Solitaria (5 page)

“Zia Piera,” he says, after he has helped her back to bed. “It's not healthy, this not eating all day, you know.”

“I'm fine,” she says, but sinks back pitifully against the pillows.

“Teresa has made minestrone. Let me call her.”

“No, not her. I don't want to see her. I don't want to talk to anyone,” Piera says, her voice rising hysterically.

“I'll bring it then.”

She closes and reopens her eyes slowly. “She'd be happy if I died.”

“You're not going to die,” David says.

“Or maybe,” she says, “one day that son of hers will come up here and kill me. It's only a matter of time. I've seen it often enough on
TV
— ungrateful children who murder their mothers and fathers and grandmothers and grandfathers to steal money they would have gotten anyway, had they waited. But nobody waits anymore, not for anything. Patience has become a weakness, like illness.”

“Come now,” David says, “enough drama.” He smiles at her, their roles reversed. “Now, I'm going to get you some minestrone, and you can tell me what all this is about.” He steps out, almost tripping over Clarissa and Teresa.

“We were just going to the kitchen,” Teresa says lamely.

David raises his eyebrows at them and follows them into the kitchen, where a stainless steel pot of minestrone is bubbling on the stove, steam rising into the air. Fresh parsley and basil lie on the chopping block beside the sink. The small table is covered by a white tablecloth with tatted edges and has been set for three. In the centre of the table, a stemless yellow rose floats in a glass goblet. David breathes in deeply.

“Well?” Clarissa says.

“Well what?” David says, watching them squirm. “I'm sure you could hear what she said.”

Clarissa sits down and picks up a spoon; turns it over and over in her hand. “We're worried about her,” she says. “Is she ok?”

David shrugs. On the counter, Teresa has already prepared a tray with bowl, cutlery, and napkin. “I'll bring the minestrone when it's ready,” she says.

When David returns to Piera's room, her hair is combed. Beside her bed, a chaise lounge, its pink silk frayed and brittle. He sits, recalls that other time when Zia Piera read him stories from
Il Tesoro
, the thick red encyclopaedia on her lap.

“So, you're still not married,” she says.

“No,” he says. Across from him, on the tall dresser, are two glass domes inside of which are hermetically sealed saints, their eyes cast heavenwards, their hands open in supplication.

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “Life. Time. Distance. Who knows?” Inside one of the domes, a barefoot St. Francis of Assisi leans toward clay birds perched on delicate twigs, row on row, as if they were at a lecture. Inside the other, St. Agnes of Rome holds up a staff while cradling a lamb to her chest. These saints have been a part of this household for two centuries.

“But is there someone you love?” Piera says. “Someone you want to be with?”

He turns to her, startled. “I… maybe,” he says. “I don't know, really. It's hard to say… It's not that easy…” He shrugs.

Piera lies back and stares at the ceiling. “We persevered through everything,” she says, “our happiness earned, every joy paid for with a sacrifice. We all made deals with God for the things we couldn't control — a cow to the church for the baby's recovery from pneumonia; an extra hour of prayer, knees dug into the dirt floor, hands clutched tight around a rosary, for the love of a boy; a mother's life in exchange for the safe return of a son from war. We gave something; we got something. Your generation gives up at the first sign of trouble.”

David walks to the glass doors and lifts the blinds so he can look out. Bernette, he thinks.
Per-severance
.

Teresa knocks at the door, soup in hand, but Piera will not let her or Clarissa into the room. After their footsteps recede, David opens the door and retrieves the soup, which he puts on Piera's bedside table. He fluffs and pounds the pillows behind Piera's head, then takes the shawl from the end of the bed and wraps it around her. She looks frail and sad. Above her head is a crucifix — a near life-size bleeding creature, with its crown of thorns imbedded in its forehead.

He stirs the soup, and sets the tray on her lap. She sips meekly, her hand on David's arm, as if afraid he'll leave.

“At least, you have a girlfriend, then?” Piera asks. “An intended?”

He smiles. An intended. For a moment, he glimpses a distant time, people intended for each other, oil and vinegar. How did they know, he wonders. What made them so sure? His aunt Piera has been a widow since she was thirty. He'd like to ask her why she never remarried. Did she believe there to be only one intended in a lifetime?
In-tended
. He thinks about Bernette, how much he does not tend to her needs. “There is someone,” he says. “Bernette. But she lives a long way from me — across the country in the United States.”

Piera looks at him, frowns. “Distance,” she says.

When she's done, she reaches for a small bottle on the bedside table, half fills an eyedropper, and squirts the contents on her tongue. “Here,” she says, slipping a key into his hand. “I'm trusting you to lock the door when you leave.” Then she closes her eyes and sleeps.

David unpacks in one of the four bedrooms that used to make up the servants' quarters. He was never allowed here as a child, although he tried unsuccessfully —
Vergognati!
Shame on you!
— to sneak in on various occasions. Teresa has opened up this unused wing, and now she and Clarissa are vacuuming and dusting, pulling sheets off the furniture. He folds three shirts, two pairs of pants, socks, and underwear into one drawer of the large antique chest. On the top he lays his laptop, Palm Treo, and travel charger. His running gear, sandals, and light jacket he throws on the stuffed chair beside the bed.

All the siblings are coming to bury their brother Vito — Aldo from Milan, Renato from Australia, and Mimí from Lecce. David, Clarissa, and Aldo will stay on this floor with Piera, and the rest downstairs at Teresa's. David wanders through the apartment, marvelling at the way memory distorts physical space. What he recalls are immense rooms, higher ceilings, balconies perched dizzying heights above the street. Even the door frames wider, as if the past were a grander place. Piera has lived here for fifty-five years, ever since she was seventeen, first in the original villa that belonged to her husband, then when she found herself alone, in this renovated space designed to accommodate Teresa and Marco.

For two days, they wait. David puts on his running gear and jogs around town several times a day. Piera lets him in at mealtimes, to bring her food. She refuses to discuss anything to do with the family, but she does ask about him. What books has he translated? Does he still read Italian literature? When will he write something that she can read in Italian? The minute she's done eating, she takes her tranquillizer drops, and falls into a stupefied sleep. She still will not allow anyone else into the room, so Clarissa spends her time with Teresa. David has yet to ask about Vito and the letters from Argentina.

Mimí arrives the following morning from Lecce, on the train, with her husband Fazio, a mild-mannered, gentle man, who wears a permanent martyred expression. Mimí is a porcelain doll, with large brown eyes and fine flaxen hair. Narcissistic, even with the extra pounds around her waist, she is exquisite, fragile as ever. As soon as they're inside, she air-kisses everyone, then dispatches Fazio to one of the bedrooms with their suitcase, throws her purse in the middle of the hall, then raps repeatedly on Piera's door. “What is the meaning of this new drama?” she yells, without preliminaries. “Open up!”

Piera does not respond.

Mimí turns the handle and pushes her weight against the door, which does not give.

“Go away. Go away, all of you,” Piera's cicada voice calls in the dry air.

Mimí smirks. “Go away. Go away all of you,” she says, in mocking tones. “You should be glad we're here. Teresa could call the police, you know.”

“I haven't done anything,” Piera says, her voice breaking.

“You've lied to us. What did you do to Vito?”

Loud sobs come through the door.

“Oh, for God's sakes! We should be the ones sobbing!” Mimí throws up her hands and stomps down the hall to find Clarissa and Teresa.

This is David's first encounter with Mimí, and he is both astonished and amused. Teresa has prepared him with a couple of anecdotes. When Mimí comes to visit, Teresa told him — which is so seldom, and for such a short time, it can hardly be called a visit — instead of inquiring about Piera's health, she wanders from room to room pointing at this painting, that chair, those candlesticks, saying, “This is mine. Give me this when you die. I want this,” as if Piera were already dead. Mimí is the baby of the family, still stamping her feet to get her way, acting as if she's owed something. As if
Piera
owes her something — Piera, who pampered and sheltered and indulged her as a child. (Clarissa refutes this version, saying that Piera did not nurture anyone at any time, that she is bossy and self-centred, and always has been.) Teresa and Piera's version, however, is that Mimí has a selective memory, and what she chooses to forget doesn't exist. What she chooses to remember is a lack of something, a negative energy, a constant dissatisfaction. She exudes melancholy like others exude confidence, while accusing Piera of being maudlin and sentimental.

On Mimí's fortieth birthday, Teresa told him, Piera gave Mimí a delicate, gold, enamelled rose on a chain. Mimí lifted the rose, stared at it for a few seconds, then slowly put it back into the satin lining of the box, her face mournful, pained.

“This chain is so… thin,” she said, closing the box and sliding it across the table to Piera. “I had my heart set on a pearl.”

Had Piera given her a thicker chain, she would have wanted a different shape; had Piera given her the largest pearl, she would have wanted a precious stone.

At midday, they all go downstairs for their main meal in the outdoor garden. Piera is still locked in her room. Clarissa and Teresa have prepared
oriecchette
with peas and prosciutto, veal medallions and artichokes, green salad, and pears for dessert. Mimí and Fazio have brought the fresh legendary bread from Lecce. They are seated at either end of the table, with Clarissa and Teresa on one side, and David and Marco on the other. They pass the
oriechette
around, and Teresa begins eating without waiting for everyone to be served. Marco pours red wine out of one of the large bottles filled from casks they buy from local estate producers. They make small talk, as if afraid to discuss the issue at hand.

“Has the service been arranged?” David asks finally, and they all stop speaking and look at him.

“Nothing's been arranged,” Teresa says. “Aldo should be here tomorrow night.” She finishes her
oriecchette
, and looks around to see if others have as well. No one has, so she sets her plate to one side and waits. She has forgotten to remove the flowered apron she tied on over a patterned blouse while cooking, so that she looks gaudy beside Clarissa, who is impeccably dressed in a tailored blue silk shirt and cream pants.

“Why do we need Aldo for everything?” Mimí says, her voice sharp. “Why can't
we
decide?” She slaps her fork onto her plate for effect. A small splatter of tomato sauce lands on the right cuff of her pink cotton blouse. She licks it off.

Fazio looks at her from across the table. “Mimí…” he begins.

“Oh, be quiet. This is between us siblings,” Mimí says crossly.

Clarissa looks up. “You and I are the only siblings here, Mimí. ”

Mimí sighs loudly. Everyone looks away, at their plates, at the garden, anywhere but into the eyes of the people around the table.

Marco picks up the bottle. “More wine, anyone?”

Fazio holds up his glass, despite Mimí's withering look.

David watches them all, afraid to say anything. It's as if they're all scripted into particular roles. Aldo, he knows, is a high-powered lawyer, an insuperable intellect they all rely on for important decisions, even Clarissa from a continent away.

“Where is Aldo, anyhow?” Clarissa asks.

“He had commitments he couldn't get out of,” Marco says.

“We all have commitments,” Clarissa says. “Do you think it was easy for us to come from Canada?” And she begins to list the lessons and
TV
and recording dates she's had to cancel or postpone. Mimí chimes in with her own list of missed appointments, and for once, includes Fazio's too.

“Glad to see you're aware that I work too,” Fazio says.