THREE

Beatrice had worried there might be some difficulty with Salvatore, but did not realise the extent of it until Carlo came to her full of apologies. A sketching session they’d planned had to be cancelled.

“Why? Are you busy in the vineyard?” she asked.

“Well, not really,” was his answer. “There’s some trouble, Mamma. I think Papà is a bit furious.”

“A bit furious?” she queried.

“More than a bit,” Carlo admitted.

“You mean he knows what happened at school?”

“Sort of,” was her son’s reply.

Sort of? She knew what that meant, even before he added, “but I don’t think he’ll shed any happy tears. He says it’s a waste of my spare time.”

Beatrice said nothing for a moment, trying to decide how to deal with this. “So what does he think you should do with spare time?”

“Keep helping him with work around the vineyard. He said I’d have to learn, as I’d be running it by myself one day.”

‘Did he’, she thought angrily. ‘So much for not telling him until he’s older!’ That night when Carlo was in bed and they were alone, she challenged him about his broken promise.

“I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss,” Salvatore said. “I can’t have him pointlessly spending time on stupidity. So I felt it best to explain the vineyard is what really matters to him.”

“Because one of these days he’ll run it? Is that what you said?”

“Of course. After all it’s true. We agreed on that, Beatrice.”

“No. We agreed not to tell him yet. He’s too young to be saddled with adult responsibility like that. And I don’t like you calling art stupid, or telling Carlo it’s a waste of his time.”

“In my opinion it bloody well is.”

“That’s your opinion. Not mine. He’s truly amazed me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Please listen to me, Salvatore. It’s the truth. Most of my pupils are hopeless. Nice kids, but hopeless. Our son, I’ve got to say it no matter what you believe, is gifted and may even be brilliant.”

“That’s sheer rubbish. You’re over the moon because he managed to sketch your face? Where is this priceless object now?”

“I left it with the headmaster.”

“Why?”

“Because he wants to show it to people. Impress them.”

“This is the creep you told me who tries to pinch your bottom.”

“He doesn’t get a chance, so you can forget about that.” She tried to explain to him how impressed she’d been. “It’s like a portrait done with a pencil. At his age that’s close to genius. I’ll bring it home to show you.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I thought it might be a fluke but in the attic there are lots of drawings to prove otherwise. Go and see them for yourself.”

“No thank you, Beatrice. I’ll spare myself that.”

“But he can do illustrations of people that look real. That’s rare, believe me. He has a gift and it should be encouraged. So why not take a look?”

“I said no.”

“And I don’t understand why.”

“Because I don’t intend to join your crusade.”

“My crusade!”

“That’s all it is. Can’t you realise this is just a hobby that won’t last? I don’t intend to encourage him because it will never lead to a real future. As you should know. Your own career was hardly an advertisement for any particular success.”

“Perhaps I didn’t have his talent,” she said quietly. The comment on her failure came like an unfair blow and wounded her. It was something he’d never voiced before. For a moment it seemed as if he might apologise but she knew better. There was a new ugly side to him she’d not noticed in former years.

“You’ve been carried away, Beatrice. You put up with kids who can’t be bothered to learn, then along comes Carlo who might’ve inherited a few bits of knowledge from you, and it’s got you believing he’s a kind of genius.”

“Close to it,” she argued. “A prodigy, at least.”

“You’re being fucking ridiculous. They’re just words. Gifted, brilliant, a bloody prodigy. For Christ’s sake stop loading him with baggage. He’s none of those things. He’s just a kid, an ordinary boy— stop imagining he’s like some new Cezanne or a Salvador-bloody-Dali.”

It was their first angry row but worse was to come. Carlo was stimulated by his mother’s support and genuine praise. It was not long before his father realised he was spending less time among the vines with him, and more in the attic he’d converted into a studio. He used Beatrice’s old easel and some of her paint brushes as he began to experiment with oils on canvas. At the school he was now the star of his art class. Those who’d scorned his scholarly efforts were in awe of his skill with brushes and pencils. There was no longer any doubt about his talent. It excited his mother but was the cause of more bruising quarrels between her and his father. And that was before a declaration in front of his family brought both parents to the brink of a not-so-civil war. At a party for his sixteenth birthday Carlo made a decision that would change everything.

There were grandparents and parents, his sister Gina, as well as aunts, uncles and cousins gathered for this party at their home. Late in the afternoon, he was asked to respond to speeches and say a few words as the guest of honour. The previous night he had stayed awake fearing this would happen, trying to decide what he could say. At midnight he wrote it out on a sheet of paper. The next morning he read it to his ally, fourteen-year-old Gina, who was unsure if he should use it: she thought it might be inflammatory, so he ripped it up. The rest of the day he spent trying to think of what else to say and how to say it, without hurting either parent. By now he was aware it was impossible to avoid causing umbrage to one side or the other. He felt like running away instead of gazing mutely at the large family applauding him. He could not run, his legs seemed firmly fixed to the ground as he waited for the ovation to finish. And finally it did, leaving him with expectant faces and the words he now had to utter.

“It’s been a long afternoon,” he said, “lots of long speeches, so you’ll be glad to hear this is a very short one. I’m relieved to be sixteen. At sixteen you can tell people what you’ve chosen to be, as I’m about to tell you.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve liked my life here on a vineyard, but my mind is made up. I’m going to be a painter. An artist,” he said and promptly sat down.

There was a dead silence, some disbelieving faces, then applause from his cousins for the brevity. Carlo glimpsed his parents; his mother, a fleeting smile, his father without a smile or any attempt at equanimity, his lips tight in a display of silent anger.

“Bloody stupid,” shouted his Uncle Bruno, the family know-all. “You better start painting houses then, young Carlo. Because Van Gogh never sold a real painting in his life.”

“Sold heaps after he was dead,” a cousin shouted.

“Fat lot of good that did him,” retorted Uncle Bruno, who liked the last word. “Stick to the vineyard, you young goat. Wine sells— not paintings.”

There was some argument, but Carlo ignored the comments. He was accustomed to this kind of scorn from a few school bullies who teased him with names like Michel-the-Angelo and Herr Rembrandt. His speech had been an attempt to end the frequent rows between his parents, but he knew by telling the truth he’d made things worse. He couldn’t help it, he had to speak sincerely, not live a lie, no matter what would happen as a result.

He knew his father was seething, about to shout words he’d regret. How his marriage to a teacher half his age had been a blunder. That if she’d taught maths or any sensible subject instead of art, it would not have happened. Carlo had often heard these angry allegations shouted, ever since the successful day at school. His mother had put up with a great deal in the three years since her support had turned him from the class dunce into a popular artist. He loved her for it, and wished his father would shut-up, would just stop shouting and complaining that she’d ruined their lives.

Salvatore had never known such anger. He had no intention of ceasing his complaints. He’d been aware of her campaign escalating, ever since Carlo had convinced the school with his sketch of her. Three bitter years ago. Three years since their son had first shown the skill that now isolated them. Three years of hearing her rave of his talent, forever telling friends she’d never dreamed of a student this gifted, let alone it being her own child. At first he was irritated, then annoyed, and it became deeper; he was unable to bear his wife’s euphoria that grew as rapidly as the rupture now dividing them.

But disagreement became something else with her support of Carlo’s spoken intention to make it his career. It was a hostility deeper than Salvatore had ever experienced. He started telling people that in the 1917 war where he’d fought and been decorated, his enemy had been an Austrian in a trench—not a woman in the same bed. When Beatrice responded that she found the comment disgraceful, he retorted there were issues she didn’t know about that required their son to take over this vineyard; issues that affected Salvatore’s own future life. He had to prevent this artistic absurdity. He reminded her of the agreement between them for continued ownership of their vineyard. That when Carlo was old enough to run it, Salvatore could then fulfil his own aspiration for a career in politics. She argued forcefully there was never such an ‘agreement’. It was what he wanted, and she’d listened to his wishes, but never agreed.

He insisted that her silence, the very act of listening to him and not interjecting, had been an agreement between them. And it was his right as her husband, the authority in their marriage, to ensure property remained in family hands. It was how dynasties survived and nothing must be allowed to prevent it. Certainly nothing as infantile as a hobby of making sketches on scraps of paper.

“Drawing is for children,” he vowed. “It’s artistic tomfoolery, not a way to earn a living.” It became a mantra that enraged Beatrice.

‘Did Canaletto or Degas produce tomfoolery? Are Matisse or Leonardo childish?’ She wanted to say this but never did, knowing it would be ridiculed. So it festered as their son grew older and conflict with her husband deepened.

Meal times were rarely shared, when they were it was silent and unhappy. Divorce was out of the question, for divorce in Italy was illegal. It became a cold and uncomfortable marriage. They moved to single beds, then to separate rooms.

During those years Beatrice found work as a teacher was less traumatic than life at home, so much of the time having to tread a delicate line with her husband, arousing his anger if she dared enthuse about Carlo. It was easier in his last years of school. She was able to restrain her dislike of Fabritzi who had become supportive of her son and consequently, far better behaved towards her. Carlo was now painting regularly with oils and the headmaster was aware of the prestige this surprising young artist was bringing the school. With Fabritzi eager to share in his competence, Carlo was able to paint portraits of teachers that were exhibited in the Great Hall. This continued until he reached the age of eighteen, the year when he was reluctantly farewelled by the headmaster.

Fabritzi would lose the pleasure of frequent conferences with Beatrice on her son’s progress but at least she remained on his staff and they had a new affinity. The headmaster’s final report described him as a young man of great ability who could achieve high distinction as an artist and would be a true credit to his talented mother.

It infuriated his father who sensed their joint accord in this support of Carlo. There would be no accord between he and Beatrice over their son’s life. With Gina it was different. Grown pretty aged sixteen, she was his favourite, his cherub. He indulged her wish to be a journalist, the choice was hers to make. But Carlo’s future was never going to be negotiable. Salvatore was determined on that. In a year or so Carlo would take over the management of the vineyard, and Salvatore would move to Rome to take up the post he’d been offered that neither his wife or son knew about.

He was now confident it would happen, and all the artistic frivolity would have to end. For he had an ace to play that would trump any card his wife held. It might even restore family peace. If Beatrice did not choose to submit to that, then there were always other women.