Saddle the Wind (60 page)

Blanche said nothing. She was sure that his decision had come not as the result of choice but very likely as the result of necessity. At the start of their marriage he had appeared to enjoy travelling between the two cities, overseeing the export and distribution of the citrus fruit, the olives, the soap, and the sulphur that were his stock in trade. Other journeys had taken him regularly to Sierradifalco near Caltanisetta where the sulphur mine was situated. Now, with the mine disposed of, he was left with his depleted interests in Palermo and Messina – whatever such interests were; Blanche did not know;
he had long ago ceased to take her into his confidence and there had never been a time when he had discussed with her anything connected with his business that did not directly affect her.

Now, continuing with the fantasy, he went on to say that there was little scope left in Palermo, whereas Messina offered untold opportunities. All the necessary space was available, he said, and also labour was cheaper.

‘So,’ Blanche said, ‘when shall we be leaving?’

‘In two or three weeks. I’d like to be there by Christmas. I’m finalizing arrangements now – as regards the business, I mean, in Messina. That’s what I’ve been doing there this trip. I’ve also been selling up the rest of the property here in Palermo. All I have to do where you and Adriana are concerned is find somewhere suitable for us to live.’

‘Oh, let me help,’ Blanche said quickly. ‘Oh, I would love to, Alfredo. Let me come with you to Messina and help find a nice house for us.’

After a pause he shook his head. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘Trust me. I’ll take care of it.’ He went back to his newspaper.

The exchange between them, Blanche thought, just about illustrated the sum of their marriage: the increasing distance between them, the lack of communication and trust, the complete lack of affection. Thinking about the reversal of his fortunes she could not help but ask herself, as she had done many times in the past, whether she was in some way responsible. Had she, in some subtle, insidious way, done this to him, or contributed to it? But then she would remind herself that he had already been set on this downward slide at the time of their marriage – the information she had gleaned over the past five years showed that clearly enough.

She was distracted from her thoughts by Alfredo putting down his newspaper and rising from his chair. He was going out, he told her; he would be back later on. He would go to the Casino Nuovo, she guessed, a gambling club in the Palazzo Geraci on the Corso Vittorio Emanuele.

It was very late when he returned.

Over the past year he had, much to Blanche’s relief, taken to sleeping in an adjoining room, only disturbing her when he required a response to some alcohol-inspired maudlin need for affection or release for his sexual needs – though, Blanche was quite sure, he had long since habitually sought this release in other quarters. On this night, in the early hours of the morning, he entered his own room noisily, waking her from her sleep. Some minutes later he was opening the connecting door and coming into her room.

For a little while she feigned sleep, but soon gave up and opened her eyes to him, seeing him standing silhouetted against the light that came through the open door.

He sat on the edge of her bed and smiled at her. He was dressed in his nightshirt. ‘Did I wake you?’ he asked, knowing that he had.

‘It’s all right.’

He was in a good mood; he had obviously hit a winning streak at the tables. There would, she said to herself, be a price to pay. There always was when he showed any degree of warmth these days.

She yawned, hoping that the gesture would deter him. It did not. His hand came out and touched her shoulder.

‘Blanche …’

As he leaned forward and spoke her name she could
smell the whisky on his breath. His hand rose, touched at her cheek below the bruise.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘– I’m sorry I hit you.’

‘It’s – it’s all right.’

‘– But sometimes you make me so angry.’

‘Obviously.’

There was a little silence. She waited, wanting him to go, but knowing that he would not.

After a little while he said,

‘I’ve been thinking. Betta can stay till the spring. She’ll be useful with the move to Messina and getting settled in there.’

‘Thank you. May I tell her tomorrow?’

‘Yes, of course.’ A little pause, and then: ‘I’m getting cold.’ Pulling back the covers he got in beside her while she was forced to move over in the bed.

A little while later she lay beneath him and as he thrust away at her she felt she could shriek aloud at the invasion, reach up, take him by the hair and wrench him away from her. But she suffered it, the assault, almost counting the strokes until his heavy breathing quickened and he at last collapsed on her unresisting body. She lay there, saying nothing, not moving. After a while he raised himself from her and, without a word, got out of the bed and moved back to his own room.

Long after she had heard the sound of the communicating door clicking shut behind him she lay awake, gazing into the dark.

Without any consultation of Blanche, Alfredo bought a villa just off the Via Varese in the southern area of the city of Messina. It was smaller than their home in Palermo, he said, but it was adequate, and, anyway, with fewer servants they would not require so much space.

Blanche had mixed feelings about the planned move.
She had grown attached to the villa on the Via Catania, and was fond of Palermo. Messina, from what she had seen of it, was very much a town of industry, with fewer concessions to culture. On the other hand, Marianne was there – and Gentry – though she never allowed herself to think of him. She wasted no time in writing to them both to say that she, Alfredo and Adriana would shortly be taking up residence in the city.

With regard to her anticipation of a reunion with Marianne and her hopes that they would be able to spend time together, it appeared that Alfredo had considered the same possibility, for he said, with no ceremony:

‘But if you see the move as enabling you to spend all your days with your friends from England you can get rid of the idea at once. I don’t propose to entertain it.’

Blanche protested briefly, but then remained silent. She would not be denied her friendship with Marianne, she was determined. And she would find a way to achieve what she wanted.

The villa on the Via Catania was in a chaotic bustle as, under the direction of Edgardo, years’ accumulation was sorted and either discarded, put aside for sale, or packed in preparation for the move to Messina. Although Blanche took part in the work at the start she soon felt herself redundant in the situation and left the few remaining servants to continue it alone. Alfredo’s final business links with Palermo were severed as he divested himself of the last of his interests there, including the house – and then, at last, came the 20th, a Sunday, the day when she, Alfredo and Adriana were to leave their Palermo home for the last time. The furniture and other effects that had not been sold by auction had already been sent ahead to Messina. Blanche, Alfredo and
Adriana would spend the night at an hotel and start for Messina first thing in the morning. By the time of their arrival much of the furniture and other items would be in place in their new home.

Wandering through the rooms of the house on the Via Catania, Blanche knew without doubt that any brief happiness she had known in the marriage had long since passed by. The best was not to come. The best, such as it was, was gone. The marriage was far beyond saving now.

Later that day, with Edgardo remaining behind to continue in his role of directing the move and the closing of the house, Blanche, Alfredo and Adriana climbed aboard a horse-drawn cab and drove away from the villa for the last time. Blanche did not look back. She knew she would never see the house again. She could only look forward; though what lay before her she could not imagine.

After an uncomfortable night at an indifferent hotel they took a cab to the railway station where they caught a train for Messina. The journey, along the northern coast, much of the time with the sea in view, seemed to Blanche to be interminable, added to which, with Christmas so close there were so many travellers that the train was packed to bursting.

At last, after many hours, they arrived at Messina and Alfredo hailed a cab to take them to their new home. Set on the Via Imera, a narrow street leading off the Via Varese, the villa was small and drab, the street itself dirty and unkempt. Alighting from the cab and standing before the house, Blanche’s spirits sank. She tried not to show it, though, and squeezing Adriana’s hand, she smiled down at the child’s doubtful expression and, with appropriately encouraging comments, led her inside.

In the villa she and Adriana wandered from the dark, narrow vestibule into the adjoining rooms. The servants had been busy and a good deal of the furniture and other items were in place, though there was still a great amount of work yet to be done. As they stood looking around them Alfredo came and directed them to the rooms that he had allotted to them on the floor above. Leaving him busy with other matters, Blanche and the child went upstairs. Blanche saw that Adriana’s room was at the rear of the house, across the landing from her own and Alfredo’s which, adjoining one another, were at the front. Entering her room, Blanche found Betta there, adding some last minute touches to it in preparation for her mistress’s arrival. On Blanche’s entrance with Adriana behind her, Betta straightened from polishing the top of a small bureau, turning her plain face to Blanche and smiling and murmuring a shy greeting. Since Blanche had told her that it was arranged that she might stay until the spring – combining her duties of nurse to Adriana with those of housemaid – Betta seemed to have done everything possible to please her. Her gratitude now was evident in the appearance of Blanche’s room. Many of Blanche’s favourite things were in evidence – two or three particular pieces of porcelain, a specially favoured cover on her bed, even the framed photograph of Adriana carefully placed on the bedside table, while from somewhere the girl had managed to get some roses. Not expensive roses, obviously; they stood in a vase by the window, looking a little bedraggled and sorry for themselves, but roses, nonetheless.

Blanche stepped forward, bending to take in the delicate scent. ‘Betta, what lovely flowers.’ As Betta spoke no English Blanche always addressed her in Italian. ‘Where did you get them?’ she asked.

Betta gave a little shrug. Oh, they were nothing special, she said; they were nothing at all, really …

Blanche looked at her. ‘Betta,’ she said, ‘you
bought
them …’

Betta, embarrassed, shrugged again. They had cost only a few centimes, she said, and, apologizing for their poor appearance, she moved to the door, gave a little half-curtsy and left.

After the sound of the girl’s feet had faded on the stairs, Blanche remained gazing at the flowers, touched by the girl’s thoughtfulness.

In Alfredo’s absence Blanche spent the rest of that day helping to unpack and supervise the placement of the remaining items. She could see how irritated Edgardo was by what he regarded as her interference, but she closed her eyes and ears to his barely-hidden superciliousness and, with Betta’s help, got on with her task. In the meantime Adriana slept, exhausted after the journey from Palermo. That night after Alfredo had left the villa – obviously for gaming tables somewhere in the town, Blanche thought – she herself, exhausted after the long day, went early to bed.

She was awakened in the early hours of the morning by the sound of her door opening. Gritting her teeth she kept her eyes closed as Alfredo padded across the floor towards her.

‘Blanche …’

She heard the slurring sound in his tone. She kept her eyes closed.

‘Blanche …’ His voice came again.

She opened her eyes in a simulation of waking and saw him standing there.

The edge of the mattress gave as he lowered his weight heavily onto it. She looked at him for a moment in the dim light and then closed her eyes again, turning
her head away on the pillow. He was drunk. Go away, she wanted to say, go back to your own room and leave me in peace.

‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘Open your eyes.’

She gave a little groan, opening her eyes briefly and then closing them again. ‘I’m tired, Alfredo.’

‘Open your eyes.’ His tone was a little sharper now as he leaned over her. ‘Look at me.’

She turned her head on the pillow to face him, opening her eyes as she did so. His breath was overpowering; she could smell on it whisky and the sour smell of vomit. There came from him also the scent of cheap perfume. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘I want to sleep.’

‘You always want to sleep.’ His tone was now aggrieved. ‘You never give a thought to what I want. Why are you always so damned cold to me?’

So tonight it was to be the deprived, unloved, misunderstood child. Go back to bed, Alfredo, she cried inwardly. Go to sleep. Aloud she said wearily, ‘Alfredo, please. Let’s not quarrel now. It’s so late.’

‘I don’t want to quarrel,’ he said sulkily. ‘I just want a little – attention. A little wifely affection. Is that too much to hope for? You
are
my
wife
. You’re supposed to be, anyway.’

Giving up all hope that he would leave her in peace she sighed, pulled herself up in the bed. ‘What is it you want?’

‘Don’t say it like that.’

She gave a little shrug. He frowned, then reached out to her. She moved her head, avoiding his touch.

‘Don’t,’ he said, ‘– don’t move away from me.’

‘I’m sorry, but – I’m tired and I want to go back to sleep. I’ve had a very long day.’

He continued to gaze down at her. His expression now had darkened.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said at last.

‘I told you, I’m
tired
.’

He studied her for a while, then: ‘Let me get in. Move over.’ He reached to pull aside the bedcovers. Blanche pressed her hands flat upon them, holding them in place.

‘No.’

He halted, frozen in his movement. ‘– What … ?’