Читать книгу Catarina's Ring - Lisa McGuinness - Страница 10

Chapter 5

CATARINA, HER FIRST DECISION AND HER SECOND DECISION

Catarina hefted her heavy, brown, chipped, ceramic water jug and scooted it along towards the well. Hers was just one in a short line of vessels waiting to be filled at the pump. She, Anna, and Maria Nina got their best gossiping done while they waited to fill their families’ water urns with the rest of the women in the village, who managed to pump water and visit with their closest friends at the same time. On hot summer days, they fanned themselves while they sweltered and chatted, and in the cold of winter they—wrapped in shawls, thin cloth coats and hand-knitted sweaters—exchanged confidences while extracting the water their families needed from the old, creaky pump.

“My eyes were open all night,” Catarina whispered, after telling them about the letter with the marriage proposal. She had lain awake until she could sense the morning near and even then was only able to sleep fitfully for a couple of hours. She had mulled over each and every possible bachelor she knew of in the region, and although she acknowledged that her Babbo was right, her prospects were grim, she still came to the conclusion that she would rather stay and be with her family and friends in a poor village with no suitors, than go live among strangers in another country—even one she had heard was the land of riches.

When she woke from her fitful sleep, her eyes were red and scratchy, but she was resolute. She avoided Mama and Babbo for the morning, though, making sure neither could get her alone, and rushed to meet her two close friends at the well.

Even though she had no intention of accepting the proposal, Catarina enjoyed being the center of attention for just a little while. After all, there was hardly any excitement in the village, so why not give her friends something interesting to talk about for once?

The well pump and trough were attached to a stone wall at the village center and for the last three years it had been Catarina’s chore to get up and out early each morning, rain or shine, to go fetch the water. She brought the family’s hand cart and two large, empty ceramic urns, which she would fill and haul back to her house.

“I would never go,” Anna insisted after hearing the proposition. “They couldn’t drag me away!” She helped Catarina hoist the first of her heavy, now-full urns onto the cart.

“What if your babbo ordered you?” asked Maria Nina, who leaned against the wall awaiting her turn. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head at Anna. “You’re a fool, Anna, so why try to reason with you?”

Anna frowned while they watched Catarina pump water into her second water jug. Anna was mild mannered and quiet. She had fine, golden-blond hair that was unusual for a southern Italian girl. It contrasted beautifully with her warm olive complexion and light-brown eyes. Her demure personality, however, was at odds with her dramatic coloring: the thought of changing her life had never entered her mind.

“Catarina, you must go,” Maria Nina implored. Her personality was the opposite of Anna’s. Of the three friends, Maria Nina was the most outgoing, the quickest to find mischief to get into, and the boldest about flirting with the boys in the village. Like Catarina, she had dark, wavy hair and a slim figure, but her eyes were a warm chocolate brown and she had an elegant, Roman nose. Both Maria Nina and Anna were taller than Catarina, who somehow managed to appear strong in spite of her small stature.

“It would be a mistake to stay here,” Maria Nina continued to encourage her friend. This time it was she who helped Catarina lift and place the second jug onto the cart. She then took her own turn at the pump, and began the laborious task of filling her own family’s water urns.

“There’s nothing for us here but some old olive trees and withering grapevines,” she said as her arms moved up and down with the pump lever. “You could live an exciting life in America. You would be in a big city. I bet they have dances every night.” Her eyes looked into the distance, visualizing it.

“Now who’s the fool?” Anna laughed. “Dances every night! Ha. I’m sure Catarina would still have to work hard in San Francisco. But instead of taking care of the Carlucci household and seeing her family every day, she’d have to take care of some stranger’s house and live with people she doesn’t even know. What if they’re cruel? What if they won’t let her ever come back to visit?”

“It doesn’t matter, so stop arguing,” Catarina told them. “I’m not going. I’m staying right where I am, so I can become an old lady with you two. I’m not leaving my family. I’m not leaving my country.”

She looked around the square, beyond the houses and stores to the orchard and hillsides where the olive trees and grape vines had been planted hundreds of years before. To Catarina, they were beautiful. They dictated the seasons of life: whether it was the green leaves of spring, wet with raindrops; the heavily laden grape vines of summer; the autumn harvest and crush; or the bare, dormant plants of winter. They spoke to her and she couldn’t imagine life away from their rhythm. While in the back of her mind she did feel excitement at the thought of a big city, that alone wasn’t enough to sway her resolve.

It didn’t matter, she told herself. She would stay. She knew it would be difficult to go against Babbo, but he said he wouldn’t force her to leave and she intended to hold him to that. She would tell them right away, she decided, so she gave both of her friends kisses on their cheeks, took the handles of her cart and wheeled her water jugs across the cobblestone square and back to her front door.

On the way back home, her resolve began to melt. She pictured her sister’s face when she brought up the idea of Catarina being able to help give other family members the opportunity to move there as well. Was she being selfish? She trusted her father’s opinion. She knew he was worried about the family being caught up in the war. She wondered if she should respect his wishes about going. By the time she opened the front door and unloaded the water urns, she was thoroughly confused. She had planned to tell them that she would absolutely stay. Now she wasn’t so sure.

She decided to spend the day thinking about it and then brought it up again with her father at dinner. Instead of the calm, reasonable Babbo of the evening before, she found her father impassioned on the subject.

“Oh, mio Dio,” he practically yelled while waiving a fork twirled with spaghetti. “You will be wasting your life here if you don’t go! There are no suitable men for you to marry,” he began, and then continued with, “War is coming. Mark my words; this will be no place for a beautiful young girl when that happens.”

He huffed while Catarina and her mother waited for him to cool down. After his final onslaught of, “Even if you find someone to marry here, he will probably be killed in the fighting,” Catarina’s mother, Celestina, had put up with enough.

“For the love of the Virgin, Emiliano,” she interrupted, “enough about fighting and death. Our girl is staying. Besides,” she pretended to be objective, “there are good men here. After all, this is where I found the love of my life,” she smiled, trying to cajole him back to being reasonable, “and I’m sure Catarina will, too.”

She was equally determined. Her youngest child would stay.

Catarina knew she would disappoint her father if she stayed, which weighed heavily on her. She knew he wanted her to have more opportunity than she would if she stayed—even though he would miss her dearly. She also knew deep down that he was right. But her heart was at home with her family. She tried to convince him that she would be happy if she stayed, but as the days passed, she began to wonder if she was trying to convince him or herself.

Every time she decided to say “no” to the proposal a jolt passed over her heart. She couldn’t help but wonder if she would be missing her one chance. But when she thought about saying “yes” her heart would pound with a sense of dread, especially at leaving her mother and Mateo.

“I don’t know what to do, Mama,” Catarina said one morning, while making herself a cup of strong caffè before leaving for work at the Carlucci’s.

“We don’t know what the future will bring. We can only do what we think will be best, Catarina.” She smiled at her daughter and gave her arm a squeeze as she poured milk into Catarina’s caffè latte.

“How could I ever leave you?”

“I don’t want you to, but no matter what happens I know you’ll make a happy life, whether you stay or go, because you are a happy person. That’s one of your gifts.”

“Thank you, Mama,” she said and hugged her before leaving.

It would definitely be easier to be happy, she mused, as she reluctantly walked to her employer’s house, if only I could change this one circumstance. She sighed as she arrived, and slowly turned the knob to enter. The Carlucci’s home, which was connected to the other houses on the street, was tall and narrow, with windows facing out to the curved cobbled lane. There were boxes of flowers in the front windows and a dour black-painted front door. It painted a sharp contrast with her stone farmhouse. The Carlucci residence was dim and formal with heavy carved furniture, woven rugs and ancestral paintings on the walls. The Pensebene home was sun filled and warm. There was no money for paintings on the walls, but to Catarina that was fine, because each window framed a view of the olive orchard or the hills, which she preferred to the stoic, unsmiling faces looking out from the frames in her employer’s house.

As she entered, she involuntarily cringed when she saw Signor Carlucci sitting at the table with no sign of Signora Carlucci.

“Buon giorno, Signor Carlucci,” she said.

“Buon giorno, Catarina,” he replied with a formal air. “Signora Carlucci is away for the day. Her sister has fallen ill and she is tending her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Signor. Did she leave instructions for me?”

“I see laundry,” he said and waved his hand at a heap of clothes and sheets stuffed into a wicker basket.

“Grazie, Signor.” She picked it up and hauled it out to the courtyard. She poured water into the trough the family used for laundry and began to rub the clothes with soap. She hummed a tune while she scrubbed, content to be outside in the fresh air and away from Signor Carlucci, even if it was her least favorite task.

She rinsed one of the signora’s nightgowns, picked up two clothes pins, and placed them in her mouth to hold them while she lifted it to the line. She turned to hang it and was suddenly grabbed from behind. She gasped clenching on the clothespins that were still between her lips.

Two firm hands were around her. One painfully squeezed her breast, the other hand roughly turned her face so she could see her assailant.

She tried to shriek when she met Signor Carlucci’s eyes, but was stopped by the wooden clothespins stuck to her lips. She was able to spit them out but no sooner had they hit the ground than his mouth was covering hers. His breath was stale with coffee and his tongue thrust between her lips.

She gagged and jabbed her elbow into his ribs. He grabbed her wrist and twisted.

“Don’t try to fight me, Catarina,” he huffed with the exertion of trying to control her. “You might as well cooperate,” he hissed. “And if you do, I’ll see that the signora rewards you. But if you fight me, you’ll lose anyway, and I’ll tell my wife that you’re una putana who flaunted yourself in front of me and you’ll be out on your ear.”

“No one will believe you!” she hissed back as she desperately tried to break free from his grasp. “Why would they?” She wriggled her wrist free of his grip and managed to slap his face and then lunged for the door.

He grabbed the back of her dress and she toppled down, smashing her kneecap against the smooth stones. Pain shot up her leg.

She gasped as he grabbed a handful of her hair and wrapped it around his fist, holding her in place.

The pain in her knee was searing and her head was being held back by his fist in her hair. She managed to arch her back enough so she could turn to the side to see his face, and what she saw etched on his features turned her insides cold. It was a smirk. As if he had already won. That look startled her out of her terror and turned her emotions to rage.

“I will not be your whore!” she yelled into his face.

Although he was still behind her, she twisted further to the side and crushed her elbow into his face. She could feel the cartilage in his nose give way and blood spurted onto her dress.

He involuntarily let go of her hair, and in the moment it took for him to grab his nose, she was up and running from the laundry lines outside, and back through the house to escape. She threw the twisted sheet she had been pinning up when he grabbed her as well as a basket with wet clothes into his path as she went by, and then ran to the front door and desperately fumbled with the lock. She could hear his footsteps rushing toward her but didn’t dare lose time by looking over her shoulder. She threw open the door and slammed it as she passed to slow him down. She could hear Signor Carlucci yelling after her but all she focused on was the sound of pounding. She didn’t know whether it was her heart or the sound of her shoes on the cobblestones.

She ran. Her one desire was to get home where she would be safe. She didn’t realize she was crying until her vision blurred and she had to wipe her streaming nose. Her side felt as if a searing hot knife was piercing her skin and her lungs were heaving. She looked over her shoulder and saw that she wasn’t being followed so she slowed and came to a stop, panting.

She ducked into a side alley and crouched for a moment to catch her breath, but kept hidden in case he came after her. She put a shaking hand on her chest to calm herself. Her breath and the pounding of her heart slowed, but as soon as she was able to catch her breath, she was out of the alley and running again. As she entered the main piazza she saw her mother in the distance walking among others across the square. It was like seeing an island of safety: the most welcome sight of all.

“Mama!” she screamed and her mother turned towards her, a look of shock on her face. She could hear the panic in her own voice but couldn’t calm down. She ran to her mother and threw herself into her arms. And as soon as she was there, she began to sob.

“Catarina!” her mama shrieked. “What happened?”

She took in her daughter’s appearance and immediately knew. Her disheveled hair was a tangle and her dress was ripped, askew, and splattered in blood.

“Oh, mio Dio! Catarina.” She took Catarina’s face in her hands and looked in her eyes. “Did he…?” But she couldn’t bring herself to ask the question and immediately steered Catarina away from curious eyes. She couldn’t stand to think of anyone violating her daughter. Her most precious girl. But she also had to protect her from town gossip—which could be almost as damaging as a physical assault.

“No…I got away from him. He grabbed me but I fought him, Mama. I think I broke his nose,” she said, thinking of the crunch under her elbow and the splatter of blood.

“Let’s get you home.” Celestina wrapped her arms protectively around her daughter and walked with her, carefully blocking her from the view of people passing by.

When they reached their house, they went straight up to Catarina’s room. Celestina sat her on the bed and went to get a basin of water. She came back with a cloth and warm water and with gentle hands wiped her daughter’s tear-streaked face and scraped knees. She helped her out of her torn and blood-splattered dress and soaked it in the basin to loosen the blood. While Catarina sat in her slip, her mother gently combed out her hair and they began to talk.

“What will I do, Mama?”

“I’m not sure yet, but we’re going to have to tell your babbo. That’s clear to me now.”

“He said he’d tell everyone I’m a putana. That I threw myself at him—and he, a married man. He’ll shame us.”

“We won’t let that happen. We’re a respected family, too.” Her mother’s words were firm, but Catarina saw that she looked away to brush aside a tear of her own.

“You know what I’m thinking, Catarina?” she said after a few moments of silence.

“No.”

“I’m thinking that if we talked to Father Pinzano about this, just maybe he would say it’s the sign we needed to finally make our decision about whether you should go. Maybe this is the Virgin hitting us over the head to say you shouldn’t stay here. That you should go to San Francisco, where this won’t happen to you.”

“What? Let Signor Carlucci, that porco, ruin my home for me?”

“It’s not just about this. Senior Carlucci’s threats don’t frighten me. We can take care of him, cara. I don’t want you to go, it’s true, but what I know deep in my heart is that you should go. It would be better for you there. I want what is best for you. You’re the sunshine in my day. You’re precious. And that’s why I have to let you go.”

“Mama…,” Catarina started to speak, but paused to wipe another tear. “I wanted to convince myself that I should stay, because I don’t want to be away from you. But deep down, I think you’re right. I should go. I’ve been frightened, but then when this happened today . . . I think . . . maybe it is a sign.”

She started to cry and hugged her mother as if she were being torn away at that very moment. The words she said were muffled against the cloth of her mother’s dress.

“I should go.”

After Catarina and Celestina talked, her mother settled her into bed for a rest and quietly left the house. She made her way to the Carlucci home and then lifted the heavy metal knocker and rapped it against the front door. Signor Carlucci opened the door—his eyes widening slightly when he saw Catarina’s mother standing on the threshold, but he recovered quickly and kept his features bland.

“Signor Carlucci,” she said, taking in his bruised nose with some element of satisfaction, “I’d like a word.”

Signor Carlucci opened the door and motioned her in.

“Would you like a seat?” he asked, gesturing to a chair, his mask of superiority firmly in place.

“No, I would not sit in this home,” Celestina spat out her words. “Instead I’ll come right to the point. My daughter will no longer be working in this household.”

“Catarina told me what you did. And I want you to know this: I know every woman in this village and we talk. And if you say a word against her, I’ll tell every one of them what you did to Catarina today—starting with your wife.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Signora. I’ve done nothing. I’m a respectable man,” he laughed mirthlessly and waved his hand as if dismissing her words.

“Maybe you’re a businessman and I’m just a farmer’s wife, but our family has been here for generations. I saw Catarina with my own eyes as she ran through the square trying to get away from you. And then, of course, your broken nose speaks for itself, “ she gestured to his face—a falsely sweet smile on her lips and her eyebrows raised in challenge.

“What is it that you want from me, exactly, Signora?” he asked, as if giving in to a troublesome child, a sigh of resignation escaping him.

“What I want is for you to keep your ugly lies to yourself. Don’t you dare speak my daughter’s name in this village or anywhere. Capisci?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, but if you hear any talk against Catarina, you can be assured, it didn’t come from me. I can’t speak for any other man that little tease might provoke,” he sneered.

Before she realized what was happening, Celestina reached out and slapped his face. It was as if her hand acted on its own, but it felt good to slap the sneer off of him.

“Don’t,” she said, and with that, let herself out.

She wiped her hand on her skirt as if to remove any trace of contact with the loathsome man. Catarina would be gone in a few months, and then, once she knew she was safely away, she would casually drop a word or two to her friends at the water pump about Signor Carlucci, just to make sure that this never happened to any other girls in the village.

She sighed and made her way home to start cooking dinner for her family. She thought about losing Catarina to America and Franco Brunelli, and for the first time felt not fear but hopefulness for the life her daughter would lead.