Farewell, Beautiful (I capitolo)

“What distinguishes man from beast?”

“I know this one.” Matteu gestured towards the bird, plucked clean of its bones, on the table. “Behold!” he glanced at me, and smiled at himself. “A man!” I smiled at him.

“Of course.” Francu humored him. “But I mean, we are not communists. Yes? We are not naïve animals driven by material need or carnal pleasure. We live not to suckle on the bolshevik nanny state. We are men. We strive for existence beyond our bodies, for significance beyond eating, sleeping, fucking. What good is a life that exists solely to reproduce itself? What good is survival if not to live for something greater?”

“And, I suppose, a life cut short in pursuit of the Good is better spent than one fully lived in the shallow, material prison of our bodies.”

“Precisely, Matteu. Carmelo bequeathed unto you this this fertile land, on which he entrusted you to feed the army of Rumë, to start a family with his lovely granddaughter”—he tipped his wine my way—“and to ponder thus what sort of life is worthy of a man who is, in turn, worthy of being called as such.”

“Thank you, Siñore. I will ponder that.”

“Thank you, Matteu. And I would of course be remiss not to thank your wife for dinner. Siñore Carmelo would be proud to see his granddaughter having grown into such a fine woman. Very proud.”

“It was nothing, Siñore. Our pleasure.” I smiled.

Matteu fucked me later that night, and after we lay in bed under the covers.

“What do you make of Siñore Francu?”

“He’s an old man. I don’t remember him much, and what I remember of him is fine.”

“You don’t remember your grandfather’s best friend? His confidante?”

“He didn’t care much for kids. Didn’t have any of his own. I spent most of my time playing in the fields, running around the village. I don’t know what happened to the others.”

“I’m sure the farm was beautiful back then.”

“No.” I laughed. “The Duge gave Nonnu this tabula rasa of a property, on which he grew only weeds. Didn’t even hire the original owners to work it for him.”

“Maybe it was more of a burden than a gift. The gods are prone to such generosity.”

“And who is the Duge but a god amongst men?”

“Precisely.” He pressed his hand on my waist and drew my forehead to his lips.

“But you’re not asking about Francu.”

“No. Or rather, not about him in particular.”

“This place. You expected something more idyllic. You wanted to play Wergil.”

“I’m less disappointed than stupified.” His fingers ran through my hair. “I thought it would be a respite from the hustle and bustle to live somewhere simpler, familiar.”

“You read too much poetry.”

“We didn’t have to move here.”

“Did I have a say?”

“We could’ve sold the land.”

“You didn’t ask. You didn’t think. You wanted to move here.”

“Don’t be cruel, Sandra.”

“Fate is cruel. You’ve made your bed.” I turned to face away from him.

“Please, Sandra. Look.”

“No.”

“Then don’t look.” His arm pulled me closer. “We didn’t lose anything to move here. If you don’t like it, I’m sure my mother would be very happy to host us until we find a home more to your taste.”

“I do get along quite well with her.”

“But consider this in the meantime a wartime honeymoon, compliments of your dearest Nonnu looking down on us from Heaven, interceding on our behalf that we should deserve our own roof.”

“How generous of the gods to hear his plea.”

“How generous of you to humor me.”

“You are humorous after all.” I bumped my ass against him. Matteu possessed a certain pathos about him which helplessly evaporated frustration. For better or worse, it behooved me not to resent him for his lapses in consideration. I could have married worse, and he had not fallen to the cult of virility; or at least not yet, I often told myself. I imagined him fancying himself a model fascist, admiring his jaw jutted in the mirror, making a housewife and heifer out of me. Maybe we would have a dog if it pleased him.

No. That didn’t concern me. If Matteu was a fascist, he was an intellectual one: a romantic searching for solid ground in our modern, bourgeois world. Maybe socialism would have been equally amenable to him if it could have fallen as softly into his lap. Matteu was always mild-mannered, never demanding except in his helplessness.

And here I was, his homegrown wife returned to soil. The train to San Marto was as late as always, that much hadn’t changed. Only now my husband held my hand, his long fingers entangling mine, at the station where as a little girl I had stood alone; and only now my grandfather wasn’t there to greet me at my arrival, grunting as he picked me up and twirled me around and told me how big I had gotten. He was a good man, and the State seemed to have agreed, having given him his land and his medals and his titles. I never knew my grandmother, his wife. I did not realize until much later that I had never so much as seen a photo of her. The women in this village kept to themselves, within the casa’s confines, but she was neither here nor there. Since she had passed giving birth to my mother, her memory must have passed with Nonnu. Maybe I would find her tombstone here. I fell asleep as my mind’s eye retraced the steps from our farmhouse to the church, and took one wrong step into darkness.

I woke up and found the bed all to myself. Matteu must have decided to let me sleep in. I made coffee, or whatever you call it. The fatherland demands sacrifice in every aspect of life, and austerity rewards the soul (or so I am told). I meditated while sipping on my little cup with cream, until I was disturbed by a knock on the door. It was one of Adrianna’s little girls. How mad could I be?

“Siñora!” The child thinly veiled her anxiety.

“Good morning, Elena! Are you okay?”

“Siñora,” she collected herself, “have you seen Bella?”

“I’m sorry, bambina, but I don’t know Bella.”

“Bella is my kitten.” For a moment, excitement overcame her worry. “Bella is black with a white tummy, and she wears a cross around her neck, and she’s a girl. Have you seen her?”

“She sounds very pretty but, no, I’ve not seen her.”

“That’s okay. Thank you, Siñora.”

“Would you like some juice? You’re exhausted.” I felt sorry that the poor girl’s breath was heaving.

“No, thank you, Siñora. I want to find her.”

“Does your mother know that you’re looking for her?”

“Mama wouldn’t let me keep her. Please don’t tell her.”

“Okay, but please be safe. It’s hot outside.”

“Thank you, Siñora. Bye-bye.” With that, Elena hurried off.

I figured I had an idea of what happened. Children often underestimate the omniscience of their mothers. Adriana probably found out that Elena kept and hid the cat; so, not wanting to keep house for a hairy thing, she freed it from her daughter’s clutches. I’m sure Bella even thanked her for it. Elena is sweet, of course, but she would not have made a pleasant jailer for as independent a creature as a feline: barely domesticated, always resentful. With what piety was left in my heart, I prayed that the cat was doing alright and started on cleaning yesterday’s dinnerware. Modernity had not yet hit the rus, so I had to start by heating well water (thank you, my ever-reliable Matteu) on the stovetop before pouring it into the sink basin. Maybe the Duge, as the gods had once blessed us with fire, will one day also bless us with electricity and plumbing. Oh well. Until then, I refused to live with dirty dishes.

Matteu and I had come to an arrangement as to our day-to-day lives. The ancient patriarchal model of the working man and his domestic wife (or, perhaps, of the domestic woman and her working husband—but I won’t delude myself) sufficed well enough to organize our affairs. We had a lot of work to get done, and the allotment of our labors at least made our days rhythmically consistent. Besides, I told myself, my infertility rendered our situation a parody of marriage. Matteu told me I was perfect for him because he always knew he would prefer to become an uncle than a father. Thank the gods, then. Here he was now.

“My donna fascista, the envy of the Duge.”

“My indomitable husband, the spitting image of Jeus.”

“Let’s not get carried away now.”

“You look good. Suits you.” My eyes traced his glistening body, somewhat exaggeratedly.

“Well. Thank you.” His eyes curtsied.

“How’s your manly man work?”

“It’s good. Difficult. One realizes why man has always tried to escape it.”

“Didn’t he do that to himself?”

“So the story goes.” He sighed and, with his unbuttoned shirt in hand, wiped sweat off his face and body. “I’m thinking about hiring some help. Do you think the original owners are still around? I mean, of course, not your late beloved Nonnu.”

“You’re kidding. Right?”

“I just thought it’d be fair.”

“I wouldn’t know where they are or where they went. They already haven’t had it for over a decade now. You can’t just rent them to work their own land.”

“I’m not stingy.”

“We’re not wealthy. And what can you offer them?”

“I own the land.”

“How quickly you’ve become a pig.”

“Oink.” He snorted and kissed me. “Well, if I can’t find them, I can’t offer them anything.”

“I just wouldn’t hold your breath either way.”

“I’m damn near out of breath to hold.” He passed me the local newspaper. “You seen this?”

“The women’s league.”

“They’re meeting tonight at the church.”

“A lovely bunch, I’m sure.”

“It’ll do you good to make friends.”

“I actually saw Adrianna’s daughter today. She stopped by. Lost her cat.”

“Poor thing.”

“But Adrianna didn’t want to have an animal in the house. I’m sure she released it back into the wild.”

“Well. Poor thing.”

“I’m sure the cat’s happier now.”

“Maybe. I know they like the attention.”

“Anyway, I ought to check base with her. Her child shouldn’t be out on a wild puss hunt.”

“What do you expect children to do?”

“I expect children to worry their mothers, and mothers to worry for their children.”

Matteu looked like he was about to say something, but chose not to. We ate our lunch in silence before returning to our respective duties: he to the fields, and myself back to the sink. Would I like to be a mother? I had long ago mourned the children I realized I would never have. Perhaps on one hand I am fortunate not to have spent any time coiled up, bleeding, and aching; but to what end is a girl born and raised if not to see herself one day married and pregnant? I am a half-measure and, inasmuch as Matteu sees the glass half-full, he deludes himself of its emptiness. I drained the sink and took the slop bucket out from under to the field. Sul’s racing chariot had nearly run its course. The land was unkempt, slowly through Matteu’s efforts being nursed back to health, but my Nonnu kept well one tree a stone’s toss from the house. There we had picnics, and on evenings like this we watched the sunset: him with wine, I with a pear plucked from its branches. There the shadow of something dangled in the breeze.

I called out to my husband. He could hear me not. I approached the old pear tree. The shape of the thing materialized. A pit opened in my stomach; I nearly vomited. A white-tummied black cat twirled by a rope, strangled by the crucifix round its neck. There hung Bella.

I ran back home for a knife or sheers—anything—and cradled Bella in my arms as I cut her down from the tree. I carried her in the folds of my dress back inside. The pace of my feet and of my heart had slowed. Warm though she still was, her breath no longer took residence in her little body. I held her for a long while, waiting for my husband to come home. I hoped Elena had not seen it. I hoped her mother had no hand in it. Bella seemed at least peaceful. I rubbed her whiskers along her cheeks and massaged her forehead. Matteu returned and was initially excited that I had finally made a friend. My half-empty eyes spoke on my behalf. Carefully he swaddled the creature in spare cloth, and brought it out to the field. He gave me as a token of her memory her rosary, quite a fine one for a poor cat. I had half a thought to pass it along to Elena, though I couldn’t justify having had it on my person. What would I tell her? Maybe Bella had a crisis of faith.

I missed the women’s league meeting that night. Instead, Matteu held me in bed. I wept on his chest. Then morning came.