‘Me too. But imagine that, a fucking half-made bridge. I’m sure the politicians would love that. I can hear Bolte,’ Bob said, and then, mimicking the Premier’s measured voice, ‘“Oh, I’m so pleased to announce the launch of the half-made bridge, a legacy I will be remembered for — alongside the hanging of that mongrel Ryan.”’ Bob was laughing so much that he couldn’t finish the sentence.
Antonello chuckled. ‘You could’ve been a politician, Bob.’
‘Sure, and the bridge could be a public art sculpture, but it’s meant to be a bridge.’
‘Some of the blokes think it’s doomed. Sam’s mother has been saying it’s cursed and that we should get a strega to come and take the evil eye off and remove the curse.’
‘A strega?’
‘A witch.’
‘Well, maybe a witch would help. Can’t make it much worse. Just when I think things are going smoothly, something else happens. Too many problems, we all know that. What worries me is that everyone is tired of all the problems, all of us — the bosses, the bloody engineers, and the workers too. When everyone is exhausted, that’s when problems happen.’
Why hadn’t he listened to those premonitions, to those warnings? Antonello gripped the side of the bench. He could feel tears falling.
When he opened his eyes, he caught sight of the prickly pear. The fruit was beginning to turn orange and yellow. His next-door neighbour was on a mission to get Antonello to cut it down. ‘You know it’s a noxious weed,’ she insisted. She said they had a moral obligation to only grow plants native to the area. Their disagreements were usually friendly — they both supported the Greens, they agreed that more should be done to address climate change and to ensure land rights for Indigenous Australians — but he refused to give in on the prickly pears, and no amount of coaxing from Paolina, who said their relationship with Kathy was more important than any plant, would change his mind.
It had taken him a whole afternoon to cut all of the fronds that were growing towards Kathy’s side of the fence. But he couldn’t bear to cut it down. In the valleys between Vizzini and the neighbouring towns, farmers grew fields of prickly pears and sold the fruit at the market. Prickly pears reminded him of home.
Since he’d stopped work to be with Paolina, he spent most of his spare time in the garden. The broccoli and the broad beans were ready to pick, and soon there would be eggplants and capsicums too. The Italian parsley in Paolina’s raised garden had gone wild, and the first shoots of the bulbs the girls helped their grandmother plant were beginning to appear. On their next visit, he’d act out his disapproval, so they could roll their eyes behind his back and laugh. It was so much easier with his grandchildren than it had ever been with his children.
Once, his daughter, Nicki, had asked him about the bridge. She was doing a project for school. He refused to talk about it, but she persisted and persisted. They fought. Their relationship had never been great, but it was worse after that. He should’ve told her about the bridge, but he was afraid he couldn’t tell it as a story or a piece of history. He was afraid to tell her that he’d seen things, known that there were problems, and remained silent. So often he’d told his children to be responsible, to look out for each other and for their friends. How could he tell her that he was at work the day they jacked up the box girders on the west side, and that when the two half boxes were not the same height, he didn’t insist they take them back down? How could he tell her he was one of the riggers who hoisted ten big blocks, each one weighing 8 tons, up to the top and spread them across the higher span to force it down? How could he tell her that he was there early the following morning, only weeks before the collapse, and that he knew the blocks hadn’t worked?
The phone alarm woke Paolina. It was 2.00 pm and she needed to take her medication. She rose slowly from the recliner and went to the bench. There the pills were lined up in small plastic jars, and on the pinboard was a list: which pills, how many, with or without food, and time of day. She poured a glass of water from the filtered jug and took six pills, one at a time.
She picked up the phone to reset the alarm and noticed a message from her old friend Alice. They had kept in touch even though Alice now lived interstate. Usually they talked on the phone once or twice a year, but since Paolina had told her about the cancer, Alice had been ringing or texting every week.
They’d met at teachers’ college in the late 1960s, and it was through Alice that Paolina met Antonello. Alice had invited her to the San Remo Ballroom, and Alice’s boyfriend, Sam, came to pick them up. There were two other young men in the front seat. Sam introduced Slav and Antonello.
‘I thought Alice said you were Italian,’ Antonello said to Paolina once they found a table.
‘I am,’ she said. ‘I was born here, but my parents come from Sicily. It’s my hair, isn’t it? Everyone thinks I’m Australian because I don’t have dark hair. You know, there are Italians with blonde hair.’
‘Not many,’ he said, ‘at least not from the south. I don’t remember anyone in the village having blonde hair. Well, there was one woman with white hair, but she was an albino.’
They both laughed. His laugh was hearty and free of any restraint. He was a handsome man, his hair black and wavy, his eyes almost as black as her brother’s. She hadn’t laughed for weeks. She remembered feeling guilty: she was enjoying herself while her brother was in Vietnam and in danger. She’d considered leaving — catching a cab and going home.
‘Where in Sicily is your family from?’
His voice brought her back to the room, where the orchestra were playing ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ and several couples were already on the dance floor.
‘Grammichele. And yours?’ she asked.
‘Vizzini — not that far from Grammichele,’ Antonello said. ‘I’ve been to Grammichele twice — a long time ago now, when I was a child. My father’s youngest sister married a man from Grammichele and they lived there. It is much bigger than Vizzini. It has a piazza in the centre with six roads leading to it, I remember. My cousin Andrea took me there, and we spent the afternoon running around the square and up and down the streets until it rained and we sheltered in one of the churches.’
The waiters brought them a bottle of wine, and Antonello poured them a glass each. The band started playing Elvis hits and more couples moved onto the dance floor.
‘St Michael’s?’
‘You know it?’
‘No, I’ve never been,’ Paolina said. ‘My parents talk about the town so much that I’m sure I could draw you a map with all the main sights. We planned to go back for my cousin’s wedding last year, but my brother was conscripted and sent to Vietnam.’
‘Sorry, that must be difficult. I was lucky, didn’t get called up. Have you heard from your brother?’
‘He writes and he seems to be okay. He has nine months to go before his tour of duty is done. God willing, he’ll be home soon.’
When the band started playing ‘Blue Suede Shoes’, Alice was suddenly standing behind them. ‘Come on, you two. No one should sit through Elvis. Nello, are you going to ask Paolina to dance?’
‘Sorry,’ Paolina responded. ‘Alice can be bossy.’
‘Dance?’ Antonello said, turning to Paolina.
Alice laughed as she raced back towards Sam, who was rocking and rolling with an imaginary partner.
‘Yes, I’d love to,’ Paolina said, pushing back her chair.
Paolina danced with Antonello all night. And when the music allowed it, they talked.
‘You remind me of one of my teachers, Signora Bellini. She encouraged me to draw.’
‘You draw?’ Paolina asked.
‘I’ve always loved drawing. My mother takes the credit. She wanted to name all her children after artists, but my father wouldn’t let her. I was the lucky last — all the grandparents’ names were used up.’