Eva Sleeps (39 page)

“Article 1. In the royal Carabinieri force, third-degree marshals and sergeants may be authorized to marry without any limitation of degree provided they have completed nine years of service and reached the age of twenty-eight . . . And you meet all these requirements,” the lieutenant-colonel added.

Vito nodded.

“Article 2, which deals with corporals and selected Carabinieri, doesn't concern you, and neither does article 6. Articles 3, 4 and 5 define the quota of married Carabinieri allowed in the barracks. Article 7 is good news: married soldiers from the royal force of Carabinieri are entitled to free medical assistance from the doctor in charge at the stations.”

“Excuse me, Colonel, but why ‘royal'?”

“It's an attribute that has never been changed, it's still valid for us when we swear loyalty . . . ” he indicated the portrait of the bespectacled rat behind him, “ . . . to the Italian Republic. It's Article 8 the one that . . . ” He paused.

When they have to give bad news, shy people need to be doubly courageous: to face their interlocutor, and themselves.

“ . . . concerns you.”

Vito had gotten distracted. He was remembering what his mother had told him when he'd been home on leave, two weeks earlier. She hadn't beaten about the bush. “It's either them, or us.”

Them: Gerda and Eva. Us: her, all the relatives, and every single resident of the city and, actually, of the whole of Calabria.

“Article 8. The misconduct involving public scandal among members of the families of the married staff of the Royal Force of Carabinieri will lead to the dismissal of the soldier with termination of current duties upon proposal of his Legion commanders and the decision of the general command of the force.”

The lieutenant-colonel read everything in one breath, like a schoolboy, never raising his blue eyes.

“Written in Rome on 29 March 1946. Umberto of Savoy. De Gasperi, Brosio, Romita, Corbino. Chancellor: Togliatti.”

There was nothing else to read. But the officer still continued to stare at the sheet of paper.

It's either them, or us. That's what Mariangela Anania, née Mollica, had told her son. And all the Calabrians, even though they'd been divided by feuds, rivalries, arguments and obscure interests for centuries, had now united to condemn the marriage between Vito and an unmarried mother. A complete unanimity that hadn't been seen since the times of Magna Graecia or the Phoenicians. And in the face of the formidable compactness of the verdict pronounced by his living fellow countrymen, but also—his mother had made it clear—the dead ones, as well as future generations, for Vito the regulations of the Force were very small in comparison. What obstacle could it possibly find to oppose his love for Gerda, that wasn't already there, unmovable, insurmountable, like a boulder fallen on a mule track?

The lieutenant-colonel raised his gentle eyes. “The sister of a terrorist, an unmarried mother . . . Sergeant Anania, where did you find a woman like that?”

“Gerda has never done anything wrong.”

The lieutenant-colonel sighed: powerless rather than annoyed. He was also sorry. “You can put it whichever way you like, Sergeant, but these are the regulations. Public scandal; misconduct. It's all in your situation. No superior will ever grant you permission to marry her. Obviously, you can do it as a free citizen but then you would be dismissed. The decree is very clear on this point.”

Vito had spent his entire adult life respecting the regulations of the Force. With pride, self-denial, team spirit—things that no civilian could ever understand. Therefore, there was nothing he could say. When he left the lieutenant-colonel's office, he met Genovese. The Neapolitan had already opened his mouth to make a crack, but when he saw his expression, his lips tightened. There it was, the effect of the face of a man in love, the one you get when you're already running toward trouble: and Anania had clearly run straight into a wall. Genovese slowly moved his head down, then up, then down again, as though obtaining the confirmation he'd long been awaiting. He patted him on the shoulder twice with unexpected, rough tenderness, then turned on his heels and left.

Vito remained alone in the corridor.

 

To be married. Him and her. That's all they wanted. But how, when everything was against them? Above all they mustn't lose heart. They loved each other. That's all that mattered.

So they would dismiss him. Never mind. The Force wasn't the whole world. They'd still be able to manage: Gerda was a cook and he also had a profession, he was a qualified accountant. He would find a job and after a while she'd be able to stop sweating in the kitchen, and he'd make sure she never wanted for anything. Eva would go to school nearby and they could finally all live together. He would adopt her and give her his name: Eva Anania had a good ring to it.

They'd be happy, the three of them. They'd have other children too, and Eva would be pleased, all little girls like to cuddle younger siblings. They would love her so much that she'd never be jealous.

As for his mother, his mother just needed time, she'd change her mind sooner or later. As soon as the first grandchild was born she'd forgive everything, he already knew that.

Vito spoke intensely, softly under the sheets.

Gerda listened without saying a word. She clung to him and her hands sought him. She was hungry for him, for his mouth, she wanted to feel him move inside her, they would share a bed for the rest of their lives, but now she couldn't wait.

Vito was ready immediately, as he always was for her. He turned her and held her tight as she arched her back. Going inside her was so easy, my God, so essential.

Afterwards, Vito fell asleep.

Gerda held him like a child, his head tucked into her chest. She looked at the chair next to the bed where he had put his sergeant's uniform. He'd folded his trousers with precision, the red stripe right across the middle of the chair, the shoulders of the shirt hanging on the knobs. Her Vito was so tidy, so responsible, so reliable. A man of honor. She stroked his black hair. It was thinner than when she had first met him. So many times she had touched his forehead, the back of his neck, his eyebrows, that if she were suddenly to become blind she would recognize his hairline from a thousand others by touch. Gerda gave a deep sigh, and Vito's head rose with her breast.

She knew what had to be done.

When Vito woke up, Gerda was standing by the window, smoking. He looked at her and felt fear. Her voice was different, her face was different, her eyes were different. While he was sleeping, Gerda had already entered an after state that was very different from the one before.

She said, “I've made up my mind.”

She didn't say: if you give up your Carabiniere uniform, you'll lose yourself and everything you believe in. And she didn't say: your mother has only you, this isn't your land, you'd always be unhappy here and die from homesickness. Nor did she say: tell me that what I'm about to say isn't true, convince me, insist that we should be together.

Instead, she said: I'm the one who doesn't want to marry you, I've thought about it for a long time, I can't live with you, we're different, it would never work, and I know that if we had other children you wouldn't love Eva anymore.

She raised her shoulders, and the movement almost made her collapse. She lit another cigarette even though she hadn't finished the first one.

Vito sat on the bed, silent.

Gerda puffed the smoke with vigor, blowing it far away, as though trying to hit the mountains beyond the window.

Vito still said nothing.

Gerda finished the cigarette.

Vito could never have imagined that it would be so difficult to look into her eyes.

And Gerda knew she had done the only thing that could have been done and should have been done when he didn't say: no, my love, light of my life, I love you, we'll overcome this and any other difficulty we come across in our long life together, don't leave me and I'll never leave you. Instead, he said, “But I want to be the one to tell Eva.”

 

He said goodbye to everybody one by one. Sepp, Maria, Eloise, Ulli. He also went to the maso where Ruthi had gotten married, and took a little toy for her newborn baby. He said he'd asked for a transfer. He'd been away from home for too many years. His mother was elderly, he was all she had left, and it was time to go home. Nobody asked any questions. Nobody said, and what about Gerda? Maria hugged him and gave him
Schüttelbrot
and
Kaminwurz
to take to his mother, as well as the various grappas she had distilled: pine needle, raspberry, gentian. She didn't give him
Graukäse
: it wouldn't have reached Calabria in good condition. Sepp had carved a wooden box for him; he could keep all his souvenirs from Alto Adige in it, but the real souvenir was the fragrance that wafted out when you opened it, the fragrance of forests, of
Stube
, of haylofts. Ulli was crying and wouldn't let go of him. Eva wasn't there.

She was on the peak of Nanga Parbat. She was sitting on the wooden beams under the roof crossing, her legs swinging from the barrier. She was looking at the courtyard between the barn and the house, at the hens scratching on a heap of manure, at the dozing cat. She remained like this, motionless, during all the goodbyes. She was seen only when they got out to take photos with Vito—everybody wanted one with Vito, but there wasn't enough light in the
Stube
.

Gerda ordered her to come down.

His head leaning back and wrinkles on his forehead, Vito watched her without a word.

Eva climbed down from the barriers of the wooden balconies of the hayloft. On any other day, Vito would have gotten angry with her because it was dangerous to climb up and down three levels like that, she could hurt herself. Instead, he remained silent as he watched her come down the front of the old hayloft, her bare legs peering out of her dress, her scraped knees, her ankle socks. She landed with a little jump in front of the cowshed window and Vito went to her, held her tight in his arms, and said something to her. Eva wasn't listening, she was too busy thinking: he seemed different from the others, but actually he's the worst.

A
t the station of Villa San Giovanni, the rusty platform roof stands out against a wall covered in graffiti.

ALCAMO AUTONOMOUS BRIGADES.

NORTH PALERMO CURVE shits.

 

(Lower case). Beyond the platforms, there's a big shopping center with a very large green sign worthy of Salgari: THE PEARL OF THE STRAIT

It's connected to the station by a raised pedestrian passage. Lots of people go up and down its iron steps. There's a brand-new escalator right next to it, but it's still and, I suspect, never activated; but it's a cheerful, brilliant primary red, exactly the color of Marlene.

The Messina family gets off here. I imagine they're visiting Calabrian relatives and will spend Easter Monday with them before going back home. We say goodbye warmly, the lady gathers her many bags, the husband shakes my hand with the vigor of an ex-policeman, the daughter gives me a nice smile, and I'm left alone. In the compartment, in the carriage, perhaps even on the entire train.

Beyond the purple waters of the Strait, Sicily looks as if it's leaning against the setting sun, a dark mass over which long clouds hover. The train starts again toward its final stop and, at that very moment, the sun disappears behind the island beyond the sea, which has now turned a wan grey.

A blue glow emanates from the opening in the handbag on the seat next to mine: there's an SMS. I pull out my cellphone and look at it. It's Carlo, he writes:

HOW ARE YOU? HAVE YOU ARRIVED? I LOVE YOU.

I look at it for a long time then, I don't even know why, I press the key under the screen which asks: DELETE?

I look out of the window. The outline of Sicily is growing darker and more blurred, now only defined by the lights of Messina. Then we cross the outskirts of Reggio Calabria. There are mass apartment buildings identical to those in the rest of Italy, illuminated by the yellow light of lamp posts. The night has fallen with almost tropical speed.

As the train pulls into Vito's city, I press: YES.

 

The station is almost deserted. I get out of the carriage with very few other passengers, unsteady on my legs as if after a long intercontinental journey. I've booked a hotel near the station, my suitcase trolley isn't heavy, so I should be able to get there on foot. I walk to the top of the platform, and that's when I see him.

He's exactly as I remember him. Not very tall, with a Phoenician nose, a soft, slightly crooked mouth. Vito, too, recognizes me at first glance and walks toward me. He's as young as he was then. He hasn't aged a bit.

I
t was the “license” that saved Gerda's life.

Or maybe she would have gotten through anyway, and the will to live would have forced her to regurgitate everything; or maybe somebody would have rushed into her room and stopped her. Or maybe, at the last minute, she would have remembered Eva and thrown the pills down the toilet. As it happened, Gerda didn't die thanks to the law on bilingualism, the cornerstone of the new provincial autonomy statute.

After years of South Tyroleans being forced to speak a foreign language in the public offices of their own land, the Package had corrected things. All the operators of public services had to produce a certificate of knowledge of both German and Italian: that was the so-called “license.”

The law was compensating for a historical injustice, only it was a pity nobody had thought the practical issues through. What would happen to the Italian employees who didn't speak German well enough to pass the exam, in other words, almost all of them? Would they be fired en masse? And what about those who worked in public utility services, what would happen to them? Pharmacists, for instance.