TO CELEBRATE THE new season, the Murrus had organised a luncheon at the tavern, open to the entire village. Two strangers from the north had joined the party, the Piedmontese managers of a company involved in the island’s deforestation. The men spent the following mornings exploring the surrounding woods and their evenings at the tavern, drafting the order of works over dinner. Nobody could tell if they were keener on the malloreddus with sausage meat or on the woman who prepared them, but before leaving they enthusiastically decided to send for a few workers from a tiny village in the mountains in the centre of the island—all the company’s charcoal burners were Sardinian—on condition that the Murrus’ store would provide all the tools and that dinners would be personally cooked by Teresa. Bruno formalised the agreement and, a few weeks later, two of the region’s most skilled tree cutters arrived in Lolai.
The first, Carlo, was a tall and elegant young man; he often wore a dark cotton waistcoat under his jacket and a faded grey berritta from which escaped a tuft of brown hair that flopped over his olive-green eyes. After barely three months’ work, he started running across the village every day in order to get to the tavern before dinner. Some said it was hunger that drove him, but in actual fact the sight of Teresa would appease a yearning that had nothing to do with food. He would often admit it out loud after a few glasses of wine and encouragement from his companions.
The second one was quieter, older and more unsettling. Tommaso had thinning, faded grey hair, pitch-black eyes and an unusually pale complexion. He’d been nicknamed ‘Timi Timi’ because of an involuntary tremor in his upper lip, which made his eyes seem smaller and gave them a dark, unfathomable expression. Whenever he came to the tavern, covered in soot from head to toe, he’d sit in silence, alternating sizeable chunks of steak with large gulps of red wine.
Within hours of their arrival, the two men had asked if there was any willing youth looking for work up in the forest, and offered to pay wages for the whole season on behalf of the company. Giovanni, a young man from the village, volunteered without a second thought. He lived with his mother in a small house at the foot of the hill, near the vineyards. The death of his father—who’d been a barracello, an armed guard watching the area’s private properties—had left them in poverty. He wasn’t yet thirty, but the lines on his forehead and the large, dark moustache over his small, tight mouth made him look older. He was missing the little finger on his left hand, and this defect had made him famous among the children, who, after dinner, waited impatiently for his card tricks. His cheerful disposition caught Rita’s attention. Although the villagers gossiped warily about the ten-year age difference, the two of them had started looking for any excuse to be alone together. Before long, the charcoal burners had taught Giovanni the trade and offered him a room in the guesthouse, so he would be closer to the wood. From that moment on, the three men became inseparable.
More than once, Bruno had noticed the ardent looks the other two men gave his wife as she cleared the empty plates from the table; the way their eyes followed her sinuous movements produced a strange irritation in his knuckles, like pinpricks. He would instinctively clench his fists, then force himself to breathe more slowly to ease the tension. One evening, after yet another comment from Carlo to the other two—he was convinced no one else was listening—Bruno lost his temper.
‘You’re not even to mention her name, you hear me?’ he barked, walking up to Carlo menacingly.
‘Calm down, Bruno,’ Tommaso said, grabbing his arm, while Carlo stood laughing, his cheeks flushed from too much drink, ‘we’re all decent folk here. But wine can sometimes play nasty tricks, you know…’
There would have been a brawl, had Bruno’s friends not led him out of the room and persuaded the charcoal burners to go home.
The threesome wasn’t seen again for several days, and while the men forgot about the incident, the women just needed a quick exchange before the Rosary to embellish the tale with bewildering details, according to which Bruno had then gone to the guesthouse with his friends and threatened to kill Carlo with his own hands if he dared do anything like that again.
Bruno knew that Teresa didn’t like to draw attention to herself, so he started to channel his jealousy into worries about the expense of restocking tools and the final payment he would get from the company at the end of the season. She’d listen to him quietly, as she wiped the counter, swept the kitchen and put the glasses away.
‘I married you because you’re different from the others,’ she’d say. ‘It’s late, go to bed. And stop drinking the Cannas’ wine or you’ll become as lazy as them.’
Only after she had closed the door of their bedroom, which was some distance from Rita and Tore’s rooms, would Teresa catch her breath and allow her muscles to relax one by one. She would continue to listen to her husband’s worries as she changed into her white cotton nightgown, nodding in the semi-darkness, registering the problems without searching for solutions. Every now and then, she’d open her mouth when she heard Bruno complain about the accounts or his pneumonia, which was gradually getting worse, but then close it without saying anything. When her husband stopped speaking, she would look across at him and always utter the same sentence, before caressing his face and falling asleep, and it was this discreet balance between them that made them infallible physicians of each other’s malaises.
‘Passat custu puru. This, too, shall pass.’
Only once were they seen quarrelling, one Sunday morning in the square outside the church.
‘I told you, you should have listened to me instead of doing it your own way,’ Teresa said. ‘Businessmen are different over there—not like here.’
‘Nonsense! What do you know about the city? You’ve never been there.’
‘You don’t need to know it to sell livestock. How people think is what you need to be aware of. But you’re stubborn and won’t listen to me…’
‘I’m stubborn? Bai cittidì, tocca,’ he replied, suddenly turning away, irritated.
‘You don’t tell me to be quiet, you hear me?’ Teresa said, furious, grabbing her husband by the arm and dropping her voice to a whisper.
‘Then don’t you dare tell me how I have to work, all right?’ he said, his head held high.
Teresa opened her mouth without replying, then narrowed her eyes and glared at him. All those present were sure that one of them—most probably the wife—would strike the other.
‘I’m going home and you’d better not follow me,’ she snapped, before summoning the children and disappearing around the corner. After that event—much discussed among the villagers during the idle afternoon hours—the gathering outside the Murrus’ house was postponed until further notice.
A few months later, on a cold January morning, Efisio, the young carabiniere from a nearby village, arrived in Lolai. The intense scent of lemon leaves had spread through the streets and the men perched outside the green wooden door were rubbing their itchy nostrils as they watched Efisio’s navy-blue uniform emerge through the trees.
‘Good day. Is Bruno Murru at home?’
‘Saludi, maresciallo! Would you care for a drink?’ Tonio asked with a smile.
‘No, thank you. I have an urgent message for Signor Murru.’
‘If he’s out, we’re here, Colonel!’ Biccu said, sneering. ‘But Teresina’s at home, so, if you like, we can give her this message.’
Efisio looked at him like one who’s in too much of a rush to indulge the jesting.
‘Sure you don’t want to sit down, maresciallo?’ Tonio said. ‘You look tired.’
‘No, thank you. Can you tell me where I can find him if he’s not at home?’
‘At the market,’ Biccu exclaimed, ‘looking for a bull that can stand up to his wife.’
Efisio gave the group another angry look and, sensing this really wasn’t a good time for joking, Tonio slapped his friend on the arm.
‘You’ll find him in the fields over there. Go down this slope and straight ahead, it’s not far.’
‘Thank you, good day.’ The carabiniere gave them a nod before turning away and heading to the fields.
Still, his eyes lingered on the Murrus’ front door for a moment, and the others followed suit. The words of a song could be heard through the wind, and, one by one, the men put their glasses down on the table as softly as they could. Through the white curtain in the first-floor window, Teresa’s voice travelled across the street.
I cannot rest, my dearest sweet,
I think of you with every breath
So be not sad, nor take defeat
For I will love you unto death
I long for you, I seek your touch
I love you, darling, oh so much.
They all kept still until Teresa had stopped singing, allowing the echo of her words to linger in the air for a few more seconds. Then Efisio appeared to remember the reason for his visit and said goodbye.
After everybody had left, Tonio bent down to carry the chairs back into the house and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Bruno rushing up the street. He looked gloomy as he held the crumpled sheet of paper Efisio had delivered. Teresa was waiting for him by the front door and he went in without a word.
A few minutes later, there was a commotion just inside the entrance and the Murrus came out into the street, followed by the children and Rita. Teresa, little Emilio in her arms, said goodbye to her husband with a caress, while Francesco, Maddalena and Rita stood behind her in an orderly line. Bruno looked at the children with a worried smile and kissed all three on the head. He got into the wooden cart he used for travelling to the fairs and prodded the donkey with one hand while waving goodbye with the other. After Teresa had gone back into the house, followed by the children, Tonio hastily put on his jacket and crossed the road to catch up with Rita.
‘Did something happen?’ he asked.
‘It’s Rosa, Bruno’s sister. She says their mother’s dying and wants to speak to him. If he leaves now he’ll get there before dark.’
‘Let’s hope for the best,’ Tonio replied with a troubled expression.
Rita shrugged. ‘Good day,’ she said before turning away and going back into the house.