Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - Piazza Rimazza

Angela slowly opened her eyes. He had been silent so long she thought it would be safe. She opened one eye first and then the other. She used to do that as a child when she knew she had done something wrong. The one eye opened first and she wished with all her heart her sin would vanish by the time she opened the second eye. Someone, presumably God, would have eradicated it.

But, there he was, lying next to her on the kitchen floor, on the thick brown tiles, by the oven with food bubbling away inside and on top of it, still warm. God had not saved her this time.

The food cooked away, its aromas filling her senses and making her mouth water. She looked around her kitchen. It looked so different with her face to the ground. It was beautiful. The soft blush of the cabinets warmed the cream-colored room and the paintings with their strong swirling lines against fresh outbursts of colors worked perfectly. They were beautiful on their own but even better placed strategically one beside the other. She could lie a long time enjoying the simple beauty of her favorite room. But she shook her head. This was not the time for such indulgences.

She didn’t dare look at him in the face. She half expected that this new found quiet would prove to be a fleeting interlude to a fresh and even more violent outburst of wedded bliss. But she found some reserve of strength and forced herself to it. She grimaced at the sight of him, his nostrils didn’t move, his stomach didn’t move, his piercing brown-eyed stare seemed faded. The red cheeks were pale and flabby, the lips open. His entire six-foot frame was laid out dormant. A Gulliver, tied down by the little people or little wife she mused. Except of course he wasn’t tied down. Angela’s breathe quickened, maybe she should jump up and find some way to tie him down she thought. She shook with fear at the anger her little rebellion would foment. She yelled at herself silently, “get up, get up quick”. But her body had decided to do its own thing today and instead she just moved her hand.

It was bloody and it still clung vice-like to the knife. She could not give it up. She told herself to out loud in a clear ringing voice and her hand finally obeyed and managed to slide the knife away from her and across the floor. It clanked as it bounced off the tiles. Still Gulliver lay prone. She leant over her husband. She couldn’t feel his breath on her face. She felt for a pulse and couldn’t find one. But then, after searching for a pulse so many times with Giuseppe she knew she was useless at finding pulses. She kept her fingers pressed to her husband’s neck, then his wrist, then over his heart. Her hands trembled. She had not touched him this much of her own accord in years.

Then she saw the blood next to him. How could she not have noticed it before? She scolded herself again. She stared at his stomach. The blood oozed from his round belly, through his shirt and jacket and over the tiles. On the tiles the maroon blood collected and extended like a swelling amoeba. She became still with a sudden certainty he was dead. Clearly, she had overcooked.

Angela’s face became contorted with pain as she took in the enormity of the situation. Then she started crying slowly, whimpering and spluttering, nothing too violent. The tears were good she thought a bit of unrepressed human instinct was good. Human instinct seemed to be kicking in quite a bit tonight she thought and she enjoyed the taste of salt on her cheek. It reminded her of the taste of Giuseppe’s sweet baby cheeks. Her brain snapped back to the present, Giuseppe, his room was as silent as the figure lying beside her.

Angela scrambled up and with one unceremonious leap over Bruno’s body she shot across the kitchen to Giuseppe’s room. Silence, silence, he was still so silent. The anxiety returned her head spun and she felt the silence stab at her belly. This time she would be sick. What if she couldn’t find his pulse. She couldn’t go there. She would have to join him.

“Giuseppe, Giuseppe! Wake please, please. Oh, come on amore, please. Please wake up.”

Angela was sitting on the floor with her son draped across her. He did not move. She closed her eyes. This could not be happening. But, she dared not take his pulse. She would refuse to give him over yet. She wanted more of her son and God could not have him. It was too soon. She wasn’t ready yet. She wanted more time. She prayed to God. She prayed for her son to be ok and she cursed herself and her God for losing him and she decided to sin, to commit a mortal sin. What was the point of hanging around here anyway she thought if at least she could be there for her son. Finally she could put the inevitable off no longer. She reached for his neck, right below his ear and she felt it. She felt life. He was alive! He was alive! She smothered him with kisses. Her tears poured down his face even while Bruno’s blood poured across the tiles.

Angela put Giuseppe to bed. He was very weak. He needed rest. He seemed almost concussed. Maybe he was.

It was a while before Angela could take herself from her son. But in the end she did. She went into the dining room. She was somehow lured into this room where it always started. Where he shouted at them and then sped after them. This room felt like the enemies lair. It was dark. The terracotta colored walls blended in with the dark, antique mahogany furniture and the decanters of blood red wine. The pictures were old and somber all portraits of Bruno’s ancestors. Why he had insisted on hanging them she would never know. They always stared accusingly at him. In fact they stared accusingly at everyone and right now Angela felt the full brunt. How those stern faces had tormented him day and night. He had grown to despise them and mimic them at the same time. Angela decided she had to get out of that room immediately.

Angela sat on a chair by the bay window that looked out onto the Piazza. It was late, but she could still see the lights from across Piazza Rimazza. Signora Malaventa was still awake. She was always awake eager in her self-appointed role as the Piazza’s caretaker and resident nosy parker. She was always leaning out of one of her windows keeping watch. But Angela couldn’t see her, thank god. Angela could just see the houses of Piazza Rimazza around her, encircling and protecting her. The mist hung about the square and the ancient buildings lulled her. She stared out of her window as though into an ancient portal and lamented,

“How did I get here? How? Please God, how did I ever come to this?” and she lost herself in her melancholy thoughts while she waited for someone to wake up.

copyright ©Philip L Letts 2007