THE SCHIRRU PARENTS left a week later, but Margherita stayed on as a guest at Casa Collu until further notice. With the arrival of spring, preparations began for the feast day of Saint Efisio, the patron saint of the village, and Signora Collu enlisted Maria’s help in preparing the adornments for the church. Only on a few occasions did Maria exchange more than a greeting with the other Lolai women, responding to every inquisitive look with a brief, embarrassed nod. As soon as she moved away, she heard them say under their breaths, ‘Ta peccau, such a shame, didn’t even get herself a husband’ and ‘It’s the children that end up paying for the sins of the fathers.’
After that night at the farmhouse, Vincenzo had avoided every possible encounter with her and the child. Maria slept less and less, and slowly felt her mind falter under the blows of all the broken promises and the responsibilities she was unable to face. Sometimes, while she was busy making up the beds, she thought she glimpsed the young man’s feet in the corridor, or a sun-tanned arm behind the towels hanging out to dry in the garden. The two of them resumed arguing in every corner of the house at all times of day, or was it was just her arguing with the void, in a vain attempt to distract herself ? She could no longer tell. It felt as if she were trying to wash an indelible stain from a dress. She had committed the unforgivable sin of falling in love, and now she would pay the consequences.
Once she stopped breastfeeding her daughter, she realised that, during all those early months, she hadn’t given her baby any more attention than if she had been a stranger in need of help. She avoided staying alone with her whenever she could, and often asked her mother to look after her, offering to take care of the housework in her place. She was terrified by the prospect of tying herself to a life she’d conceived but never really accepted, and, as with any futile wait, she remained suspended between the awareness that her days at casa Collu were numbered and a last desperate hope that Vincenzo would decide to marry her.
On the morning of the feast, everyone got busy even before the sun had risen. The preparations were exhausting, especially in view of the bishop’s arrival for the occasion. The Collus had agreed to supply vestments, flowers and offerings for the Mass, as well as to hold a reception at their home once the celebration was over. All the servants had worked tirelessly for weeks, cleaning the estate from top to bottom and stocking the larder with all kinds of provisions.
Everybody took part in the Mass. Young Biccu’s father, helped by his son and two other men, offered to carry the ceremonial candle, the wooden cross and the pole with the banner—a pale-blue silk cloth with LOLAI embroidered in gold—which Signora Collu had made with Margherita’s help. Don Elia and the bishop took their places at the head of the line, followed by the women, children and men. The women walked arm-in-arm, two by two up the ramp, at the end of a line that snaked up the side of the hill.
Although the pace of this orderly crowd gradually slowed during the ascent, the voices of the men and women alternated in time-honoured choruses, their intensity never waning. At the top of the hill, they rested, admiring the splendour of the huge expanse of green before them. Then they embarked on the descent and concluded with the ritual blessing in the square, before adjourning to the Collus’ for the reception.
That morning, Maria had joined her hands in prayer and cleared her throat to sing hymns to the saints, but while her body engaged in the meaningless, repetitive gestures, her mind was elsewhere. She’d seen Margherita in the procession, walking arm-in-arm with the mistress of the house—who had chosen her, invited her to stay in her home, and appeared to be treating her more and more like a daughter as the days went by. Knowing that every intimate smile between them was extinguishing the only notion of happiness Maria had ever aspired to made her seethe with frustration. She managed to keep calm for the rest of the afternoon, going back and forth with trays to be refilled, and making the odd detour to the farmhouse to check on Teresa.
When it got dark, Signor Collu had the fire lit in the house and invited the guests in; under no circumstances did he want to interrupt his terrifying account of his most recent trip to the mine. His story was made even more compelling by the abundance of wine, and the listeners were enthralled.
Maria decided to go the long way around to help her mother in the kitchen, but as soon as she turned the corner, she caught sight of the two young people in the dining room, absorbed in conversation.
Vincenzo was rocking on the woven-straw seat of his chair, the white collar of his shirt turned up and the sleeves of his black velvet jacket pushed up to his elbows. Looking down at the floor, he seemed focused on trying to find the right words. The girl, in a long, pleated black skirt, was sitting in the chair next to his. Her slender arms, covered by the puff sleeves of her white blouse, pressed into the sides of her red velvet bodice at her every breath. When a strand of hair slipped out of her braid, Margherita curled her lower lip and huffed to blow it away from her eyes.
The two of them sat close to each other, but not close enough to touch, and, seeing them like this, Maria realised that they looked right together, that they complemented each other like the opposite sides of the same figure.
At Margherita’s umpteenth huff, Vincenzo stopped talking and burst into amused laughter. She looked at him for a moment, then started to giggle too, her hands over her mouth in embarrassment. When they stopped laughing, they slumped back in their chairs, panting to catch their breath. Vincenzo looked up shyly, reached out to Margherita’s unruly lock of hair and gently tucked it behind her ear.
Maria felt a tingling sensation all the way down to her feet and sprang across the room. As the couple’s eyes were about to meet, Maria yanked the girl’s braid violently from behind the chair, causing her to fall on the floor with a thud.
‘Are you insane?’ Vincenzo shouted at Maria, as he leaned over Margherita, whose eyes were glistening with tears.
‘You asked for it,’ Maria hissed, glaring at him.
‘Get out,’ Vincenzo said under his breath.
‘You really don’t care, do you?’ Maria replied, louder now. ‘You disgust me!’
Vincenzo said nothing. He offered Margherita his hand to pull her up and looked around to check no one else had witnessed the scene.
‘Who is she?’ the girl whispered, indicating Maria with a frightened expression.
‘Will you tell her or shall I?’ Maria replied.
Vincenzo took a deep breath. Then his expression grew distant, like it had on the night he’d come to meet his daughter at the farmhouse, only this time there was no sign of sorrow in it. He moved closer to Margherita and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘She’s just a servant,’ he said.
Maria opened her mouth but, just like in her nightmares, not a single word came out.
Next door, under the influence of the wine, the guests were singing more loudly and more off-key. Vincenzo headed towards the sitting room, his arm still around Margherita.
‘Are you badly hurt?’ he asked under his breath, and she shook her head. ‘Then let’s go; the party isn’t over yet.’
They walked out of the dining room without turning back, while Maria felt as though an invisible rope was wrapped around her, preventing her from moving. The ferocity of his last words had made her sink even lower, into a pitch darkness from which she could no longer pull herself back up. She felt a few drops wet the burgundy skirt she’d worn for the party and she made an effort to raise her arm—heavy as a boulder—and wipe her tear-stained face with her sleeve. She slowly walked out of the room, as though she’d been the one to receive the violent yank. Her temples were throbbing so hard her vision had clouded over. All she wanted was to lie on her bed and sleep forever; the thought of staying in this house was unbearable.
Instead of returning to the farmhouse, she dried her tears and turned towards the kitchen, in search of her mother. She found her in the corridor, busy putting sheets in an inlaid wooden chest of drawers.
‘Help me fold this: it’s the last one,’ she said wearily. ‘They’ll all be gone soon.’
She gave her the two corners of the cream-coloured sheet and Maria took them without a word. They both stepped back until the fabric was taut in midair, then folded it in two, joining hands at the corners.
‘I’m leaving,’ Maria said abruptly. Her mother looked up at her. ‘And I’m not coming back.’
Her mother motioned with her head for Maria to repeat the action with the fabric.
‘Did you hear me?’
The woman stopped and lowered her arms, still holding the sheet. ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’
‘I mean it,’ Maria said sharply. ‘We should never have come here.’
Her mother heaved a deep sigh and looked down at the floor. Maria brought her hands together again to fold the sheet, staring at her to force a response.
‘We can’t leave. These people are feeding us.’
‘That’s right: you must stay, but I’m leaving.’
‘And what about your daughter?’
‘That’s not my daughter. I only gave birth to her.’
Her mother dropped a section of the sheet, picked it up, then stretched out her arms again and pulled the sides.
Maria kept staring at her. ‘You’ll stay here and raise her,’ she said. ‘That way he’ll feel guilty whenever he sees her. He deserves it.’
Animated by her own words, she resumed folding the sheet. She was now urging her mother to hurry up, but the woman seemed absent, unable to keep up with her daughter’s train of thought. They folded the sheet one more time, then took small steps towards each other.
‘And where will you go?’ the mother asked.
‘Anywhere except here. If you have any money to lend me, you’ll be helping me out; if not, I’ll beg.’
‘Tocca, go to sleep and we’ll talk about it tomorrow,’ the mother said, annoyed, folding the sheet once more over her chest.
‘You can’t tell me what to do,’ she replied, unyielding.
‘Listen to me, Maria. You think everything seems awful now, but it’ll get sorted, you’ll see. Don’t do anything foolish.’
She was struggling to keep her voice calm, while ramming the sheet into the drawer with her hand.
‘You have to fold it again or it won’t fit in,’ Maria said.
Her mother let go of the fabric.
‘They’re getting married, aren’t they?’
The woman looked up at her but Maria immediately closed her eyes, as though a blinding sun had appeared out of the blue.
‘Answer me.’
Her mother nodded without looking at her.
‘When?’
The woman hesitated. A lie wouldn’t hold up for long, but the truth would prompt her daughter to leave for good.
‘In the autumn.’ Anger flared on Maria’s face again. ‘You’re too stubborn. I told you it was better to stay in your place and avoid trouble.’
She reached out her hand and placed it on Maria’s shoulder, but the young woman retreated, furious.
‘I will hate you all forever,’ she said under her breath.
Then she turned on her heel, lifted the hem of her skirt and headed out of the house, straight past her mother, whose calls merged with the off-key songs of the drunks in the sitting room.
Maria gathered a few belongings and a little food, and ran from the house, hoping to escape notice. She wrapped a dark shawl around her shoulders and kept her head down, trying to blend in with the black forms of the widows and old women returning from the party. Some people leaned out of their windows to admire the full moon on that silent night, but no one saw her.
She turned into the street that led to the church and, once there, glanced around cautiously; there wasn’t a soul about. She reached the crossroads by the cemetery and, instead of following the path to the waterfall, took the one that climbed to the wood. She remembered her mother saying that the parish had erected a small hut outside the village to shelter wayfarers and shepherds on their way back from the fields. The building works hadn’t finished yet and the shelter was still uninhabited, so Maria decided to spend at least that night there. She knew they’d be looking for her, but she was so incensed that, for the first time in her life, she prayed not to be found.
The chill was bearable, but as soon as the moon rose over the clearing, damp gusts began to seep through the timber beams of the hut among the wild olive trees. Maria managed to make herself a bed on the ground, then took a piece of bread from her bag and sat down to eat. She hadn’t had anything since morning, so she swallowed a few mouthfuls to avoid stomach cramps, even though she wasn’t hungry. She fell asleep only once she’d stopped sobbing, and woke up the following morning before dawn.
She left the hut and the clearing just as faint sunlight was glimmering on the leaves of the trees, projecting strange, oblique shadows on the ground. She headed north, following the distant sound of the stream as it moved towards the main river. She walked on, thinking about her mother, Vincenzo and the Collus—who had avoided her in such an unconscionable way and treated her like a ghost whose presence you sense but whom you hope never to meet in person. After satisfying her hunger with a couple of ripe apples and quenching her thirst with the cool water of the nearby stream, Maria swore not to stop until the weather was favourable and until her legs were no longer able to support her.
She’d never seen this part of the island, and all the beaten tracks among the coves between the hills looked alike. She felt a sudden pang of fear: was she going round in circles among the faded yellow fields? But she decided to keep heading north and trust her instinct. She had passed through yet another valley when the sun grew stronger and the vegetation thicker, forcing her to scramble up through the branches at every variation in altitude so she wouldn’t slip. Once she’d covered this craggy stretch, she ventured into a gorge surrounded by reddish rocks and eucalyptus trees; several metres further up, the faint, calm cawing of eagles made her feel that by now the rest of the village, just like these birds, had no idea what had become of her.
After a few more miles, she rejoined the river, this section choppier than usual; she decided to wade across it, even though the water came up to her chest. The rest of the journey was less of a struggle: the river flowed straight ahead on her right, showing her the way. Once again, she climbed up the slope of a hill and reached a plateau from which she could make out a nuraghe1 in the distance, to the east: the first sign of human construction after twenty-four hours in unspoiled nature. Opposite, but closer, she noticed the green, orderly rows of a few vineyards and a couple of houses. In order to reach them she had to go back down the slope, where the ground was irregular again, so she plunged into the undergrowth once more and ended up outside the narrow entrance to an enormous dark cave.
The temperature had dropped again, and the only way she could measure time was by her ankles, swollen and sore, under her dark skirt. Maria felt so tired and weak that she put a hand out to the rock wall and broke down into floods of hopeless tears, as though it wasn’t just her way she had lost, but herself. In the darkness, she glimpsed the chubby, serene face of her daughter. When she kissed her lightly on the forehead before leaving, she’d convinced herself she’d made the right decision; the child would have a safer, happier life and never know the truth.
All at once, the faint glow of a flame appeared in the distance, and two hands outstretched in front of a fire slowly rose, motioning her to approach. Maria stared at the silhouette gesturing to her and, despite her weariness, stood up. She went over to the elderly man sitting by the small fire: he had grey hair—long and tousled, like the beard that framed his wide, toothless mouth—and a long nose, its tip curved downwards, stood out from his lined face. He wore a sleeveless sheep’s wool jacket and black boots, the soles of which were dark from the damp, forcing him to move his heels up and down to stop the cold from reaching his legs. Maria concluded that he, too, must have waded across the river a few miles earlier.
When she heard faint bleating in the distance, she realised the man must be a shepherd in transhumance, and that their journeys had been carried out in reverse. After all, she had been prompted to leave by her circumstances. But what about this man? And Vincenzo? And all the residents of the island? Had they all chosen to go around in circles in order to cheat death? Or had they been forced to accept this life as it was because there simply wasn’t an alternative?
‘E tui chini ses?’ the old man asked, pulling out of his jacket pocket the white horn handle of a leppa. ‘Who are you?’ He whetted the knife on a sharp rock beside him and cut a slice from the cheese he was holding.
‘Maria. I come from a village a day’s walk away from here, but I got lost.’
Still staring at her, the man cut another slice of cheese and handed it to her on a white cloth. ‘So why did you run away?’
‘I didn’t run away,’ Maria replied hesitantly.
The man’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath and licked his cracked, wine-stained lips. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, looking down at the cheese.
Maria nodded slowly. She took a step towards the fire and bit into the cheese, restraining herself from gobbling it all at once. Then she sat down and looked at the old man, who had taken out a leather flask and snapped the cork open.
‘Wash it down with this, or you’ll get indigestion.’
After several sips of red wine and slices of bread and cheese, Maria felt that her belly was full and her slender body strong again.
‘How old are you?’ the man asked.
‘Seventeen.’
His eyes seemed to grow larger as he stared open-mouthed at her in the dark. ‘Not old enough to wandering around by yourself.’
Maria focused silently on her hands, which lay clasped in her lap.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked, as she jiggled her legs.
‘Not really,’ she replied, lying.
The man gestured at the fire and continued staring at her. She felt obliged to approach, wary as she was.
‘My daughter was your age when she died,’ he said.
‘Really?’ Maria asked, curious.
‘She also enjoyed wandering around by herself at night.’ Maria didn’t dare respond and the man carried on slicing bread and cheese without looking up.
‘In the end, it was disease and not her stubbornness that killed her.’
Maria felt the thoughts in her head grow lighter and lighter. ‘Do you often come this way?’ she asked.
The man nodded. ‘But this is my last time,’ he whispered, leaning backwards with a yawn.
Maria unintentionally mimicked his movement, as she listened to the quick rustle of an animal slithering through the bushes and the crackling of the flames, which were twisting with every gust of wind. For the first time since leaving casa Collu, she felt her breathing become regular again; at least now she wasn’t afraid anymore.
‘I come here in the hope of finding treasure,’ the shepherd said. ‘You know the legend of the three brothers, don’t you?’
Maria gave the man a doubtful look and shook her head. His eyes opened wide with surprise and the tip of his nose seemed to turn upwards; he rubbed his hands in front of the fire—perhaps to warm them, perhaps in his eagerness to tell the story.
‘They say something strange happened in these parts,’ he whispered. Maria frowned and leaned forward. ‘Once upon a time, three brothers, exhausted after picking olives all day, sat down to rest right here at this spot where we are now. As they were eating and talking, three women came in through that cleft over there.’
The man pointed at the narrow gap between the rocky walls, through which Maria had entered.
‘The young men invited them to dine with them; the brothers were poor and orphaned, worked from dawn to dusk and could barely make ends meet. Naturally, they wanted to seek their fortunes but didn’t know how to. The women, who were actually three orgianas—the ancient priestesses of the area—glanced at one another and started to chant a spell that sounded like mewing. The eldest of the three took a long cloth from the pocket of her dress and handed it to the eldest brother, saying, “Take this. Whenever you, your brothers and any other guest want to eat, all you have to do is shake this tablecloth three times and spread it out anywhere you like. Every kind of abundance will appear on it.”’
The shepherd accompanied his tale with excited gestures which, in the midst of this emptiness, charged every detail with special intensity: the firelight projected his dark, shapeless form onto the rock wall, so that he resembled more a mythical creature than a man.
‘The second woman turned to the middle brother and gave him a dearskin purse, saying, “Take this. Whenever you open it, you will find plenty of money inside it.” The third orgiana, however, approached the youngest brother and presented him with a launeddas—a traditional wind instrument with three pipes, a bit like a fife—and said, “This gift won’t just be useful to you but to whoever plays it and listens to its melodies. Now go: I have nothing better to give you. But you’ll see, you’ll find this gift more useful than your brothers’ tablecloth and purse.”
‘Having spoken, the women thanked the brothers and left. Now that they were wealthy, the three brothers stopped working and started roaming the island in search of adventures and delights; at every encounter, they would give away food and money to everybody. One day, the priest of the village where they were staying, hearing about their unearnt fortune, told them to give up their treasures if they didn’t wish to be excommunicated and jailed, but the three brothers ignored his threats. A few days later, however, the priest caught them lying: they were claiming to have magical powers since birth so they’d be worshipped like gods by the crowds, and he had them arrested and thrown into a dungeon, then sentenced them to be hanged before the entire village.’
Maria put a hand over her mouth and instinctively retreated from the edge of the rock, nearly falling backwards. The old man stifled a giggle and didn’t stir; she recovered her balance and he continued.
‘A few days later, as the guards were leading them to the gallows, the three men were granted one last wish before dying. The eldest brother asked to give food to all those present and the crowd rejoiced at this final gift. No sooner had he spread the tablecloth on the scaffold than every kind of fruit, food and exquisite wine appeared in an improvised feast. People ate and drank until they were sick; but the more they ate, the more abundance appeared on the tablecloth. Once everybody had had their fill, the second brother asked if he could give something even more valuable, and, naturally, no one refused! And so he opened his purse and distributed gold coins to all those present. Soldiers, peasants and poor shepherds who’d never seen so much money at once cried out in joy.’
Across the fire, the old man stopped and his expression grew serious. ‘Would you do the same if you saw that much wealth?’ The young woman nodded without thinking. ‘And yet there are many who think they are honest,’ the shepherd continued, toying with his leppa, ‘but choose to lie. They despise money but keep chasing after it all their lives.’ He scratched his nose. ‘When all’s said and done, it’s best to make friends even in the devil’s abode.’
Maria opened her mouth, but the old man carried on with his story.
‘Anyway, now comes the best part. The youngest brother asked if he could play one last song on his launeddas before dying. At the prospect of a third gift, the guards, the judges and the crowd granted this favour, too. So the young man stood in the middle of the scaffold and began to play, softly at first, then louder, until the music grew deafening and striking people’s bodies like a bolt of lightning, making them move against their will. Even the fat priest who’d had the brothers sentenced, and who’d come to the square to witness the execution, was now writhing, blue in the face, begging the third brother for mercy. But the young man did not stop playing, and all those wretched people started to crowd together, pushing and treading on one another, then falling to the ground unconscious; the heart of one poor devil actually stopped from exhaustion. Taking advantage of the chaos, the three brothers fled the village, taking their treasures with them. And no one’s seen them since.’
Maria didn’t stir but thought she could still smell the red wine and realised she was nauseous.
‘If I had treasures like that,’ the shepherd concluded, ‘I wouldn’t have let anyone find out.’ Then he took a woollen blanket from the leather sack at his feet. ‘Tocca,’ he said to her, extending his hand with a tired expression. ‘Lie down here, it’s late.’
It was a long night, but Maria thought she only slept for a few minutes. She managed to rest despite the uneven ground in the cave and the howling of an animal in the vicinity. The smoke that had filled her nostrils the night before had dissipated in the morning air; there was now only a pile of cold embers to keep the rocks company. The young woman rubbed her eyes and saw that the shepherd was already awake. They had some leftover bread and sheep’s milk for breakfast. As they were about to leave, Maria paused, undecided as to what to do.
‘I don’t know where you come from or where you’re going,’ the man said, interrupting her thoughts. ‘But I’m sure someone at home is worried about you.’
Maria did not reply. As absurd as it seemed to her, she was struck by the thought that this was no chance encounter, and that someone or something was speaking to her through the words of this stranger. But her mind was still in a muddle and she was exhausted, so she ignored her gut feeling.
The man bent down to pick up his sack and sling it over his shoulder, then turned to Maria. ‘The person who has made no mistakes in life hasn’t been born yet,’ he said, before opening his mouth in a large yawn. ‘Still,’ he added, ‘when there’s soup for two, there’s enough for three. My wife won’t mind setting the table with one more plate. Though perhaps you’d better go home.’
He threw his head back, joined his thumb and index finger to form a circle, placed them under his tongue and produced a loud whistle. The sound seemed to disperse in the air for a few seconds, but then Maria heard, once again, the bleating of the flock, summoned by their master’s call. The man moved off slowly and disappeared behind the rock walls; Maria put on her shoes, which were still damp, smoothed down her crumpled skirt and followed him out of the cave—accepting this silent guide in the hope that it was the way to excise her thoughts and reorganise them into straight lines, like the vines on top of the plateau.
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1 Nuraghe: large, cone-shaped, prehistoric stone structures found in Sardinia.