Blood Curse

XXV

Ricciardi couldn’t seem to get that dream out of his head. He could still hear his mother’s voice, a voice that in reality he was unable to remember, telling him to be a good boy, to study. Study what?

Sitting at the desk in his office, he turned the heavy lead paperweight over and over in his hands, a piece of a mortar shell brought back from the front, a gift from the overseer on his estate in the country.

His papers, all those sheets and scraps that lay scattered over the wooden desktop. Instead of jotting down notes on little pieces of paper, he should have put his mind in order, should have procured himself a notebook and written in it. A notebook, like the appointment book that old Calise kept. God Almighty’s not a shopkeeper who pays His debts on Saturday.

The flash of light that illuminated his mind was followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder, like in a rainstorm. Ricciardi sat there, astonished, with the chunk of lead in his hand, contemplating his own stupidity.

“Maione!”

He had raised the roll-up shutter halfway, just as he did every morning. He knew perfectly well that the other merchants on Via Toledo had their salesclerks open shop and didn’t come in themselves until later. How conscientious Don Matteo De Rosa is, bravo! they’d say to each other behind his back, snickering. A salesclerk you were born and a salesclerk you remain, even now that you’re the boss. They thought that he had no idea what they were saying, that he didn’t realize, but he knew exactly what he was doing.

As he tidied up the rolls of cloth on their wooden poles, he took a quick look at his reflection in the mirror the customers used. Sure, he had a bit of a belly. And his hair was starting to go, slowly but surely. Not even all that slowly, come to think of it. But his mustache was dark and beautifully curled; and his handsome checkered vest with the gold watch chain made it clear to anyone who might wonder that Don Matteo De Rosa was the boss now.

He’d always known that he’d be in charge one day, even back when he was working for old Salvatore Iovine, the leading fabric merchant in Naples. Iovine was a man who had obtained everything he ever wanted from life-everything, that is, except a male heir. And Matteo had won the heart of Iovine’s daughter Vera, a homely monster with a mustache a few hairs short of his but a fuller beard, a woman who was impossible to look at, even from a distance, but who had more suitors than Penelope, because of her immense wealth.

And so, when old Iovine died, spitting blood onto a scrap of beige fabric that was a masterpiece of the weaver’s art, Matteo was left to run the business. Yes, it’s true that the old man had left everything to his daughter. But he was the man of the family, wasn’t he? So he said, let her stay at home in the dark, since even the sunlight was disgusted at the thought of touching her; he would look after the shop.

And everything had gone smoothly until Filomena. Just the thought of her name made his heart rejoice. Filomena.

She’d come in one morning, wearing a black dress made of rough, cheap cotton, a shawl over her head, as if she were covering up some astounding homeliness. Are you looking for a shop clerk? she inquired. Let me see what you look like, he replied. And with a sigh, she pulled back the shawl.

Matteo De Rosa lost his heart and his soul the instant he laid eyes on the face of Filomena Russo. He realized then and there that he’d never be able to rest until he got his hands on the body of that goddess descended to earth. So he hired her; of course he hired her. He told her: every morning at eight o’clock on the dot. And every morning at eight o’clock on the dot he was there, too, while the other salesclerks never arrived before eight thirty. They would often come in to find him flushed, his hair all mussed; he knew that she was a widow, a poor, desperate woman with a son to bring up. He couldn’t understand why she refused his advances. All the other female sales assistants would have given their eyeteeth for the opportunity: the padrone’s mistress, just think of the advantages. But not her.

He’d tried everything: gifts, money, threats. Nothing worked; she rejected it all. All he managed to do was to fill those moonlit eyes with showers of tears. The more she rejected him, the clearer it was to Matteo that he could not live without her. So he finally told her it was time to make up her mind: otherwise she’d have to find herself another job. That is, if she could find one at all; no one would hire a salesclerk fired from the famous De Rosa fabric shop. Capisci, Filomena? Choose Matteo or choose to starve, both you and your son. I’ll expect your answer tomorrow morning.

And the next day, she wasn’t at work. Her son, swarthy and feral, with cap in hand but eyes that showed no respect, came in to say that his mother wasn’t well.

Matteo continued to go in early every morning to open the shop: just biding his time. And Filomena returned, with the same shawl covering her head that she had worn when she had come to the shop for the first time.

He took a step forward, holding his breath. What have you decided? he whispered.

Out in the street, a carriage went by, its iron-rimmed wheels thundering over the cobblestones. A street vendor’s cry pierced the air.

Filomena recoiled into the semidarkness to avoid his touch, until she fetched up against the shelves behind her. Her shawl caught on a roll of cloth and fell away, uncovering her face.

At first Matteo thought the shadows were playing tricks on his eyes, and then he saw clearly.

There was a piece of antique furniture in the bedroom. In the challenging lives of a married couple who had brought six children into the world and had always struggled, it had been a luxury. A gift from Raffaele, back in the days when laughter was a more plentiful commodity than even conversation was now. A tribute to her femininity. It was as if a hundred years had gone by since then.

Lucia Maione was standing with a dustrag in her hand, looking at the little dressing table. It resembled a writing desk, the slightly curved legs surmounted by two small drawers and an inlaid tabletop. Above that, an oval adjustable mirror supported by two wooden posts. A useless piece of furniture, too fragile to support anything heavy; you couldn’t have used it as a place to keep sheets or tablecloths, nor could you really have leaned your elbows on it while eating or studying. Only her two daughters occasionally played at it, making it home to a couple of rag dolls.

Lucia gazed and remembered.

She remembered her husband, stretched out on the bed, drinking in the sight of her as she brushed her hair in front of the mirror, his eyes filled with the joy of love. She remembered his adoring smile and her tenderly mocking response: What do you think you’re watching, a moving picture? And he had replied: There aren’t any actresses as pretty as you. What would I want to go to a picture show for?

A hundred years ago, life had given her a strong, cheerful husband, and then six wonderful children. Laughter, hard work, quarrels, Sundays in the kitchen, every morning mountains of clothing to wash, down at the washhouse in the piazza, singing old Neapolitan songs as she scrubbed. Life had given her gifts. And life had taken away from her as well. She hadn’t even been able to pick out Luca’s clothes, to dress him one last time. He’d left the house one morning with a slice of bread in hand, as usual: Cheer up, Mamma. And that morning, too, he’d taken her in his arms and made her fly, whirling her around and leaving her breathless.

The last time she’d seen him alive. He wouldn’t live to see that evening. He was my life. Why should it come as a surprise that I’ve stopped living?

Lucia took a step toward the vanity and ran an inquisitive finger over the tabletop. No, not a speck of dust. She’d become even more fussy about cleanliness and tidiness; her children knew it and they were careful. There was no dust, but there was no life either. The apartment seemed like a church; one could hardly tell that five other children still lived there. She understood that they weren’t eager to spend time with their now close-lipped and irascible mamma. She was sorry, but there was nothing she could do about it. They would go outside to play, enlivening the street below, beloved by everyone in the neighborhood, including her: but from a distance.

No dust; but there was still a black cloth draped over the mirror, the only one still in place, three years later. When the period of mourning was over, she’d gotten rid of all the other signs of it, except for her black dress and the cloth draped over the mirror. She wondered why: just that mirror. She took the chair that completed the set, a chair that for years now had only been used as a stand for their dressing gowns at the foot of the bed, and scooted it over. She sat down. She tested the seat to make sure it was stable: she’d forgotten how comfortable it was. She moved it a little closer to the vanity, careful not to drag it across the hexagonal ceramic floor tiles. She sat there for a moment, perched between past and present; her heart was racing in her chest. Why? The sounds of the neighborhood entered through the open window: Pesce, pesce, chi vo’ pesce, è vivo ancora. Fresh fish, who wants fish, fish still alive. She heaved a deep sigh, impulsively reached out her hand, and pulled the black cloth off the mirror.

Lucia had always been conscious of her beauty. Blonde, with beaming blue eyes, and a full-lipped, slightly pouting mouth. A narrow nose, just a little long, to give her face a touch of personality. Pretty. And she knew it. She’d stopped thinking about herself; who was this stranger looking in the mirror?

She looked at her eyes: a hard, slightly reddened gaze. Her mouth, thin-lipped. The new creases and wrinkles, at the corners of her eyes, running along her cheekbones: the signs of enduring, daily grief.

How old am I now? she wondered. Forty. Almost forty-one. And I look like an old woman of seventy. She looked around, bewildered. Invisible, the springtime danced in the shaft of sunlight that struck the mirror frame, turning it red. She heard Luca’s voice; she thought of her husband, who had left for work that morning without turning to look up at the window from the street, something he’d always done, a hundred years ago.

She ran her fingers through her blonde hair. She turned her face slightly to one side and tried out a smile.