The Mermaid Garden (14 page)

wall.

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Costanza looked up from her book. “
Ciao
.” Then, registering her

smug expression, she asked, “What have you been up to?”

“I’m in love,” Floriana replied carelessly.

“Who with?”

Floriana sat down next to her and pushed off with her toes to make

the chair swing. “He’s called Dante.”

“You mean, Dante Bonfanti, who lives at Villa La Magdalena?”

“You know him?” Floriana was a little put out.

“Sort of.” Costanza screwed up her nose. The truth was she had never

met him, but her parents knew his parents, so that almost counted.

“He’s just showed me around the gardens. Oh, Costanza, they’re the

most beautiful gardens I’ve ever seen. They truly are.”

“They would be. They have an army of gardeners. Mamma used to

have a big garden in Rome.”

“You have a lovely garden here.”

“But it’s not well looked after. We no longer have the money for such

extravagances.” She didn’t quite know what that meant, but she heard

her mother say it all the time, usually accompanied by a sorry sigh.

“The gardens there are very well looked after.”

“You know they’re one of the richest families in Italy?”

“Really?”

“Dante’s father, Beppe, is one of the most powerful men in the

country.”

Floriana did not know how to respond to that, so she remained si-

lent, waiting for Costanza to continue.

Costanza relished knowing more about him than her friend. “Dante

is the eldest son,” she continued. Then she allowed her envy to get

the better of her and added maliciously, “He’s like a prince, so he will have to marry a princess. There’s no point you falling in love with him.”

Her words were a dagger to Floriana’s heart. She put her hand there

and pressed hard to stop it bleeding. Then she remembered God and

the candle she had lit, and a small spark of hope ignited to relieve the pain.

“I’m not expecting to marry him,” she said breezily, adding a little

chuckle to sound more convincing. She was a master at dissembling.

“He says I can come as often as I like. His parents are away traveling.”

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“How old is he?”

“Nearly eighteen.”

“So what does he want with a little girl of ten?”

“Nearly eleven and he doesn’t want anything. I think he felt sorry

for me.”

“Like everyone else. They don’t know how strong you are.” Costanza

nudged her playfully, suddenly feeling bad for having squashed her en-

thusiasm. “Can I come next time? I’d love to see the gardens.”

“We’ll go tomorrow. I showed him the broken wall I climb when

I spy.”

“Can I spy, too?”

“Sure, if you can keep quiet.”

“I can keep quiet.”

“And not hiss at me when I jump down and snoop around?”

“I can, honestly.”

“I don’t think I’ll have to snoop. He says he’ll look out for me.”

“Shouldn’t we just ring the bell?”

“Much more fun stealing in over the wall.”

“If I say my father’s name, they’ll let us in.”

“We don’t need to do that. We’ll climb over the wall and find Dante.

We’ll surprise him. He won’t mind; he’s my friend now. We’ll go to-

morrow morning.”

So, that settled, Floriana grabbed some fruit from the kitchen and

made her way back down the hill into town. The sun was now slowly

sinking in the western sky, turning the light a melancholy amber color, throwing long shadows across her path for her to jump over. She

chewed on a juicy fig and thought of Dante. It didn’t matter that he was supposed to marry a princess, because love was more important than

titles. After all, Cinderella married a prince, and she was just a scullery maid. Floriana loved La Magdalena more than anything else. She

belonged there, in that little mermaid garden, reading a book on the

bench by the fountain. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t read very well, because she’d learn. She was clever: she could learn anything.

She skipped up the streets to the big archway in the yellow wall that

had once meant home, but since her mother had gone it was now only

a door that indicated the place where she lived. She gave it a firm push.

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It was heavy and large and opened into a courtyard. The ground was

covered in cobbles, between which weeds grew and flourished until

they were unceremoniously cut by Signora Bruno, whose late husband

had left her the ramshackle building of small apartments to rent. Pretty iron balconies overlooked the courtyard, decorating the disintegrating

walls with the occasional pot of flowers and, more commonly, lines of

washing drying in the sun.

Signora Bruno stopped sweeping when she saw the little girl come

in, and leaned on her broom. Any excuse to stop working. “Your fa-

ther’s at Luigi’s, propping up the bar, no doubt.” She watched Floriana with suspicion as the little girl skipped over to the steps and sat down.

“What are you up to? You look like a mouse that’s eaten all the cheese.”

“I’m in love, Signora Bruno.”

The woman looked at the child’s misty eyes and laughed, the mole on

her cheek protruding. “Who’s been putting ideas in your head? Fancy

a child of your age even thinking such a thing. Love!” She clicked her

tongue. “You love when you’re young and know no better. Until your

heart breaks and you realize you’re safer living without it.”

“That’s sad, Signora Bruno.” Floriana looked genuinely sympathetic.

“Who is this lucky man?”

“He’s called Dante Bonfanti.”

Signora Bruno looked at her in astonishment. “Dante Bonfanti?

Where did you meet
him
?”

“I was peeping into his house from the gate, so he invited me in.

Villa La Magdalena is the most beautiful palace in the whole wide

world.”

“I’d stay well away from them, if I were you,” Signora Bruno said

darkly. “They’re not good people.”

“Dante is,” Floriana protested.

“That may be so, but his father is a very dangerous man. You leave

them well alone and stay down here where you belong.”

“But I love him.”

The old woman smiled at her indulgently. “You’re too young for

love—not that you don’t deserve it, mind you. Out of all the children in Herba, you deserve to be loved most of all.”

Floriana looked at Signora Bruno’s thick ankles and skin-colored

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stockings that gathered in rings down her calves, and wondered what

had become of Signor Bruno. “Where’s your husband?”

“Dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. He was hard work.”

“Like my father.”

Signora Bruno chuckled like a hen. “Your father.” She shook her

head. “A burden to you, he is. It’s not right. He should take some re-

sponsibility.”

“Do you think he’ll die soon?”

Signora Bruno’s face turned gray with pity. “No,
cara
, he won’t die soon.”

“Shame,” Floriana said with a shrug.

“You don’t want him to die, do you?” Signora Bruno looked shocked

and a little confused. She put down her broom and came to sit beside

Floriana on the step, squeezing her soft body into the small space be-

tween the child and the banister. “I know he’s not what you’d want for

a father. He’s been in prison twice and drinks too much. It’s not really a surprise that your mother left him. But you? I don’t know why she left

you—a little defenseless thing—and took your baby brother. I suppose

he was too young to be left with a father who couldn’t take care of him.”

She put her arm around Floriana, who winced. “She should have taken

you with her as well, but she always was selfish, probably thought that Zita would look after you for her. But her sister’s as useless as she is.

Where’s Zita when you need her, eh? She can’t even control her own

children. A child is a blessing from God; your mother should know

that.”

“Do you have children?”

“Grown up now, living in Rome.”

“Do you miss them?”

“Yes,
cara
, I do.”

“Do you think Mamma misses me?”

Signora Bruno’s heart buckled, and she didn’t know what to say.

“I should think she does, dear.”

“It doesn’t really matter anymore.”

“What doesn’t?”

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“If she doesn’t come back, because I’m in love. I don’t need a mother,

you know.”

“You talk a lot of nonsense, you do.” Signora Bruno dabbed her eye

with her apron. “I tell you what, you go and fetch your father, and I’ll help you put him to bed.”

“Thank you.”

Signora Brunol pulled herself up slowly, her knees creaking and

clicking as she straightened them. “Every child needs a mother. You

shouldn’t have to be doing this at your age,” she sighed.

Floriana followed Signora Bruno across the courtyard. Nothing

mattered because tomorrow she was going to see Dante.

Floriana found her father in Luigi’s just round the corner from where

they lived on via Roma. He was hunched over the bar with an empty

glass in his hand. Luigi was denying him another drink, and he was

getting angry. Floriana approached him, and the huddle of men trying

to persuade him to go home parted to let her through.

“Papà,” she said, prodding his arm. “It’s time to go home.”

Her father looked down at her irritably, his rheumy eyes cold and

strange. “Go home yourself, scamp,” he retorted.

Luigi and the other men defended her angrily. “You can’t treat

your daughter like that, Elio. You go home now and be a good father.”

Floriana had heard it all before and wasn’t in the least bit ashamed

of him. If she felt anything at all, she felt weary of this tiresome rou-tine night after night. It astonished her that Costanza’s father still

employed him. She wondered whether he, too, felt sorry for her and

employed him out of charity. She didn’t imagine her father drove very

well with his shaking hands and blurred vision.

Finally, they cajoled him into going home and watched, anxiously, as

the little girl helped him out into the street, although she barely reached his waist. He leaned on her as if she were a walking stick, grunting

and mumbling incomprehensibly. When she reached the door of her

home, Signora Bruno was there as promised. She threw his arm over

her broad shoulder and heaved him up the narrow staircase to their

apartment. Once inside, she let him fall onto his bed. Floriana removed his shoes while Signora Bruno drew the curtains, noticing the hole

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in one and the stain on the other. No one could expect a ten-year-old

child to wash and mend curtains. It was enough that she washed their

clothes, as Signora Bruno had taught her to do after her mother left.

“You’re going to have to be mother now,” she had said, and the little girl had listened bravely, trying not to cry. She had a way of puffing out her chest and holding her chin up in order to appear strong.

Signora Bruno watched Floriana cover her father with a quilt. He

grabbed her hand, and his face crumpled into a sob like a soggy dish-

cloth. “Forgive me,” he mumbled.

“Go to sleep, Papà.”

“I should be a better father to you. Tomorrow I will stop drinking,

I promise.”

“You say that every night. It’s boring.”

“Your mother’s to blame for leaving us. If she hadn’t left us, every-

thing would be all right.”

“You started drinking long before she left.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Maybe she left because you drank.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I love her, and I love our

son. Where are they now? Will I ever see them again? What sort of

boy has he grown up to be? He probably doesn’t even remember me.

But I love them and I love you. I drink to drown the pain of my pitiful life. I drink to forget my guilt, because I haven’t been a good father to you. Forgive me, Floriana. My little Floriana.” He reached out a hand

to touch her face.

“Go to sleep, Papà.” He closed his eyes, and his hand dropped onto

the bed beside him. She gazed down at him a moment, searching in

vain for the father she longed for him to be.

“Have you enough to eat?” Signora Bruno asked as they left the

room and closed the door.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Sure.” She shrugged. “Sometimes I think he’ll be dead in the

morning.”

“Then what would you do?”

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“Go and live with Aunt Zita.”

“She has enough children to feed.”

“I don’t eat much.”

“But you’ll grow and then you’ll eat plenty.”

“When I grow, I’ll get married and live in a palace.”

“We all dreamed of living in palaces when we were little. Look where

I live now. Not quite the palace of my dreams.”

“But I’ve requested it.”

“God doesn’t always deliver, Floriana.”