I was six years old and Carlito was my enemy. He called me ‘Onion’ and thought it a big joke. He made a show of shaking my hand, but gripping it so tight I had to eventually say ‘Ow’ and make him let go. I huddled under the too-heavy quilts in Nonna’s bedroom, overseen by wooden asps and apples, and heard Carlito grunting in the other room, pulling out at the last minute in strict Italian style, forever denying you a shotgun wedding, Ornella. It sounded like he was going to the toilet.

And in the morning, what were you doing, frying up meat and eggs for him at seven o’clock, in your dressing gown? I see his fat square jaw working away at a bacon rind, slurping coffee, chewing egg, everything in his mouth at once because he was so frantic to get it all down, as if someone might whip the plate out of his reach and deny him his due. Then he’d promise you he’d return after work, but he wouldn’t. And you’d sit up all night, watching television in a state of agitation, bolting to the door at every stray noise. This was how he kept you in thrall, Ornella. Even I understood this, at my tender age: the male power of abstaining. Of promising and not delivering. Of saying love but not doing love. I nestled into your lap and your hand roamed over me, really wanting Carlito, but making do. I didn’t mind. I understood.

DOLOMITES #2

Rosa had been making sketches for a new mural on the walls of La Coccinella—an up-close Dolomites, this time, not the panoramic expanse of 123: ‘More intimate,’ she said. ‘So you feel you are really there!’

It was intimate alright. Rosa’s new Dolomites mural had a severe perspective that made you feel like you were travelling up a treacherously steep mountain path, possibly to your doom. Heaps of snow lay underfoot; the first green tufts of spring poked from ledges in the rockface. The optical illusion was almost terrifying. When I first laid eyes on it, it made me dizzy. Up high, in a narrow V, the sky shone wan and yellow.

This was no mere tourist attraction. No Renoir grouping of crystal glasses and boating hats at a table. No maps, grapes, grains, or livestock with bells around their necks. Rosa’s mural did not, this time, lend itself to easy ingestion of bolognese and a soft red table wine. She had created something awe-ful. She knew it. She herself was a little silent at its unveiling, a little shocked by her own creation. She sought me out, as if what she had to say were too precious for the ear of an adult: ‘Look, Owen,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘I think this one is special.’ When the small gathering clapped, it was long, appreciative applause. Mr Parish whistled. The papers visited again and this time, in the photograph, printed in speckled black and white, Rosa looked much more dignified, gazing up and slightly combatively at her artwork, as though she were equal to it and responsible for it. As though what she had created were no mere accident.