Sweet Bitter Cane Read online

  www.gsjohnston.com

  Follow on Facebook at @GSJohnston.author

  Follow on Twitter at @GS_Johnston

  Copyright © GS Johnston 2019

  The right of GS Johnston to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published by MiaRebaRose Press

  Paperback: ISBN-978-0-9925484-3-8

  ebook: ISBN: 978-0-9925484-4-5

  Typeset by Green Avenue Design

  Cover Design © Ian Thomson

  Cover photographs © John Bortolin

  PART ONE

  1920‒21

  Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain

  Venus and Adonis – William Shakespeare

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Madonna flew from Jerusalem. Like a gyre she rose, wingless, from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, passing over the sea, over Crete and Sicily, between Capri and Vesuvius, close to the sun, amongst the starlings and swifts and the shrieking seabirds. She swept along the coast of conquered pasts, above the dusty aqueducts, the chipped and crumbling buildings, olive groves and grain fields and winter-gnarled vineyards, never once losing her way, full of grace.

  She glided over the cobblestones of Tovo di Sant’Agata in far northern Italy, past the stirring baker and the sleeping cobbler, through the village square, over the water well and barking dogs and prowling cats and shivering rats. She touched down, crimson and sapphire robes fluttering, her lips and cheeks a healthy rose, at the end of Amelia Durante’s bed.

  For the first time in many years, this vision returned to Amelia uncourted. While staring at the Madonna to the side of the altar in the parish church, blood pulsed the statue’s white marble to flesh, her lips alive, her weeping robes the same deep colours. The questions came again to Amelia: What did this vision mean? That she was blessed? That she would travel? Or that she would never leave the village? The Madonna cared for her? What else could it mean? The Madonna beckoned her.

  Taken over, she extended her right hand, splayed her fingers. They hung in midair, a featherless wing. The air, heavy with frankincense, scorched her eyes. Amelia gasped, snatched back her hand and raised her left. What kind of fool gave the wrong hand? She swallowed her doubts and watched the gold ring slip over her knuckle. How innocent it looked, this self-joined circle, and what power it held. Even through the white film of her veil it shone, sun-gold.

  The priest began. ‘Confírma hoc, Deus, quod operátus es in nobis.’

  With her free hand, she rotated the ring, just a single turn, this key to freedom.

  ‘A templo sancto tuo, quod est in Jerúsalem,’ the small congregation responded.

  Amelia looked beyond the priest to the white-lace altar and the risen god above. She inhaled the incense.

  ‘Et ne nos indúcas in tentatiónem.’

  ‘Sed líbera nos a malo,’ she said.

  Had she made the right choice? So much was still to be resolved.

  ‘You may kiss the bride.’

  Giuseppe turned to her. So strange to see him in a suit, with a tie and white shirt. With infinite care, he gathered the bottom of her veil as if raising the curtain on a theatre performance. His eyes didn’t leave hers. He leaned forward, moving his mouth towards her lips. She pressed up on her toes, as far above her mere 150 centimetres as she could muster, but turned so his lips touched her cheek, then the other. It seemed natural to kiss her brother like this. He was just her proxy groom.

  She relaxed to her soles and smiled. He returned the gesture, then took her ringed hand in his clammy palm and turned her towards those assembled. Above, the bells clamoured their silver celebration. He walked her along the central aisle, towards her family.

  Her mother and father, Velia and Emilio Durante, were in tears, but they gathered smiles as best as they could. After all, this church ceremony was for them, though they could ill afford the expense. All that was legally necessary to complete her marriage to Italo Amedeo could have passed in a notary’s office.

  To her left, Italo’s mother, Signora Pina, stood glaring at the altar. She was painfully thin, fierceness etched into the lines on her face, her greying hair oiled and pulled to a tight bun at her nape. In the row behind her were Italo’s aunts, Zia Fulvia and Zia Francesca. Amelia smiled at them, and they dabbed their eyes and bowed their heads and nodded in fervent supplication. Neither woman had married, the Great War, poverty and their hesitations rebuffing the few available suitors.

  Outside the church, the humid air prickled Amelia’s skin, unusually warm for February in the far north of Italy. Wreaths of olive branches entwined with white roses and lilies – peace, transience and purity – lay wilting in the sun, after a morning funeral.

  ‘You’re married,’ Giuseppe said, smiling.

  She smiled but felt no difference.

  Her mother rushed from the church, squinting in the harsh light. She was in her mid-forties and still a proud woman. She smiled but her lips trembled. She embraced Amelia. ‘Don’t ever regret this,’ she whispered.

  Her handsome father and her elder brother, Aldo, nodded as Zia Fulvia and Zia Francesca hurried to her.

  ‘You make such a beautiful bride,’ Zia Fulvia said.

  ‘If only Italo were here,’ Zia Francesca said.

  ‘Soon I will be in Babinda with him,’ Amelia said.

  She liked the word – Babinda – the bold play of vowels sounding Italian even though it was far away in Australia.

  The gay party started towards the Durante home. The villagers smiled and waved, every heart so easily drawn by a wedding. Even the uniformed officers left over from the war – who, two years later, still spilled from the town’s cafes – raised their open hands high above their heads in celebration. The war had left them idle. Each bomb and bullet and bayonet had torn the fabric of the village to ribbons, killed the youths, left only scarred old men and babies. But they all smiled, dulled and weary. Who were they to know all wasn’t as it appeared? Her marriage rebutted everything they’d fought for – she’d married to leave rotting Italy.

  In the main piazza, a man sang a nursery rhyme, his voice unsure and quavering.

  Garibaldi was wounded,

  He was wounded in the leg …

  Signor Gregorio slept under the lip of the main fountain. Amelia often brought him food and, in winter, without her father knowing, ushered him into in their barn to sleep. Every piazza in Italy had an eccentric, a religious zealot or political conspirator, and he was theirs. She unlinked her arm from Giuseppe’s and went to him.

  ‘It’s my wedding day,’ she said. ‘Why do you sing of Garibaldi?’

  Gregorio looked at her, his face crushed and wrinkled, an oval frame of wild hair and wiry grey beard. She’d no idea how old he was, but it was said he’d fought for Garibaldi.

  ‘He commands us to be one,’ he said. He raised both arms in an arc, his hands aloft as if about to conduct an orchestra. He blinked both sparkling eyes. ‘He brings all to all.’

  He’d a large tear in his coat’s side.

  ‘What have you done?’ she said, pointing to the hole. Clearly, the magnanimous legacy of Garibaldi hadn’t made provision for its repair. ‘Take it to my mother. She’ll sew it up.’

  Deflated, he lowered his arms and nodded. She smiled at him. She’d always appreciated his views of the world, which ran counter to most people’s. She turned back to the party. Gregorio began to sing again.

  Mamma, d
on’t cry that it’s time to leave

  I go to war to win or die.

  Amelia’s family home was small and typical of the village, built many years ago of roughly hewn limestone with small windows to the world, no shutters. It was kept as well as poverty would afford, the terracotta tiles in strict rows and plumb lines, the sills buffed and whitewashed, the path stones free of weeds. The ground floor consisted of a stable and a low-ceilinged living room, with a kitchen and a chimney. They all slept in this main room, below a hay-filled loft. For this special day, they’d moved the table to the street so there was room for their guests.

  ‘To those who were,’ Amelia’s father said, raising his glass. ‘To those who are.’ He smiled at his daughter, his eyes bright with tears. ‘And to those who will be.’

  Tonight, Amelia would leave her family and her village, as a bride should do, and return to the hamlet of Bovegno with Italo’s mother, some hundred kilometres to the south. But it would be Signora Pina who’d share her wedding bed, not her husband, who was on the other side of the world in a small town in Far North Queensland, Australia.

  Signora Pina snored all night, whistling on the inhalation and whining out. She lay on her back but, as if to taunt Amelia, occasionally rolled to her side and ceased snoring. In these moments of quiet, Amelia imagined Italo’s breathing, firm and regular, water lapping at a lake’s shore. But the peace was a momentary aberration. Signora Pina would growl pungent farts, slump to her back and begin snoring again. Signora Pina had slept far too many years on her own. When the first cock crowed well before light, Amelia rose.

  The prior evening, Signora Pina had given her a wooden spoon, a traditional gift from a new mother-in-law. Amelia took it from the table but wondered at the sincerity of the gesture. How many hours had she dreamt of her wedding day? It was over, so quick it hadn’t really begun. She rekindled the fire and made coffee, the oily brew in a tiny cup. She hardly ever used sugar, such was its price, but while Signora Pina continued to snore, Amelia stirred in a heaped teaspoon, taking the bitterness away.

  In Australia, Italo grew cane. Was this his sugar?

  From her diary, she took her one photograph of him. Although fifteen years older than her, he had dark hair and in unison his aunts had said, with a dreamy air, ‘His eyes are as blue as the sea.’ Hers were like her brothers’, plain hazelnut, but she’d seen eyes like Italo’s in the faces of Bovegno. She searched the photograph again to find something new, something she’d never noticed. He was seated in a Savonarola chair, in a studio, stiff and dressed in a vest and a jacket, a light collarless shirt to fight against the Australian heat, with a white bow-tie.

  How was your wedding night?

  But a photograph can’t reply, and she knew Italo had had no ceremony. Only a woman’s virtue was at risk, only a woman’s family honour. A man would laugh out loud at such a suggestion, but such was the world. Now a married woman, she could travel to Australia, but even a married woman couldn’t travel alone. On the boat, she’d have a chaperone, the only demand her father had made, to be paid for by Italo. Italo owned his land. Imagine that. She’d never even heard of anyone she knew owning land—

  ‘You think it will be different there.’

  Signora Pina’s hoarse voice made her jump. The death of a husband soon after the birth of an only child had cheated Signora Pina, each year harshening her tone, frightening off any man who may have been interested. And when Italo was only twenty, he emigrated to Australia. For fifteen years, Signora Pina hadn’t seen her only child, her only son, her only notion of family.

  ‘I’ve made coffee,’ Amelia said. ‘It’s still fresh.’

  Signora Pina continued to stand in the doorway, glaring at her.

  ‘You’re right,’ Amelia said. ‘It’s grown bitter. I’ll make some fresh.’

  She poured the older coffee for herself and began again, but under Pina’s scrutiny what was second nature became foreign. She concentrated, ground only the beans needed, watched the water to assure it would remain just off the boil. The silence rang.

  Signora Pina, stern, harsh and angry beyond belief, annoyed her. Amelia was forced to live with Pina and had no choice but to honour her elder and Italo’s mother, but she didn’t understand her. All she could do was hasten the remaining immigration paperwork and count the days until she could leave. Amelia fought not to show her discomfort and, without a tremor, placed the fresh coffee on the table. Signora Pina made no move to acknowledge it, less still any intention to drink it. Amelia sat opposite. Pina lit a cigarette, the first of the day’s chain. They remained so, silent.

  ‘Why would you marry someone you’ve never met?’

  Why would she ask this now? Was this the heart of Signora Pina’s resentment?

  ‘Other girls have married this way. Travelled to Australia, some to America …’

  ‘And what were their fates?’

  ‘Zia Fulvia and Zia Francesca assure me …’

  ‘Two spinsters.’ She spat the words. ‘They’ve never even tasted love. What do they know?’

  Perhaps her judgement was that Amelia Durante, the daughter of a peasant apple farmer, wasn’t good enough for her son.

  ‘What are you running from?’ Signora Pina’s voice was tight. ‘A mother who’ll never be pleased? A father who beats you?’

  ‘Signora …’ Amelia breathed deeply to choose her words. ‘The facts of this courtship—’

  ‘What courtship? A few letters … You put too much confidence in words.’

  ‘But the facts remain.’ Signora Pina recoiled at Amelia’s force. ‘Two years ago, Zia Fulvia and Zia Francesca approached my parents. The delay wasn’t mine. My parents begged me to forget this, forced every delay.’ She steadied herself. ‘I am not running away.’

  Signora Pina was silent. Perhaps Amelia had won some ground.

  ‘I love Italo …’ Amelia said.

  ‘You’ve never met him. You don’t know him.’

  ‘We will learn to love—’

  ‘You don’t even know what love is.’

  ‘I’m not a foolish girl.’

  ‘Do you think he’s not loved? He’s thirty-five. If you think this is true, you’re more foolish than I first thought. Look around you. He has no fortune.’

  ‘We will make one together. It’s possible in Australia. A peasant in Italy can never hope for such a thing.’

  There. She’d called herself what she was.

  Signora Pina sighed and looked away. ‘Men think only of themselves.’ Signora Pina stopped. ‘He’s only married you because there are no suitable women in Australia.’ She sighed. ‘What’s done can’t be undone, but you’ll promise me one thing.’

  Amelia breathed out. ‘Of course. Whatever you wish.’

  ‘No doubt, God willing, you’ll soon have children. You must bring them back to me.’

  What did she think? To reach Australia was months and months of travel. Did she think they could travel like the Madonna flew from Jerusalem?

  ‘I’ll not die alone. You must return to care for me.’

  And then Amelia understood. Pina resented the marriage as it was another statement, perhaps the firmest statement yet, that Italo wouldn’t return for an even longer time. He would now have a wife, and an Italian wife, and soon a family in Australia.

  ‘Promise me. Or I’ll curse you.’

  Amelia resented this corner into which she’d been forced. She stood, picked up her cup. She had no choice. ‘All right. I promise.’

  How was Amelia to bear this? If only Italo were there. He would know what to say, what to do.

  ‘Can’t you be happy for me?’ Amelia said. The words fell from her mouth, too late to catch them.

  Signora Pina’s face hardened further.

  ‘In Italy, people toil for more poverty,’ Amelia said. ‘I’ve escaped.’

  Signora Pina blew smoke at the untouched coffee. Amelia had spoken out of turn, had rubbed her nose in her own lack of courage to follow her son to a new land wit
h greater expectations. The unification of Italy and the Great War had brought huge waves of change. Amelia knew men who were unemployed. Italo had left for this reason. She could see the villages destroyed. And yet there was no will to rebuild them, no-one who could see what had to be done.

  She thought of a line in a letter from Italo that had won her heart.

  In Australia, the sky is so large and clear and blue. Nothing can hinder a man, and anything is possible.

  It wasn’t just the sentiment but the play of words. He put them together with a poet’s measured touch. But she wouldn’t tell Signora Pina about his letters. She’d said too much. Though in many ways she hadn’t said enough.

  She had to leave the confines of this hot kitchen. She’d go to the water well. She picked up the wooden pail. Signora Pina made no move to stop her. Outside, the morning was still cool, and she grasped her shawl at her chest, tightly around her shoulders. The sun, low in the winter sky, came down the street. She was amongst strangers, something she had to get used to. She exhaled her frustration. Did Pina have no consideration for her? She’d taken a great gamble and now the dice were thrown, spinning in the air. She was married but had never felt so alone. Through the sun’s rays, she caught a person’s silhouette, something familiar and heartwarming. She squinted.

  ‘Mamma,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Aldo went to the market in Ghedi. I wanted to see you.’

  Amelia threw her arms around her, and although she exerted all control, she started to cry and then to sob. How would she bear life without her mother? She inhaled the scent at the base of her neck, as soothing as warmed milk. After some moments, Velia took her hand, pulled back from her, smiled and led her away, through the square towards the church. They sat in front of the Madonna, Pina’s empty bucket at Amelia’s side, and she poured out what Pina had said.

  ‘She’s small-minded,’ Velia said. ‘Don’t reduce yourself to that.’

  ‘She should be happy.’

  Her mother said nothing. What an insidious position Amelia had put her in; for Velia to say she was happy would be a lie.