend over him. Weak though he was, the old man's whisper was not lost in the folds of her shawl, and Bonaria Urrai could hear him perfectly. Outside, the family were saying prayers as they waited, but it did not even take the
accabadora
the time she would have needed for a
Pater ave gloria
before she was out of the old man's room, deliberately leaving the door open behind her. The family rose to their feet again. But when Bonaria Urrai turned to the woman and her husband, they must have been sorry they had not been born deaf.

“Antonia Vargiu, for calling me out for no good reason, I curse all present.”

She had never before in all those years been forced to speak
these words but, now that she needed them, they came to her as naturally as her breath.

“For having lied to me by telling me he could not speak, may all your children be cursed, those you already have and those yet unborn.”

“No!” the woman cried out, trying to interrupt her, while the others drew back, muttering exorcisms in subdued voices. “He was dying . . . even the doctor said so!”

The
accabadora
did not moderate her expression or her tone.

“You know perfectly well your father is not dying, and isn't even near to death. You would do better to give him something to eat. If he dies of hunger, may you never sleep again.”

The little girl with the ragdoll dog burst into tears, but none of the grown-ups tried to comfort her. The
accabadora
left the house without another word. When, less than an hour later, the motor-cycle stopped again in front of her home, Maria was still awake and in utter despair.

“Where were you? I was so worried!”

“I was out.”

“Even I knew that, Tzia. Who was that man?”

“No-one you know, Maria. And you shouldn't be awake at this hour either, it's Monday tomorrow.”

The girl was suddenly angry, and made no effort to hide her anger from the old woman.

“What do I care about school? Where were you?”

Bonaria Urrai, still covered with dust from her journey over the potholes, could not hide her disbelief at this tone of voice.

“I'm not obliged to account to you for where I go, Maria Listru. Or have you become the adult, and am I now the child?”

This sharp riposte was not quite enough to put the girl in her
place. She burst out once more:

“I may be little, but surely I have a right to know what's what at home? It's after midnight, and I haven't eaten because I was waiting for you.”

“Oh, so now the worm has turned. Did your sister's wedding fill your stomach too full for you to feed yourself?”

Maria made no reply, but just stared at the face of the old seamstress with her black shawl still wrapped round her as if to shield her from the non-existent cold of the warm May night. Bonaria Urrai realized Maria's silence was full of unsaid things and stared at her in her turn. She slipped off the shawl.

“Tell me what happened,” she said.

That night no one slept: not the Listrus who had good reason to celebrate, nor the Vargius whose reason for celebrating had been snatched from them, nor the two women in the house of Taniei Urrai, sitting with their arms round each other in front of the fireplace as they talked until dawn about a broken loaf of bread and a broken love. It was only when it was already morning and Maria was getting into bed that she remembered that other time Bonaria had gone out at night, five years before when Giacomo Littorra died. She seemed to be thinking in a dreamy underwater confusion of childhood memories, until finally she fell asleep exhausted. But one good thing did come out of all this: she never again needed to invent an excuse for not going to help her mother to bake bread.