Summer Night, Winter Moon. Jane Huxley
our parents that no church meant no dinner, no fishing, no movies.
Now, years later, inside this foreign church, the sound of my footsteps grew louder and louder as I walked across the nave, stopped before a crucified Christ, terrifying in his near-nakedness, his crown of thorns, his glazed eyes.
If it was true that He knew about the sins of the world and still forgave the multitudes, then He would understand the rage which had coursed through my blood, the anger which had seized and devoured me.
I bent down and bestowed a humble touch upon His lacerated feet. They were cool as marble, and so were the eyes that couldn’t see. Or could they?
“I’m not looking for forgiveness, Lord. I just want to stop the sound of that splash.”
I paused. I had barely expressed what I was there to say, and yet I was already spent. The rain seemed to have tapered off, and a bleak sun was shimmering on the stained glass windows as I tore myself away from the crucifix, my throat tight from swallowing the unshed tears, my footsteps hollow as my own faith.
SIX
June 16, 2005
My father-in-law, Piero Giordano, is a Caprese by birth, a fisherman by necessity and a father by miscalculation. Sometime in the spring of 1984, his young peasant common-law wife had misunderstood the rhythm method of contraception (as explained to her by the village priest), therefore creating life with one wrong monosyllable and giving birth to a stunningly beautiful baby girl they named Antonia.
But, overnight, the joyful event had turned tragic when the young mother paid the ultimate price for giving birth with only the village midwife to assist her during a difficult delivery.
Too preoccupied to dwell on the cruelty of fate, the anxious father, who until then had held a dignified but financially unrewarding position as a high school Italian teacher, had been forced to supplement his income by moonlighting as a fisherman. His frail rowboat (idle but for an occasional Sunday excursion) was dutifully sanded, painted, repaired and equipped with sturdy broad oars which would allow Piero to test the waters off the coast of Capri.
It had taken the village a few weeks to realize that Piero Giordano was in search of Someone to do Something about his meagre resources. But, having understood, the villagers (even the thriftiest) permitted themselves the luxury of charitable contributions.
Of course there was no one more deserving of help than the rugged, weather beaten, self-proclaimed fisherman, and no one better able to help him than the Almighty. Like all miracle-workers, the Almighty made Piero’s fishnets heavy with flounder and sea bass and snappers, with bushels of calamari for good measure, thus enabling him to retain a certain amount of intellectual fantasy, while making life tolerable for his family.
But a tragic occurrence (the worst any parent can envision) had brought him to a foreign land. And yet, the more excruciating his sorrow, the more steadfast his faith.
Hearing the scratch of my key in the lock, he gave out a tremulous squeal of joy, “Antonia!”
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s me.”
He appeared to have been waiting in the foyer; now, as he shuffled back into the library, his thin knobbly hands fumbled in his breast pocket in search of his cigarettes.
“Scusi, ha una sigaretta?”
“There’s a pack of Marlboros on the desk.”
“Grazie, grazie.”
Long minutes went by after his jerky efforts to light the cigarette; then the obvious question was asked, “Any news?”
“Not so far,” I said.
“The investigatore was here.”
“Who?”
“Agente di polizia. They put Missing Person signs all over London. I said to offer one thousand pounds reward. That’s okay? You can pay?”
“Of course. I would have done the same if I could think straight.”
“The agente said the sniffing dogs followed her smell to York Bridge, in Regent’s Park.” He paused and seemed to struggle with a language he was not comfortable with. “What was Antonia doing at York Bridge? Voglio dire, why did she go there?”
“It’s one of her favourite walks. More so after she got the dog.”
I stirred the logs in the fireplace and felt their heat on my cheeks, my neck. Steaming hot and surprisingly disagreeable. The crackling noises were unable to drown out Piero’s footsteps pacing back and forth, followed by his heavily accented words.
“The agente asked if Antonia is depressed.”
“I wonder how they would know that.”
“Know? She is depressed?”
“Yes.”
He looked startled by the information, which might imply his own failure as an intuitive parent.
“I had no idea,” he mumbled, through a cloud of smoke.
“Nothing dreadful,” I said. “More like the blues. Or a locked-up sadness she’s been unable to express.”
He nodded, dropping ashes in the fireplace, then asked through another cloud of smoke, “You have marriage problems?”
I felt myself blush and quickly turned away, leafing through the bundle of letters, bills, gallery accounts, that were piled up on the desk.
“We do,” I said, at last. “But no more than any other couple.”
“The agente thinks Antonia has a lover. That is true?”
I slammed my fist on the desk and turned to him a face both outraged and distraught.
“Those bastards,” I said. “How dare they accuse her of infidelity?”
Startled by my outburst, he hastened to offer an explanation. “The agente said a jealous husband, un cornuto, feels a sudden hurt. Mi perdoni, Trevor,” he added miserably. “That’s what he said.”
I felt immensely sorry for him – mostly because he was unaware of the depths of sorrow he might be destined to experience. I wished I could play straight with him, or, at least, that I could stamp out the fear in his eyes.
“The agente wants to talk with you,” he said quietly.
“They already have. But I’ll talk to them again and again. As long as necessary.”
“With Dante, too.”
“He’s a good friend. He’ll do whatever he can to help.”
“He came this afternoon.”
“Did he?” I said, feigning surprise.
“Brought a bottle of Montepulciano. To calm the nerves. Want some? A glass of red wine is not going to hurt while we wait.”
Till when? I wondered, as I uncorked the bottle and poured two large goblets. For him there was no harm in waiting. He enjoyed the protection of his ignorance, which justified his hope, his optimism. Unlike my own devastation, which left me unanchored, a man with a future as murky as his past.
“Antonia wrote me a letter a month ago,” he said, gulping down his wine. “Lo stavo leggendo when you came in. Want to hear the funny part? I translate for you.
“Please.”
He put on his reading glasses and scanned the letter for the morsel that might amuse me.
“So, you see, Papa,” he recited, “the English people think that all we do is eat and drink and get fat. Which makes me laugh so much when they see that I’m tall as a pine tree and skinny as…”
He interrupted himself, searching for a word. “Hmm…