BY THE TIME the Murru family arrived home, it was dark and, along with the gusts of wind, there were intermittent bolts of lightning splitting the sky like tall, dry, upended fir trees. Teresa closed the front door behind them and gave Tore a grateful look. ‘We really needed that.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll call you when dinner is ready,’ she added.
She and the children went to the kitchen, while he headed to the barn. As soon as Teresa opened the door, she saw Rita sitting at the kitchen table, holding a cup.
‘Thank goodness you’re back!’
Teresa gave her an indifferent look and prodded little Emilio in the back to make him go in. ‘We were by the river,’ she said, gesturing at the children to go upstairs and change. Rita gave a sigh of relief and greeted Francesco with a pat on the cheek.
‘Do you need help with dinner?’ said the young woman without budging.
‘No, it’s all ready,’ Teresa replied. ‘Are you staying?’ she added reluctantly.
‘Yes, please,’ Rita said, starting to lay the table. ‘Perhaps it’s not the right time,’ she added, adapting her shrill voice to the metallic clanging of the cutlery. Teresa seemed not to hear her, so she took another breath and said, louder, ‘I wanted to apologise on everybody’s behalf for this morning.’
Her ambiguous tone struck Teresa like a stone hurled from behind a bush; she dropped the wooden spoon behind the pan of tomato sauce with a thud.
‘Oh, really?’ she asked sarcastically, turning to look at the girl.
Rita nodded, staring at the floor.
‘There’s no liar without a witness,’ Teresa said in a low voice before turning away again.
‘Why have you always got it in for me?’ Rita suddenly blurted. ‘I’ve worked in your house, looked after the children and always done whatever needed to be done. But I’m not stupid and I can see how you look at me. Some remarks by others are annoying but that’s no reason to take it out on the rest of the world. You think it never happens to me? That some pig doesn’t leer at me in the tavern? But making a scene over the smallest rudeness only loses you people’s respect.’
Teresa watched the young woman’s impertinent outburst without moving a muscle.
‘You know, maybe my mother was right,’ Rita went on. ‘She always said, “Between two evils, always welcome the lesser.” It’s true, people in this village hardly ever mind their own business, but storming out of the church like that…’
Rita left the sentence unfinished, as Teresa put her hands on her hips, a menacing expression on her face.
‘We only want what’s best for you and for the children. You can’t hate us for that.’
Teresa put a hand to her mouth to stifle a sudden laugh, and Rita fell silent.
‘It’s nothing to do with hate,’ Teresa said. ‘And it’s pointless apologising. You think you’re doing the right thing, but you’re controlled from a distance, like all the other women. On a leash, like a dangerous animal. It’s not your fault.’ She resumed stirring the sauce, her back to Rita. ‘They’ve brought us up to be respectable women at a reasonable price. Perhaps that’s the only thing we’ve become expert at. And if men don’t tell us off, then we make sure we do it to each other.’
Taken aback, Rita was unable to respond. Teresa removed the pan with the pasta from the fire and carried it over to the table.
‘But there’s no point fighting it in this village. Tomorrow, my children and I are leaving, but don’t you dare say anything to them. They don’t know yet.’
‘And where are you going?’ Rita asked, visibly upset.
Teresa ignored her and went to the door to call Tore and the children for dinner.
Rita could hardly swallow the pasta as she tried to conceal her disbelief, nausea rising in her stomach. Her thoughts were all muddled as a result of the passion with which Tommaso had brought together the fragments of his speech during the luncheon at the guesthouse. In a short space of time, three men had persuaded an entire village that their plan was right: to stage a minor burglary in the Murrus’ house under the guise of fair reparation. They would take the money for the common good, the village would pay for the burden of complicity with silence, and Teresa would finally learn her lesson. After all, her guilt was generated by avarice and somebody had to deal with it.
Giovanni’s words echoed over and over in Rita’s head. ‘We need your help,’ her suitor had told her softly.
‘But how—’
‘You can’t refuse, not now that everybody knows everything,’ he said, indicating all the guests at the luncheon table. ‘Do you love me or not?’
‘Of course I do,’ Rita replied in a feeble voice.
‘In that case we need the money.’ Giovanni’s eyes were burning with impatience as he gently stroked her face. ‘Keep the window open tonight when you leave. That’s all you have to do.’
Rita closed her eyes, desperate for some relief from the turmoil of her mind.
‘Drink—a little wine will do you good,’ Tore said, smiling at Rita.
‘I really must go,’ Rita said, agitated, as she rose from the table.
She said goodbye to the children with a desperate hug, then stopped on the threshold. Teresa raised a hand in farewell, a simple gesture to mark the end of a complicated relationship.
‘You can leave the keys on the nail and just pull the front door shut behind you when you leave.’
The young woman nodded and left the kitchen. Taking the twenty paces across the courtyard was harder than crossing a desert. She could hear Giovanni’s voice winding through the trees: if she upset the plan, the village would not forgive her. She took the bunch of keys out of the front door lock and twirled it around in her hands for a good minute, unsure of her next step. Then she put it back where it belonged and retraced her steps.
She stopped just before the kitchen and looked to her left: the little room where she slept had a small window at the top of the wall facing the street. It was too small for Carlo and Tommaso to climb through, but not for Giovanni. As soon as she opened it, a light gust of wind lifted the edges of the quilt covering the bed. She shut the window and left the room.
As the Murrus’ front door creaked closed behind her, Rita prayed honestly for the first time, but her words scattered in the air. Only on one other occasion would she pray with the same fervour, years later. Far from Lolai, during the final moments of a generous, inconsequential life, she would beg for forgiveness, joining a chorus of guilty, unpunished voices, destined, like hers, to vanish in silence.
After dinner, Tore said goodnight to Teresa and the children and went to bed. Teresa made a cup of hot milk for all three, as they were still hungry and determined to delay the end of this lovely day for as long as possible. Emilio fell asleep in the armchair before the milk came to the boil in the pan, while Francesco and Maddalena positioned themselves by the window, their red cups in their hands. Through that square timber frame, extending out over the rooftops of nearby houses, you could see a sliver of full moon; the two children would often spend hours fantasising about the clouds shaped like animals.
‘Look, that one looks like a dragon!’
‘You’ve never even seen a dragon.’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘All right then: where?’
‘One day, next to the nuraghe.’
‘Yes, right.’
‘It’s true!’ Francesco said to his sister, who turned away to look at the sky again. ‘You don’t have to actually see something to know what it’s like.’
‘Look at that one,’ Maddalena said, pointing at a thin strip of cloud that would shortly drift across the moon, slicing it in half.
‘It looks like a knife,’ Francesco said, raising his fist to brandish the invisible hilt of the weapon suspended in the sky.
‘That knife’s bigger than you,’ Maddalena sniggered.
‘Well, Tore’s taught me how to use it and not you,’ the little boy replied, miming swordplay and waving a hand in her face.
Their mother interrupted them. ‘Come on, it’s late. Get to bed.’
She leaned over the armchair and picked Emilio up so as not to wake him. The other two put the chairs back, left their half-drunk cups in the sink and ran upstairs.
Sitting on the bed in her nightgown, Maddalena looked at her mother hesitantly. ‘May I sleep in your bed tonight?’ she asked.
‘Why?’
‘I’m cold here.’
‘I’ll bring you an extra blanket.’
‘No, I want to sleep with you in your bed. Please.’
Teresa thought about it, then agreed, kissing the other two sleeping children on the forehead. Maddalena took off her shoes, ran down the corridor barefoot and threw herself on the double bed, screwing up her eyes with glee.
Teresa went into the bathroom to wash her face, freed her raven-black hair from a network of pins and let it cascade down her back. For a moment, she felt the same chill as her daughter, but the night breeze—especially after a muggy day—was more a source of relief for her than concern. She lingered before the mirror for a few seconds before going back to the bedroom, and her reflection smiled cheerfully at her at the thought of leaving. She closed the bathroom door, tied the cord of her floral dressing gown around her waist and returned to the bedroom.
As soon as she lay on the bed, Maddalena’s voice rang out in the darkness. ‘Do you know why I want to sleep here?’
‘Why?’
‘To keep you company. Papà asked me.’
Teresa took a deep breath and reached out to touch her daughter’s hand. ‘And when did he ask you to?’
‘One day. But it’s a secret.’
Teresa turned to the side and saw that her daughter was looking at her. In the darkness, they lay so close that each could see her own eyes glistening in those of the other.
‘In that case I can sleep peacefully.’ Teresa kissed the little girl on the forehead. ‘Goodnight.’
Then they both lay on their backs and stared at the ceiling until sleep closed their eyelids simultaneously.
In that night’s muffled silence, the white curtain in the kitchen swayed gracefully over the door, like the movement of anemones undulating at the bottom of the sea. Teresa had seen the sea with her own eyes only once, and now she was back there, though she didn’t know how. The water wasn’t as calm as she remembered it. She struggled to keep afloat in the waves, as the wind dragged her out into the open sea. Deep shudders racked her belly, and her clothes were swollen and heavy with water. She tried to cling to the only support in sight, a cluster of rocks covered in dark algae. She tasted salt in her throat as she waved her arms about, trying not to drown. She coughed. Her cry for help was silenced before she could emit it, and suddenly something pressed down on her until she felt her shoulder blades against the net under the mattress.
She was still shaking, but no longer underwater. Something hot on her neck was preventing her from breathing and her half-shut eyes struggled to focus on a shadowy figure. A rough hand was squeezing Teresa’s throat. Her eyes now widening in a grimace of terror, she tried to move her head.
‘Where’s the money?’ a hoarse voice said.
It was Carlo’s hands that were keeping her still.
She groaned and tried to writhe out of his grip, but he kept her pinned on the bed. She reached up and scratched his cheek with her fingernails. Carlo reared back and, with a fierce cry, covered his face with one hand; his eyes narrowed as blood dripped from his black beard. He put his other hand to his belt and grasped the white handle of a leppa, still looking at Teresa. ‘I warned you,’ he said.
At the sight of the knife, Teresa looked around for her daughter and saw her standing by the door. Carlo followed Teresa’s eyes and saw Maddalena too.
‘Don’t you dare touch her,’ Teresa hissed.
He turned to look at Teresa, then at the child again. Before he could move, Teresa screamed, ‘Go and get Tore! Run!’
Maddalena didn’t move. Carlo hurled himself on Teresa, plunging the knife into her belly. She fell back on the bed and, as the lacerating pain reached her brain, she tried to cover her mouth to stifle a scream. Carlo cried out in anger before lunging at her again, his brawny arm swinging up and down mercilessly. The sheets were stained scarlet. Maddalena called out to Tore with all the strength in her body, before collapsing at the foot of the bed.
Awoken with a start by the little girl’s scream, Tore grabbed the shotgun he kept by the bed and left the barn. A few steps from the kitchen, in the dark courtyard, he heard a roar and felt something strike him through his stomach. In front of him, two hooded men were blocking the entrance to the kitchen; one of them was holding a full sack and the other, his arm still raised, was pointing a smoking pistol at Tore. He was struggling to breathe; the bullet must have pierced his ribcage before exiting through his back. A puddle of blood began to spread on the ground around him.
The two hooded men raced upstairs to the bedroom. By now Francesco and Emilio had woken up and were in the bedroom, staring at their mother slumped on the floor. Emilio was screaming in terror, his face streaked with tears, while his brother stood next to him, motionless, his hands over his eyes. Carlo was panting on the floor, next to Teresa, staring into space.
Maddalena recoiled when she heard footsteps crossing the threshold. One of the burglars took the knife from Carlo’s hand and ordered him to flee. The little girl stared at the man who had issued the command and saw a slit at the bottom of his hood, exposing his mouth. His upper lip was twitching strangely, in a kind of tremor.
‘Tziu Timi Timi, why did you kill Mamma?’ she asked, biting her lips to refrain from crying.
Giovanni was holding the sack with both hands and turned to Tommaso. They both realised they’d been recognised. Tommaso brandished the knife and plunged the blade into Maddalena’s arm. Screaming in pain, she covered her wound with her other hand to stop the bleeding, and retreated to the wall. Tommaso smothered her mouth with the coarse sleeve of his shirt as her eyes grew wide and terrified.
‘If you say anything, I’ll come back and kill all three of you. You must keep your mouth shut and not tell anyone anything—is that clear?’
Maddalena stood frozen, her back against the wall, while her brothers wailed nonstop. She held the man’s gaze without responding.
‘Is that clear, yes or no?’
Maddalena searched for her mother’s face. Teresa used her last ounce of strength to grab hold of the sheets and heave herself up. She met her daughter’s eyes across the room for a few seconds, just as her own eyes closed, overcome by pain. When the little girl looked at Tommaso again, the expression on her small, round face turned steely, alert. Maddalena said nothing but her large eyes confronted the man’s threat with the same brazen courage as her mother.
All of a sudden, the small iron crucifix hanging on the wall above them slipped off its nail and fell at Tommaso’s feet. He pulled his arm away in fear; his lip stopped quivering. He realised that his companions had left the house and that there was no time left. He glanced at Maddalena again, wiped the knife on the collar of his jacket and walked out of the bedroom, past the two little boys. Shortly afterwards, the first light of dawn began to appear over Lolai.
The commotion in the Murrus’ house had woken the villagers with a start but, after an initial moment of fear—convinced that a little chaos was inevitable for the plan to be carried out successfully—they’d gone back to sleep without even putting on the light.
Only Maria, who had left the cemetery and was wandering aimlessly in her insomnia, heard the gunshot in the distance. Her face darkened with a familiar terror and she moved swiftly towards the Murrus’ house. The lines on her face seemed to have doubled in number as she prayed, one Hail Mary after another, beseeching him to prevent further calamities.
The green wooden front door was open when she arrived; she walked through and saw Tore’s body in a pool of blood at the foot of the walnut tree outside the kitchen. Pale, without strength, but still alive, he raised a hand towards the first-floor window. As Maria climbed the stairs, she heard little Emilio’s crying grow louder, and when she reached the bedroom she saw Maddalena, her face streaked with tears, holding her arm to stop the bleeding.
At the sound of distressed wheezing close by, the old woman turned from the children; blood had spread across the floor in a pool that reached the foot of the bed. Partly hidden by the sheet she had tried to cling to, Teresa lay dying.
Maria let out a howl of despair and fell on her knees over the body, as Teresa struggled to breathe, her eyes half-closed. Maria lifted her onto her lap, brushing a lock of hair away from Teresa’s cheek, now drained of blood. Hunched over, shaken by sobs, Maria’s dark form rocked back and forth in an endless lament. ‘Filla mia, my daughter, what have they done to you?’
Teresa opened her eyes. ‘Mamma,’ she said, her voice hanging by a thread.
Before the hoofs of Efisio’s horse had reached the Murrus’ house and thirty-two stab wounds had been counted on Teresa’s body, mother and daughter, on the scarlet floor of the bedroom, looked at each other for the last time. Teresa’s irises glowed golden, as did the sun as it rose slowly behind the hills. Then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and let herself collapse, lifeless, on Maria’s breast.
Like a cloak over her daughter’s body, the tears of the mother shrouded the unspeakable reality of that night’s sorrow. She would safeguard it forever, in the only silence possible.