Ardor (3 page)

W
hile Arcadio Carnabuci sat back and waited, far to the south Fernanda Ponderosa and her retinue were also waiting, but for what, nobody knew. Then, quite by chance, the appearance of a truck on the quayside, driven by one Ambrogio Bufaletti, propelled them onto the next stage in their journey.

Signor Bufaletti licked his lips at the sight of Fernanda Ponderosa; in fact, he was slavering at the mouth, but he was a businessman first and foremost, and he could not allow his lust to prevent him from driving a hard bargain. And so protracted negotiations followed, complicated by the fact that Fernanda Ponderosa, guided by her instinct alone, did not know where they were going. She closed her eyes and tried to intuit the place while Ambrogio Bufaletti rolled his eyes toward the skies and made the typical gestures of impatience.

In her mind's eye, Fernanda Ponderosa saw a big and naked man with animal eyes. She smelled the irresistible aroma of baking bread. She saw meadows of bluebells. She saw pigs, both the domestic variety and the wild, tusked kind. She heard
their grunts and snorts. And she saw cheese. Which made her sneeze. She saw olive groves climbing over gently rolling hills. She saw hands forming sausages. She felt whispered kisses on the back of her neck. She tasted ham. She saw vines in neat rows. She saw dark oak woods, and then, suddenly, a cemetery.

“Mountains,” she said at last. Her voice was deep, almost too deep for a woman, and rich. It was resonant, as if it belonged deep underground. It made every sailor, stevedore, fisherman, and customs official loitering on the dockside stop what he was doing and look in her direction. She felt their notice warming her but did not give the tiniest flicker of acknowledgment.

Ambrogio Bufaletti made no effort to remove his eyes from Fernanda Ponderosa's magnificent breasts.

“So, you want the Himalayas, signora?”

“Just head east, signor,” she said with a flash of her dark eyes, “I will navigate.”

Ambrogio Bufaletti insisted on being paid an inflated price, in cash, in advance. Only then were the goods loaded aboard the truck, and they set off in search of the mountainous region of Fernanda Ponderosa's imagination. Only then, when Fernanda Ponderosa was out of sight, did the commercial travelers feel it prudent to descend the gangplank, and hauling behind them their heavy suitcases, they set about their business.

 

So began a journey that was to haunt the monkey's nightmares for years to come. Behind the wheel of the truck, what
remained of Ambrogio Bufaletti's patience was blown out the window along with the smoke of his endless cigarettes. He preferred the view of Fernanda Ponderosa to the road ahead of him, and despite her requests that he keep his eyes on the highway, he did not seem able to control them. Where the road meandered in bends, he took a straight line as his path, and the oncoming traffic was forced to divert into the ditches alongside to avoid collision. He careered along at speeds for which his ramshackle vehicle was not designed, and he did not feel concern for the pieces that dropped off and formed a trail in their wake. In towns and in places of congestion he mounted the sidewalk to effect a shortcut around the traffic. In Collesalvetti he plowed through a group of nuns, scattering them like doves. In Ponsacco they were flagged down by an officer of the carabinieri, but Ambrogio Bufaletti refused to stop and jammed his foot on the gas, leaving the officer coughing in a cloud of blue smoke while he radioed for reinforcements. The journey had only just begun and already they were fugitives from justice.

The monkey kept his tiny hands clamped over his face and from time to time emitted plaintive howls that were barely audible above the roar of the laboring engine and the expletives of the driver.

Fernanda Ponderosa also shut her eyes, and Ambrogio Bufaletti was not slow to take advantage by groping her thighs with every movement of the shift stick. This assault she attempted to ignore, but when he grew bolder and reached for her bosoms, she lashed out at him with the nearest object to
hand, cracking a tin plate against his skull like a cymbal. In his surprise he struggled to keep control of the truck and narrowly avoided plowing through the barriers of a bridge and plunging into the raging torrent below.

Though he didn't say anything, Ambrogio Bufaletti was not pleased, and the atmosphere within the smoky cab definitely darkened. After this he took to purposefully removing both hands from the steering wheel to increase Fernanda Ponderosa's terror. She controlled her impulse to scream and grabbed the wheel. It was a war of nerves, which Fernanda Ponderosa intended to win.

They crossed and recrossed Florence as Ambrogio Bufaletti repeatedly missed the right turn. The vast groups of Japanese tourists following flag-waving guides were forced to run for cover as the truck careered between their ranks, and blurred images of a grim-expressioned Fernanda Ponderosa were snapped by thousands of high-speed telephoto lenses. The Duomo itself became dizzy as the battered truck circled it for the twentieth time. The Fontana di Nettuno, the Palazzo Vecchio, the Davide, the Uffizi, the Arno, all whirled past at dangerous speeds in this nightmarish sight-seeing tour. And finally they were out and on their way again, leaving the city's treasures and tourists to regroup themselves as best they could.

After many hours and many miles, it seemed to Fernanda Ponderosa that they were finally coming closer to the journey's end. The landscape seemed familiar, although she had never been in the region before. She felt she recognized the gentle
hills, rolling in the blue distance into steep mountainous peaks, the clusters of hill towns with walls and houses of creamy-pink stone, the olive groves, the vineyards, and the neat fields of multicolored crops. As the light faded, they approached the walls of the ancient town of Norcia.

A
nd so Fernanda Ponderosa was drawing closer to the man who waited for her.

Since he had woken that morning from another feverish night of frenzied dreams, Arcadio Carnabuci had been seized by the grip of an excitement that was bigger than he was. It seemed to squeeze him like an udder. He knew instinctively what was causing it: Fernanda was on her way.

How he got through the day he didn't know. He ran into the midst of his olive grove and tried to bury himself in his work, but he was too fidgety and it was not long before the venerable trees cast him out while they got on with the serious business of nurturing olives.

From there he hurried back to his cottage and danced from room to room trying to straighten things, but in fact making more of a mess. He toyed with the idea of making up the bed with the heavenly sheets, but even he realized he was being premature. The house didn't matter anyway. On this of all days he would be foolish to worry about tidiness.

With a grin smeared across his face like jam, he ran outside and embraced the sky plump and blue with his arms outstretched. He was so happy he began to cry. The joy of anticipation was practically unbearable.

As the day drew on, his elation turned into impatience. As the air cooled, and dusk was preparing to fall over into the plain from the other side of the mountains, Arcadio Carnabuci took up his ax and began to chop firewood to vent his excess energy. He chopped and chopped away with the vigor of a man twice his size. Splintering a great tree trunk, he cleaved it with such force that a little wisp of dust rose up from it like smoke. He was so busy with his chopping that he failed to spot the ramshackle removal truck that limped along the lane at the back of his house and turned into his neighbor's property.

At this point, Ambrogio Bufaletti had reached the frayed ends of his already short string of patience. In his mind he had just resolved to perform an emergency stop and unload Fernanda Ponderosa and her baggage onto the roadside there and then and drive homeward. This journey had gone on too long already. The woman looked well enough, but she wasn't the least bit friendly. There was no chance of anything there by way of a gratuity. As his boot hovered above the foot brake, Fernanda Ponderosa herself spotted a house that she knew immediately was the right one, the journey's end. She cried, “Stop!” which Ambrogio Bufaletti duly did.

The force of the sudden halt shunted the truck's contents to the front, then, just as quickly to the rear. The turtles piled into
a tower in their tank, their little legs kicking in the air. The monkey collided with the windshield, sustaining a nasty bruise to his head. In the rear of the truck, Fernanda Ponderosa's belongings combined with one another in a rich furniture stew. In its shock the clock began striking the special tune usually reserved for feasts and holy days. The truck itself shuddered and shed its last remaining accessories: the exhaust pipes, the license plate, and the headlamps. It had run its last race, and this was its death rattle. Signor Bufaletti's mouth issued a string of obscenities.

He began without ceremony to unload the goods in the yard at the back of the house where the truck had been brought to a standstill, and having done so, he hastily drove off before Fernanda Ponderosa could change her mind and ask him to drive on again and try somewhere else.

As the truck coughed away, Fernanda Ponderosa was trying in vain to gain entry into the house. Built of the local pinkish yellow sandstone, it slumped as though hundreds of years ago it had grown into the ground and become a part of it. Even the roof of terra-cotta pantiles was crooked, fitting the shape of the house like a well-worn hat. At the front, the railings of the balcony sagged with age. The shutters, their dark green paint peeling, were all closed like eyelids. Every door around the property was locked.

Darkness was beginning to color the sky gray and the spring air was rapidly losing its warmth. A slight shiver rippled through Fernanda Ponderosa. There was no sound, except for
the erratic chiming of the great clock and the far distant sound of someone chopping wood. She put on her cloak and walked around again, testing the doors and trying to peer in through the slats in the shutters. Why had her intuition brought her here? What was this place? What was its connection with her?

Suddenly, a shriek rang out, cutting through the stillness, causing the lonely dove on the roof to flap away in fear. A wild-looking woman had appeared out of nowhere, dropped the milk from the two pails she was carrying over her clogs, and fallen insensible to the ground. She had gone down as though shot. Was she dead?

Fernanda Ponderosa looked around for snipers—there weren't any—and flew across the yard to where the woman lay. No, she wasn't dead; she was still breathing. When she opened her eyes, it was clear she had a pronounced squint, with each eye looking to its side of her head.

“Holy Mother of God!” the woman cried. “The Undead. Silvana, what do you want with me?”

“Silvana?” gasped Fernanda Ponderosa. “Silvana's here? Where?” Suddenly she realized why she had been brought to this place. It was because of Silvana, her twin sister, whom she had not seen in the past eighteen years.

“Up at the cemetery, where else?”

Then, noting the bewildered look on Fernanda Ponderosa's face, the woman added, “She's dead.”

“Dead!”

“Yes, she's dead. Been lying up in the cemetery more than
six months. I thought it was her standing there in the yard. Made the hair on the back of my neck stand up on end. Never said she was one of twins…”

“Silvana's dead!” Fernanda Ponderosa's voice cracked, and her face was racked with pain.

“She's dead all right,” said Maria Calenda bitterly, “struck by lightning. Singed to a crisp. Worst storm in the history of the region. We tried sending a telegram, but couldn't trace her kin. Fidelio is probably dead, too. He just walked away, lost his mind, vanished from face of the earth. They've looked for him everywhere. Savaged by wolves so they say. Business going to ruin. I've everything to do here, all the cheeses to make, pigs to tend, seventeen sows in farrow, goats, cows, sheep. I don't know and what all. Primo trying to do the work of all three of them up at the shop. Sausages. Can't meet his orders. Hams. Spies everywhere. Trouble with the Maddalonis. Pucillo's Pork Factory out to destroy us. Sinister goings-on. The business will be lost. We'll all go to ruin.”

Fernanda Ponderosa was stunned. Her sister was dead. She could scarcely breathe. Although they hadn't met in all those years, she always believed that one day they would make up their differences. A shaft of sadness opened within her. Silvana had carried the feud between them to her grave.

As soon as she felt able, Fernanda Ponderosa set out to the cemetery, seeking some kind of reconciliation. It was time to make amends. She left her belongings in the yard where they formed a room without walls or ceiling, inviting the passerby to
stretch out on the chaise longue, read a book, pour himself a drink from the refrigerator.

Though the place was unknown to her, she knew where to go without asking. The surrounding hills and mountains did not surprise her. It was as though she were revisiting the area after an absence of many years.

As she walked along in the twilight, her body felt leaden. How could the sense of Silvana's death have escaped her for so long? She, who prided herself on her sixth sense. She reviewed the events of the past six months. Looked back over her dreams, rummaged through her thoughts. Had there been anything that hinted at it, anything at all? She trawled her tired mind but it was blank. She just couldn't explain it.

Without any conscious decision on her part, her legs turned her off the road and through the gates of the cemetery. Instinct led her to the mausoleum, a small villa of rose-colored marble. Inside, a picture of her own face stared out from a round frame, a black-and-white picture she never remembered having taken. Next to it, black letters spelled out her sister's married name, SILVANA CASTORINI, and the dates enclosing her life. She shuddered. She felt like a visitor to her own grave.

Fernanda Ponderosa knelt down on the cold marble and spoke out to her sister, the words she wished she had been able to say to her in life; words that Arcadio Carnabuci, hidden behind the edifice of the Botta family—the nearest he could get while remaining screened—struggled in vain to hear. Although he was too far away to hear the content of her impassioned
speech, by craning his neck and straining his ears forward he thought he could detect the cadence of her deep-sounding voice as it rose and fell like a magical fountain. How it thrilled him, like ice sliding down the neck. He basked in the velvet of her voice, and in his nearness to her, and in the tranquillity of the cemetery. He would have been happy to stay like that for the rest of his life.

Although Arcadio Carnabuci had missed the appearance of the removal truck, he had soon been alerted to Fernanda Ponderosa's arrival. Word travels fast in a small place, and the astonishing news that Silvana Castorini's twin sister had come to help out in the midst of the family's crisis was quickly broadcast on the grapevine.

From the description, Arcadio Carnabuci knew, even before he saw her, that the beautiful stranger was his own true love. His Fernanda. She had come at last. He had never doubted it, not even when his situation had seemed hopeless and he knew everyone was laughing at him. And it showed him that the feelings he had had eighteen years ago for her sister, Silvana, were an understandable mistake. Temporarily, before she had married Fidelio Castorini, and, truthfully, for a short while after, he had felt that Silvana had come to the region for him and for him alone. But now he could see that he had simply mistaken one twin for another back then. The right twin had finally arrived. He was beside himself with passion and excitement. He threw down his ax, and went flying out of the yard only to find her already striding along on the way to the ceme
tery. He followed her there, not having the courage to approach her on the highway.

Although it was practically dark, he studied her. He couldn't make out much, but he loved the sound her feet made on the asphalt. He wanted to lie in the road and kiss the place where she had stepped, but he didn't have time. She was moving fast and it was a struggle to keep up, yet keep enough distance so as not to alarm her. Although he wanted to declare himself immediately, he was grateful for the opportunity to familiarize himself with her in secret.

As he hurried along the road, trailing in her wake, he enjoyed the thought that he was breathing some of the air that she had just exhaled. It had circulated in her perfect lungs, been issued by her adorable lips or nostrils, and had then gone into him. How wonderful. He breathed hard to draw the maximum benefit from this connection between them, though the pressure was about to trigger an attack of the asthma that blighted his life.