The Maestrale Voice

VI-1

VI

The properties of Mezzocannolo provided excellent earnings and Vincenzo Musumeci followed them with the same attention he put into everything.

It was summer of 1920 and the Musumeci family had already moved. Vincenzo was traveling by car. That afternoon, earlier than usual, he had left the mill and he was driving fast to the feud. He had every reason to be happy. The construction of the pasta factory proceeded briskly, the seven-floor building in red brick had been completed and they were waiting for the machinery. In the morning, the postman had delivered a package that still closed and placed on the passenger seat. He had been shocked when he read the name of the sender. It was Lena. After two years, an answer had finally come. He didn't have the courage to open the envelope, because then it would have been difficult to continue working, and also because he wanted to read the letter with the right, calm mindset. Immediately he thought about the countryside and the sunny timpa. At four in the afternoon, he jumped in the car, too agitated to focus.

He reached the gate on the main road and turned right, taking the long boulevard that goes to the country house. Arriving at the court he parked the car under the canopy, also used as a deposit for the stall fodder. He took the envelope and put it in his jacket’s pocket. He ordered the farmer to saddle Tararà and entered the house to put on his leather boots.

“What happened to you, Vincenzo? Why are you back so early?” Ada reached him, puzzled.

“Nothing serious, Ada. I wanted to ride around the estate,” he answered.

Ada hugged him. Her head only reached his chest’s muscles. He felt that she was relaxed and quiet. Then, he went to his bedroom.

The horse was ready in front of the entrance door. Vincenzo Musumeci jumped on it, began trotting, and after a few minutes he was on the timpa. He tied the reins of the animal to the lowest branch of the secular olive tree and lingered to admire the scenery below and in front of him. He observed the imposing building, which he had inherited from his father, and to the west, the cottage surrounded by twenty acres of land. It was the gift of the Baron of Mezzocannolo to Lena on the day of her graduation in medicine. Since she was in Africa, Vincenzo looked after the interests of the property and deposited the profits into her postal savings account. The house had been opened only once during all those years.

He looked at the sea in the distance, where the fiery orb of the sun began to fall from a clear sky, a prelude to the impassioned embrace with the horizon. He sat down, opened the envelope, read it and inhaled its scent. Sometimes he stopped and looked up in the direction of her house, which slowly disappeared into the twilight after sunset, then lifted the sheets again and continued reading. The darkness overtook him and he realized that it was late. Within a few minutes, Ada would send Cocò Bonsignore to look for him. He decided to return. The effort it took to get up and loosen the reins of Tararà was remarkable.

She liked working in the hospital. At that time, however, she felt confused. She was mentally tired. Vincenzo’s stay in Africa had stunned her and since he had left she felt depressed. Once again, she had pushed him away. Yet, he had come back. It must have cost him tormented thoughts. And he would have stayed if she had wanted him to. But what was the price, for him and his dignity? After some time, would he have loved her the same way? Or would he have started to hate her, seeing in her the destruction of his family and factory? She decided that her decision had been for the best. Only in this way could they have saved their love. She, however, suffered from that distance and she felt bad. Dammit. And she knew why.

That morning she got up earlier than usual and walked quietly to the bathroom. She was walking barefoot on the acacia wood floor of the corridor, not wanting to wake Lula up, the feisty house cleaner she had hired. She had a nosebleed. She fell to her knees and vomited. Her vision blurred and she felt the need to lay down. She was cold sweating but felt hot. She sank to the floor in a fetal position, the acid stench of vomit bathed her body. A soothing lethargy seized her. Almost fainting, she closed her eyes and fell asleep after a few moments.

She woke up to Lula’s voice, who was complaining of her bad habit of always getting up so early, instead of waiting for her and the in-room breakfast, as befitted a true Italian lady.

“Why you take my services on if you decide to live as a low level woman?” asked Lula, while Lena finally woke up.

How long had she been on the floor? She stood up, supported by the black girl who accompanied her to the sink, she pulled off her nightgown and disgustedly threw it in the dirty clothes hamper. Then she poured a pitcher of cold water on her hair and washed her.

“What time is it?” asked Lena.

“It was eight o'clock when I found you.”

“My God! I had some appointments at the ward at seven!”

She was shocked. For the first time she would get to work late. Her visits were a point of pride for her. Normally doctors visited the sick people between ten o'clock and noon. She, however, wanted to have two daily visits. The first at seven o'clock and then later again with colleagues. In doing so, she had earned their respect and often she asked to check how this or that patient had spent the night. She was in pediatrics, but for some time now the other departments were vying for her services.

Who knows how upset they would be that morning, and it was all her fault; she had gotten them accustomed to this. And then... she realized she could not think. Perhaps she had to throw up again. She lowered her head on the sink and tried to vomit, but merely regurgitated a little green bile. There was nothing in her stomach in that moment.

“You not go to the hospital today.” Lula, like all black people, was used to the slow passing of time and did not understand the anxieties and the eternal rushing of white people. For her, an hour or a day were equal to one month. “You feel too bad. I take you to bed and you stay there.”

Lena was exhausted and could not protest. She let Lula lead her into the room to lay down. Lula opened the shutters and the sun lit up the room and the bed.

“Lula, go to the hospital. Find the Chief of Staff and inform him that I will not be there today,” Lena said, with a sigh.

“Yes, miss. And I will also ask doctor to pay you a visit,” she retorted.

“No, there’s no need. I'm just tired.”

“Since he left, you been feeling bad.”

She left the room, muttering. And Lena thought, for such a young age, she was wise enough. She had made a deal when the mother of Lula, who had come to give birth in Asmara, had spoken of her eldest daughter and her desire to come work in the city.

At that time Lena had just rented the house in the colonial neighborhood of cottages. Lula had introduced herself at her house the following Sunday, early in the morning. She was thin and had nothing of the irrepressible beauty of the Eritrean girls of her age. Her face was round and she had a bulbous nose between two very black eyes. It was the eyes that struck Lena: fully of loyalty and intelligence. The girl immediately gained her trust. She was discrete. When Vincenzo arrived, she always found the guest room untouched, but no one in the small community of Asmara knew that they slept together.

She heard the door closing and heard the voice of Lula singing a sweet Tigrinya melody, while she ambled away from the house. A sense of desolation and loneliness overwhelmed Lena. She had grown up without a mother, and had been accustomed to fending for herself in all circumstances, but now she did not know what to do. She had to think of something but couldn’t do anything but cry.

It had to be almost noon. The house cleaner had returned and was making some noise in the kitchen. She called to her and waited a few minutes. Lula knocked on the door and entered, holding a silver tray with a steaming teapot on it. The young woman filled a cup of mint tea.

Lena motioned for her to sit on the bed. She drank in silence and felt better after drinking the hot liquid. When she was done she felt better, but still had a weight inside of her.

“Stay, I need company,” she said.

Lula looked at her compassionately, like she understood what was tormenting her, but assumed a hard look. Lena was in a difficult situation. She’d be alone if it was not for Lula, who when she knew something didn’t speak of it, and she was right to do so, or Lena would have sent her away. But not anymore. She needed help, and the young black woman was ready to support her. She was happy and looked at her with affection, as she did the children she used to take care of in the hospital.

“Forgive me,” said Lula, hesitant. “I understand the situation with Mr. Vincenzo. I not approve, but if you happy, I am too…” She seemed determined to continue, but she stopped.

“You can... speak your mind...” Lena encouraged her.

“Mistress...” The house cleaner was embarrassed. “I see my parents conceive my brothers and sisters, because I am the oldest daughter. I know how it work: you did not have your blood this month and you are vomiting always.”

Lena was crying. She wanted to stop, but she could not. She took a hanky.

“I do not understand how this happened,” she said, after blowing her nose.

Lula came up and hugged her. Lena leaned her head on the breast of the black woman and recovered a little.

“Now, you get up and go into the garden for lunch. Eat and stay healthy. Don't think about the baby now.”

Lena lowered the cotton blankets. She would have preferred to stay in bed and cry, but getting up was the right thing to do. She put on a light dress and sandals and left the room. In the bathroom, she washed her face with soap and water. Looking in the mirror, she saw that she was still quite attractive. The nausea had gone and she was hungry. She went down the stairs inside the house and headed to the garden, coming from the main entrance, and into the backyard.

So much better, she thought, as she sat down on the porch next to the kitchen.

She was twenty years old and no longer a child. She had to face reality. She would fight for her son. She still did not know how but if she just focused she would find the solution. Becoming a mother was a normal thing. A little less without a husband and in a very provincial and gossipy place as the colony.

She ate with a large appetite and in the afternoon she went for a walk down King's road. Wandering around with no destination at the end of the day was a custom of the Italians in Asmara. The going back and forth slowly along the tree-lined avenue was incessant. The crowd filled the sidewalks and the elegant European ladies were walking beside their men. At the Bar Alba it was possible to meet almost any person that mattered: government officials and officers of the military command of the colony.

Lena had worn the tilfì, a sophisticated and elegant dress of the indigenous tradition; she had covered her head with the two and a half meters futa, as befitted the single girls. The protests of Lula meant nothing.

“Why you going out like that?” she asked.

“What's wrong with how I’m dressed?”

“This is how black women dress. You’re trying to be alone; no one will walk with you like that.”

“Do not be silly. I will bring the futa lowered so to leave the face uncovered. And this dress suits me well.”

“What you say be true, but...” Lula looked at her fearfully, “How you find an Italian to father your children if you look too African?”

Lena burst out laughing. She had finally found the solution. “Hurry up, let's go,” Lena seemed in a hurry. “The officers love an exotic conquest and my tilfì is fit for the purpose.”