MOTHER TONGUE

Camille Duvall

The elaborate writing on our café window proclaims FINEST ITALIAN ICE CREAM. Our recipe is a closely guarded family secret. Café Bianchi is a Belfast landmark, situated on a leafy tree-lined avenue in the south of the city near the University Quarter. What we sell never goes out of fashion; we’ve been feeding the locals, students and tourists for three decades. There’s always a queue for our pizza and if you’re lucky, you might be able to grab a table—there are only four of them—and have a sit-down meal. Red leather seats, Formica tabletops and pictures of Italian sunsets and Roman ruins clutter the walls. Mama once had a notion to give the café a makeover but Papa wouldn’t hear of it. He was right; the place has an authenticity that comes only with the passing of time.

Last night I dreamt in Italian again. What a strange yet welcome occurrence after all these years. I felt light-headed yet serene as I went about my business this morning, the residue of the dream floating inside me, making me wistful and longing for the sea. I think it might be because I saw Susan on yesterday’s news. She was standing in the ancient quad of Queen’s University, shaking hands with another dignitary, having been made an honorary doctor of literature. She was radiantly regal in her academic’s gown, beaming with pride. Her hair looked as dark and lustrous as it did thirty years ago; mine has long since lost its copper hues. Even if the reporter hadn’t said her name, I would still have recognized the sideways tilt of the head that preceded her mischievous peal of laughter.

Susan had been just another customer who liked to hang out at Bianchi’s, but then she began to frequent the café on a regular basis. She was from Swallow Bay, a small seaside town about thirty miles along the coast. When she addressed us in Italian one day, we discovered that she studied languages at Queen’s, the country’s most prestigious seat of learning. Perhaps it was this knowledge combined with her ink-black hair, dark eyes and olive skin that endeared her to my father. Papa warmed to her instantly, calling her Bella Susanna and kissing her hand in an over-the-top chivalrous fashion. Susan responded in kind, but she always did so in such a comical manner that it was impossible to take her seriously. It felt like a silly game, a merry dance that was acted out the moment she entered the café and concluded as she said her goodbyes. I also knew Mama didn’t take her seriously. She used to frown and tut-tut but she did this with a twinkle in her eye. It was when I stole glances at Susan only to find her watching me that I began to suspect her real motive for spending so much time with us.

“Rina is an unusual name. Is it short for anything?” We were seated at one of our tiny tables during a quiet spell. Papa was outside the shop, smoking and joking with the other business owners on our street. Mama was upstairs in bed with a migraine.

“Carina.”

Susan’s dark orbs gleamed at me. I blushed. She smiled. “So, you’re telling me that your full name is Carina, Italian for ‘little darling’?”

I nodded and Susan tilted her head, assessing me. I blushed again. Out came her slow smile again.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Rina is b-b-better.”

“No it is not. I’m going to call you Carina, mi Carina.”

I knew then for certain, when she called me her little darling, I hadn’t been imagining things, she did like me. Right now, she was looking at me intently and I was held captive by her, mesmerized. But then the spell was broken when a customer entered and I had to take his order.

I was eighteen when we settled in Belfast, and Italian was my mother tongue, but within six months I spoke fluent English. Fluent in my head but not always when I spoke. For when I was nervous or under pressure my words trembled out in a stumbling gush. It didn’t help that my father mocked my stutter in private: “Caca-carina B-b-bianchi. Don’t speak with the customers Rina, the ice cream will have melted by the time you finish a sentence!” It is one of many things for which I will never forgive him. Nowadays, I can say my name with a flourish and take pride in what it means to others: Carina Bianchi, owner and managing director of Bianchi’s, the United Kingdom’s favorite ice cream.

Whenever Susan was around, I got to speak Italian. She said it was helping her studies and Papa was delighted the estudiosa had chosen us. To listeners we probably sounded like a stereotypical Italian family with our boisterous, rapid-fire chat; the splendid rat-tat-tatting of mock incredulity when something deliberately outrageous provoked debate. At first, I watched these exchanges wishing I could join in, but I didn’t have the nerve. I was easily tongue-tied and despite Susan’s attempts to include me I would blush and shake my head no. I would smile and roll my eyes, enjoying the spectacle as this vibrant woman ran linguistic rings around my father. I was just happy to have her near. When Susan was in the café, the workload felt less like a captive burden, the heat from the huge pizza oven not so furnace-like. Papa would joke with customers, smile at Mama, and his monosyllabic interactions with me would take a backseat. But as time wore on, I started to contribute, encouraged by Susan—she was so persistent. Papa didn’t appear to notice. In fact, it was probably the only time he didn’t make some wisecrack about my stammer, because when I spoke Italian I did so fluently and unbrokenly.

I was smitten. How transparent I must have been; I felt so awkward and ungainly around Susan, around the lithe gracefulness of her. How could someone like me think I could ever be with someone like her? If I wasn’t torturing myself wondering if she really did like me or if she was merely playing with me, then I was spending sleepless nights in my sweat-drenched bed imagining what making love with her would be like. My imagination was vivid but limited. I had never been kissed thanks to the watchful eye of an overprotective father. And so while my fantasies allowed me to indulge in what it might be like to let my fingers caress her skin, to experience the sensation of her full lips on mine, or what it would feel like to take her breast in my mouth, I would have to stop short, unsure of what to do next. My fitful, fantasy-driven sleep would leave me exhausted and frustrated. I had lived a sheltered life in Italy and now in Belfast my existence was limited to the café; back then the boundaries of my world were small and tight and closed. Airless and graceless. Just a few hundred yards away was the university, where people from all over the world came to study. I knew Susan would allow me a glimpse into that world and one day lead me to its doors.

Mama was a kind, peaceful woman, but she suffered from depression, no doubt exacerbated by marriage to a domineering husband. She was often powerless to protect me from his cruel taunts; he simply ignored her. My stutter infuriated him and he used it to taunt me mercilessly. He would complain that I didn’t have his business acumen or I lacked his natural flair with customers. I was consigned to the pizza oven, sweltering in silence at the café’s coalface, while he played the gregarious Italian for our customers. I know now that there was nothing I could ever have done to please him. I was the only child to come from his loins and the daughter he never wanted.

When Susan suggested she take her Italian lessons up a notch, beginning with the two of us visiting the local art galleries and museums, my father didn’t object. He probably didn’t want her to think he was impolite and he had to agree with her that the world didn’t revolve around politics and football. Spending time with Susan away from the café was bliss. We visited galleries and museums where she would regale me with the sordid details of the tortured artists’ scandalous lives, but more often we would find little coffeehouses off the beaten track to sit and while away an afternoon.

“Let’s speak in English,” she said.

My eyebrows danced in surprise. Susan had been insistent that I never let her speak anything but Italian when we were together.

“Whatever you wish, Susan. I think, perhaps, you have tired of my mother tongue?” I was trying my best to be cavalier.

“I could never tire of it. Or you, mi Carina.”

Mi Carina. It got me every time. I blushed—so much for my cavalier attitude. I watched Susan as her eyes followed the scarlet flush that spread from my face to my throat. Then her eyes met mine. She tilted her head and smiled mischievously.

“You are evil, Susan.” I laughed.

“You are beautiful, Carina. Accept the compliment for once.Please?”

“Stop it.”

“Why? I’m only stating the facts. You have the most exquisite green eyes and your beautiful red hair makes you look more Irish than me.” She paused for a moment, drinking me in. “And that skin of yours, it’s like porcelain. I can only imagine how smooth it is to the touch.” She reached across the table and took my hand, but I pulled it away. She looked hurt. We sat in silence, Susan staring out of the window, me fiddling with my spoon as my brain raced frantically for something to say.

I took a sip of coffee and pulled a face. “This stuff is foul.”

“I know. Isn’t it criminal that we actually paid for this?” She smiled then and the atmosphere around our little bubble improved instantly.

“We have gallons of great-tasting coffee back at the café,” I offered, “free for the likes of us.”

Susan’s face clouded over. “Why do you let him treat you like dirt? I hate it.”

This had become a familiar talking point. I was routinely quizzed about why my father got away with being so harsh with me.

“It’s just the way it is. He’s my father, I have to respect him.”

“He’s a bully who doesn’t deserve your respect. He’ll never earn mine.”

“Why then do you act like he’s so great? You spend most of your time cracking jokes with him, talking nonsense about football. In fact, you spend more time at Bianchi’s than you do in class.”

“Because I put on a good act of letting him think he’s Mister Wonderful. I can’t stand the man. I’m sorry Carina, I know he’s your father but he’s holding you back. You should be out in the world, doing something, anything, that pleases you.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “And I spend time at the café because it means I get to see you. Even when I have to spend time in his company, I manage because I know you’re near.” She leaned forward in her seat. “I’ve said too much. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I know you’re right, but for now there’s nothing I can do. Don’t ever let Papa hear you talking like that.”

“Don’t fear, I won’t. And while we’re on the subject of talking, have you noticed anything?”

I shook my head, puzzled. “No. What?”

“Mi Carina, your stammer is gone.” Susan took my hand and this time I didn’t pull away; I felt her strength and confidence surge through me like an electrical bolt.

The heat wave that had the city sweltering for weeks offered a welcome hiatus one Thursday afternoon when overcast skies threatened to bring summer to an abrupt end. It seemed to suit my mood. Susan had graduated several weeks earlier, coming top of her class. In two days she would be en route to America to join her family’s annual vacation. She breezed into the café with her customary flamboyance and conducted her ritual with my father. But then she whispered to me in a quick, hushed voice too low for Papa to hear, “It’s time I took you to Swallow Bay. Grab your shades and an umbrella, you’ll probably need both.” She turned then to address my father and told him she was taking me to meet her family. He wasn’t to know that they had already left the country, but the surprised look on Papa’s face was priceless, his eyebrows rising into his hairline at the thought of anyone wanting to introduce me to their family. He had no time to find reasons to keep me in the café that day. Susan and I exited as quickly as we could, leaving a thunder-faced Papa in our wake.

We took the train from Botanic station. Susan sat next to me and held my hand. She arranged her jacket so as to conceal our interlocking fingers. I remember her soft, delicate hands; the calmness that enveloped me the moment I touched her smooth skin.

Susan took me to a small stretch of beach that only she knew about. It wasn’t immediately visible and it required determination to make the fifteen-minute hike across jutting rocks before the little cove revealed itself. The journey was worth it. The pale white sand covered only a few meters before it met the clear blue water. We were surrounded by the jutting shoreline, protected from prying eyes. I knew I was venturing into uncharted waters.

Susan began to take off her clothes. I stood motionless. She realized I hadn’t moved. “What are you waiting for? Get a move on before it starts to rain!”

I was shocked into action. “Are you out of your mind? We’ve no swimwear.”

“You don’t need it. Come on. Just imagine you’re back in Puglia and you need to cool off.” She ran then, naked, into the water. It’s no lie that I was curious to see what her body looked like. I had already guessed from the clothes she wore and her contours that her build was slim and boyish. I wasn’t shy about exposing my own nakedness; I knew I was well defined. I had inherited my mother’s genes and never gained weight. I suppose it helped that I didn’t succumb to the café’s diet of pizza and ice cream. I joined her in the water. Could it have been warm? I don’t remember.

I tried not to stare at Susan’s breasts. Her nipples poked out defiantly above the water. She caught me looking. “I know they’re small,” she grinned, “but they’re perfectly formed. And you know what they say?”

“No, tell me, what do they say?”

“Anything more than a handful is a waste!”

We dried ourselves with our clothes and lay on the sand to let the weak sun do the rest. It was getting cold, but I didn’t care. I had never had such unguarded access to her before, such space and time to linger over her. My gaze followed the length of her body, taking in her long, toned limbs and flat belly, the small breasts and graceful neck. When my eyes traveled to her face I found her looking at me intently. I looked away, but then gradually my eyes journeyed back to hers and there she was, gazing at me, smiling.

“You look happy, mi Carina.”

“I am. I am exquisitely happy.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. It’s probably spending time in the water. I miss it.”

She sighed then. I searched her face. “What is it?”

“Give me something to work with here.”

Susan was being playful but I knew she found me exasperating.

“Okay. I’m happy because I’m with you.”

“At last. A declaration!”

“Of sorts,” I added. I couldn’t help it.

“Of sorts? A compliment followed by a retraction of aforementioned compliment. Cheers, Carina.”

“Don’t be like that, Susan. Just as we’re getting close, you’re leaving. Anyway, I might even like men. Who knows?”

“Who are you trying to kid, mi Carina? You’re into me and I’m into you. Fact. That’s why we’re here today, to do something about it. Then we can plan how to spring you from your Papa’s prison. Let’s get dressed, we’re going to my house.”

I had never been kissed before that day, had never been intimate with another human being. Many women have come and gone in my life but the experience of that afternoon has never been bettered. We barely spoke during the twenty-minute walk to Susan’s house. Once inside, we went straight to her room. She asked me if I would like some water and I shook my head. She put her arms out and drew me into her and began to slowly undress me. At first I didn’t know how to react, but the heat rising inside me took over and I followed Susan’s lead, unbuttoning her shirt, unbuckling her belt. Soon we were tearing off each other’s clothes, kissing, biting and licking as we tumbled naked into the bed.

Susan tenderly stroked my body. I responded, gently flicking her nipples as she caressed my breasts. I felt Susan’s tongue begin its slow descent. When she nibbled and licked me I gasped with surprise; her probing tongue unleashed sensations I never knew existed until then. I thought I would explode as Susan expertly drank in my juices, causing me to almost faint with desire as my nerve endings reached a crescendo. I came, my back arching involuntarily, and as I struggled to get my breath back, when I thought it was over, Susan’s fingers slipped inside me, finding purchase in the hot wetness. Again my body responded, wave after convulsing wave of pleasure before the final release.

Susan held me in her arms as my heartbeat resumed its normal pace.

Feeling bold, encouraged, I kissed Susan hungrily; I could taste my sweet juices on her lips, and the passion rose in us again. My efforts became more urgent as I mounted her. I wasn’t sure what came next, but instinct told me that I was on the right track; it was as if we were meant to fit together, the wetness and friction melding as one. Our bodies rode together, the intensity of the motion driving me wild. Susan’s breathing rasped. She groaned aloud as she begged me to take her. I was amazed by what was happening; this woman was in ecstasy beneath me. My confidence grew and I bit into Susan’s neck as she juddered and screamed out her orgasm.

I will never forget the sweat-soaked sheets as I went down on Susan for the first time. My tongue probed as I plunged my fingers inside her, feeling the swell of her as her thighs began to tremble. She began to pant out my name to the rhythm of my fingers, faster and faster. Then, for a moment she was silent as her head snapped back on the pillow. I thought something was wrong until she emitted a howl as another orgasm revealed itself.

Later as we lay in each other’s arms, I murmured a thank-you. She laughed and sighed contentedly. “It’s me who should be thanking you. I just knew you were a natural.”

When we got back to Belfast, Susan insisted on walking me to the café. It was late and the entrance to the apartment was via a secluded alleyway. She wanted to come in to talk to my parents about me joining her family vacation, but I wouldn’t allow it. I was afraid they would see how everything had changed between Susan and me. She promised to come to the café the next day and then kissed me good night. The kiss was swift and chaste; we had to be careful, but our tight embrace betrayed our true intentions. We heard a foot scrape some loose stones. It was my father. I don’t know how long he had been standing there, what he had heard or seen. Susan opened her mouth to speak but he was upon us in one motion, sweeping her aside and shoving open the apartment door. He threw me inside, a snarl of disgust on his lips. He manhandled Susan along the alley, and I heard her protest that if he didn’t let her go she would call the police. That was July 1986. Susan and I have not seen or spoken to each other since that night.

That’s how I’ve come to be in Swallow Bay today, led by memories almost thirty years old. I don’t know if Susan’s family still live here, it’s just the place where everything finally came right before it unraveled again. For all I know, Susan flew in for her graduation and is on a plane on her way back home. It would be nice to think that she would have called into Café Bianchi. She might even be there right now. If she is, then she will find it just as she left it, the décor intact and now fashionably retro-chic. The young staff are not Italian but the produce is. If she asks about me, they will tell her that I no longer work in the café but manage the ice cream side of the business, overseeing the ever-expanding Bianchi brand. But she probably won’t do any of this. Why would she? She has probably forgotten all about me. I wish I knew more about her. The dust jackets of every one of her novels offer the same maddeningly scant information: born in Swallow Bay, educated at the Queen’s University of Belfast and resident of Puglia.

Puglia. That’s the bit that breaks my heart, to know that Susan lives in the town where I was born and lived until I left for Ireland. I’d love to know why she chose there of all places. She doesn’t use social media, I’ve checked. Perhaps I could write to her via her publisher, but what would I say? I would want to know why she disappeared from my life and what part my father played in it. I never knew what he said to her that night, what threats were made. She never came back to the café, or if she did then we were deliberately kept apart. I know now that I should have acted differently that night. I reacted with a misplaced, unnecessary guilt, and it revealed itself to my father just enough for him to use it to shame me into submission.

Over the next days, weeks and months, he bombarded me with insults, and my poor mother’s depression meant she was powerless to challenge him. It was when he resorted to one of his old taunts that I finally found the key to my liberation.

“D-d-d-dyke. You’re a bloody d-d-d-dyke!”

I slapped him. Once, hard. In the few moments that he was shocked into silence the scales were lifted from my eyes.

“Are you jealous, Papa? Jealous that she wanted me and not you? That’s the last time you will ever goad me about who or what I am. And you will never again mock how I speak.”

I never spoke to my father again. He lived for another few years but by then I had been to university and earned my business degree. I inherited the café when Mama died and I began to transform the Bianchi name into a major ice-cream brand.

I return to the city, to a beautiful summer’s afternoon brimming with promise. I decide to pay Café Bianchi a visit. I stroll down the leafy tree-lined avenue, thinking of the times when Susan walked beside me. Her life force had brought opportunity and light into my dull little world. Perhaps I will write to her publisher, what harm could it do? It would be good to meet her again, to sit and talk in my mother tongue; to acknowledge the wonderful changes she brought to my life. When I enter the café, the young waiter beams at me from behind the counter.

“Hi, Miss Bianchi.”

“Hi, Steve. How’s business today?”

“Splendid as always. Here, I have something for you.”

I watch as he reaches behind him to lift an envelope from the shelf. He turns and hands it to me. “I didn’t know you had such famous friends.”

I stare at him for a moment as his words sink in. I nod, barely able to speak.

I take the envelope to one of the little tables and sit down.

Steve goes back to his duties. I turn the blank envelope over and over in my hands; it could be meant for anyone. I open it. Inside is a single sheet of paper. I recognize the flamboyant scrawl. It begins: Mi Carina….