Sweet Life (12 page)

A lifetime ago, a young man once admired her brown,
almond-shaped eyes and even kissed her. She no longer remembers
the boy’s face or his name, but she can remember the kiss itself, the warmth of it on her mouth. And her mother’s voice afterward:
Of course there’s something wrong with this boy. Why else would he date a cripple?

At two windows, white gauzy curtains foam onto the dark tiles, and on one panel clings a humped green beetle. The grey-painted shutters, half-closed, reveal narrow bars of sky. The room smells of sweat and something sour.

Cristina passes a long dresser covered by white crocheting, a still fan and a porcelain doll, which stares across the room with glass eyes. The voices emanate from a television set, which squats at the end of the king-sized bed. Cristina mutes the sound with the remote. With the tray across her lap, she sits on a chair next to the bed. Not until she taps the spoon against the bowl does her mother turn her head.

Bruna Bozza’s face, made flaccid by the stroke, sags like soft putty. From her forehead to the back of her black hair runs a skunk-like strip of white hair. Her limp arms rest on the bed as though she is a marionette waiting to be pulled to life.

The spoon clicks against the bowl; the invalid sucks at the spoon. When her mother finishes the broth, Cristina breaks the bread. “You’ll be happy to know,
Mamma
, that I went to the church again this morning. To light a candle for
Papà
.”

Her mother’s mouth tightens, then opens to receive the bread.

“If you could speak, I’m sure you’d approve. And yesterday I ordered a new granite monument for his grave. The inscription will read:
Forever Remembered by Your Loving Daughter
. I haven’t yet decided on your stone. Something small. Like the one you chose for him
.
”

Her mother takes some wine with her eyes closed. After Cristina wipes her mother’s lips, she picks up the remote and once again releases the voices into the tepid air. The channel airs continuous news programs, the type her mother hates.

On her way from the room, Cristina stops before a black-and-white photo hanging near the door. A pretty woman sits before a painted backdrop of round Tuscan hills and holds a plump baby on her lap. Next to them is a girl of three or four with a huge bow tying back her long hair. She ducks her head as though afraid of the camera. On the girl’s left shoulder rests a hand, disembodied because the fourth figure has been ripped away.

To Cristina, life before her
papà
died appears in postcard images. The three-story stone farmhouse looms grey against an orchard backdrop where sunlight sifts the leaves of apple and pear and plum trees, transmutes greens from lime to dark olive. In the yard, poultry peck the ground where the mule stands harnessed to the wagon, flipping its rope tail at flies. Against the byre, a golden haystack; the byre itself dark with the heaving shadows of two milk cows.

She can see herself on her
papà
’s
knee
being tickled by his large moustache whenever he kisses her. And there is Alessio. Adored and pampered Alessio. Trailing after her, calling to her with his baby lisp, blond curls a halo about his chubby cheeks.

Then the images swirl away in a late October mist.

~

Before sunrise and first cock crow, when heavy fog clung motionless
to the ground, Cristina’s
papà
carried Alessio to the tiny Topolino and laid him, still sleeping, on its front seat. Their mother tucked a blanket around him as Cristina climbed into the back, clasping her only doll against the buttons of her brown wool coat. Taking up the rest of the seat was a food basket; its aromas of cheese and apples mingling with the acrid smell of gas and tobacco smoke. She’d never ridden in a car before, and not knowing what she was allowed to touch, sat rigid.

Three of them were travelling to a wedding in Udine,
because her
papà
’s sister had finally managed to snag a husband. Cristina’s mother, forced to stay behind due to a difficult third pregnancy, had argued to keep Alessio home with her, but Cristina’s
papà
was adamant about showing off his first son and heir. And to spare the children a long train ride on the wooden seats of third class, he’d managed to borrow a car.

Cristina’s mother leaned through the driver’s window, kissed her husband, and then blew a kiss toward Alessio. To Cristina she said, “Be careful with your dress. And behave yourself.”

The gears crunched as Cristina’s
papà
pulled on the shift. When he set a tentative foot on the gas, the engine choked and died. Chagrined because his wife laughed, he restarted the engine and stomped hard, pebbles bouncing against the undercarriage as the car surged forward. In the darkness and mist, he circled about Cristina’s mother, beeped the horn, waved his arm through the window and hollered: “C
iao! Ciao!
”
like a happy lunatic. Cristina, nervous and thrilled, clung to the door handle with one hand and, with the other, clutched the doll against her thumping heart.

~

Now she pauses in the front hall. A curtain of black-and-white chenille cords, hung across the open doorway to discourage insects, sways in the barest of breezes. It’s a discreet insufflation rich with the scents of ivy geraniums and roses; with ripening grapes and pears.

To Cristina’s right, narrow double doors lead to the dining room where six straight-backed chairs flank a polished walnut table and a matching cabinet. Behind its glass doors gleam her mother’s bright crystal, bone china and silver trays.

There’s the sound of a car stopping outside the front door. Cristina hurries to the kitchen where two dark berries sit in plain view on the cutting board. She opens a drawer and scoops the berries into it, managing to reach the front hall again just as Doctor Rossi calls, “
Permisso
!” and steps inside. He stands with his medical bag in one hand and a handkerchief in the other, wearing a suit, but no tie. The collar of his shirt is open and reveals the round neck of a white undershirt. “Good evening,” he says while swiping at his broad forehead and thinning white hair. “Your house is pleasantly cool.”

Cristina places herself between the doctor and the kitchen. “Good evening, doctor. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“I had unexpected business in town, so I thought, Why make two drives when I can make one? And how is our patient today?”

Cristina looks at the floor and manages a quiver to her voice. “No better. Perhaps worse.”

Dr. Rossi sighs and shakes his head. “Ah, these are sad times for you, truly sad times.” When they climb the stairs together, he slows his pace to match hers.

Inside the bedroom, Cristina opens the shutters wider. Her mother turns her head as Dr. Rossi drops his bag onto the chair and takes her hand. “
Signora
, I see some colour in your cheeks today. Don’t worry; we’ll have you out of bed in no time.”

Cristina knows this is a professional lie intended to comfort a hopeless case. He doesn’t bother looking into her mother’s eyes while he speaks, but when he takes out a tiny flashlight, he peers into her like a man making a cursory inspection for a soul.

From below the window comes the sound of voices. It’s the neighbour, Rita, speaking to her son. Cristina strains to make out the words, and then flinches when the young man starts his motorcycle, revs the engine and roars off.

Dr. Rossi snaps his bag shut. “Her appetite is the same?”

“All she wants is the broth, but I coax her to eat bread, too.”

“
Signora
, you must try eating vegetables.” The doctor takes
his bag. “And a bit of boiled chicken. I’ll see you again in a few days.
Ciao
.” On his way from the room, he wags a finger at the fan. “Cristina, you must remove it. In your mother’s condition, any draft could be fatal.”

“I had no idea. Of course, I’ll be careful.”

Downstairs, Dr. Rossi sets his bag on the floor and wipes his glasses with his handkerchief. “You must have courage, Cristina. The two of you have been together all your lives and now this. But.” He tucks his glasses into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I must say I still don’t understand your mother’s inability to speak. Stroke victims usually regain some speech. Does she try talking?”

Cristina claps her hands together as if in prayer. “How many times I’ve tried to get
Mamma
to speak.” Her arms drop. “But you know how stubborn she is. Sometimes...sometimes I believe she has given up.”

“Ah, it happens.” Doctor Rossi shakes his head. “And to think, only a short time ago, she had the vigour of a young woman. She could have passed for your sister.” Oblivious to any offense his words might cause, he continues, “But your mother has a wonderful nurse, and you are a good daughter. No one could give your mother better care.”

“Any daughter would do the same.”

“Oh, no. The stories I could tell you.” And because Cristina knows Dr. Rossi lingers in the hope of her offering him a glass of wine and time to sit and gossip, she says, “I admit I am always busy. Even now I have laundry waiting.” She glances toward the back of the house, yet is careful to keep her voice regretful, because she needs this man, depends on his lack of imagination and his complacency. Another physician, who is not on the cusp of retirement, would inquire more closely into her mother’s illness.

Dr. Rossi rocks back and forth on the soles of his shiny shoes. “And you? How do you get on these days?”

Cristina forces brightness into her voice. “Much better, thank you.”

“Those pills are helping, then. Good. Well, I won’t keep you from your work.”

After watching his Mercedes vanish around a bend in the street, Cristina returns to the kitchen, aromatic with the smells of boiled beef and oregano.

She takes a box tied with ribbon from a cupboard. It’s a narrow, white box with a name lettered in blue along its top. Folded within sheets of tissue paper is the black silk slip the saleswoman talked Cristina into trying on. How sexy she looked in it, the woman enthused. Wasn’t the fabric soft and smooth? When Cristina stood at the till to pay, she felt both abashed and exhilarated.

What a silly thing to buy at her age. Still. She passes a hand over the blue ribbon. She will take the slip upstairs and try it on, again, later. She leaves the box on the corner of the table.

Because the September sun still radiates enough heat to burn the potted cyclamen on the two window ledges, she keeps the kitchen shutters partly closed during the day. Now, she flattens them against the outside wall.

A corner shelf next to one window bears a candle, a bud vase with a single white rose and a statuette – an exact replica of the Virgin in the Grotto standing within the grounds of the nearby convent. Under her blue wimple, the Madonna’s serene pink and white face inclines benevolently; a serpent writhes beneath her sandals.

Cristina removes a pan of creamy
pasticcio
from the oven, ladles out a portion of noodles and white sauce and sets the plate onto the tablecloth. She pours herself a glass of red wine. She likes to watch her favourite program,
Quiz Show
,
while eating
.
Whenever the camera gives a close-up of the host, a handsome man of forty, she smiles. He banters with the contestant, a plump, middle-aged woman with a circle of red beads around her throat, who receives yelled encouragement from her daughter in the audience.

The host asks the plump woman: “Dom Perignon invented champagne. What was his occupation?”
As always, the answer is multiple choice. Cristina decides on the correct answer by elimination. Blacksmith doesn’t seem right. Perignon might have been a soldier, but she settles on abbot because monks usually grow their own food and grapes.

While the contestant ponders, the camera zooms in on a voluptuous young woman standing alone on a pedestal and wearing nothing but a glittering, bikini-type costume. Cristina stops eating and leans forward. Every time the woman breathes, her exposed breasts and belly glitter from the sparkles scattered over her skin. A poised distraction, an erotic showpiece, she keeps the audience’s attention every time a contestant takes a long time answering. Unsmiling and silent, the luminous woman stares at the camera with calm eyes.

Like a woman seeking the revelation of some mystery, Cristina watches the shiny bow mouth, high round breasts and cupola-curved thighs. Of what does a beautiful woman think? How much happiness does her beauty bring her?

When the camera goes back to the contestant with the excited chins, Cristina turns off the television. She pours the leftover broth down the sink, then scrubs and rinses the cooking pot several times. The berries in the drawer are for the next pot of broth, but she needs a few more to cook with them.

One single step separates the front door from the narrow street, and on this step she stands to shake out the tablecloth. Rita’s daughter calls “
Ciao
,” and waves as she climbs into her car, speeding off into the twilight to whatever it is the young do while away from their parents. Maybe she will meet her boyfriend, a slim-hipped fellow who greets Cristina with the type of nods he likely reserves for unattractive and aged women.