A Winter's Night (16 page)

Even the dead came back home, at least those who had been identified, and they were turned over to the grief-stricken parents who had watched them leave healthy and full of life, and who had to welcome them back now inside a fir-wood box ready to be buried. Others never came back, because their bodies were simply destroyed by the bombs, carried away by raging rivers, wedged deep in some mountain crevasse. Whatever was left of them was all mixed up with the scattered remains of other soldiers, waiting for big cemeteries of stone and marble to be built in those places where the most ferocious battles of the Great War had been fought.

But people wanted to forget. The men wanted to return to their old occupations, to the trades they'd left behind, to the rhythms of a peaceful life, without the screams of pain, the groans of dying soldiers, the explosions and blinding bursts of fire. They craved a life lit by the moon and the sun, sustained by regular, hard, day-to-day work.

In the early spring of the following year, Gaetano began to see a girl from town called Iole who mended clothes for a living. One day, his mother had asked him to accompany his sister Maria to have a few dresses hemmed, since she couldn't see very well anymore and Maria was never very good with a needle. His sister would much rather tend to the calves in the stable, or go looking for nests in the spring so she could raise a pretty blackbird or a goldfinch or nightingale and listen to them sing when they grew up. She didn't like sedentary work.

And so Gaetano went with his sister, carrying the bundle of clothes to be mended. As the two girls chatted, he couldn't take his eyes off Iole because she was really beautiful: dark haired, with green-blue eyes, a nice full bust and wide hips. The kind of girl he'd always dreamed about. She had noticed and had met his gaze without lowering her eyes, a sign that she wasn't shy. When it was time to pick up the mending, Gaetano went on his own, and he asked Floti to borrow the horse and carriage. Floti gladly let him use it, because he was pleased when Gaetano cut a fine figure, wherever he was going, as long as he left the whip home because they needed it there.

Iole couldn't hide a glint of pleasure in her eyes when she saw him, or her curiosity for that posh, shiny carriage that contrasted in no small measure with the image of the farming family she knew so well, and the young farmer before her.

“What a lovely carriage you have, Gaetano,” were the first words out of her mouth.

“I'm glad you like it,” he answered.

“It must have cost an arm and a leg.”

“It cost what it cost,” replied Gaetano, respecting the rule that the family's interests should never be aired openly, “what's important is that it looks fine and that it does its job.”

“You're right! I didn't mean anything by that.”

“Maybe you'd like to have a ride, now that the weather is getting nicer. The fair of San Giovanni will be starting soon. We could go together; people would be impressed.”

The girl looked at him with a sparkle in her eye: “We'll have to see what my mother says. She might think you're a bit . . . cheeky!”

Gaetano gave an embarrassed smile, but inside he could barely believe that he was talking to Iole face to face, and that she was smiling at him and leading him to believe she was happy to be in his company. Just three years ago, before he left for the war, he never would have dared to set eyes on such a prize and now it all seemed so easy and spontaneous! As she was calling him cheeky, she came close and he could smell the lavender scent of her linen blouse that made his head spin like a glass of Albana on an empty stomach.

“Your mother knows that I'm an honest person and that I hold you in respect.”

“If that's the case, I give you my permission to ask her. She may even say yes.”

Gaetano thought that he'd already gone a long way in a short time, at least talking-wise, but perhaps it was best to strike while the iron was hot. He realized that Floti's carriage and the mare with the shiny coat and intelligent eyes had been a good investment and that, if all went well, he'd be asking to borrow them again, for the fair of San Giovanni.

“Where is your mother?” he asked.

“She's inside shelling peas. Go on, then, what are you waiting for, for me to change my mind?”

Gaetano entered, asking permission.

“Come in, young man,” replied a voice from inside.

“I've come to ask how much I owe you for your daughter's work.”

The mother, whose name was Giuseppina, replied: “It'll be four cents in all.”

Gaetano counted the coins onto the palm of her hand and before she could finish thanking him, he continued: “I also wanted to ask you . . . ”

“Go on, young man,” she encouraged him.

“I wanted to ask if you would be pleased for me to accompany your daughter to the fair of San Giovanni, eight days from now, in my carriage.”

The old lady got to her feet, setting the basket with the peas on the table, and she went to the window to look outside: “Is that your carriage?”

“Yes, Signora Peppina,” replied Gaetano, confident that hearing herself called “signora” would nicely endear him to her.

“Well, you'd certainly make a fine figure, you and my Iole.”

“Then I can take her to the fair?”

“Certainly, if you give me your word of honor that you'll behave properly.”

“My word is my bond, Signora Peppina,” replied Gaetano and he ceremoniously took his leave.

He walked out and towards Iole who had gone near the horse. “She said yes. I can come and collect you and take you to the fair of San Giovanni. If you're still happy to come, we'll go together.”

“I'll be waiting for you, Gaetano,” said the girl, with a tone of voice and two eyes that would have weakened the knees of the fiercest of brigands. Gaetano would have turned somersaults in joy, but he knew well, or rather, he'd often heard, that you should never let a woman know how much in love you are. You didn't want her thinking she could twist you around her finger. He felt happier than he ever had his whole life, and everything around him looked radiant. One moment had wiped away all the horrors he'd seen in the war, and he thought of nothing but Iole as he returned home with the bundle of mended clothes.

Floti could see from a mile away that his brother was floating on air. “How'd it go?” he asked.

“Well. I've brought home the mending and didn't spend much at all.”

“Oh come on, don't give me that! You know what I'm talking about. You've fallen for Iole, haven't you? All she had to do was smile at you and now you're head over heels.”

Gaetano turned bright red. “So what? Maybe I do like her, what's wrong with that. And anyway . . . ”

“Anyway what?”

“She said she'd come to the fair of San Giovanni with me.”

“So you need the horse and buggy . . . ”

“Well, only if you don't . . . ”

“And to think that I'd done something so stupid, and that I'd let myself be duped, that I'd brought home a nag whose hide was not even good enough to make the skin of a drum . . . ”

“You were right,” said Gaetano. “And you have no idea how good it felt when I pulled up with this wonder on wheels: she couldn't stop looking at the horse or the carriage.”

“Listen to me: appearances can be deceiving. One swallow does not make a summer, and a carriage does not a gentleman make. As far the girl is concerned, be careful. She's beautiful, very beautiful and she knows it. She's used to men courting her. She looks at you with those bedroom eyes today, and tomorrow she'll be looking in the other direction. A girl like that is waiting for the day when she'll be noticed by a man of property, by the son of a lawyer or a notary. If she marries someone like that, she knows she'll live the rest of her life like a real lady, with a maid, a cook and all the rest. While she's waiting, she might not mind giving in to a whim now and then, like installing someone at her feet who adores her as if she were the Madonna of San Luca and is easily fooled into doing her bidding.”

Gaetano lowered his eyes and turned red again. “I'm just taking her to the fair of San Giovanni . . . ”

“Yeah, right. Go ahead and use the carriage, but I still have to tell you to watch out. If a woman like her takes to you and then leaves you, you'll go crazy. You'll never get over her: you'll dream about her day and night, smell her on your own skin. You'll do anything to catch a glimpse of her even though she doesn't want to see you anymore, you'll convince yourself that she'll come back to you some day and that day never comes.”

Gaetano was perplexed, and perceived something rather unpleasant in his brother's words, as though he'd gone a bit too far, but he tried not to think about it. He reached the stable, unhitched the horse and let her free in her pen, then shined up the carriage and stored the shafts up against the wall.

From that moment on, all he did was count the days until the fair. When the time came, he showed up in his best suit, a fresh shirt, polished shoes and the carriage that shone like a jewel. He helped Iole up, called out to the horse and they departed at a trot.

It had been windy the day before, and the clean air carried the delicate scent of the invisible wheat flowers. The green fields were dotted with yellow buttercups and red poppies and the road was flanked on both sides by a row of ancient cherry trees laden with red fruit. Gaetano would veer to the side of the road now and then and rise to his feet to pick a few cherries and offer them to Iole. She smiled and he watched her lips stain with vermilion red juice as the succulent fruit melted in her mouth. There was a moment when the carriage jolted slightly and a drop of juice fell from her lips to her breast, a drop red as blood, and he felt suddenly dizzy, like just before they were sent into an attack during the war.

At the fair, he held out his arm as they strolled among the stalls, and when she paused in front of a cotton candy stand he bought her two cents' worth and had them add a piece of almond crisp. He noticed the old women stealing little looks at them and exchanging knowing smiles and winks, and he could almost hear their comments.

When evening came, he asked: “Are you hungry, Iole?”

“Don't trouble yourself over me, Gaetano,” she answered, “you've already spent enough!”

“Don't you worry about that,” he replied. “Come with me.”

He took her back to where the carriage was parked, helped her up and took a basket from the back with two pieces of focaccia stuffed with prosciutto. Then he opened a flask of the new red wine and poured some into two sparkling glasses.

“It's not much,” he said, “but it comes from my heart.”

She bit into the focaccia and ate eagerly, washing it down with long sips of wine. Then she stopped to dry her lips and she laughed happily. They waited until it was time for the puppet theatre and then the fireworks that colored the sky and her cheeks with wondrous metallic reflections.

It was time to return home. The night sky was brightened by a nearly full moon, so the horse made easy progress on the dirt road. At a certain point, while they were in the middle of the countryside, Iole leaned onto Gaetano's shoulder as if seeking his warmth in the cool night, or as if she were afraid of the shadows that the moonlight cast across their path. His heart skipped a beat and a wave of heat rose from his chest and reddened his face. He'd never felt this way his whole life. The scent of the wheat flowers and the fragrance of her skin mixed into a single soft and indistinct perfume, so light that perhaps no one else could even perceive it. He did; ever since he was a child, this was the smell of springtime for him. He wanted to share the sensation with her: “Iole, can you smell that?”

“Yes,” she said, “I think so . . . ”

“Do you know what it is?”

“Some flower?”

“A very special kind . . . they're wheat flowers.”

“Oh, you're teasing me. Wheat doesn't bloom into flowers; it just grows into ears.”

“No, it does flower: all plants bloom before they come to fruit. It's only that some you see, and some you don't because they're so little. Wait,” he said.

He stopped the horse, jumped off the carriage and approached the ears of wheat rippling slightly in the breeze wafting down from the hills. He picked one and held it out to her: “This is what we're smelling in the air.”

“You're right! I'd never realized it.” She took his big calloused hands, along with the ear of wheat they held, into her minute and delicate ones and brought them to her nose. Gaetano was afraid that the odor of the stables might still be lingering on his fingers despite his vigorous scrubbing with laundry soap, but she gave no sign of smelling anything nasty. She breathed in deeply: “You're right. And it's the loveliest thing I've ever smelled. So this is where the scent of springtime, and summer too, comes from. Who would have guessed?” She gave his hands a little kiss and Gaetano felt his heart beating like crazy but also a subtle, ineffable sense of exhaustion. Is this what love was like? A sensation as fleeting as the scent of wheat flowers?

She drew even closer until her lips were a whisper away from his. She kissed him.

Gaetano had never kissed a woman and he responded in an awkward, clumsy way but his hands touched her, seeking out the curves of that body that he'd only ever imagined. She didn't stop him, not until he tried to put them between her thighs. And he remembered then that he'd made a promise to her mother to behave like a gentleman. But he wasn't displeased by Iole's refusal, because it meant she was a good girl who cared about preserving her chastity.

They went on seeing each other that whole summer and it became harder and harder for Gaetano to control himself. Iole had gotten into his blood and he dreamt of nothing else than the day when he would be able to stretch out next to her in bed, with the blessing of God, his own mother and hers, of course. He envisioned her nude body and him blowing out the bedside candle and taking from her everything he wanted, even what he dared not confess to himself.