Robyn Hogan

Del broods on the meeting

Del’s thoughts were filled with negativity as she walked rapidly away from their house. I wish I had not gone there; I wish I had never met him; I wish I’d thought more about the family side; I wish I’d considered his emotional state. It wasn’t as if she had not been warned. A loser, Barbara, who revelled in men’s company, had warned her. The thoughts, relevant and irrelevant, logical and illogical, drummed in time to her steps. The street was a gracious one, wide and lined with houses in the Murat style, but Del did not notice. She stormed on down the pavement, heading for the waterfront, intending to skirt past the marina and the fishing fleet and to her hotel, seek refuge in her room. But the turmoil of her thoughts was such she knew she could not stay still so, when she reached the services piazza, she crossed the cobblestones and entered the Villi, a public garden. A fair was in progress and she did not realise it until she was well within the Villi, until, in fact, the brightly coloured miniature train loaded with squealing children, threatened to run her down. Its insistent whistle finally penetrated her thoughts and the danger she was in if she didn’t get off the train’s pathway. She leapt aside, one of the balloons tied to its funnel wafting towards her, knocking her softly in the face. She was still breathing heavily, could feel her heart pounding. The fast walking, the dangerous proximity of the little train, the emotional ride that had been hers since she left the house, was causing her physical distress. Nearby was a garden bench; she slumped on it gratefully. The perspiration which dampened her face and trickled between her shoulder blades and breasts cooled in the shade and she shivered slightly. The day was clear and blue, the noonday sun too hot for such haste. Her worries gradually eased as she began to take in the scene, to appreciate the cacophony of spruikers, the squealing laughter of children and the general noise of a happy crowd. It was a pretty park immediately above the seaside with tall palms and an avenue of pines as well as hedges and massed flowers. A sense of calm, control, seeped into her and she noticed the smells as well as the noises round her. The salt tang of the nearby ocean, the faint whiff of oil from the harbour, the scents of flowering shrubs she could not name and the fruity promise coming from the gelati stalls. Relaxing further, she tentatively began to explore the morning.

So. She had met her father, the man whose genes contributed fifty percent to hers. The man whose existence, his relationship to her, she had become aware of only recently. She didn’t particularly look like him but their hands were identical in shape, proportion, even skin shading. And there was a bulkiness of bone that they shared. Though others, Francesca at the hotel and the cousins at the Castro communion, had thought she resembled the recently deceased twin sisters, the lack of comment from Sal and Silvia seemed to demonstrate that she was no reminder to them. The Flowers, Del smiled to herself, how quaint.

Sal Brenna had only seen her mother in her. Had he recognised her? Knew who she was and was saying nothing? As she was. Mention of the dimple had been unnerving. Del sat up straight, overhanging leaves touching her hair. He knew! He had to know!

A child, in a pink party dress, raced past flying an orange balloon. It wafted out over Del, caught the tree, snagged and burst, causing Del’s head to jerk as she uttered a short scream of alarm. The child, though, who had probably anticipated the balloon’s fate, put her hand over her mouth, giggling at Del’s reaction. Little brown eyes shone with mischief; she could even have planned the affair. She tugged on the string she held and the tattered remains fell onto Del’s shoulder, dropping into her lap. ‘A present for you!’ the child squealed and ran off, zig-zagging through the shrubbery.

The dimple. Del remembered herself clambering onto her mother’s lap, touching the dimple in her cheek and, in turn, her mother’s finger tapping on Del’s dimple. A tender, loving memory of her mother. Had Sal Brenna touched that dimple too? Of course he had; it was in the face he had carried behind his eyes for fifty years. And he had recognised it in hers. He was as wary of claiming his child as she was of claiming a father. But it was different for her: she had had a nurturing father; he had no child. No other child – or so she guessed. Silvia’s reaction to the claim Margherita had borne a child only increased the signs of madness she saw in her brother. Did Silvia even believe Margherita ever existed? What would happen if she, Del, were to stroll back to that house and, when they opened the door, greet them with ‘Buona sera, Babbo; come sta, Zia Silvia?’ She tried to picture the scene. Would Silvia screech her doubt then drag her in to do the dusting? And would Sal Brenna just stand there, dabbing trickling tears with his so well laundered handkerchief, knowing he was going to learn the end of the story at last?

Del shook the fancies away but the lingering thought that he had recognised her had been planted in her consciousness. Barbara may, inadvertently, have given him the information, the first inkling, and her appearance had confirmed her existence for him. Barb had said he picked oranges somewhere out near Dunne’s. Although he knew her name was Del or Delma, had Dunne also been mentioned? She had felt herself clever that she had managed not to provide them with a surname this morning. But had it mattered? Also, according to Barbara, he had been aware of some of Kevin Turner’s work. Del forced her mind back to the Castro Marina seaside, to breakfast, and Barbara’s sullen report on her evening out. Del realised she should have listened more intently, giving her friend her full attention instead of making her share with the glittering movement of the ocean, the tangy scent of a spring morning, but, then, she had been unaware of the companion’s name. Had not been looking out for Sal Brenna so far from Trani. True, the cousins had unnerved her, had occupied her time with details of the twins and their horrid ending, but never once had it crossed her mind that the same twins — the Flowers (she smiled slightly) — could be her aunts. She wondered, too, who the vague elderly woman had been; was she also a relative?

The more her tangled thoughts worried at the morning the more she became convinced he knew her to be his daughter. Her stomach cramped and a lump rose in her throat. And, that being so, he had not wanted to acknowledge her. Though she knew it to be unfair, such rejection surprised her with its hurt.

She felt again his hand on her arm. Where Silvia had been grasping his had been firm. Protective? Possessive? She shook her head again, stood up and walked out of the Villi She threaded her way through the crowd. Babies gurgling in strollers being pushed haphazardly by children not much older; toddlers, on shoulders, grasping at passing hats, fingers sticky with gelati; bright balloons and bunting sailing over the whole, noisy parkland and the little train whistling and weaving its way through the throng, began to delight her. She became aware that no one was taking any notice of her and that shook her a little. She was not an Australian tourist; she blended in with this town and its celebrations. She could live here.

Once out the gate, into the piazza, she realised she was hungry. Her equilibrium was more or less restored now. After all, to lose one’s soul mate, as she had lost Kevin, teaches that to have a child die is the only greater tragedy in life. Certainly, gaining a father was embarrassing rather than tragic. She strode purposely towards the port, skirting the expensive yachts moored there, then the fishing fleet, men cheerfully lugging nets, preparing for the evening’s catch, before crossing over and heading towards an eating place. She chose the old templar’s hospice and selected a small table in the corner of the garden from where she could glimpse its mellow façade, feel part of its ancient tradition. There were three long tables with businessmen dining at them and they regarded her with surprised stares; they would not consider it proper for their wives to dine alone and in such a public place. Again, she looked local; they could not know, appreciate, that she might think of herself as a foreigner.

A serious faced, older man waiter approached and bowed his welcome before placing a carafe of water on the already set table, his mannerism so like Marco’s of the North Sydney eatery. She ordered the day’s special: zuppa di pesce, and a small jug of the house wine, another local white. With the thought of Sydney, her Australian family came winging back to her.

Anne was mad at her for leaving without telling her and maybe even madder that she had had a fling with Barry. But Del had to be grateful; Anne had been looking out for her, caring enormously about her. She had searched Sydney in her determination to save her sister from a dangerous relationship. What would she say if, when, she learned their mother to be an adulterer; to have lived an enormous lie of a life until the very brink of the grave? Del would like to save Anne that horror if she possibly could.

A young waitress placed her meal before her and Del smiled her thanks. The aromas rising from the platter brought saliva swirling in her mouth and she knew she was gloating at the tantalising array of seafood before her. Small, sweet, black-shelled mussels, opened enticingly; cubes of fish (dory and dentix); slices of calamari, glistening; and golden prawns, all combined in a liquid of tomatoes, onions and garlic, garnished with chopped, fresh parsley. She could live in this land with food like this!

When she gathered her wits again she knew she could not face Anne; tell Anne. She had always been cowed by Anne; the older sister had dominated her youth. Until Kevin. And now, again, after Kevin. No. someone else would have to tell Anne. Sarah? Sarah was spiteful enough to enjoy the tale. Sarah already had an inkling there was some secret. Yes, she could tell Sarah and let the gossip fly from her lips. But Sarah was no longer part of the family. That would take a bit of getting used to. Del felt sorrier for Anne than herself; the two enjoyed a strong friendship. Perhaps, if the split with Davy is amicable, Anne and Sarah could remain friends. Davy, maybe she could tell Davy. Del had never been close to him, did not know him well but, after the phone call, she felt more at ease with him. Could sense a new strength in him.

She sighed, resisting the urge to mop the last of the soup with a chunk of bread. Her mother’s guilt and her responsibility to it were embedded deeply in her identity now. A roar of amusement came from one of the tables, interrupting her reverie. She sipped her wine. And what of her twins? Was she going to tell them? Well, she would have to if she accepted Sal Brenna into her life as her parent. She thought back over the morning; had she mentioned she had twins? Oh how she wished she could have told Kevin that the twins were on her side of their coupling. Together, all those years ago, they had checked four generations of the Dunne and O’Toole families with never the whisper of a multiple birth so the trait had been shafted home to Kevin and the family he never knew. It had pained Kevin not to have known anything at all about his family; could she deny Kevin’s children the truth? Come to that, could she deny Sal Brenna his role as a grandfather? Would he continue to reject her as his child, as she believed he might be doing, if he was aware of grandchildren?

Wine finished, she paid the bill, il conto, and strolled across the cobblestones hoping to distract herself with some sightseeing. The templar’s church, now Ognissanti, stood in what had been the hospital courtyard. It looked sad, standing behind a heavy, wrought iron fence and locked gates. The double porch, resting on columns, reminded her, incongruously, of her daughters and the morning’s declaration she was on her way to London. If she meant to avoid her Italian relations, then it was better that she left the city now. If she intended to tell her daughters of their true heritage, then it was better she did so in England. Face to face. Though Kevin had warned her not to be ruled from the grave, not to attribute attitudes to him she thought he might take were he still alive, she felt his eyes, wise and sad, directed towards her. Calling softly to her to play fair with their children; to let her mother’s lie stop. Del left the sightseeing and, following the narrow lanes, past converted synagogues and cramped rustic cottages returned to the broad, open, welcoming area in which were cathedral, castle, law courts and her hotel. She looked with longing at the buildings; she was particularly keen to study again the wonderful Baristano bronze doors of the cathedral and enter its cool, gracious interior with its snippets of mosaics. However, she must make arrangements to leave. And Bari was the only place to do that.

Once in her room she added passport and more cash to her handbag and, smiling cheerfully at Francesca, leaving her key at the desk, she walked smartly to the railway station. As small trains ran up and down the coast frequently, there was no need to keep the car nor check the timetable.

The balmy atmosphere that seemed always to hang over the huge square, Piazza Aldo Moro, between Bari station and commercial Bari, greeted her. Trees, roads, paths, fountains, rainbows in their sprays, and gardens, all so obviously planned and placed with precision, filled the area. Del also noted the circling cyclists, riding two by two, seeking wallets and handbags, and clutched hers more firmly against her body. She entered the central business district, il Murattiano, and the bustle of commerce, the zing of wealth in this, Apulia’s capital, was stimulating. Bari, before the Normans took control, had been an Emirate and something of exotica lingers on in the elite, stylish buildings, tall palms and colourful gardens running down the centre of dual carriageways. Joachim Murat, the Napoleonic designer, had brought a balanced height and grace to the neo-classical constructions with their long, lean windows, richly embellished at the lower level, the decoration becoming increasingly severe, refined, on the upper storeys. It was a modern miracle that Murat’s work had seen little or no interference and Del revelled in the architecture even as she hurried towards the airline office.

It took some time, as dealings in Italy can, and it was a couple of days later before she would be able to leave; make suitable connections out of the country. She then explored the shops for a while, settling on a designer handbag each for Annie and Carol. She debated whether to take her sister Anne a handbag too but decided, Anne being Anne, a gift from Italy might be rather annoying. Perhaps, despicable. Something from England would be far more acceptable.

As she wandered back towards the railway, she passed the Palazzo Ateneo, the core building of the University and her mind darted back to Sal Brenna. He had spent his life since her birth between here and the house in Trani. Perhaps she would just enter for a peep but the door was firmly closed and, realising how late the hour was, she hurried on, her problems again rising to the fore.

Had Sal Brenna sat at his desk, day after day, smelling oranges and seeing the honey coloured legs of his lover? Or had he thrown himself so intensely into his work, his career, as to force her from his mind? Del boarded the train still thinking of him, recalling his intense sadness. She had been mean to leave as she did. She should have stayed to lunch. Surely her skills were sufficient to keep conversation on the research? No, they were not, she had to admit, when she was close to him. Even though she had told herself to concentrate on the Bianca story, even as she was trying to participate in talking about it, the curious self was examining him. Silvia had said the notion of Margherita was a recent phenomenon, perhaps since his retirement. The idle mind type of thing. But he had poured his story out to Barbara; had poured it out in more ways than one to her, Del.

And her mother: had Maggie Dunne put her young companion of the orchard out of her mind? Buried his memory so deep that it only came to life again as she was drifting back in time to meet her Maker? For half a century these two lovers had been apart yet he could weep for his loss while she, at the end, claimed the guilt of her love. Did her mother intend her to find him? The train jerked to a halt and was revving to move on when she realised the stop was Trani and, if she didn’t hurry, she’d be taken on to Barletta. Grabbing her parcels, jostling to the doorway, she managed to alight just in time.

She hurried through the evening streets to the port and the fish market set up there, through which, taking this route, she had to pass to reach the hotel. Tables, some laden with fish, others leaner, watched over by vendors calling details of their catch. A black cat with white socks and bib strolled beside her, the white tip of its tail fluttering by her knee. Quickly and gracefully, it leapt onto a table. Just as quickly but not as gracefully the fishwife grabbed a shining dory and swiped the cat with it. The animal dropped to the pavement uncowed and the woman settled the fish back into her display. Del chuckled softly and kept walking but shied and stopped when she came across a large octopus making an escape from a green plastic bucket. Three great tentacles reached down the side, tips waving, exploring, until they touched the cobblestones then the whole slimy whiteness of the creature slid out of the bucket and, arms and legs arching, moved rapidly and unerringly towards the harbour and its water. A yell from someone alerted a thick set young man, black hairs glistening along dark arms, who, in a couple of strides, reached the escapee and grasping it, ignoring the wild, waving tentacles, dropped it back into the bucket with a splash. The man grinned at Del then, hands on hips, joined his friends in the interrupted conversation. Beyond, at another table, Del saw the cat again. In time to see it scoop a pawful of small red fish out of a container and, brushing them to the ground, leap lightly off to crouch over them and begin dinner. Good on you, Puss, she thought, her whole mood much lighter. As she crossed over towards her hotel she noticed the octopus making another bid for freedom. But the lad, too casual by half this time, was efficiently thwarted and the mollusc, hurrying on tentacles, first high-arching then stretching low, succeeded in plopping into the harbour to cheers all round. The memory of a vase — Cretan perhaps? Yes, Minoan — decorated with a similar octupus of attitude flashed before her. That ancient piece had captured the same wild nature and sensuous luxury displayed by today’s escapee.

Francesca was waiting for her though she made a fuss about locating the key and suggesting Della should take some bottled water to her room. Then, ‘you had a pleasant visit with Salvatore?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘And did you meet Silvia?’

‘I did.’

‘Ah, poor Silvia. The deaths of Lilia and Rosa were a cruel blow to her. She virtually reared them, you know, and they were such company for her.’ She waddled towards a cupboard, brought out a bottle of water and returned to her counter. ‘She thinks Sal is losing his mind. Maybe has old-timer’s disease. What do you think?’

Del was somewhat taken aback. She could not guess whether Francesca was being curious or whether Silvia had primed her to seek Del’s opinion. And if she had been primed was it before the visit or afterwards? Had the whole hazardous morning been retold already? Del decided to take the road of least resistance.

‘He was rather helpful with my work,’ she spoke cautiously then, warming to her theme, rushed on. ‘The area I am writing about is his particular speciality; it was a pleasure to discuss it with him. I feel I’ll be able to make a lot of headway this evening.’ She laughed briefly, ‘but not if I don’t get started.’ She began juggling her parcels so she could pick up the bottle and key.

‘Did he tell you he once had an Australian girlfriend?’

Oh dear. ‘It was mentioned.’ Del, taking the proffered key, turned to the stairs.

‘Ah. It is such a worry to Silvia. You see—’

There was no way Delma wanted to gossip about her relatives with this woman; she had to change the subject.

‘By the way,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘I’ll be checking out the day after tomorrow.’

‘Off to London, are you?’

Del hesitated; it seemed Francesca and Silvia may well have spoken together since her visit to Sal. She could not be sure and could not keep the note of viciousness out of her response. ‘Yes. To see my twin daughters.’ She sped up the stairs to the sanctity of her room.

After she had showered and dressed in a long skirt and soft shirt she felt ready to face the Bianca story again. Sitting at the little table-come-desk, facing the haunting wonder of the cathedral, she pulled her writing pad into position and looked at the article Sal had given her. As she read it through she had to agree with him; it would be far easier to write of Frederick’s alliances, his career. But, she believed, forcing women back into history, as recent scholarship had, was contributing to a whole new slant on earlier civilisations and societies. She had to persevere with Bianca’s tale even if conjecture rather than fact fashioned it.

The intensity of my emotions shook me and I know I blushed. My vow of virginity, which I made to protect my birthright, to save me from the unwanted advances of second sons interested only in my money, seems a thin, wavy thread rather than the strong white cord I had imagined it to be. I am grateful for my brothers’ support in this matter; Manfred, particularly, had worried I might be whisked off into a harem. He has negotiated that I share accommodation with my brothers and not be swallowed into the women’s quarters.

Del could not vouch that Bianca had been treated differently from the beginning but, doing so, allowed her, Del, to place the young woman on a pedestal. But how was Frederick to get her off that pedestal and into his bed? She fiddled with her pen, flipping it back and forth between her fingers.

Manfred had another motive as well: I am as good a notary as he and he needs me to share his work load. Throughout that first meeting I kept my head down, my cloak tight about me. Sitting on scarlet floor cushions I traced the golden eagle emblem repeatedly, soaking in the Emperor’s every word. And the glorious timbre of his voice.

AT TABLE: F. BROTHERS, ME, BISHOP, ASTRONOMER, ADMIRAL, DAUGHTERS (2), VISITING POET, DUSKY LADIES?