Behind Closed Doors by Maria Messina

Author:Maria Messina
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Feminist Press at CUNY
Published: 2018-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Ciancianedda

Massaro Peppe was whittling very slowly on his doorstep, making himself a flute, pushing out his lips with every cut of the small knife that he held tightly in his measured, heavy hand.

“So you feel like playing, massaro Peppe?” said Graziano, coming forward with his lazy walk.

“I’ve always played. What would I do up there like a dried twig while the sheep graze? I play, and I forget about my troubles.”

“Could I have two words with you, massaro?” interrupted Graziano, stopping.

“Four if you want, my son.”

“But not here. There, in your house.”

“Are you crazy? No one has ever set foot in my house. Do you forget I have a daughter?”

“Massaro Peppe!” said the young man, pushing back his cap. “It’s exactly Ciancianedda that I want to talk to you about.”

The farmer’s hands trembled slightly as they began cutting into the stick.

“You know, we’ve had eyes for one another for a long time. She’s as beautiful as ripe grain and good as bread. I … well, you know me. I don’t have any vices. I’ve never been in trouble with the law. And I’m not someone who doesn’t own anything. You see, it’s no use. You know me like a son.”

Looking stern, massaro Peppe turned the stick over in his hands without cutting because he was thinking. Then he said slowly, “I’m not marrying that girl off. You know that.”

“I know. But the love I feel for her is strong, and I understand her just as if she could speak.”

“And I’m telling you to leave her in peace because it’s not right for a decent young man to make her lose her head. Today you say you don’t care about her sickness. But tomorrow, when your passion’s cooled, tomorrow you’ll care, and it will be a burden to you. It’s our cross. It’s already been four years. Before, it seemed she would die … and then … I don’t know if it was better or worse…. She’s the kind of creature that if you don’t respect her, she’ll die of a broken heart, little by little, without letting anyone know, like a flower that withers on the stem. I show her respect, and her brother does, too. And her mother did as well, blessed soul. You can betray her in all kinds of ways behind her back, and she doesn’t hear you. You can hurt her, and she won’t hate you.”

The old man appeared to be carefully studying the flute he had carved.

“I swear on my father’s soul,” responded Graziano, “that I’d cut off these hands before I’d hurt a hair on her head.”

They talked for a while longer. And finally massaro Peppe pushed the door open, allowing Graziano, who had remained at the entryway, to come inside.

“I’ll give her to you. But who will keep us like this from now on?”

Graziano looked at the polished copper that shone on the smoky wall; the spotless floor, recently washed; the swept hearth; and on the dresser, the gold-rimmed cups turned upside down, four oranges, and the pictures of the saints.

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