Read Online Solitaria by Genni Gunn - Free Book Online Page A

Vito’s shoulder, and together they walked to the train station without looking back at Mamma, who gazed after them, weeping, until they had rounded the bend.

2. A Fan
    â€œThis is a fan distributed by a clothing store in Carmiano. Look at what it reads: ‘Fascist Supplies,’ as if for a few lire, one could buy the misguided ideals of a dictator, illusion, torture instruments, prisons. But no. It was simply an advertisement for a ladies’ fashion shop. On the front of the fan is the fascist symbol — the fasces — a bundle of sticks which includes an axe. Within the axe, a map of Italy, over which is the word ‘Patriotic.’ The fasces is an ancient Roman symbol of power and was carried by lictors in front of magistrates to symbolize power over life and death. Before the fascists adopted it, the fasces (as Fascio) was used by left-wing groups as a symbol of strengh through unity. If you turn over the fan, you’ll read: ‘Elegant fascists shop here,’ along with an address. Note that the word ‘fascists’ has been crossed out in pen, and the word ‘ladies’ written above it in Papà’s handwriting.”
    â€¡ 1935. Carmiano, Italy. Three years later, Vito stepped off the train into a sandstorm. He carried a small cardboard suitcase, which he set down on the platform. In the two days the sirocco had been blowing, the temperature had risen ten degrees and the moist air was thick with dust that had crossed the Mediterranean from the North African deserts and now covered the ground. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose and mouth. He wore a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, and trousers that exposed his ankles, as if he had suddenly grown taller.
    Papà saw him first and hurried along the platform. When he reached the boy, he kissed him on both cheeks and embraced him. Vito now came to Papà’s shoulder, a thin, reedy boy. As soon as Papà released him, Mamma came forward and smothered the boy against one side of her breast, murmuring, “Finally you’re home. We’ve missed you so much.” She let him go, then pushed Aldo and me forward. “This is Aldo and Piera,” she said. “Say hello to Vito. You remember your brother.”
    Aldo nodded, but I shook my head and looked at the ground. Over the past several weeks, ever since Zio Tonio died, Mamma had been talking about Vito, whom I barely recalled. I leaned against Mamma’s side, partly sheltered in the folds of her full skirt.
    â€œOf course you do,” Mamma said, then pushed our little sister forward. “And this is Clarissa.”
    â€œI’m three,” said Clarissa, “and I’m an angel.” She ran a little way up the platform, waving her arms like wings.
    â€œClarissa! Come here immediately,” Mamma said, but she was smiling.
    We all walked the kilometre home along the railway track, a procession headed by Papà, then Vito with Clarissa beside him, holding his hand, then me, then Mamma and Aldo. The wind swirled around us in a yellow blizzard. We held kerchiefs over our noses and stared down at the ground. Now and then, a train would pass and force us into brush or flatten us against the walls of a cutting. We were not the least bit nervous, having grown up in railway huts beside the tracks.
    Later, at home, when the wind had died down, there was an eerie calm. Vito opened the door and looked out. What he recalled were rolling hills, various shades of green on green, and endless leaves, like fingerprints, their delicate veins unique. He had forgotten autumn, the hills turned to brown, and the fine membrane of dust accumulated in the centre of leaves, in dried flower pods, in the indentations of stones, inside any visible crevice.
    â€œWe’ll have to get the tobacco leaves in before the rain,” Papà said.
    Mamma opened the window. Geckos slithered in and darted across the walls. Flies zipped through