“I'd better go talk to Gianluca,” said Albertino. “If this goes on much longer, the fruit and vegetable stand won't be a fruit and vegetable stand anymore.”
He bent down and picked up a tiny pellet that lay in the cracked soil at his feet.
“On the other hand,” he said, crushing the pellet into powder between his thumb and forefinger, “what can Gianluca do that God hasn't already thought of?”
He watched for a moment as the dry breeze blew the crumbled dust toward the gates of the cemetery. Then he walked to his room, climbed over the east wall, and crept back in between the emerald and the ocher to sleep.
PIERO COULD NOT
decide what to do about the blackened body. He considered throwing it back into the water, but he was afraid that it would only wash up on some other part of the island — and Piero was convinced that the people of Riva di Pignoli could not handle any more bad omens. An odd wind and the hope of a good catch had blown their fathers’ fathers’ fathers to this small swelling in the lagoon. And though the fishing had stayed good, and the families had merged into a community, they all knew another good blast up the Adriatic might whisk them right away again. Three generations after the first of their fathers had snared and salted a cod, there was still an air of impermanence to the village and a casual lack of order. Houses made right turns when they hit a canal. Gardens fanned wide at the middle or narrowed down to a point. Roosters and pigs and ducks roamed the island freely, entering and exiting the hovels as they liked; floors and streets were therefore covered with rooster shit, pig shit, and duck shit, which was either washed away with water on the first of each month or covered over with a fine layer of straw and flowers (another reason the villagers missed their spring). Bread not eaten on Monday was saved for Tuesday or Wednesday; bread not eaten on Tuesday or Wednesday was used to serve food on on Thursday or Friday; bread not eaten on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday, after having been used to serve food on on Thursday or Friday, was thrown on the floor to feed the roosters, pigs, and ducks on Saturday and Sunday. Baths were taken on Midsummer's Eve and the Nativity of the Virgin. Clothes were changed when they caught fire.
To Piero such things were normal, even though he had been raised in a monastery away on another island. What disturbed him was that things were getting worse. The winters were growing colder and wetter. The livestock was dying because the villagers could no longer afford to spare their grain for feed. Fierce storms were racking the island's shores with greater and greater frequency. And now, in addition to the charred roots and the somber fruit the earth was flinging from its belly, the sea was heaving up dead bodies with horrible midnight swellings in their sides.
Piero heard a rustling behind him and turned with a start, but all he saw was the Guarnieris’ sow trotting casually up the Calle Alberi Grandi. When he was certain that it had neither seen nor smelled what he had discovered, he covered the body with twigs and rushes and went to fetch a wheelbarrow; when he returned, however, he found that it was easier simply to drag it. So he pulled it to the edge of the lagoon, hid it beneath the splintered remains of a storm-damaged dock, and then waited until sundown — when he would take it to the field of wild thyme that grew along the north rim of the island, bury it, and then try to find a way to bring the spring.
“MAYBE YOU SHOULD
try singing,” suggested the Vedova Stampanini.
“Singing?” said Gianluca.
“To the soil. To make things grow. You have an unusual voice, Gianluca.”
Gianluca lowered the last of his bread into his
brodetto di pesce
and watched as it absorbed the pale, greasy liquid.
“Albertino wouldn't like it. He hates when I sing. He says it reminds him of when we were little and I used to finish eating before him and I would sing and it would make him feel he had to hurry.”
The Vedova removed Gianluca's bowl and took it, along with her own, to the wooden wash bucket that sat beside the cutting table.
“A little singing would be good for Albertino. The next time he spends the night I'm going to insist on it.”
Since Albertino's room had no roof, he spent the cold and the rainy nights with Gianluca in the dark room he rented from the Vedova Stampanini. Gianluca wasn't exactly delighted with this arrangement, as there was hardly a night in the week he didn't bring someone home to share his bed. But Albertino was his brother, and Gianluca had given their mother his sworn promise, when she lay on her deathbed some ten years before, to “take care of Tintino with his heart, his knees, his tongue, his toes, and his liver.” Gianluca had no intention of either calling his brother “Tintino” or of honoring his deathbed promise, but when the rains came down in Riva di Pignoli, he allowed him to burrow into a ball on the floor beside his bed on another pile of the Vedova Stampanini's blankets and considered himself generous for the gesture.
“Maybe you could try flirting.”
“Flirting?”
“You know — the way you do. Women can't resist it, Gianluca. And don't forget that Nature is a woman.”
Gianluca, as the Vedova well knew, was a lover. Tall and handsome, with thick black hair and dark, glistening eyes, he strode down the Calle Alberi Grandi with a look of sated self-satisfaction on his face. One corner of his mouth was always inclined toward the slightest of smiles, one hand was always at his crotch: checking, shifting, squeezing a little life into its roots. Gianluca's penis was commonly referred to as
II BastÒn,
and everyone on Riva di Pignoli was familiar with its astonishing length. The men had seen it in summer when they went swimming in the cove behind Giuseppe Navo's boat — from the time he was twelve Gianluca had cowed them, from youngest to oldest, into a long, admiring line behind him. The women had seen it by candlelight in the tight quarters of his tiny room; none of them would admit to having been with him, but each communicated an embarrassed warmth when she passed him in the street. Most nights, however, Gianluca brought women from the other islands to his room. It was suggested by more than a few of his former conquests that, more than anything else, he enjoyed the fresh look of awe on their faces as they watched him disrobe.
“I don't think that can bring the spring,” said Gianluca.
“You never know,” said the Vedova. “With the right inflection, something just might come up.”
At eighty-three, the Vedova Stampanini had failed to taste Gianluca's charms herself; but she enjoyed the idea of all this lovemaking going on under her roof so much, she let Gianluca pay his rent in vegetables. Feathery cabbages. Sweet stalks of fennel. Crisp, crunchy carrots. It was common for most villagers to have a small garden of their own, but few could afford more than a little celery and a couple of cauliflower. Gianluca and Albertino fleshed out their meager yields with onions, turnips, parsnips, peas, broccoli, cabbage, eggplant, fennel, carrots, artichokes, and three kinds of
insalata
— not to mention strawberries, apples, pears, and figs on the fruit side of the ledger. The wetter, colder weather made it more and more difficult to work the land, but Gianluca persisted, eliminating asparagus (too reedy) and beets (too red) and keeping two small fields fallow each season to allow for rotation. After a couple of rough seasons things began to improve; the past three years the fruit and vegetable stand they ran at the village market had actually made a profit. But now it was almost May and the parched earth had not spit forth a sign of foliage nor the promise of a thing to come.
“On the other hand,” said the Vedova Stampanini, “a woman is entitled to her moods. I gave birth to ten and then buried every one of them. Believe me, Gianluca, it tires you out.”
Gianluca listened, but he could not accept the argument. There was another explanation for the spring's delay. There had to be. And he was determined to find out what it was.
The sun had risen just above the horizon when he left the Vedova Stampanini's hovel and took his boat to cross over to the tiny cemetery island; by the time he had docked, and had tied his boat up next to Albertino's, and had walked across to the roofless little room, it was just beginning to lift up high enough to cast its warmth out over the east wall and across Albertino's sleeping body. Gianluca stood there for a moment and thought of how many minutes — hours — days, it seemed — he had spent watching Albertino sleep. But thoughts of time brought thoughts of the reluctant spring, so he moved in closer to the wall and let his broad shadow eclipse the morning rays.
Albertino opened one eye and glared out of it at Gianluca.
“You stepped in front of my dream.”
“Get up, little brother. You dream too much.”
“It was a nice dream. I was enjoying it very much. You blocked it right out.”
“Get up,” Gianluca repeated as he stepped over the wall. “The spring is twenty-seven days late. There's no time to be lying in bed having nice dreams.”
Albertino rolled over onto his belly.
“Well, what else can I do? I can't work. And if I can't work, I might as well sleep.”
“Have you thought about it, Albertino? Have you thought about what it means?”
“I'e thought about it, Gianluca.”
“Then why don't you seem to understand? If the spring doesn't come, we'l lose everything we'e worked for. We can't just lie in bed. We have to do something.”
“All right,” said Albertino. “What should we do?”
Gianluca began to move about the room like one of Siora Scabbri's chickens. He knew what he was going to say, but he did not relish the thought of Albertino's response.
“I'e tried everything I can think of, you realize. And it's all been a waste of time. But this morning I thought of something I hadn't thought of before.”
“What's that?”
“Ermenegilda.”
Albertino sprang up like the hinge on a mold-board plow. “Ermenegilda!”
“I knew you wouldn't like it. But I think it's our only chance.” Gianluca, having reached the south wall, picked up one of Albertino's boxes and began fingering the ribbons that wound through its ornate clasp.
“Put that down, Gianluca,” said Albertino. “I told you never to touch my boxes.”
Gianluca returned the box to its corner while Albertino slid forward onto his knees. “Gianluca,” he said in a whisper, “do you think so, too?”
“Do I think what?”
“Do you think the spring hasn't come because of Ermenegilda?”
“Because of Ermenegilda?”
“Because she's so ugly. Because she's so fat.”
Gianluca remained motionless as he contemplated Albertino's words; then he burst into a great gale of laughter. “Don't be a fool,” he said. “Ermenegilda is rich, that's all. Enrico Torta is always telling everyone that the Torta money can buy anything. Well, let's put it to the test. Let's see if it can buy us the spring.”
Albertino flopped back on his bed. “That's ridiculous.”
“We'e desperate, Albertino.”
“Ermenegilda can't buy us the spring.”
“Do you know that?”
“It's the stupidest idea you'e ever had.”
Gianluca stepped closer to the pile of blankets and crouched down at its side. “Ermenegilda is rich. She'd do anything in the world for you. Tell her you need a spring.”
“You'e been drinking too much.”
“It's our only chance.”
“You'e been out too long in the sun.”
“Albertino…”
“No! I won't do it! And don't ask me again!”
Gianluca got down on his knees and leaned right into Albertino's face. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life cleaning
coda di rospo
for Giuseppe Navo?”
Albertino closed his eyes and drew his arms up over his head. Gianluca had to bite his lip a bit to keep from laughing — his little brother's earnest dismay always amused him, but he did not want to offend him when he needed his cooperation.
“Why is it I always have my arms down into the soil clear up to my elbows,” said Albertino, “and you'e always got a flower between your teeth?”
Gianluca slapped Albertino's thigh and stood; he knew that he had won. “See her today,” he said. “There's still time to put down the broccoli before the weather gets too hot.”
Gianluca hopped over the east wall and headed back toward the water. There was not a streak upon the fresh blue sky — not a cloud — not a care — not a cabbage, a carrot, a cauliflower. He did not know whether it was foolish or inspired to send Albertino to Ermenegilda. He only knew that Albertino would do it, and that they were running out of schemes.
THE CA’ TORTA
was not only made of stone it was made of
pietra d'Idtria,
the same shining marble that was used to face the great churches of Venezia. Enrico Torta had spent a fortune to bring the huge flags of ivory and cream across the cold waters of the Adriatic to Riva di Pignoli. Added to the thick slabs of stone he had sent in from his own country's quarries, including a few choice pieces of Tuscan
pavonazetto,
they made the dwelling sparkle like a diamond in the sun. It took a team of the best Venetian builders over a year and a half to build the house to Enrico's and Orsina's specifications. There were quarrels, conflicts over working conditions, accusations of theft and mismanagement, even a brief fistfight over the placement of an ornamental urn. But the results were worth every denaro spent, every reluctant effort expended. The Ca’ Torta was not just a lavish home. It was a palazzo.
Ermenegilda's room, like Albertino's, had a north wall, a south wall, an east wall, a west — but that was where the similarity ended. Where Albertino's room was simple and spare, Ermenegilda's was positively bursting. There were Persian carpets on the floor, painted frescoes on the ceiling, and embroidered tapestries on the walls. Such lavishness, outside of court, was quite extraordinary. But Ermenegilda liked her comfort, and Enrico Torta had learned that it was easier to see that his baby girl got what she liked than to contend with her wrath when she didn't. Where the three Marias’ bedrooms had little furniture besides the bed and the washbasin, Ermenegilda's room had a table, two chairs, a chest of drawers, and a weaving loom. Her bed was canopied with Chinese silks and hung from the ceiling on four sturdy ropes. Her frescoes told the story of Leda and the swan, and her tapestries depicted the four seasons in a series of rural tableaux. If she could not buy them the spring, Ermenegilda might at least lend Albertino and Gianluca her west wall tapestry: it was as lush and verdant as anything their callused hands might draw from the earth.