Chapter 11 Elena
E LENA
Elena wakes at a quarter to nine after another fitful night. As quietly as she can, she slides out of bed, then spends a solid half-hour attending to her face and neck, using a collection of concealers, foundation and powder.
She dresses head to toe in black: blazer, shirt, pencil skirt, opaque stockings and boots. Her straight dark hair is thin and limp; there’s no improving it no matter how she tries with the GHDs and hairspray. She studies her reflection, thinking she might as well be interviewing for the role of an assistant to the Addams family.
She’s putting on earrings when Christian comes into the bathroom and they make eye contact in the mirror. He looks at her with those deep blue eyes she once found so hard to resist.
‘Ellie.’ He stands behind her, leaning his head on hers. ‘Big day today, babe. Will you be okay?’
She nods, knowing full well she won’t be. Who’s okay the day they bury their father?
They walk down the stairs, hand in hand, for breakfast.
Rocco’s standing at the long buffet table, clearing the food away. His face breaks into an enormous smile when he sees Christian, and he quickly puts the bowls of pastries back onto the table. ‘Ah, dottore, buongiorno! Buongiorno, signora.’ His smile fades a little when he looks at her and he quickly returns his attention to Christian.
She’s used to this kind of thing. It’s why she hates dining in public, hates it . Will Rocco surreptitiously be watching to see what she eats? People always do.
‘How’s your dad?’ Christian asks him.
‘He is resting in hospital, grazie a Dio. Last night he was joking and laughing, like nothing was wrong. But I tell you something, dottore, when Mamma went to the bathroom he made me promise to look after her if anything happens to him. It is all an act how he pretends he is not scared, eh?’ Rocco’s hands fly around as he speaks, tugging at Elena’s heart. She’s missed being around Italians.
Rocco’s face is a little lined now, but he’s otherwise unchanged from when he played with Paolo in the North Italian Junior Football League. He still has the same messy curls and big warm smile, still hasn’t grown into his long limbs, and he’s as affable as he ever was.
He talks incredibly quickly in perfect English, even though his accent is thick. ‘Maybe you prefer to eat somewhere else tonight, eh?’ He laughs. ‘I cannot guarantee the food, you know. I try, but I cannot guarantee. Ha, ha! Come sit, sit, prego. Take your time with breakfast. Please eat, enjoy. I put away the pancetta and bread already, but I go and get them. Now you eat and drink anything you like, eh? It is all free of charge for the rest of your stay with us.’
‘Nah, Rocco, mate, you don’t have to do—’ Christian says.
Rocco holds his hands up. ‘Dottore, please. My papà is alive today because of you. Of course you will not be giving us another cent.’
Rocco leaves them alone in the restaurant. Elena watches Christian eat with her eye on the clock.
Marina comes bustling in and gives them a cursory smile. Marina was so glamorous back when she was a high school senior, with her perfect features, long, jet black curls, supermodel body and a wardrobe to die for. She was always in high heels, even at the muddiest of football pitches. Pre-teen Elena was in awe of her.
Now Marina looks tired and sad. She’s lost all traces of the sparkle of her youth. Perhaps it’s worry over her sick father, but she also looked tired and sad when she checked them in and that was before Signore Bianchi had the cardiac arrest. Maybe it’s just the way she is these days. Even so, she remains breathtakingly beautiful. There’s something regal about the way the Bianchi women carry themselves. Elena can’t take her eyes off her.
Marina and Rocco must be thirty-five now, the same age Paolo would be. Her heart hurts.
Christian wipes his mouth with a linen napkin. ‘Sure you don’t want to eat anything, babe?’
‘No, thanks, I’m good.’
They always play this game, the two of them, as if it’s a casual question between husband and wife.
Upstairs she watches him change into his black Armani suit. He checks himself in the mirror for three seconds at most. Christian doesn’t need a mirror to tell him he looks good.
‘Let’s go, babe.’ He holds his hand out to her. ‘I’ve got you.’
The walk to San Zaccaria isn’t long, but her legs are so heavy it’s as if she’s dragging her feet through wet cement. The lanes are alive with holiday-makers, buzzing with post-Christmas cheer. The cocoon of grief surrounding her as she walks is a forcefield, blocking the joy on the streets from penetrating through to her. How dare everyone be so happy? Don’t they know that the kindest, loveliest man in the whole world is dead? She hates every last person going about their life obliviously happy on this terrible day. It makes her irrationally angry to pass by people posing next to fountains, buying colourful marzipan treats, trying on Venetian masks. She has to stop herself from swearing at a couple with a pram who block her path.
True to his word though, Christian does have her. He leads her by the hand around the couple with the pram and on through the streets, expertly navigating their way through the festive crowds like he’s lived here all his life.
When they reach the church, Mamma’s already there waiting with some of the family who have come early, along with Padre Alessandro in his special purple funeral vestments. It’s the first time Elena’s ever seen him dressed as an actual Catholic priest. It’s as if he’s cosplaying.
Mamma wears a black veil, hiding her hair and making her look even more the widow than she did yesterday. Her black woollen coat swamps her and her short boots hang loose around her bony ankles. Mamma’s always been petite, but the grief has ravaged her; she’s tiny now. Her pale cheeks are sunken and her beautiful brown eyes are blank. She’s surrounded by people, but to Elena, she’s never looked more alone.
When Mamma sees Elena, she rushes to her and they hold on to each other until they’re led by Alessandro to a small room at the side of the church where Papà’s closed casket awaits.
Alessandro indicates for Christian to leave with him. ‘We will give you two some privacy to say goodbye,’ he says gently.
But Elena can’t say goodbye. She can’t say anything. No words come from the emptiness inside her. So she rubs Mamma’s back instead, staring into space as Mamma wails her final endearments to Papà, draping herself over the shiny wooden casket.
‘I have no one now,’ Mamma sobs.
‘You have me, Mamma,’ Elena says, her heart cracking. ‘You still have me.’
Alessandro ducks his head in. ‘We’re ready.’
The funeral directors tread carefully around Mamma, like she’s an explosive that might detonate. They give Mamma and Elena a travel packet of tissues each, a laughably inadequate amount to mop up the tears over the love of their lives. Elena has plenty more tissues in her handbag anyway.
Christian walks between her and Mamma. He gives Elena his hand to grip as they follow Papà’s coffin down the aisle. Elena can’t stop imagining Papà in there. Have his eyes dried out? Are his eyelids sunken? Are his lips and fingernails blue?
The choir is singing loudly, so very loudly. She wants to cover her ears. She avoids eye contact with everyone standing as they watch her enter. Christian leads her to the front of the church where there’s a large portrait of Papà with his hair slicked back, his face cleanly shaven and looking so handsome in a suit and tie. He’s smiling broadly in that photo and she remembers why.
It was her graduation day from university. He and Mamma scrimped and saved to make the trip to Sydney for it. She can almost feel Papà’s strong arms around her, hear the pride in his voice as he pointed her out to strangers after the ceremony. ‘My daughter, this one. Bachelor of Laws with Distinction . Very smart girl.’
Next to her in the pew, Mamma’s knuckles are white from gripping her glass rosary beads. Her thumb continuously slides across her index finger. The only jewellery Mamma wears, her wedding band, sits loose on her ring finger. Elena rests her hand over Mamma’s, but it doesn’t stop her twitching.
The Mass begins and Alessandro’s prayers wash over her. Christian steps up to the lectern for the Second Reading, from the Gospel of St John, which he executes flawlessly and with a depth and gravity befitting a grieving son-in-law.
Alessandro takes over again, reciting prayer after prayer. Elena dutifully repeats the responses that have been ingrained in her head since she was a child. Her teeth chatter from the cold or the grief, or both. The choir sings hymn after mournful hymn. The congregation chants and kneels and stands and sits. It’s never-ending. Time has stood still in this freezing church on this freezing day.
Every time the young altar boy rings the bell, she jumps. It’s as loud to her as a fire alarm. The smell of incense is thick and heavy and makes her feel sick.
‘Lord, hear our prayer,’ she mouths as her cousins, all obediently wearing black, line up at the altar, each given the task of saying a prayer of the faithful. They walk solemnly back to their seats afterwards, wiping their eyes and giving her and Mamma sorrowful smiles as they pass by. She feels a surge of love for them: Stella, Pietro, Tomaso, Lara, Giacomo, Marta, Portia, all so close growing up before becoming strangers to her once she moved away.
Then it’s time for Alessandro to give the eulogy. With a quaver in his voice he tells the congregation, ‘Virgilio Zanetti was like a father to me.’
Alessandro’s words echo and bounce around her head as if he’s shouting them from a mountain top and she’s stuck deep in the valley. As soon as it’s over she can’t remember anything he said.
She lines up behind Mamma and accepts a wafer on her tongue that sticks to the roof of her mouth, and from the same chalice as the others, she drinks red wine that burns her throat.
When she kneels after receiving Holy Communion, no prayer comes to her. Instead, she stares at Papà’s lonely coffin and at his beautiful smiling face behind it and she repeats the same three words in her head over and over: Mi dispiace, Papà. I’m sorry.
Finally, the Mass is over.
It’s a short walk to the cemetery, where Christian wraps his arms tightly around her and speaks hushed soothing words in her ear when the cold wind blows around them. She fears her legs might collapse under her as her beloved Papà is lowered six feet into the soil, but Christian keeps her upright.
Alessandro holds a Bible in one hand and sprinkles the first lot of dirt over the grave in the other. With a deep sincerity, he prays aloud. ‘Oh God, by whose mercy the faithful departed find rest, bless this grave and send your holy angel to watch over it. As we bury here the body of our brother, Virgilio, deliver his soul from every bond of sin, that he may rejoice in you with your saints forever. We ask this through Christ our Lord.’
While the others chant, ‘Amen,’ Mamma lets out a howl that pierces the air and Elena’s heart. Elena reaches for Mamma and pulls her in close as their family and friends take turns covering Papà’s grave with fistfuls of dirt and sprigs of rosemary.
Christian and Alessandro lead the group back to the Grand Canal. She walks arm in arm with Mamma in silence, and they support each other as they move further away from Papà, leaving him behind in the same plot as his son. Rotting, rotting.
When the procession leaves the cemetery, the heaviness of the funeral lifts from the people around Elena. Her cousins chat amicably with each other. The younger generation play a game of chase, and their mothers yell at them when they run right through the puddles in their good leather shoes. The worst is over for everyone. But for her and Mamma it’s only the beginning of a lifetime of learning to live with the hollowness.
A few paces ahead of them, Alessandro points out landmarks to Christian. With her husband distracted, it’s the perfect opportunity for Elena to tell Mamma everything.
Her heart races. ‘Mamma, I need to tell you something.’
Mamma turns to her with eyes glazed. ‘What is it, tesoro?’ Her voice is shaky. She looks so fragile, it wouldn’t take more than a gust of wind to blow her over.
Elena can’t bring herself to make things worse for her. So all she says is, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come when you asked me to.’
Mamma rubs Elena’s gloved hand with her own. ‘You’re here now. That’s what matters.’
She’ll have to tell Mamma the truth tomorrow. There’s no time to waste. But she might not get another chance alone with her. She’ll write her a letter. Yes, that’s what she’ll do.
The family crowds onto the vaporetto to take them back to San Marcuola. When the vaporetto leaves the jetty, Zio Matteo, Papà’s younger brother, seated with his arm around Mamma, begins to sing ‘Grande Sei Tu’: ‘ How Great Thou Art ’. By the end of the first verse, the entire family is singing with him. Their voices lift for the chorus, the melody sweeping Elena up in a hug. Surrounded by these people who have known and loved her all her life, here on the waters of home, it makes her wish she’d never left Venice in the first place.
The group disembarks at San Marcuola, walks through the Jewish Ghetto together and climbs the four flights of stairs of the ramshackle apartment block to Elena’s childhood home.
Zio Bruno stands at the door, collecting everyone’s coats. His wife, Zia Sonia, is already at the oven warming up food. The cousins stand around unsure what to do.
Christian claps his hands together in the centre of the tiny, overcrowded lounge room. ‘Limoncello time!’ he says with his trademark lopsided grin.
His question is met with applause and the mood instantly lifts.
Elena retreats to the same corner of the couch where she sat yesterday, making herself as small as she can. Every relative she has is squashed together in this room and not one of them seeks to engage with her. She wonders if they’re leaving her alone because they respect her grief, or because of her long absence, or if it’s just her size repelling them. Whatever it is, she’s grateful for it.
Mamma’s in the kitchen with her sisters and sisters-in-law, and Christian is once again surrounded by a crowd eager to get to know him better. He’s the consummate host, making every guest feel welcome and important. ‘Pietro, Elena tells me you’re studying medicine in Bologna. So you want to be a doctor, hey? Let me tell you something, mate, get out while you still bloody can.’ He laughs. ‘Portia, don’t think I’m leaving here today before you give us a song. I don’t know anyone who sings opera.’
When he notices Elena alone on the couch, he comes to sit next to her and calls over Zio Matteo. ‘Tell me, Matteo, what was Virgilio like growing up? Was he a troublemaker like his daughter?’ He grins as he gives Elena a cuddle.
‘Let me help you with that.’ He jumps to his feet when the aunts bring out the trays with tramezzini.
‘Sit, sit,’ Zia Lina tells him, but he insists.
He’s the only man in the room who lifts a finger and the women swoon.
‘What a wonderful man. So humble and kind and a surgeon ! You must be thrilled,’ Zia Sonia says to Mamma within earshot of Elena.
‘So handsome too,’ Zia Romina adds, as her eyes roam over Elena’s body, up and down, up and down.
Later, Christian’s elbow-deep in dishes, charming her cousins Marta and Lara, when Mamma fills a plate to the brim with food and sets it on Elena’s lap. ‘Mangia.’ She nods at the plate.
Elena’s starving, but she can feel the eyes of all in the room on her. She twists her earring and looks down. ‘I’ll eat later at the hotel, Mamma. Everyone’s watching me.’
Mamma places her fingers under Elena’s chin and lifts her face so they’re eye to eye. Her eyes are bloodshot, but they’ve lost the glassiness of before. ‘Mangia, Elena,’ she says firmly.
It’s the first time since Elena arrived here yesterday that Mamma’s given her a glimpse of the woman she still is beneath the grief. Without argument, Elena brings the fork to her lips. The chicken cutlet melts in her mouth. Greedily she eats the rest, avoiding eye contact with anyone until the plate is clean, popping the last fritole into her mouth whole.
‘Brava.’ Mamma pats her knee.
Christian comes out of the kitchen; the front of his shirt is wet from the sink. He rests his elbow on the mantelpiece while he speaks with Alessandro. They laugh together as if they’ve been friends forever.
Christian beckons Elena over, grinning. ‘I’m finally uncovering the truth about you now, babe.’
‘I’m telling him the story of how you came banging on my door in the middle of the night.’ Alessandro laughs. ‘How you tried to convince me that God spoke to you and told you that He did not want me to give up my life in service to Him. He instructed you, apparently, to tell me I was not supposed to become a priest at all.’
Elena smiles at the memory. ‘I’d only lost my brother two years before. I wasn’t ready to lose you too.’
‘I had to become a priest. It was the only way to escape from you.’ Alessandro flicks his hair out of his eyes. ‘Alessandro, help me with my homework. Alessandro, I need money.’ He imitates her voice.
‘Ha!’ Christian snorts.
‘Seriously though.’ Alessandro smiles at her. ‘You did not need to be so worried. You could never lose me, Elena.’
For a moment Elena’s transported back to her childhood when Alessandro and Paolo took turns letting her sit on the handlebars of their bikes as they raced through the backstreets, all three of them without a worry in the world.
Christian’s voice brings her back to the present. ‘Looks like some of your relatives are going now, Ellie.’
When most of the mourners have left, Christian almost single-handedly finishes the cleaning up, gently guiding the women away from the kitchen and insisting they rest. She watches him trying his best to be everything she needs him to be, wishing so deeply she didn’t hate him.