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She offered her condolences and then they kissed in polite greeting, but their cheeks did not even touch. Their faces just moved forward and to each side in the familiar practised moves.
Except they no longer felt familiar.
His hand, despite the scorching heat of the day, felt like ice in hers, and when she looked up and saw his grey complexion and gritted jaw she wanted to wrap her other hand around his, or reach up and touch his face.
Of course she would not.
Could not?
‘Well, shall we...?’ the priest said, gesturing towards the cemetery as if he was inviting them to move through to the lounge.
It was just a short walk up the hill, but in truly vicious heat, and as they started to head off Alicia was pleased to see that the florist must have had a change of heart and closed up her shop and come over.
Her son Guido was with her too.
The grocer came then.
Followed by the postmaster.
There were ten or so in the end.
The priest went first, holding his thurible and trailing smoke, with Dante walking behind him.
Dante was very composed; his stride did not falter and nor did he look behind him.
He simply walked alone.
As he always had.
Signora Schininà had all but banished Dante from the house when he had turned ten—that was common knowledge. He had had supper with her after school and then slept in the shed or wherever he could find.
Dante had explained to Alicia why once. ‘I’m bad for business,’ he’d said.
The gates to the cemetery were open, and the small procession made its way in. But to Alicia’s mind they turned in the wrong direction. The Schininà family were over on the other side, she thought frantically.
She and Dante had used to come here to look at the names and wonder if her real surname was here amongst the plaques and stones. Well, Dante would read them. She had memorised them, based on what he’d read out.
But they were turning towards the lone graves on the edge and it dawned on her—Carmella Anna Schininà, the family shame, would be buried apart from her ancestors. Alone.
Dante briefly halted then, his shoulders lifting and his breath catching, before resuming his stride.
Alicia soon found out the reason for his brief hesitation—her own breath caught and her eyes widened in surprise when she first saw the grave site, for it was clear that despite the meagre attendance there were many mourning today. She had never seen more flowers at a funeral—her small offering was almost smothered with deep red roses that clashed withgirasoli—sunflowers—and glorious cascades of lemon mimosa too. Orchids, lilies... The blooms were a blaze of colour and unexpected beauty in a regretful day.
Despite the poor turnout, there were clearly many people thinking of her with sadness and fondness today, even if they might not say.
On top of the coffin there was a delicate spray of white chrysanthemums—they meant joy the world over except for in Italy, where they meant sorrow.
Alicia was certain they were from Dante. And as she took her place the sorrowful simplicity of the chrysanthemums brought tears to her eyes.
Oh, he must be in agony this day, Alicia was sure, for he and his mother’s had been a complex relationship—or rather, almost no relationship.
Years ago, Dante had told her something he’d never told another.
‘She wanted to leave me at the baby door.’
‘But she didn’t.’
‘She wishes she had.’
