Solitaria (24 page)

I could feel myself gasping for air. I wrestled my arm away from Domenica, and scratched, panicked, until I ripped the skin open.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

I stood up abruptly, and both Domenica and Sandro tried to hold me back, but I pushed past them, and stepped in front of and over people's feet to get out of the pew. I felt a sense of urgency, as if I were trapped and would soon be free.

Indulgentiam, absolutionem, et remissionem peccatorum nostrorum tribuat nobis omnipotens et misericors Dominus
.

The priest's voice rose and fell in a Latin sing-song, and though I was not the least bit aware of what he was saying, the sound became a soothing chant urging me forward. The confessional loomed immediately in front of me. I stepped in, sat down, and quickly pulled the curtain across in a gesture that must have made me look pious and repentant. In the darkness, I fumbled in my purse for the methedrine.

A window opened in the wall beside me, and through the screen, a priest said, “
Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
.” He continued a monologue about God's goodness, and my state of disgrace, while I injected myself in the thigh, not the least bit concerned about God's wrath or sins or confessions. I sat back, silent, panting, while the methedrine coursed through me.

“Thank you, Father,” I said, before leaving. The itch had stopped and I felt invigorated. I returned to my place between Sandro and Domenica, and sat, calm, for the rest of the service.

Up until now, Sandro had looked the other way, probably because it was better to have me functioning on medication than to see me in chronic pain. When we returned home this Easter Sunday, however, he launched into a prolonged reprimand which began with the fact that I had humiliated him in the church, getting up like that, then not speaking to the priest, who had approached him about it in the vestibule. Didn't I ever wonder what people would think? Didn't I realize what kind of an impression I was making, and how this impression would cast an unfavourable reflection on him and Domenica? He went on in this particular vein for a while, then moved on to my drug addiction, which surprised me more than anything, because he had never before spoken to me about it. Domenica stood by, rubbing her hands, trying to calm Sandro and keep the housekeeper out of hearing range. I listened impassively, because all these things did not matter to me. Rather, I was pondering how soon after this lecture I could leave the house, and who I could call to get more methedrine, because there surely would not be a pharmacy open on Easter Sunday.

“Look, I've kept this letter from Aldo. He has always wanted what's best for me.”

My dear Piera,

I am worried about you, because you have not written for months. Sandro says you have not been well. Are you all right now? Papà sent us a nice letter, but he did not tell us much about you or the family.

I have finished my articling in Bologna, and have been asked to be a partner in the law firm. You can be proud of me, Piera. I know how important education has always been to you.

And now a surprise. Clarissa is coming to visit this month. We have been writing, and we both think it would be marvellous if you would come and visit too. I'm sure Sandro would do without you for a few days.

Piera dear, I think that the northern air may do you good.

I hope you will consider this invitation. Please, think about it seriously and let me know as soon as possible.

All my love,

Aldo

‡
August 1955. Bologna, Italy.
I understood immediately that Aldo and Clarissa had been told about my methedrine addiction and were determined to get me off it; nevertheless, I agreed to go. Sandro accompanied me on the train, and even then, when I knew the purpose of this trip, I sneaked needles into the washroom, and plunged them into my thighs and my feet. I had stashed methedrine everywhere in my clothes, my bra, my panties.

We arrived at the station in Bologna in late afternoon, the sun bright. I had fallen asleep on Sandro's shoulder for the last couple of hours of the journey, and my clothes felt wrinkled and damp against me.

“Are you all right?” he said gently, helping me out of our seat.

I nodded, though I didn't feel all right. I needed to find a washroom. Sandro pulled down my suitcases, and pushed me ahead of him down the aisle.

“Do you have to go?” I asked, though I knew he was very busy this time of year, and we had agreed that he would return to Belisolano on the next train.

He reached down and kissed my cheek “You'll be fine, Piera,” he said. “Aldo and Clarissa will keep you busy.” He smiled. “You'll hardly have time to think about me.”

“How cruel you are,” I said, but I took his hand and squeezed it lightly.

Then we were on the platform, and Clarissa was walking toward me, all smiles, her hair tinted auburn, her crimson lips saying, “Piera! Piera,” in a delighted tone of voice that warmed me. She was wearing a green tweed fitted suit and dark green pumps. Behind her, Aldo waved. What joy. As if I were returning from a long journey abroad to my loved ones. Clarissa embraced me long and hard. When she pulled away, both our eyes were wet.

Then Aldo stepped forward and embraced me as if I were porcelain, which made me wonder what Sandro had written them.

We put my suitcases in the car, then went into a restaurant nearby to wait until Sandro's train was to leave in less than an hour. Once seated, a knot began in my stomach. Partly it was the fear of being left alone. I slipped my hand into Sandro's and whispered, “But must you go, really?”

He shook his head, as an adult does to a child who continuously asks the same question.

I excused myself and went to the bathroom, where I injected myself in the foot.

By the time Sandro boarded, I was calm and indifferent to his leaving. The sun felt too bright in my eyes, so I took my sunglasses out of my purse and put them on. Clarissa must have assumed that I was crying and overcome with grief, because she reached out and patted my back in a reassuring way. I waved gaily to Sandro as the train moved out of the station.

Clarissa leaned into me and asked, “Are you still using those medicines?”

“Sometimes,” I lied. I tried to compose myself, to appear more unhappy, more as I had been when I got off the train.

While we walked to the car, I invented a proper story to tell them. It was a blessing, I thought, that Sandro had not changed his mind and stayed. Later, I explained to them that I had indeed been addicted to morphine, but that now, my doctor had been giving me methedrine to wean me off it. In fact, I said, I was almost out of it, and would need more soon.

They had no reason to disbelieve me. I, who Clarissa knew would never lie. And so, I counted on this, and Aldo said he'd get me the drug.

They were not stupid, however, and Sandro had had plenty of opportunity to speak to them privately. That night, Aldo slept in the spare room, while Clarissa and I shared his larger bed. She watched me incessantly, following me even to the bathroom. I had to give myself an injection through my nightgown.

I thought I was being so clever, but I had been taking drugs for about two years now, and I no longer realized that I was not myself, that I existed in a painless, sexless, timeless state. I had become this other person who was my opposite: instead of being responsible, sensible, and caring for others, I had become devoid of all emotion.

On the third day of my stay, Clarissa and Aldo sat me down and told me that they knew I was sneaking injections, and that they had come up with a plan to help me. Of course, they had no real experience in this area. They decided that it would be better for me to take belladonna instead of the methedrine injections.

I agreed because I had no choice. They gave me a bottle and told me to take ten drops or so. I did as told, then fell asleep. When I awakened, I didn't know how much time had passed. I stumbled to my window and looked outside. The sky was black, no moon, and the air still. I could see my family lined up in front of me, their faces pressed to the window, their voices accusatory.
Piera, save me
, Daniela cried.
Piera, why did you have to leave?
I said, No, I did it for you, but she couldn't hear me;
I thought you loved me,
Vito said. I did, I do. I didn't know. Forgive me; Mamma's tongue wagged,
How could you take all those drugs and let us all down
? I tried to explain about the pain, but she turned away; Clarissa's scorn was evident in her eyes;
It's all your fault
, Renato said.
All your fault
. Even Papà, whom I loved so dearly, shook his head in bitter disappointment. I took some more belladonna drops to stop their voices. I slept, and when I awakened, they were still there, still pressing. Duty. Duty. Duty. I took ten more drops, until by morning I'd swallowed the contents of the entire bottle.

I awakened strapped into a hospital bed, in terrible pain, suffering from methedrine withdrawal and belladonna poisoning. The doctors and nurses loomed over me with the faces and bodies of hideous beasts, their hands brutal, their voices demonic. I was convinced they were not doctors and nurses, but lunatic impostors who had escaped from an asylum. I screamed each time they came near me.

Now and then, Clarissa's face would float in front of me, and for a moment, I'd see the two of us innocent in Locorotondo, walking up the hill in winter, holding hands, the sky, the earth, the air — all so beautiful, I felt my heart would burst. Then, just as quickly, this unbearable beauty would become the most intense anguish. All around me, familiar objects came alive in a furtive existence only I could see: the bars of my bed began to writhe; my pillow sighed; the hair on my arm spelled out incomprehensible words. My nose ran, my eyes watered, I sneezed and gasped for breath. I vomited, over and over.

For eight days and nine nights, I remained in that psychiatric hospital bed, screaming in pain, vomiting, hardly drinking anything. Sandro arrived from Belisolano.

Nurses and doctors came and went. I heard them say, “What a shame, so young. But why doesn't she want to live?” I kept screaming, and finally someone gave me a shot of morphine and called a doctor.

“These artificial means don't help anything,” the doctor told me. “We want to cure you.” He explained that he would prescribe something that would detoxify me — I'm not sure what it was, perhaps apomorphine. He told me that each night, before I went to sleep, they would give me one injection. This helped immensely. It didn't completely eliminate the symptoms of withdrawal, but it did make them tolerable. Sandro came up to see me often, sometimes staying for several days. I took great comfort in his presence, his fortitude. We decided that once I was detoxified, it would be best for me to recuperate for a few weeks with Clarissa and Aldo at the seaside, away from the familiar haunts where I had indulged my addiction.

We went by bus, Sandro, Aldo, Clarissa, and I. In Fregene, I walked up and down the beach — five kilometres a day in the fresh air, and after a week, I felt much better. Once they were all satisfied that I was much improved, Sandro returned to Belisolano, and Clarissa to America. Aldo had rented the house for the summer, so I talked him into going back to work, while I remained a little longer. I wanted some time to myself, to think, to reflect on my near death.

This program, via satellite, is seen simultaneously in all the countries of Europe and the Mediterranean basin.

Our answering machine receives approximately 40,000 responses a year.

August 7, 2002

Update

(Episode of July 17, 2002)

Aldo Santoro has identified the property where his brother, Vito Salvatore Santoro, was murdered as one that he rented for the summer of 1955. “I hadn't seen the original program,” he said, when questioned as to why he hadn't come forward sooner. “It was only when I saw the episode of July 31
st
that I recognized the house.”

Mr. Vito Santoro's murder remains a mystery. The family had assumed that he was living in Argentina, and thus have never declared him missing.

Police are hoping someone will come forward who knew Mr. Santoro during the summer of 1955, and/or particularly anyone who remembers him in Fregene during that time.

If you have any information regarding this victim, as well as any information regarding the circumstances of his death, please call the number at the bottom of your screen.

Belisolano, Italy/en route August 7–8, 2002

After supper, everyone disperses, leaving David and Teresa at the table.

“Would you like some coffee?” Teresa asks, though no one here drinks coffee at night.

He shakes his head. At home, he'd drink decaffeinated coffee, but asking for that here in Italy is close to blasphemy.

“There you are,” Oriana says from the doorway. She's wearing a light jacket and carrying the camcorder.

“Are you going somewhere?” Teresa asks. “It's late. This is a small town, you know. People talk.”

“I have to get back to Rome,” Oriana says. She holds up her cellphone as proof. “I've booked an overnight train.” She looks at her watch. “Marco's taking me to Bari soon. I've already said my goodbyes, even to Zia Piera with the door between us.”

David stares at her, trying to decipher whether or not she's telling the truth. He'd like her to stay, although she is wearing an indifferent mask now, as if without the camera, she is someone else. “What about your family documentary?” he says.

“That's exactly why I'm here,” she says. She walks into the room, sets the camcorder on the table. “You'll have to record the ending. Promise me you'll record the ending.”

He shakes his head. “And if I don't?”

“What are you afraid of?” she says, crossing her arms.

He raps his fingers on the table in a rhythmic pattern, his chest a mixture of longing and anxiety. “I could ask you the same question,” he says.

They stare at each other for a moment, then Oriana shrugs. “See you in Rome sometime, Canadian cousin.” She kisses Teresa on both cheeks, and touches David's arm.

“Have a good trip,” he says unenthusiastically.

When the door closes, David feels as if the air has been taken out of the room. He sighs. Teresa wipes counters as if nothing has happened.

David fingers the camcorder, but he knows he'll never use it. He is trying to get closer, not further away. He thinks about Zia Piera, her mode of escapes. “Where does Zia Piera get her tranquillizer drops?” he asks.

Teresa shrugs. “Her bedside table.”

“Where does she get them?” David asks. “Surely doctors don't prescribe over the phone?”

Teresa laughs. “There isn't a doctor in this town who'd come up here to see her. Of course, they prescribe whatever she wants over the phone. Keep her happy. Keep her quiet. Keep themselves calm.”

“That's not right,” he says. “Why isn't anyone trying to help her?”

Teresa leans in the doorway and eyes him. “You come in here for a couple of weeks and you think you know everything about her, huh? Well, let me tell you, you haven't scratched the surface.” She crosses her arms. “What's more,” she says, with an ironic smile, “if you stayed here long enough, she'd find your weak spots and humiliate you too. It's the way she is.”

They watch the
Chi L'Ha Visto
broadcast, then David excuses himself and goes upstairs, where he surprises Piera in the kitchen.

“I was getting myself some soup,” she says. The television is on. “What can I get you?”

“Nothing.” David watches her, perplexed. It's as if she has changed into someone else. She is pacing the kitchen, like the Zia Piera of his youth.

“Go get me a cigarette, would you?” she says, and when she sees his expression, she raises one eyebrow. “And don't lecture me about it,” she says. “I've come this far and it hasn't killed me yet.”

He goes to her room and returns with the pack. She slides one out and lights it, all the while pacing.

“Listen,” she says, standing still.

“What?”

“Exactly,” she says. “There's no one. All my life for them, and now…” She dips a spoon into the soup bubbling on the stove, and stirs furiously.

“Why did you never remarry?” David asks.

“I couldn't.”

“But you were young,” he says.

“There are so many things you don't understand.” She sighs. “Sandro was a saint,” she says. “You never knew him. But you were there for his funeral. You and Clarissa. Do you remember?” She pours the soup into a bowl and sits across from him at the table.

He shakes his head. “Was I? When was this?”

“In the spring of 1958,” she says. “You were a baby. I remember it as if it were yesterday. Sandro had been complaining of shooting pains in his lower back and legs, and suddenly he died. We were disbelieving. How could this happen? I felt as if my heart would burst with all I hadn't told him, all the kisses and caresses I hadn't given him. All I could recall were my harsh words, or the moments I'd turned my back to his suffering. I couldn't eat; I couldn't sleep. I telegraphed Clarissa who, to her credit, immediately came home to be with me, and to help me with the funeral arrangements, which Domenica could not handle.

“Sandro was laid out in the middle of the living room. The entire town filed through our house, a concert of moans and wails, a commingling of tears. White lilies spilled out of vases in all the rooms, permeating the house with the sickly-sweet scent of death. My heart beat erratically. I leaned against a wall while strangers touched my hand, uttered sympathies, and in the midst of it, my old suitor, Cesare, who had never married, arrived to pay his respects. His face was sombre, tender. He murmured encouraging words. I watched his lips, and for a mad instant, I wanted to run out the door with him, into another life — the opposite of this one — where I would only experience happiness. Then he moved on, and another face appeared.

“Domenica sat in a chair beside Sandro, her eyes dry, her head bowed, praying. She had been there since he died, refusing all food. I moved to stand near him, incapable of sitting down, incapable of standing still. I couldn't stop crying, although I'd injected myself a couple of times to try to dull the searing pain in my heart. And there, across the room, was Clarissa flirting with Cesare, completely oblivious to my suffering.

“I fainted, and when I came to, I was lying in my own bed, and Clarissa was hovering in the room around me, acting as if nothing had happened. Cruel, cruel Clarissa.

“I told her I'd seen her, asked her to act honourably and responsibly. ‘This is a wake for my beloved Sandro,' I said, ‘not an opportunity for a new lover. What kind of mother are you?'

“Clarissa stared hard at me. ‘Don't you ever follow your heart?”

“‘I follow my duty,' I said. ‘Everything I do, I do for love.'

“‘You're like a broken record,' she said, reached over me to the bedside table, and took a cigarette out of my pack. ‘This great love you do everything for — is it you?'

“I glared at her, then drew a cigarette out myself and lit both of ours. ‘I don't want to argue with you, Clarissa. But I won't have you dishonouring us.'

“‘You're just jealous,' she said. ‘You've always been jealous of me, because your boyfriends chose me over you. I didn't take them away, you know. I didn't have to. They ran to me to get away from you!' She laughed an ugly sound. ‘Are you worried I've come back to take others away from you? Is that it?'

“I reached across to slap her, but she easily moved aside. I felt myself trembling with rage, but I kept my voice steady. ‘May I remind you,' I said, ‘that Sandro is lying in the next room.'

“‘Piera, you're only twenty-eight,' Clarissa said, her voice softening. ‘Don't bury yourself unnecessarily. Why will you not allow yourself some happiness?'

“A gigantic lump swelled in my throat. I swallowed several times. Clarissa sat with me on the bed, her arm around me. Her hair smelled of peaches, her throat of intoxicating perfume. I stared at her beautiful manicured hands, the crimson nail polish that matched her lips, marvelling how different we were. We sat like that for a few moments, silent.

“Then I repeated, ‘Everything I do, I do for love.'”

“You know,” she says now, “all this — everything I'm telling you — it's the truth. Do you understand? Not a truth, not my truth, but
the truth
.”

He says nothing.

“I'm serious about this.” She pushes the soup aside, and lights another cigarette.

David stares out the window. The construction has stopped and a new house is perched above the old one. Already, clothes lines run the length of the roof, and large stone pots are filled with date palms.

“I have to leave soon,” David tells her. “Term begins in September.”

“We're almost done,” she says, dropping her head into her hands and closing her eyes.

He lets her rest like that, sensing a dull despair. Then he, too, closes his eyes.

They sneak out in early morning before anyone is awake. Drive Marco's car to the station and leave it there. David will phone him later to tell him where it is.

In the train, Piera chooses a window seat, although she knows that the Italian name for this train,
Il Pendolino,
means “to be suspended” and thus, to rock. Her stomach is queasy; the espresso swishes from one side to the other. She could trade seats with David, move to an aisle seat, but she wants to gaze out the window at the vast areas of verdant slopes, the plowed fields which sprawl to every horizon, the aqueducts, the stone remains of Roman roads, houses, and walls that, here and there, protrude out of the green, and everywhere, stones, arranged into fences, heaps, walls, roofs. It's been years since she left Belisolano, and she wants to remember everything.

David has been very quiet. He's rereading the last section of that scrapbook, which he insisted on bringing. Now and then, he asks her a question. He seems to understand her need to take this physical journey now that the other is almost finished.

She searches for the circular structures —
specchie
— large mounds of stones as high as eighteen metres, with circular or elliptical bases, dating around the second millennium
BC
. They're cryptic, their name derived from the Latin
speculae
— to observe, to spy. She would like to show David one, to focus him. But she cannot see one, though they are prominent here in Puglia. She wants to show him something mysterious, something whose function is unknown. She wants David to know all about her; she wants to tell him all the mysteries of her life, all the deeds she has performed whose function now escape her. She wants to decipher herself, to speculate on what she might have done, on who she might have been.

Green hills roll past her window. Hidden
specchie
, perhaps, tombs or lookouts.

Trains are inextricably linked to Piera's past. When thinking of her family, instead of a family tree, its branches and roots, Piera imagines them all positioned along miles of track, in small
caselli
with large numbers painted on their sides. From Lecce to Bari, Piera can pinpoint them on a map — her memories apportioned to this
casello
or that, this isolated field, that hillock, this stairway, that church — which to an outsider might appear as an erratic journey with no destination.

Hills roll past; viridian fields and farmhouses; the railway
caselli
loom suddenly, large, inches from the tracks, then disappear. Towns slowly rise and recede. A time-release photo, past, present, and future all visible in a moment of clarity. It makes her feel inconsequential, as if all the energy she has expended on everyone's behalf has been a futile exercise, a menial intervention in a predetermined course. She closes her eyes and thinks of Mamma and Papà, her childhood, Vito, Clarissa, Mimí, and Teresa, the hard cold mountain of whatever lies ahead. It's not true. She has been able to alter the course of their lives, although not always with the desired result. The weight of something dark heaves inches from her.

Vito's face swims up before her eyes, like an apparition out of hell. Vito, her brother who could do monstrous things, despite their parents' teachings. Sorrow swells in her throat. She swallows and stares out the window once more.

“Zia, are you all right?” David asks.

She pats his hand. “Fine, fine.”

A train blurs past, in the opposite direction — a phantom surfacing — then blue sky, and the green meadows of her youth. She can almost see her father bent over a field, Papà, who rose at first light, gathered tobacco leaves, and stacked them into a corner of their two-room house, before going to his job clearing the railroad. She can almost see herself threading the leaves into long garlands that Mamma hung out to dry in the sun. How little they had, yet how marvellous their life seems now, so long after.

In Rome, Piera insists that they go to the Church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin. “I want to show you the Bocca Della Verità,” she tells David.

And soon they're standing in front of the Mouth of Truth, and Piera raises her hand and slips it in. “I never meant to hurt anyone,” she says. “Everything I've done, I've done for love.” She retrieves her hand and smiles at David. “You see? The Bocca never lies.”

“Actually,” David says, “the Bocca doesn't work any more. It hasn't bitten off anyone's hand for centuries.”

“Really?” Piera's eyebrows rise.

“I have a story to tell you for a change,” he says, and proceeds to tells her that once upon a time, there was a jealous husband who believed his wife was being unfaithful. He decided to test her: He gathered a large number of spectators, and asked her to put her hand into the open mouth of the mask and say that she had never been touched by anyone but her husband. Before the wife could do anything, a man leapt out of the crowd and started kissing and embracing the wife. This man was quickly apprehended, but because he was obviously crazy, they let him go. In reality, he was the wife's lover. Thus, when she put her hand in the mouth of justice she said that she had been touched by no one, except her husband and this crazy man. “And so,” he concludes, “her hand was not bitten off, but the Mouth of Truth felt so badly treated that it refused to work any longer.”