No, Papa! Page 4

  ‘Answer your beloved nonna,’ my father was adding firmly, glancing round at the rest of them for support. They nodded on cue, more for her than him. I leaned forward in my armchair, fixed them all with the sweetest smile I could muster.

  ‘What you see is what you’ve got,’ I said calmly. ‘If you don’t like it, you can always send me back to England.’

  ‘She does not know what she is saying, mama,’ my father pleaded. ‘She needs time, time to adjust to what is right for her.’

  What is right—I leapt up, stabbed a finger at him. ‘Who the hell are you to decide what’s right for me—right for anyone other than yourself, come to that?’

  ‘ENOUGH!’ Beloved nonna was struggling up and out of her sofa, pushing away the supporting hands moving in to help her. ‘Such language has never before been heard in this house and never will it be heard here again. As for you, do I need to remind you of your age? You are not yet old enough to know what you want—’

  ‘I’m old enough to know what I don’t want—’

  ‘Lisetta!’ —My father again— ‘Do not interrupt your beloved nonna when she is speaking.—’

  ‘To hell with you and to hell with her!—’

  ‘I said it is ENOUGH!’ Beloved nonna’s glass shattered as she threw it to the floor. Her hands were shaking, her eyes smouldering with all the anger her ancient dignity could muster. When she spoke again, it was slowly, like she was finding it hard to breathe and speak at the same time. ‘You will do…as you are told…While you are in this house…in this most Christian house…you will remain silent until you are spoken to…And you will learn respect—as The Lord is my witness, you will learn respect…Do you understand?’

  I didn’t answer, just stood there returning with interest her glare and contempt.

  ‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’ she screamed again, her face red with rage.

  I took one step forward, placed my hands on my hips, planted myself firmly in front of her and spoke three words, three low words that I knew would bring this to an end.

  ‘Go. To. Hell.’

  Silence. Shocked, disbelieving silence. I looked past her to my father.

  ‘I’m done here,’ I said quietly. ‘When you’re ready, I’ll be at the car.’

  Then I turned on my heel and left. No one tried to stop me…

  ‘Tell me,’ I said idly, looking out the car window at the bare landscape whipping by, ‘what’s the big deal about all this respect stuff?’

  No answer.

  ‘I mean, you’re constantly harping on about it, your mother just screamed at me about it—why? What have they done to deserve it?’

  ‘They are your family,’ he said coldly. ‘It is enough.’

  ‘Not for me it isn’t.’

  ‘Then it should be!’ he snapped. ‘This family goes back centuries, it can trace its ancestry back to the time of Giuseppe Garibaldi. This family has been friends of the justice for the past 200 years. It was present when the first Italian constitution was drawn up. It has a history!’

  ‘And that’s what demands what you call respect, is it?’

  ‘What else is there? You do not know how lucky you are to be part of this history.’

  ‘Be still, my beating heart,’ I muttered.

  ‘I told you I will not have this!’ he screamed. ‘You will learn respect!’

  ‘Yeah? So tell me, has your family found a cure for cancer?’

  ‘I do not see what—’

  ‘Has it solved world poverty?’

  ‘How can this—’

  ‘Has it discovered a cheap, non-polluting energy source that will halt global warming and bring prosperity to the whole planet?’

  ‘It is not as simple as this—’

  ‘No, of course it isn’t. It never is when there’s nothing to your argument. So if it hasn’t done any of these things, what makes you think it deserves respect?’

  He didn’t answer. I didn’t pursue it, just thanked a kid in school back in England, a streetwise wannabe who’d pushed past me in the school café, and when I pushed back, he came out with his usual line ‘Hey, you show me some respec’!’. And I asked him those selfsame questions I’d asked my father. And every time he answered no, his voice got smaller and smaller. At the end, I delivered the knockout blow—‘You want respect, you earn it.’ And I took my rightful place in the queue again.

  I looked round at my father, still driving, still silent, the white knuckles gripping the steering-wheel giving the lie to any mask of self-control.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘once more: what’s the big deal?’

  ‘You will learn to respect your family,’ he replied coldly. ‘You will learn to love it. Starting with me!’

  ‘Yes, pappuccio.’

  ‘Stop this! Stop this now!’

  ‘Oh but it’s a term of affection—remember? A way of saying you are my little papa and you are one who is loved.’

  ‘Enough! If you cannot speak civilly then don’t speak at all!

  ‘Yes, pappinuccio.’

  ‘ENOUGH, I SAID!’

  `‘Yes, pappuccino-ccino-ccino-ccino-ccino.’

  He didn’t answer. I’d fought him to a standstill, fought them all to a standstill. It felt good. But this was only the start. I’d made up my mind: I had to get out of here, out of this Godforsaken, benighted country and back to England. I had a fight ahead of me, I knew, but I couldn’t afford to lose it. No way could I afford to lose it.

  SEVEN

  Sunday. The day we normally go to visit the family. I figured we wouldn’t be going, that maybe beloved nonna had seen enough of me for one weekend. Whatever. My father never suggested it and I didn’t ask.

  First up was breakfast, my father still looking like thunder as he hunched over his computer and slugged fatty biscuits and industrial-strength espresso into his mouth. So I just sat there, cradling a cup of tea and watching him, trying to decide when would come the right moment to ask for some toast. The tension must have been getting to him because he suddenly looked up from his equations and spoke. Actually, maybe that’s the wrong word: he more snapped at me, barked words like he was some big shot in the army and I was the lowest piece of cannon fodder he could find to push around.

  ‘You are not eating!’ was all he said.

  ‘Is that an order or just a vague observation?’ I replied flatly.

  ‘Why are you not eating? Breakfast has been ready this past half-hour and more.’

  ‘We went through this one yesterday,’ I said. ‘And if you think I’m churning my insides up with that crap, you can forget it.’

  He bristled, didn’t say anything, just went back to his laptop and his science. That’s the thing about a computer: it doesn’t answer back.

  I let my gaze wander round the kitchen, feeling it so empty without mum there. Sunday mornings were always special—she always tried to make them so, anyway, I think to try and make up for the rest of the week. This was the one morning of the week where we didn’t have to observe the usual ritual, the usual deception. She’d argued for it long before, my father only grudgingly giving way and allowing her to make us both a traditional English breakfast, with sausage, bacon, egg and fried tomatoes, followed by toast and marmalade, real orange marmalade that made me wonder where she’d found it. And tea, she’d make tea in a chipped china teapot that she’d found in an old second-hand shop in the town. And we’d sit there like two fine English ladies, sipping tea and discussing this or that or whatever came into our heads, our stomachs filled, our roots watered. And my father? He just ignored us and went on with his own traditions—biscuit and espresso in one hand, laptop in the other.

  I swung my gaze back, fixed it on him. ‘So what delights have you got planned for me today? More same-old-same-old?’

  ‘We are shortly to receive a visitor,’ he said curtly, ‘one you will like to see.’

  ‘Mum?’ I asked brightly.

  ‘No!’ he snapped. ‘And you will not speak of her again! You will see who this visitor
is soon enough, and you will show her respect. You will not be rude to her…like you were yesterday to your beloved nonna,’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘Yeah?’ I yawned. ‘Fine. Whatever you say. Well, if we’re going to be receiving guests, I guess I’d better do it on a full stomach. Got any bread for toasting?’

  He hesitated, like he was considering whether or not to make an issue of this, then nodded curtly in the direction of the larder. I got up and went to make myself breakfast. I had to hand it to him: he learned fast.

  The visitor arrived. I was sitting in the living-room when I heard voices at the front door, and my ears pricked up. Why? Because the voices weren’t speaking in Italian, they were speaking in English. One was my father’s flowing stream with its usual Italian lilt, coloured with a hint of disgust that he was forced into speaking this inferior tongue. The other was female and…well…heavily accented. I mean, thick with it. Like the words were having trouble getting past her lips. And they were all wrong. Like she didn’t know the right word for sure so just used the nearest that came to hand. Then they stopped and I knew what was coming.

  ‘Lisetta? You will come here, please.’

  I slouched up out of the armchair, kicked my way past the door and into the hallway…and stopped.

  ‘Lisetta,’ my father was saying through a haze of disbelief, ‘this is Anya. She will be your governess.’

  ‘My—my what?’ was all I could think to say.

  ‘Your governess. She will take on the duties of your mother since she is no longer with us.’

  I couldn’t believe it—not that I had a governess, no, I’d guessed all along that my father would pull something like this. No, it was more that…I looked directly at him.

  ‘Er…do you think we might have a few words together? In private?’

  I kicked the door back open by way of meaning what I said. To my surprise, he didn’t argue, just made some excuse to her and left her standing there.

  Back in the living-room, I turned on him.

  ‘This is a joke—right?’

  ‘This is no matter for laughing, Lisettina,’ he said. ‘With my work and the conferences I sometimes have to attend, I am not able to look after you in the way that you need, that you deserve.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I mean. I’d been expecting this but…hell, have you taken a look at her?’

  ‘I do not know what you mean—’

  ‘Then let me put it in words of one syllable: she’s fat. Actually, scrub that: she’s not just fat, she’s humongous. Where’s she from?’

  ‘Russia. A lot of Russian women come to Italy in search of a better life.’

  ‘I hate to have to remind you but the words Italy and better life never appear together in the same sentence. But that aside, you can’t do this! She isn’t a governess, she’s a battleship!’

  ‘Lisetta! I warned you not to be rude to her!’

  ‘I’m not being rude to her, I’m being rude about her. Come on, you cannot be serious!’

  ‘There is no choice,’ he said firmly. ‘She was all I was able to get at such short notice. She is your governess and there is an end to it.’

  ‘Short notice, huh?’ I muttered. ‘Now why do I find that easy to believe?’

  ‘You will get used to her,’ he added lightly. ‘It will be difficult at first but…ah…these things are to be endured. Now let us go and meet her.’

  I didn’t say anything, just followed him back out into the hallway where Battleship Potemkin was still at anchor.

  ‘Anya,’ he said brightly, ‘this is Elisa. This is who you will be looking after.’

  She thrust out a hand. ‘Please I am to meetings you,’ she said. ‘Elisa is beautiful name.’

  ‘Yeah, I kind of like it, too,’ I said weakly as I took the hand.

  ‘Well,’ said my father, glancing between us, ‘I have work to do. I am sure Elisa will show you the house, Anya. If there is more you need, just ask her.’

  And he was gone, scuttling off back to his study like he wanted to be rid of us. I turned away, looked at Anya. She looked back at me. For some strange reason, neither of us seemed to have anything to say.

  ‘So what do you want to see first?’ I asked tentatively.

  ‘This wait. We know us first.’

  I figured that meant we should maybe spend a little time getting to know each other. I shrugged and led her into the kitchen.

  ‘You want some tea? Coffee?’ I asked. ‘Vodka?’

  She laughed, a high-pitched cackle that cut right through me. ‘This big story,’ she said. ‘All Russian not drink vodka.’ The vodka she pronounced with a “w”, making it sound like wodka.

  ‘Tea okay, then?’

  ‘Tea good.’

  As I filled the kettle, she sank her huge bulk onto an unsuspecting stool. I heard it creak, almost felt sorry for it. As I stood there waiting for the water to boil, I sneaked another look at her.

  She was maybe the wrong side of thirty, with frizzy brown hair that looked as though it was trying to pass for blond but not succeeding too well. She was dressed in a billowing yellow dress that did little to hide her massive girth, but then I couldn’t imagine anything that would. She had a round, jolly sort of face, the kind you might find in a favourite aunt provided she didn’t visit too often. Apart from that, her huge breasts and her massive butt, there wasn’t a lot else to say about her. I was sure she was a nice enough person but I couldn’t see us getting too friendly with each other.

  I made tea for both of us, set it on the table with milk and sugar, plus a few of those little fatty biscuits my father liked for his breakfast. I had no choice, we didn’t seem to have any other. She didn’t complain, just immediately picked one out of the dish and popped it into her mouth.

  ‘You Elisa,’ she said.

  ‘That’s my name,’ I replied. ‘Don’t wear it out.’

  Another cackle, another flinching of the ears.

  ‘How old?’ she asked next.

  ‘Fourteen,’ I said defensively. ‘Why? Does it matter? I mean, are you used to looking after younger children?’

  ‘I not care childrens ever,’ she said plainly. ‘This first job.’

  ‘You mean—?’ —I pulled up short. Something about this was seriously not right. ‘So which agency did my father hire you from?’

  ‘No agency. I wait on street till man come, take me look after childrens. Your father first.’

  ‘He—he picked you up off the street?’ I could hardly believe it. He’d trust his only child, his Lisettina-who-is-so-loved, to an amateur? ‘So how long have you been in Sicily?’

  ‘Ah…’ Her head swung from side to side, her eyes raised to the ceiling, her flabby jaws silently working a mental arithmetic that was probably beyond her. ‘…six week…maybe more.’

  ‘So what have been doing all this time?—No, scrub that!’ I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. ‘So why did you come to Sicily? I mean, look at it! You could have chosen better.’

  ‘Anywhere better than Russia now. Russian woman in Russia no work. In Sicily, find work. In Sicily, get money, get food.’

  Looking at her, I found that hard to believe. Looking at her, she didn’t seem to have missed too many meals.

  ‘Your mother not here?’ she asked next, and she asked it in a vague, almost hopeful way.

  ‘No, she’s in England…where I should be right now,’ I added, muttering.

  She nodded. ‘Your father marriaged your mother?’

  ‘Not for much longer, I don’t think. Why?’

  She ignored the question, just nodded slowly to herself, like she was adding things up and liking what she saw. When next she spoke, the words were like a bombshell.

  ‘Your father very fine man.’

  Ever get one of those moments when revelation and opportunity strike simultaneously? Yeah, I had one then. I gazed hard at her, wondering. I mean, a battleship is a weapon—right? A weapon of war—right? And I was in the middle of a war—right? This was ju
st too good to be true.

  I pushed the plate of biscuits across the table to her and gave her my best smile, the one reserved for those people who don’t realise the mistake they’ve just made in meeting me.

  ‘Have some more,’ I said.

  EIGHT

  Shouting, I could hear shouting.

  It was the heat of the afternoon and I was lying on my bed listening to music on my I-pod, one of the few things I’d managed to bring with me in my father’s headlong rush to get me away from England. I only heard it because of the break between tracks, his furious voice managing to penetrate three walls, one floor and my headphones. I yanked them from my ears, shut the music off and heaved myself off the bed, wondering what the hell was eating him now.

  I crept out of my room, listening hard. He sure was mad about something. Anya? But no, it couldn’t be her. I could hear her. She’d been given the spare room and was sound asleep in there, snoring like a drunken sailor. No, this was something else, someone else.

  Whoever it was, the conversation was very one-sided. He would shout…there would be a pause…then he’d shout again…and there’d be another pause—and so on. Could mean only one thing: he was shouting at someone on the phone. But who and why, I couldn’t begin to think. I listened harder.

  ‘No!’ he was yelling. ‘No, I will not permit this…Why would asking her yourself change anything? You were the one who acted criminally, you were the one who was judged and sentenced—what else can you expect?…She does not wish to speak with you, she does not wish to even know you any more…She is fine, she is well, that is all you need to know. Goodbye!’

  —and he slammed the phone down, muttering some vague Italian curse that it was probably better I didn’t hear. But I knew who he’d been speaking to, you bet I did. I flew down those stairs, he looking up in surprise as I landed before him.

  ‘That was mum, wasn’t it!’ I said.

  ‘It was a wrong number,’ he muttered. ‘Nothing for you to trouble yourself with.’

  He tried to step past me, to bring this to an end before it even began. I grabbed his arm, swung him round to face me as he passed.

  ‘Don’t lie to me! Why did you tell her I didn’t want to speak to her?’

  ‘It is, ah…logical. Why would you wish to speak to someone judged for a criminal act?’