Edith's War by Andrew Smith

ITALY

27-09-2002 08:56

“Ma fai attenzione! Madonna!”

Will Maguire had run slap bang into a burly young man who was letting it be known he considered the collision to be entirely Will’s fault.

In fact, the hefty Venetian had stopped abruptly, just past the crest of a narrow bridge that spanned the Rio di San Barnaba, while Will and his brother, Shamus, had been walking immediately behind him. Admittedly, Will had been admiring the sparkling canal and ancient edifices off to his right, but there was nothing he could have done to prevent himself from crashing into the Italian even if he’d been looking straight ahead.

Thrown off balance by the impact, Will staggered sideways, caught a heel on the edge of a paving stone, and fell to the ground. The guidebook he’d been holding flew into the air and landed with a loud slap an inch from one of the man’s huge feet.

“Guarda cosa hai fatto alla mia scarpa!” the man bellowed, pointing down at his shoe. A smear of dirt, clearly caused by Will’s foot as he’d stumbled, marred the pristine leather. The tall Italian appeared to be in his late twenties, with a huge head of vigorous, coal-black hair. Now he glared at Shamus accusingly, completely ignoring Will, who lay sprawled on the ground at his side.

Shamus’s immediate concern was that his brother may have broken something; at sixty-one, Will’s bones probably weren’t as strong as they had been. Shamus stepped toward Will and bent to help him to his feet.

Having received no apology, the young Italian lifted both hands in a dramatic gesture of exasperation and gazed, his substantial eyebrows raised, toward a couple of passersby as though appealing for their support. The bystanders, two girls walking arm in arm, rolled their eyes and shook their heads. Shamus was left with the distinct impression the young man was known to them, and his operatic behaviour was all too familiar. Appearing unsurprised with any lack of sympathy from his fellow Venetians, the sturdy Italian squatted and licked one large thumb. With a single swipe, he erased the muddy mark on his shoe, then retrieved a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and scrubbed his thumb. It was only after the gleaming leather was restored to perfection and his thumb clean that the young man paid any attention to Will, who was struggling to stand with the help of Shamus’s hand under one of his elbows.

“Scusa,” declared the Italian, “spero che non ti sia fatto male.” His tantrum seemed to have dissipated as quickly as it had erupted. He frowned, but more as an expression of sympathetic regret at Will’s clumsiness than from any remorse for his outburst. Nevertheless, he stooped to take Will’s other elbow while deftly retrieving the guidebook with his free hand.

As he bent over, a metal object slid out of an inside pocket and tumbled to the ground with a clatter. The thought flitted across Shamus’s mind that it might be a gun. But it was a silver cigarette case. Shamus couldn’t recall having seen one of the rectangular, hinged cases since he and Will had been boys, in the ’50s and early ’60s. Once a small clasp was released, the case could be opened like a slim, hollow book to reveal a single layer of ten or fifteen cigarettes held in place by a narrow elastic strap.

Once Will was safely on his feet, the man released him and picked up his cigarette case. Will and Shamus watched as he polished each shiny surface with the grey woollen fabric of his jacket sleeve. He examined it for damage and then, satisfied that there were no dents, returned the cigarette case to his inside pocket. Shamus noted that the olive-skinned Italian was handsome in a brutish way.

“You are American,” said the man, studying the cover of the English-language guidebook.

“British,” said Will, brushing some dust from his trouser leg while scrutinizing the man’s face.

Shamus wouldn’t have been surprised by an angry explosion from Will. The slightness of his brother’s frame — almost half the size of the Italian’s — had never held him back from confrontation in the past. And the whole brouhaha had been the young man’s fault in the first place. But instead, while clearly unhurt by his fall, Will appeared more confused than angry. He was staring at the man and frowning, as though trying to work out how, and from where, the young Italian had materialized.

“British!” exclaimed the Italian. “From London perhaps? I lived there for two years when I was a student. Very nice.”

To Shamus’s astonishment, Will merely nodded his head and continued to stare at the man. Shamus wondered if perhaps his brother was in shock; normally quite vocal, it wasn’t Will’s style to be so tight-lipped.

“I live in London, but we’re from Liverpool originally,” Will finally blurted, shaking himself out of his trance. He smiled at the man.

“Liverpool!” exclaimed the man. “Good football. Very tough fans. Maybe you want to fight?” He beamed at Will, who grinned back in return. If Shamus hadn’t known his brother better, he’d have thought Will had taken a liking to the temperamental young Italian.

Then the man, with the illuminated expression of someone who’s been hit by a brainwave, his dark eyes flashing mischievously, thrust Will’s guidebook into Shamus’s hands and took two strides to the very crest of the hump-backed bridge that spanned the narrow canal.

“Come. Look.” He beckoned for the brothers to join him.

A greengrocer’s barge was moored to one side of the bridge, stacked high with piles of fruit and vegetables glowing in the brilliant morning sun. Shamus followed the scent of apples on the damp Venetian air toward where the Italian gestured excitedly for the two brothers to examine something on the stones at his feet. When Shamus and Will stepped closer, they saw four white marble footprints embedded in the paving stones. The two sets of prints, like fossilized insoles, were facing each other.

The man carefully placed his feet into one pair and adopted the pose of a boxer, holding up two fists. “You stand there,” he ordered Will.

Like a small child eager to play, Will stepped up to the opposing set of footprints and stood toe to toe with the young man, who indicated, by re-establishing his pose and nodding vigorously, that Will should follow suit. Shamus was amazed when Will immediately took the same pugilistic stance as the Italian. His brother could be playful, but his suspicious nature usually inhibited him from acting the fool with anyone but a proven friend and ally.

“Bravo!” cried the Italian. He furrowed his forehead into an exag¬gerated frown, trying his best to appear fierce, but the corners of his lips twitched as he suppressed a smile.

The sight of his lightweight, sixty-one-year-old brother fist to fist against a lusty heavyweight in his twenties was so comical that Shamus laughed out loud. In part, Shamus’s laughter was nervous; he wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Will took it into his head to take a swing at the Italian. His abdomen tightened, as it always did when there was any danger of argument or conflict.

A passing woman wearing a bright blue headscarf and clutching a plastic carrier bag bulging with fruit appeared to know the young man — she smiled and made a comment. Judging by her tone and her expression, Shamus guessed it to be a sarcastic remark. Whatever the woman said, it put paid to the young man’s ferocity. He collapsed with laughter and slapped Will playfully on the back. Will dropped his fists, his cheeks glowing pink, and he smirked like a teacher’s pet with a new gold star. If he had a tail he’d be wagging it, thought Shamus.

“These footmarks are hundreds of years old,” said the Italian. “There were once gangs, yes?”

“Yes,” said Will, nodding his head to reassure the young man he was understood.

“One gang lived over there.” The Italian indicated one side of the canal with a sweep of his long arm. “The other lived on the other side. They met here to settle the arguments. The two capi, they would fight to settle the arguments between the gangs. Very bloody fights. Sometimes, one of them died.” “Fantastic,” said Will, eyes shining.

His comment coincided with the sound of a bell ringing the hour.

“Madonna! I’m very late,” exclaimed the man, glancing at his watch. “When you bump me, I was returning to fetch my briefcase. I forgot it at my house, just over there.” He gestured toward the street that led to Campo Santa Margherita. Then he took Will’s hand and pumped his arm a couple of times. “Nice to meet you,” he cried as he strode away. “Arrivederci. Good holiday in Venezia.”

Will stood gazing after the young man. A bemused smile played across his lips until the Italian disappeared into a doorway. Then he shook his head as though to wake himself.

“Are you okay?” Shamus asked. Although five years younger than Will, it wasn’t unusual for Shamus to feel responsible for his elder brother’s welfare. “Fine,” Will assured him. “No harm done. Quite the reverse, in fact.”

“Yes, you seemed to enjoy yourself immensely,” said Shamus.

Will muttered, “There’s something about that young man… ” He stared after the Italian for a few seconds, frowning. The he shook his head again. “Sod him. Let’s find that coffee.”

The two brothers turned and crossed the bridge that led them into the open space of Campo San Barnaba. The yellow-ochre reflection of a row of handsome, sunlit façades glowed on the rippling surface of the canal, which ran along one side of the campo. The scene couldn’t have been more idyllic. The row of burnished buildings bathed in sunlight was in perfect proportion to the surrounding square. Weathered wooden shutters and doors complemented golden stucco walls. It was easy to imagine a feeling of contentment in anyone who might inhabit the spacious rooms behind such sturdy walls, their lofty ceilings measured by the height of tall, light-flooded windows. Shamus was filled with envy for the inhabitants, who emerged every day to find such humane surroundings as Venice’s pedestrian-only streets, squares, and canal-side walks. And the air was alive with the invigorating tang of a fresh maritime breeze — a far cry from Shamus’s smog-choked hometown of Toronto, where the summer had been unusually hot and oppressive.

ENGLAND

Friday, April 26, 1940

It wasn’t the bloodshed that sickened Edith; she’d seen worse brawls. What repulsed her was the expression of sheer hatred that had transformed Liam’s normally placid, boyish features into a grotesque agglomeration of convulsive muscle and quivering flesh.

“You’re a bunch of Nazi wops,” he’d screamed. “Why don’t you clear off back to Italy before we lock you all up.”

Liam was standing nose to nose with Domenico Baccanello, the youngest son of the Italian family who lived in the bungalow next door. He gripped the front of Domenico’s shirt so tightly his knuckles were white with tension.

“You and whose army,” Domenico had yelled. Edith saw a spray of spittle fly a few short inches from Domenico’s mouth to land on Liam’s cheek. At that, Liam butted Domenico’s nose with his head and a stream of crimson blood burst from Domenico’s nostrils. Undaunted, the Italian boy managed to land a hefty punch on Liam’s left eye. Edith was doubly shocked, as the two boys had always been such fast friends.

“Stop it,” shouted Mrs. Maguire from the open doorway behind Edith. “Liam, for God’s sake, stop fighting.” She hurried down the couple of steps from the porch to the lawn. Before she could reach the two boys, they’d dragged each other to the ground, where they flailed at each other, punching and kicking as hard as they could. Although slight, Mrs. Maguire was always energetic and full of purpose. As she hovered, bird-like, above the brawling boys her frustration at not being able to separate them was obvious.

Despite Edith’s diminutive size — she matched the description in the popular song, “five foot two, eyes of blue” — she would normally have waded in and helped pull them apart, but she wasn’t going to risk harming her unborn baby for the sake of her brother-in-law. In an attempt to assuage the guilt she felt for not helping her mother-in-law prise the scrapping boys apart, Edith tried to tell herself it would serve Liam right if he got a good thrashing. But she didn’t really believe it, and Edith was relieved when a burly figure appeared from a row of conifers that separated Mrs. Maguire’s garden from Anna and Gianni Baccanello’s property. The strange man appeared to be older than Edith, twenty-five perhaps. He strode purposefully towards the boys, who were still scrabbling at each other on the grass, Mrs. Maguire hovering fretfully above them. Judging from his luxuriant black hair and tawny skin, the newcomer belonged to the Baccanello family. But Edith was sure she’d never seen him before — she would have remembered.

“Now you two, that’s enough,” he said, grasping each boy by an upper arm and yanking them to their feet as effortlessly as if they were pint-sized dolls instead of two lusty teenagers. The boys practically dangled from the man’s gargantuan hands, their shirts streaked with grass stains and spotted with bright circles of blood. “Domenico, apologize to Liam and to Mrs. Maguire.”

“But it was his fault,” spluttered Domenico, wiping his nose with one hand, smearing blood across his cheek in the process. “He called me a wop.”

“Basta,” barked the man.

“There’s really no need,” insisted Mrs. Maguire. “Liam was as much to blame.” As much to blame, thought Edith — her keen sense of fairness filled her with indignation. It was entirely Liam’s fault, the little bugger.

Despite Mrs. Maguire’s protestation, Domenico muttered a perfunctory apology, eyes lowered.

“Now go back to the house,” ordered the stranger. Domenico slunk across the expanse of grass, compliant as a well-trained dog, and vanished through a gap in the line of fir trees.

“And you, my lad,” Mrs. Maguire addressed Liam. “Up those steps and into your room. And stay there until I say so.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Maguire,” the man said as soon as Liam had disappeared through the front door.

Edith’s mother-in-law frowned slightly. “Carlo?” she asked.

“But of course,” the man said. “Didn’t you recognize me?”

“Good heavens,” cried Mrs. Maguire. “You look so . . .” she cast around for the right word — “mature.”

Edith could contain herself no longer. “But it was all Liam’s fault,” she spluttered. “You needn’t apologize.”

“Well, we don’t know everything that was said before we heard them out here shouting, do we?” Mrs. Maguire interjected. Then, in an obvious attempt to change the subject, she introduced Edith to Carlo. “This is my daughter-in-law, Edith.” She turned to Edith. “Carlo is Anna’s oldest son,” she explained. “But I haven’t seen him since he was married. Was it four or five years ago?” she asked.

“Six,” said Carlo, smiling. “Pleased to meet you.” He extended one of his giant mitts to Edith. Once her fingers were released from his enveloping grip, Edith unconsciously cradled her swollen abdomen in the palm of her hand.

“How far along are you?” asked Carlo. The question took Edith by surprise; she wasn’t showing much and it was unusual for a man to ask, even if he were sensitive enough to be curious.

“Five months,” she replied.

“Pregnancy obviously suits you,” said Carlo. His brown eyes held an expression of amused curiosity.

“She does look well, doesn’t she?” chimed in Mrs. Maguire.

“Yes indeed,” said Carlo, smiling. “Beautiful as the Madonna.” He pronounced the last word in an unusual way, elongating the o and lingering on the n’s. “Nonsense. I look like a beer barrel,” Edith muttered, averting her eyes from his. She was sure Carlo must be teasing her. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help feeling flattered; he was the first person ever to call her beautiful.

“Edith’s staying with us for the duration. Liverpool’s much too dangerous; the bombs could start dropping any day now,” said Mrs. Maguire. “And Joe’s off in God-knows-where fighting for King and country.”

“Yes, my mother told me he was called up,” said Carlo.

“Joe and Carlo were quite chummy when they were younger,” explained Mrs. Maguire. Edith found it hard to imagine the two together. While both were dark-featured and good-looking, her husband, with his short, wiry figure, must have looked like a leprechaun in comparison to Carlo’s massive frame.

“Isobel and I have moved here to escape from Liverpool too,” said Carlo. “That, and because of her illness.”

“Goodness, where will you all sleep?” asked Mrs. Maguire.

“Oh, we’ve squeezed into a lot less space before now,” said Carlo, laughing. “Well, I must be off. If Domenico misbehaves again, you let me know.” He grinned at Edith and gave a little nod of his impressive head as he turned to leave.

After he’d disappeared between the firs Edith gazed across the lawn and beyond the lane to the fields that dipped down toward the Dee estuary. A line of low dunes, their sandy flanks held in place by grey sea grass, separated farmland from a ribbon of beach. The tide was in, and Edith took in the white-flecked, bottle-green expanse of seawater stretching to the hazy coastline of Wales, which hovered on the far side of the river’s mouth. It was a commanding view, refreshing after the grime and monotony of the crowded Liverpool neighbourhood where Edith and Joe had lived since they were married.