Читать книгу The Last Concerto - Sara Alexander, Sara Alexander - Страница 19

Nocturne

a composition inspired by, or evocative of, the night, and cultivated in the nineteenth century primarily as a character piece for piano, generally with three sections, often slightly melancholic in mood

After the party returned to Ozieri from the coastal town of Rena Majore, Alba waited a few days and used her parents’ siesta to run to Signora Elias. She arrived, as planned, thanks to a note Raffaele had passed to her on Alba’s behalf.

‘You look like a ghost, Alba,’ Signora Elias cooed as she ushered her inside, closing the heavy door behind her against the heat.

‘I haven’t slept properly in a week.’

‘Understandable,’ Signora Elias replied, whilst leading her to the kitchen table where she poured Alba a glass of cold water.

‘They won’t change their mind.’

‘That’s their prerogative. What does your mind say?’

‘I have to go to Rome.’

Signora Elias took a long sip of her water. ‘What if I said that’s what you must do then?’

Alba’s face creased with desperation. ‘Mamma has all the money you ever gave me. I don’t have a lira.’

‘And what will you do about that?’

Alba’s eyes lowered. She summoned a breath to say what had been eating at her the entire journey home. ‘I need help.’

‘I know. Raffaele told me so. Actually, he asked me to.’

‘For help?’

‘For money, yes.’

Alba shifted in her seat.

‘If you want to make decisions on your own, Alba, and for yourself, you will have to work for them and then, the hardest part, stand by them. I could give you the fare and be done with it, yes. But what kind of betrayal would that be of your parents? We’ve already come this far. They’ve been very clear about how they feel. If you want this, I mean really can’t live without this, you are going to have to put in the work. Choosing this life is a huge commitment. Not just hours of practice, but all the other real responsibilities around it. The work starts now.’

Alba felt her eyes sting with tears she refused to let fall.

‘I’d pay you back,’ Alba whispered.

‘I know you would. I don’t think I can buy your ticket, Alba, send your parents’ girl away like that. This has to be your decision. All the way.’

The next day Alba begged Mario’s father, Gigi, to give her extra shifts on the pump. She nagged him to let her work through lunch even though there were no customers, asking to sort parts ahead of the next day, clean some of the ones brought in for repair, any little extra he would allow her to do.

‘Why all the hours, Alba? I’m not expecting you to pay for your own wedding, you know that, right?’ Bruno joked, loud enough for Gigi to hear and be forced to laugh.

‘Your father’s right, Alba. You look exhausted.’

‘I’m fine,’ she said, trying to suffocate the panic bubbling.

‘You can today, but then I reduce the shifts. Doesn’t look right, a girl on the pump.’

Alba knew better than to start an argument then and there. Once her father left, she would convince Gigi by herself. She watched Bruno walk away and headed straight for the pump. Mario was already standing there.

‘Go home,’ Alba called out, ‘your dad’s put me on today.’

‘Says who?’

‘Who does it look like?’

Gigi stepped out of the showroom with a fresh cloth for Alba. ‘I told you about the shift change, son.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘I’m not going to argue. You’re on the late shifts.’

Gigi turned and walked back inside.

‘What the hell has got into you, Alba? You hate the pumps, you hate me, now you’re like some kind of gas junkie. Anyways, shouldn’t you be looking after your piano fingers? Lots of accidents can happen around here if you’re not careful.’

Alba willed herself to ignore the snarl creasing his lips, but it was impossible. Another day she might have smacked the nozzle she was cleaning over him. She was desperate to save up enough for the fare to Rome. If she carried on at this rate, she still wouldn’t make it. That’s when her expression gave away more than she would have liked.

‘Someone told me they’d heard you were going to that fancy music school anyways. What you hanging around here for?’

‘Shut up!’

‘I won’t, as it happens, because I know you’re not going to lose it here.’

A car pulled up, much to Alba’s relief. The driver rolled down the window and she set to work filling the tank, offering a clean of the windscreen too, which didn’t interest the driver until Mario piped in with his patter and convinced him of a quick clean wash. He paid Alba, handed her a five thousand lire tip, and drove off.

‘Fifty-fifty, right?’ Mario asked.

‘What?’

‘You’re desperate for money and I don’t know why, but I’m enjoying the look of desperation on your face.’

Alba felt anger surge through her bones.

They worked in brittle unison for the next two weeks, sometimes even through the lunch hours to catch the odd stray traveller or commuter returning to town for lunch and siesta. Tiredness crept around Alba, tightening like a vine, but she charged on because the alternative was incomprehensible. Dizzy from the heat and lack of sleep she slammed the pump back into its slot and caught the tip of her finger. Blood spurted out. Panic bolted through her as she examined the tip, then unexpected tears followed. Mario came over to her.

‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘Nothing!’ she spat.

‘You bleeding?’

‘No, it’s fine.’

He left and returned with a crushed clump of toilet tissue and threw it at her.

‘Don’t thank me,’ he said.

‘I won’t.’

She blotted her hand and watched the droplets spread along the fibres. When she saw the cut looked superficial, her panicked tears became those of relief, and then smarting embarrassment. She tightened the knot of tissue.

‘You look like crap. Go inside and clean up before your dad thinks I did it.’

‘I’m fine,’ she managed, just before more tears fought their way out. The tarmac heated underfoot; she longed for it to become molten so she’d be swallowed inside.

Bruno walked across the forecourt. He looked down at his daughter’s hand.

‘Get home, Alba.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re a mess. Get home. Now.’

Alba refused to look at Mario’s victorious expression. She walked over to her dad. ‘Please let me stay,’ she begged under her breath so Mario wouldn’t hear. ‘I’ll be more careful. The customers like me. I’m doing well.’

Bruno leaned in. She could smell aqua vitae on his breath. ‘Be happy we’re not at home so my hands can’t say what they’d like. If I say go home, you go home. You want to work? You’ve got to listen to your boss. You barely know what you’re doing inside in the office. I’m not having any child of mine make a fool of me outside too. Do you get that into your thick skull? Walk with me into the car. Now.’

Alba felt his hand on her elbow, pressing harder than he needed. He slammed the door after her. Alba could picture Mario’s face now. They stepped into the cool of the house, Alba’s face oil-smeared, her overalls damp with gas stains, her hands still smelling of the metal pump.

‘O Dio, look at the state of you. Go and get clean, child!’ Giovanna yelled.

‘And don’t come down until we’ve finished lunch!’ Bruno added.

Alba shot a look to her father.

‘You heard! You should have seen the way I had to drag her away, Giovanna. Talking to me like I’m some idiot. You think that’s all right, do you?’

‘I just want to work!’ Alba blurted.

‘Why? You have a house! You’ll have a rich husband soon enough once he graduates with his finance degree. What is wrong with you?’

‘Nothing is wrong, Bruno,’ Giovanna interrupted. He swung back to her so fast Alba almost didn’t see him take his hand to her face. ‘Shut up! The girl is not right. Never has been!’ He switched back to his daughter. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to save up to get the hell out of here!’

‘That’s crazy,’ Giovanna whimpered, her cheek red. ‘She’s going to be a good girl now, aren’t you, Alba? Everything is planned out.’ Her begging descended into sobs. Bruno grabbed her chin. ‘I told you quiet!’