Under a Sardinian Sky

Carmela sat at her worktop by the farthest window from the entrance and lifted her eyes from her stitching. Her gaze drifted out toward the fountain. She watched the women below as they swayed, balancing long, terra-cotta jugs upon their heads filled from the flowing faucets. Yolanda insisted on keeping the shutters closed against the heat, especially at this time of the morning, but today there was intricate work to be finished and the girls worked better in natural light. Besides, any money she might save on electricity would result in increased profits.

Carmela unpicked her stitching for the third time. Yolanda walked over to her. “You feeling all right, Carme’?” she asked, leaning on the worn wood of the worktop.

“Yes, of course.”

“Look at me, tesoro.” Yolanda lifted Carmela’s chin with a gentle hand. “You’re distracted today, my darling. Your skin is almost white.” As Carmela’s godmother, Yolanda reserved this tone for her alone; all the other girls worked in fear of her biting tongue and fierce intolerance for careless mistakes. This was the place every woman with taste traveled to from along the entire coast. Sometimes customers even came up from as far as the capital city Cagliari, half a day away on the south of the island. Carmela’s deft hand and incisive eye for cut and current trends owed much to the business’s success.

“Your London lady from the villa has made an appointment for today,” Yolanda said, trying to appear relaxed. “I need you to be at your best.”

Carmela, of course, was aware that her godmother had a feral sixth sense for when her thoughts were drifting. In truth, she hadn’t been able to concentrate since Piera told her that posters announcing her official engagement to Franco were plastered on the walls of the houses by the cathedral. She’d spent most of the morning trying, and failing, to contain her excitement over the fact that her name was in large black letters for all to see, only steps from here. At the same time, Carmela knew how important Mrs. Curwin’s appointment could be. The wealthy family from London would pay double that of the locals. Mrs. Curwin bought most of her attire from the dressmakers of New Bond Street, central London, a place she described with broad brushstrokes but that remained a misty picture of a faraway land in Carmela’s mind.

Yolanda rallied. “Do your magic and she may order an entire wardrobe. Good news for this young woman who’ll be standing in my shoes one day, no?” Yolanda reached into the leather pouch hanging from her belt, beside her coiled tape measure, and pulled out three coins. “Take these lire and buy yourself a spremuta at Bar Svizzero. Tell Antonio to give you magnesia too, yes? Then come back looking like the Carmela with the bright eyes and fast hands.”

She was more than ready to heed her advice. Her legs ached to race her down the street and take a swift glance at her temporal fame. The dry heat, toasting the cobbles outside, beckoned. She looked up at the sharp face of her godmother. It was crease free despite her fifty years, with feline eyes that rose ever so slightly up toward her temples, imbuing her with a permanent air of sage curiosity. Carmela struggled to picture herself even half as shrewd. The studio’s success lay in the perfect balance between Carmela’s artistry and her godmother’s quick head for figures and unfaltering leadership. Over the past few months Yolanda mentioned Carmela’s inheritance of the business more than usual. It filled Carmela with a rush of excitement and ideas, but if she was destined to take over one day, how would she summon the steel to captain all these seamstress girls, so happy to smile to your face, then sending daggers at you from behind closed doors? She reached up for Yolanda’s coins, thanked her, and left the room, knowing the kindness did not go unnoticed by the other young seamstresses.

Carmela wound down the darkened staircase. Suffused light shafted through, in ornate patterns, from the decorative metal grate above the main double doors. Behind the wooden banister, the paint looked as if it had been dragged downward by a powerful force, streaking the wall where it had clawed to try to remain attached. Her footsteps echoed off the marble steps. They were wide enough to show off the dazzling ball gowns of the original owners, not the worn shoes of a seamstress.

The white sun beyond the heavy door blinded her.

“Congratulations, Carme’!” a woman called down to her from the fountain. “Just read about the soon-to-be-newlyweds in the piazza. Not every day you get your name posted on the wall, you know!”

“Thank you! I’m going to see it now!” Her voice bubbled like an overexcited adolescent.

“It’s next to Ignazia Cau’s death notice,” another chimed, hoisting a jug up onto her head. “God rest her soul. . . .”

The women muttered a blessing and set off in opposite directions. Carmela stood and listened to the water as if the sound itself might cool her down, but she knew that even the unforgiving ice of February would not have that effect on a special day like today.

The pitter-patter feet of her youngest sister, Vittoria, drew Carmela round.

“Aren’t we in a hurry?” Carmela called out to her.

“Nonna made me say the rosary twice!” Vittoria said without slowing her trot. “She’s angry because Zia Rosa is late home. And now I’m late for the sisters!” Her candlestick legs propelled her downhill. With a quick turn she disappeared into a narrow viccolo that led to the back entrance of the cathedral, where the summer session of the children’s church group was held. Vittoria had been in the Cherubs for several years. Last night, as Carmela had tucked her into the bed Vittoria shared with Gianetta, she had, with much exhilaration, relayed that the nuns had finally graduated her to the Angel’s class. Then, Vittoria had carried on, without pausing for breath or punctuation, that if her dream to become as good a seamstress as Carmela failed, she would follow her second calling to the convent.

Carmela watched Vittoria’s dress flap as she ran and made a mental note to add a trim from some of the off cuts back at Yolanda’s. A flamboyant woman from the next town had ordered an elaborate floral pattern for a light overcoat. Carmela could patch together the scraps and make her sister the happiest ten-year-old on the street.

Carmela continued on down to Piazza Cantareddu, passing a slew of tzilleri. The pungent smell of damp barrels and wine-stained stone floors wafted out from those darkened cantinas, while outside men stood around sniffing their ridotto glasses, arguing over everything and nothing. A voice called out to her.

“There’s my bride!” Franco swung in beside her.

“What are you doing here?”

“I can think of a nicer way to greet your fiancé—only we don’t want to shock these old men.”

“Sorry, I’ve only got a little while—”

“We made the wall, Carmela. You should walk around town like you own it. Which you will, in a few months.”

He took both her hands in his and turned her to face him, “Not so bad for a farm girl, no?”

Her mind flitted to the stack of embroidery to complete at the studio. His phrase grated. He used it often, and always as an expression of endearment; after all, their first tentative trysts were under the cover of her father’s vineyard. There was no shame in being a farm girl. That very earth had borne their love, in every sense. Carmela and Franco were grafted together there, twisting around each other like new vines. She looked into him. The sun shone into the darkness of his eyes, picking out the hidden chestnut flecks, invisible in all light but that of the blinding midmorning beams. He took her elbow and drew her over toward one of the upturned barrels, where several men she didn’t recognize stood, sipping wine.

“This is my fiancée, Carmela.”

She nodded. From the look of their shirts, Carmela hazarded a guess they were men of some influence.

“These signori are here from the council in Tula. I’m showing them our sights.”

Carmela flashed Franco a quizzical look. Why would men from a town thirty kilometers away be in Simius for sightseeing?

“You are welcome to use Carmela’s English however you see fit, gentlemen.” Franco’s face unfolded into one of his winning smiles, which few people could resist.

“Yes, Signorina,” the oldest of the three men said, his cheeks red with sun and wine, “your fiancé has promised us that you can be our interpreter in future meetings between us and the Americani.”

Carmela tried to rein in her confused frown before it creased her forehead, and failed. Franco never cared about her English. To him it seemed little more than a puzzling pastime. Now he was peddling her basic knowledge of it?

“We’ve heard they’re about to start looking for land,” a second man, shorter and rounder than his colleagues, piped in. “They’ve got some rockets they want to shoot up into the sky. My cousin’s son works at the base sometimes. People are talking. They’re going to fly planes and play war games. Plenty of dollars to give us landowners in return.”

Carmela opened her mouth, hoping something half intelligent might come out, but before she could speak, the last man, the silent of the three, wrapped his fingers around the plate loaded with cubed cheese and sliced smoked lard. He lifted it and offered it to her. A lazy fly heaved itself off the side of one of the rinds and landed on his knuckle, long enough for Carmela to note the black under his nail.

“Thank you, gentlemen, it all sounds very interesting, but if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been sent on an errand to Bar Svizzero for my godmother, and I really ought to get along.”

“Piacere,” the first man said, holding out his thick hand. Carmela shook it, out of courtesy, wishing she didn’t feel that it bound her to him in some way. Then she turned to Franco and kissed each cheek. His eyes drifted past her on the second kiss. She had disappointed him. These men must be more powerful than she had guessed. It would have been polite to partake in some food at least. A sweaty piece of cheese or a tiny nibble of greasy lard wouldn’t have been such a great sacrifice in order to place Franco in a favorable light.

Bar Svizzero became a welcome oasis on the other side of the piazza. Carmela headed straight for it—the poster would have to wait till after work. A couple of ladies eating dainty balls of gelato out of glass cups looked up and gave her a polite nod, then readjusted their hats. She smiled back, having the vague sense they had been into Yolanda’s several times for small alterations. What must it be like to have the biggest choices in your day be which hat to wear or whether to try the local honeyed nougat or toasted hazelnut gelato?

Franco was holding court at Bar Nazionale, where men played cards and smoked. He felt most comfortable doing his business there. Bar Svizzero, in contrast, prided itself on attracting the wealthier female clientele—wives of traveling merchants, landowners, or fallen aristocrats with Savoyard money left over from the days when Sardinia was its own kingdom. The owner, Antonio, had once spent a summer in Switzerland with a distant aunt. On his return he had changed his bar’s name, ordered an ornate counter from Turin, and doubled his profits. The valley wasn’t called Logudoro for nothing, after all.

“Buon giorno, Carme’.” Antonio smiled as Carmela entered the cool of his bar. The low vaulted ceilings gave the impression the room had been chiseled into the rock.

“Caffè?” he offered. His crisp white jacket was spot free even though he was the only one manning his barely tamed, highly polished chrome espresso machine.

“No, Anto’, I’ll take a spremuta, per piacere. And some magnesia.”

“Wedding jitters already?”

Carmela smirked. He was almost convinced.

“My sister was the same,” he said, reaching for three lemons from the basket on top of the empty glass display cabinet where Antonio kept the fresh breakfast pastries. The scent of vanilla sugar still powdered the air, alongside the toasted nutty caramel from the morning’s roaring espresso trade.

“Lost ten kilos before the big day,” he said.

“She was a beautiful bride, Antonio.”

“Thanks to you. No one else could have made her look half her width and twice her height!” He sliced the fruit in half on a pristine marble chopping board and twisted the lemons on a glass juicer. “Mother was lucky to get her married off when she did.”

The fresh smell of citrus had the desired effect.

“There you are, Signorina.” He poured the juice into a flute, then stirred two generous spoonfuls of sugar into it with a long, slim metal spoon, and finally topped it with sparkling water and a tiny spiral of rind. “I’ll run next door for some more magnesia. I’m clean out.” With that he parted the bead curtain. Carmela watched them tip-tap to stillness.

She took a sip of spremuta and her tongue tingled sour and sweet. She emptied the flute and glanced over the rainbow of cordials behind the counter. Their labels fascinated her, intricate works of art, embellished in gold, with elaborate, decorative lettering. All that pomp and polish for alcohol. It was beautiful, maybe a little frivolous? Across the piazza, men were pouring wine out of plain green bottles. Would her father’s gruff concoctions taste better if they were decanted into one of these bottles?

From where she sat, she could just about see Franco’s tiny head through Antonio’s delicate lace curtains. She watched him holding court. She and her fiancé existed in different, yet parallel, worlds. What of it? This was a good thing. A strong couple was not a marriage of similarities. Would she have wanted Franco to sit by her and admire Antonio’s collection of liquor? Discuss her morning or Mrs. Curwin’s appointment later that day? Did he wish Carmela had stayed by his side for the rest of that meeting with those three shirts? Even though the answer to all of the questions starting to swirl in her mind was a resounding no, Carmela took more than a moment to shake off the brief wave of uncertainty that swelled. She berated herself for letting a careless faux pas affect her longer than necessary. She watched Franco reach out his hands to the men. He looked happy, as did they. What harm she thought she may have done was already forgotten. Her etiquette was not going to clinch or lose a deal after all. There was comfort in that, at least. And plenty of time to hone the art of being a wife to one of the most influential men in town.

Dressing the many women who came through Yolanda’s doors was the exaltation of God-given gifts. To some, it was deemed simple, sinful vanity. But to Carmela, the presentation of anything revealed the respect a person had for it. A dirty plate with cheese and lard slapped on in haste offered less physical and spiritual nourishment than a simple basket laid with a few homemade bread knots upon a starched square of linen. One revealed and revered the time and effort of preparation, where the other displayed a scant respect. A perfectly cut skirt, suit, or wedding gown exulted the wearer and gave permission for the onlooker to feel uplifted too. There had to be power and purpose in beauty. Why else was the earth strewn with breathtaking sights? What could be the purpose of the penetrating azure of her island’s sea, the fire red of May’s poppies, the intoxicating fuchsia of a prickly pear’s fruit, if not to exhilarate a soul?

Antonio prided himself on importing obscure concoctions from far corners of the continent, especially Paris. Though so far, by the look of the unopened bottle, no one in Simius had acquired a taste for violet liqueur. Did Antonio’s love of all things foreign reveal a worldly attitude? His curiosity about life beyond the parameters of their small town was something she respected. No one gossiped about the fact that he still lived with his mother. If he had been a woman, he would have been labeled a spinster, an unwanted, an unlovable. But as a man in his early forties, he had simply earned a mixture of respect and pity from his peers, having sacrificed his own life to take care of his mamma.

At the end of the counter was a copy of Vogue that Antonio kept on display. He said it attracted the ladies who had an eye for fashion and the purse to match. Some such must have been leafing through it, because it was folded open at a beach spread. Carmela thought about her grandmother’s expression if she imagined any of her grandchildren at the beach dressed in short puffy shorts, pulled in tight at the waist and attached to a bodice that left little to the imagination. The model in the shoot played with a multicolored paper balloon that floated just beyond the tips of her fingers. Carmela was moved by the buoyancy of the moment that the photographer captured.

She picked up the magazine and turned its pages, convincing herself it was preparation for Mrs. Curwin’s appointment, even though no doubt she would arrive, as always, with a small shipment of dog-eared magazines to show the outfits she adored. Carmela would then work out accurate patterns from sight and match them to Mrs. Curwin’s measurements, re-creating the designs of the fashionistas with ease.

Audrey Hepburn looked out at her on the page, sitting on one hip on a studio floor, a mass of layered tulle cascading about her. Carmela took in the pure embodiment of effortless grace, a modern-day princess. Her heart ached; she spent hours re-creating such things for others, but she knew there would be few occasions for her to do anything close to it for herself. Besides, the generous curves of her silhouette were a world away from the elfin figure in the magazine. Sometimes she’d imagine herself at a fitting. She’d picture the dressmaker, dreaming up ways to taper her wide shoulders, her athletic arms—which she always wished were more like her mother’s than her father’s—and how to divert the eye to her narrow waist instead. Franco and his family were one of the wealthiest in town, but they cared little for the frivolity of parties or unnecessary expense. After all, Franco would preach, one didn’t accumulate wealth by spending it, like a peasant. It was a patter that accompanied their Sunday promenades, after mass, when she, Franco, and the rest of the town’s younger generation would congregate in Piazza Cantareddu and admire the elaborate window displays of the closed boutiques that lined it.

Flipping the magazine cover shut, she pushed it back over to its place. The model on the cover puckered her red lips into an expression of faux surprise. Her hair flew in the wind, beyond her was the sea, and in her hand she held a camera.

Perhaps Franco would be open to considering a honeymoon after all? Somewhere on the island where no one from Simius would know them. Somewhere Carmela might slip into a skimpy bathing suit to feel the wind caress her bare stomach, hair twirling a wild dance on the breeze, and not a soul around to remind her it was not the done thing of any respectable Sardinian woman. A part of the coast where only chic Parisians, classy Florentines, or royal Spaniards would strut for the summer, with little regard for propriety, their heads full of poems and sultry cigarettes. Perhaps Franco would swim with her, trace down her neck with his warm lips as the poppy red sun dipped into the pink water.

Antonio flung the bead curtain open before she could indulge herself further.

“She changes prices on a whim,” he moaned. The grocer next door was a distant cousin of his. Her narrow shelves ached with card boxes of pasta and vats of olive oil. Although she had barely enough room to fit more than three customers at a time, she made ends meet in part, Antonio would insist, by not offering significant discounts to her neighbors. “She’s still bitter about my father breaking his engagement with her, is all,” he said, opening up the large jar of milk of magnesia with a pop. The coy maid on the label flashed a saccharin smile.

Antonio took a teaspoon and ladled a generous helping of the white granules into a tumbler, then lifted the beaded linen doily off a ceramic jug on the counter and poured water from it. Carmela watched it fizz together, transfixed for a moment by the bubbles racing up to the surface.

“Take a good siesta this afternoon. If I was your mother, I’d be worried.” He smirked, half joking.

“Of course you would,” she said, taking a gulp, “Here, keep the change.”

“Someone’s on the road to partnership, then?”

“Just trying to thread needles straight.”

The sound of laughter blasted in from outside, followed by a group of soldiers bursting into the small bar, filling the space with uniforms. Antonio grew an inch taller and began his well-rehearsed patter. With little convincing they ordered a dozen caffè corretto, espresso spiked with aqua vitae. Carmela thought it strange that they would be drinking at this time of the day, and in uniform. Perhaps the addition of coffee to the liquor made it somehow permissible. There was an excited jitter about the men, as if they had little time for a big celebration. Antonio was a tornado, powering out the large order from his beloved coffee machine that whooshed into production.

The beads swayed again and another officer walked in, to deafening cheers.

“To be sure, sir,” one man shouted out, “back in my family’s Ireland, we’d be wetting the baby’s head with Guinness, not coffee!”

The pack laughed.

“Three cheers for Mr. and Mrs. Lieutenant K!” another called out.

Carmela’s ears pricked.

Her eyes darted to the gilt mirror in front of her, but she couldn’t make out any of their faces; the bottles were stacked too high. As their bellows vibrated Antonio’s little cave, Carmela took a snatched glance over to the crew. The corporals looked young. She saw them take turns patting an officer on the back. He laughed with them, relaxing into the celebration but still keeping rank. Then he was ushered into the middle of a circle they formed around him. The men clinked their tiny cups of creamy espresso, topped with enough hot water to make it palatable to the American clientele but pungent with Antonio’s generous shot of alcohol.

She didn’t need to see his face to know who it was, because the voice gave it away. When he turned around toward the bar, she caught a flash of his aqua-blue eyes and felt a short, sharp twinge of vanity—a brief wish to have spent a little more care on her appearance that morning. She silenced the sudden hurricane of jumbled thoughts with one swift, polite smile. He returned the pleasantry, but Carmela wasn’t convinced it was a new father’s joy she read in his eyes.

She twisted back round to Antonio, but he was thick in the onslaught of more orders, pulling another round of shots, delighted for the profitable morning. She slid off her stool and flew out of the bar, wind on her heels.

CHAPTER 4

Mrs. Curwin swished into Yolanda’s studio, sparkling with the same charisma with which she shimmered at the center of her parties. Carmela had no memory of Mrs. Curwin ever waltzing into rooms, conversations, or relationships, without the kind of ease and grace most could never aspire to, let alone achieve. This British lady of the house made no secret of the fact she had been raised among the poor of London’s East End Jewish immigrant community. She often reminisced about those early days, without feigned nostalgia, rather to express a deep appreciation for her new position. Carmela loved the way Mrs. Curwin neither succumbed to a maniacal fear of losing her riches nor flaunted it, as others from similar backgrounds did. She enjoyed her wealth with neither guilt nor condescension, but with respect for the husband who had accumulated it from his hanger factories that supplied most of London. She was married to a man she adored and bore him two boys with ease. To Carmela, it seemed that her life was but a dance.

Yolanda rose from the fabric desk and cut across the room in one smooth, direct motion, like a sharp scissor blade slicing material. She offered a warm handshake. “Piacere, Signora Curwin, sono Yolanda.”