The Last Concerto. Sara Alexander
were no words to accompany the gesture, only a complicit silence. Marcellino’s eyes widened with the fire coursing down his throat. Bruno laughed and took his son’s cheeks in his hands. Alba couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her father so happy. Would he do this to her once he heard her music? Would he understand the gift Signora Elias had given her? It was the first time Alba could remember seeing his smile take over his face with complete abandon. Her heart twisted into a knot. Bruno shot her a glance. A warning? She would have liked to find the words to reassure him that she wouldn’t be starting a fight at the party, but a stubborn silence froze her face into well-rehearsed diffidence; the night before, she’d heard her parents argue over where Mario’s father, Gigi, and the family would be seated to make sure that Alba wouldn’t cause unnecessary problems.
The men left and bundled into a large black sedan Fiat. Giovanna, Grazietta and Alba scooted onto the leather back seat of a smaller vehicle. At once the line of cars waiting outside their house started sounding their horns. The caravan of trumpeting cars wove through Ozieri, announcing to the few people who were not invited that the son of one of the most successful families in town was about to marry the love of his life. The narrow viccoli were filled with the bombardment of metallic orchestration, the rumble of the engines, the treble of the obnoxious klaxons. The cars filled every nook around the cathedral, a metallic cluster of ants upon the cobbles. Cars were eked into narrow spaces at angles, double-parked, a breath of space between them, whilst the Fresu clan headed up to Lucia’s flower-strewn house for Marcellino to collect his bride. Lucia’s mother greeted Giovanna with two kisses. Wine was passed around. Voices collided like currents bouncing off the marble floors and up the stone walls and concave ceiling. The eldest aunt threw flowers over Lucia’s head, a face floating in a meringue of lace and tulle. Grains were thrown over Marcellino for fertility. A plate was smashed. The cheers were an assault on Alba’s ears, but her mother’s face was streaked with tears and Bruno’s infectious smile made everyone believe him to be the proudest of fathers.
Violent happiness thundered around her. The claustrophobic energy reminded Alba her music might swerve towards unavoidable disappearance. Her father made no secret that her destiny lay behind the counter at the officina, learning from Mario’s father no less, overseeing the parts and books. Alba decided it was his prolonged punishment for what she’d done to his son. Every Saturday from now on was to be spent beside him learning every detail of the job. What pleasure would be found in the quiet order of nuts and bolts? The idea of listening to the customers and their mechanical needs made her heart ache. To Mario’s father, customers’ car stories elongated into detailed descriptions of domestic concerns, delivered with mechanical precision. He oiled their worries, wiped them clean off their conscience, and then replaced them with new thoughts. Alba couldn’t picture herself doing the same. The knot in her chest twisted a little tighter.
In the cathedral, the priest intoned a mass they all knew by heart whilst the echoes of the crowd rippled whispers up the stone like a September sea caressing the white sands of the shore. The couple were blessed, then stepped out into the glare of the mid-morning sun, where they were showered with more grains of rice and petals and cheers. The snaking parade of cars then curved through the valley, pumping out their triumphant cries with a further blast of horns vibrating the sunny stillness towards the plains. When they reached the new headquarters of the officina, waves of people flooded the hangar where the cars were usually stored, now moved and parked outside, filling the surrounding tarmac, to allow shelter of the seven hundred invitees. Tables stretched from one end to another with a central one heaving with food.
Vast trays offered every kind of salad, sliced meats and cheeses, which the guests dived into as if everyone had refrained from eating for the entire week in preparation. Servers swarmed the tables after that with trays of fresh gnocchetti, linguini with bottarga and fresh ravioli. The king prawns that followed were almost punishment, but the guests soldiered on, plates heaped with discarded pink shells, fingers sticky and happy with parsley and garlic juice. Wine sloshed between glasses, onto tablecloths, onto some men’s shirts. When the roasted suckling pigs were pushed in on a trolley, they were met with cheers.
Alba watched the town before her from her seat at the head table, ignoring the knowing stares at her bruised face beneath the layers of pink blusher. Her father swayed between tables, shaking hands, laughing full-bellied, her mother’s feathers sprayed with pride, her brothers among the guests greeting everyone like princes. Several tables beyond theirs, Raffaele sat beside his parents looking his usual pale self, his own face a healing map of surface wounds. Alba shot him a look, counting the seconds until she could get him outside and lay into him for being in any way complicit with the obnoxious plan for them to marry. They had to stay visible at least for the meal before she could find a quiet corner for them to talk.
A chorus of glass tinkling rose from the tables, to yells for the couple to kiss. ‘Bacio! Bacio!’ the guests belted, a canon of bass and tenor, soprano laughter. The tempo quickened, till it galloped towards consummation. Marcellino and Lucia leaned into each other, pressed their lips together, and the room exploded with applause.
Once the first feast reached its end, Alba took the opportunity to escape. Outside, the air was hot against her skin. The sun was beginning its golden descent towards the mountains, their purple silhouettes rising into focus.
‘I’ve been going crazy not being able to talk to you!’ Raffaele called out, breathless.
Alba turned. He stood a few steps behind her, his vanilla skin turning amber, the sun streaking across the healing scrapes on his forehead.
‘You’ve lost your mind!’ she blurted. ‘I don’t want to talk to you. I want to hurt you.’
‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks, my friend, how are you?’
Alba shook her head. ‘You’re the insane one here, not me.’
‘Actually, I’ve accepted our escape route.’
‘For someone so clever your common sense has some seriously arrested development.’
Raffaele grabbed her shoulder. ‘You want to die here?’
‘No dramatics, Ra’.
‘We get married – we get to do what we like with our lives. Real lives. What town do you think we’re living in, Alba? We both know what plans they’ve made for you. And they don’t involve Elias.’
Alba stiffened.
‘You don’t think I’ve put two and two together? The way you speak about music. The way your face lights up like a flame when you’ve played me some of the records she gave you at my house? Come on. You don’t have to be a detective to know that spending every morning with a music teacher insinuates you are her pupil.’
‘Save your smart-ass for someone else, Ra. They stopped me going after the fight. Why do you think I’ve had my brothers following me like shadows?’
‘And it’s killing you. Alba, this is me. Not some idiot. I’m not going to tell anyone. Obviously. Crazy that we’re even having this conversation.’
Alba pinned him with a stare.
‘Don’t be like that. I’m just …’ His voice trailed off for a moment.
‘I thought you were my friend,’ she whispered, fighting tears of frustration and almost winning.
‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.’
Alba turned her gaze away from him, playing chess manoeuvres in her mind to escape her corner.
‘My parents will be expecting a good match for me,’ he said, undeterred, releasing his hands from her. ‘I don’t want to spend my life with another woman. It makes me feel like I’m dying. You don’t want to spend your life behind the counter of an officina – so why don’t we cut our losses, do the stupid thing, and then move away from it all?’
Alba turned to him, eyes stinging. ‘You’re talking shit.’
‘At least I’m talking.’
Her breaths rose