The Last Concerto. Sara Alexander

a cretin!’ Alba blurted.

      ‘Quiet!’ Bruno spat. ‘Every week you have to make a fool of yourself. Of us!’

      ‘She’s hurt, Bruno,’ Giovanna eased.

      ‘You’ve spoiled this girl and you see how she turned out? I’ve told you and I’ve told you again, but, no, you let her do as she pleases. And now look! Running around town like a demented urchin, picking fights. She’ll be at Marcellino’s wedding next week looking like this!’

      ‘Take it easy, Bruno,’ Alba’s grandfather murmured.

      Giovanna’s hand began to shake. She pressed the cloth a little too hard onto Raffaele’s face. He took a sharp intake of breath.

      ‘Scusa, Raffaele,’ Giovanna whispered, ‘are you all right?’

      He nodded biting his lip.

      ‘And the boy?’ Bruno bellowed a breath away from Alba’s face. ‘Don’t tell me you hit him too, for God’s sake?’

      Alba’s head didn’t move. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

      ‘Say something, for Christ’s sake!’

      Bruno’s shouts ricocheted against the surrounding stone walls, creeping closer with every hot second that pounded.

      ‘What you asking her for, Babbo?’ Marcellino jeered. ‘You think she’s going to answer for once?’

      ‘I’m not talking to you, Marcellino,’ Bruno replied, ‘or you, Salvatore.’

      Alba noticed her younger brother swallow an interjection.

      ‘What in God’s name is this family coming to? You know what I do all day for you at the officina? What we all do? And you just float in and out of this house as if you weren’t here. You run out of the house before dawn for that old lady on the hill, doing her every whim like a servant girl, and in here you’re like this! What am I supposed to do with someone like this at work?’

      A knock at the door. Everyone turned towards it. Salvatore opened it. Their neighbour Grazietta poked her head around the wood. She took a breath to begin her usual prattle but the angry eyes pinning her at the doorframe stopped her train of thought in an instant.

      ‘Raffaele! Dio! Who did this? This boy needs a hospital! Giova’, I’ll come with you to the hospital,’ she flapped. ‘My nephew is on shift today, he’ll help us.’

      ‘Stay where you are,’ Bruno interrupted. ‘My lawyer’s son is being looked after just fine.’ Grazietta turned pale. ‘Sick and tired of you women telling me how to look after this stupid child! Alba did this. All this. You women have no idea how to bring her up. You bring shame on all of us!’

      He reached for the jug of water and filled a glass, emptying it in two gulps. He set it back down too quick and it almost cracked. His eyes drifted over to the wide dish of fresh ravioli, fast cooling as the argument steamed on, the pecorino hardening to a congealed mess.

      ‘Bruno,’ Grandfather stepped in, ‘eat your lunch, then decide what needs to be done. And something drastic. You can’t get away with this any longer, Alba, you hear me? Time you learned how to behave as part of this family. People respect us. We’ve all worked our guts out to give you children a good life. You don’t throw it in our faces like this, you hear? Your father got taken by the bandits and we fought against them. I won’t stand here and watch my granddaughter become a spoiled brat. I won’t let you ruin my name, do you hear?’

      Bruno yanked a chair out from the head of the table; it screeched along the tiles. ‘Eat with us, Papà.’ He flicked a look at Giovanna. She pulled the cloth away from Raffaele’s face.

      ‘I’ll stop by later then?’ Grazietta squeaked into the charged silence.

      ‘And before you go,’ Bruno snarled, ‘and think about going around the rest of the street telling them what you just saw, just remember this is me when I’m calm. No one wants to see me angry. Hear me?’

      Grazietta scurried back out onto the street.

      The boys sat down in the shadow of their father’s suffocated ire.

      ‘You going to help Mamma or what?’ Marcellino hollered at Alba.

      She stood up. Her fingers gripped the ladle.

      ‘Talk to that old woman Elias, Giovanna,’ Bruno called out to her as she returned to the kitchen for a basket of bread. ‘Tell her Alba has to stop working for her immediately. No knowing what she’ll do.’

      His words tore right through Alba. A thin line of high-pitched whir in her head grew in volume. Alba scooped up three plump parcels of ricotta and spinach. Marcellino lifted his plate. She pulled the spoon over past the rim and let the ravioli fall onto his lap. Marcellino jumped up, yelping. Giovanna rushed out of the kitchen. The room skewed, piano strings twisted out of tune. Alba didn’t remember flinging the door open, the cries of her mother, the sound of her feet pounding the toasted cobbles as she dragged her friend behind her and ran towards the road for the pineta. She remembered only the salt of her angry tears wetting her lips and the sound of her brothers like hungry hounds, echoes swallowed up by the distance.

      It was Alba’s favourite time to be in the pineta. The shade didn’t hum with the fringes of summer, there was a pleasant cool. They found a stump on the needled floor and sat in silence fighting to catch their breath.

      ‘I don’t know who’s going to kill me first. My father or yours,’ Raffaele murmured.

      Their breaths eased towards normal.

      ‘What are we going to do, Alba? I mean we can’t just sit here. And when Mario sees me tomorrow, he’s going to kill me completely, I mean not just like this, I mean absolutely no breathing, as in dead, do you hear me? And dead is not what I want to be right now, can you understand that? Do you have any idea how terrified I am right now?’

      Alba picked up a dried needle and started twiddling it between her fingers.

      ‘Tell me what to do!’

      Raffaele’s tears fought for their freedom and won. Alba reached for his hand and squeezed it. The bruises on his face were starting to form, blushed bougainvillea pinks, crushed grape purples.

      ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured.

      ‘You have to.’

      ‘I don’t remember any of it.’

      ‘You saved me.’

      His eyes warmed into an expression she didn’t recognize. Her brow creased.

      ‘Are you going to kiss me, Raffaele?’

      He swallowed. Neither moved.

      ‘You’re my brother.’

      ‘I know,’ he replied. His stillness unnerved Alba.

      ‘Don’t you just want to get all of this out of the way? I mean, it’s like I don’t care about any of it and just want it done. Cleared up. Is that weird? It’s a bit weird maybe. I just want to stop feeling like I should be having feelings about it? And I do want to kiss you. Well not really, but you’re sort of the only person I could if I had to. Not that we have to. I want to get some sex out of the way before I fall in love with someone. Sorry. I mean, not sorry, but sort of.’ His fingers reached up for a pimple on his cheeks and started twiddling. ‘Help me anytime you want, Alba. I’m drowning here.’

      ‘Sort of how I feel, I think.’

      Raffaele looked up.

      ‘That makes us both weird, I guess,’ Alba added, smoothing the hair off her face. He was the only person she could be honest with. It was an orange glow in her belly.

      ‘We could try?’ she began, feeling the absurdity of the moment heat her cheeks.

      ‘Really? I thought you were about to hit me.’