Personality Read online

  Maria glanced at it then continued to look out at the buildings on 59th Street and the steam coming out of the ground at the corner of 59th and Lexington. ‘I don’t deserve it,’ she whispered.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Maria turned and her eyes were wet. She smiled at Mrs Gaskell. ‘I’ll have it when we get to the hotel,’ she said.

  THE DONNA WISEMAN SHOW

  ‘On that night a young girl from England stepped out and stole the show from all the big stars. She’s a belter in the tradition of Ethel Merman and Judy Garland. She’s just signed to Columbia Records here in the States and my God what a voice. She’s an old-style star in Europe already and been singing since she was ten. Ladies and gentleman, Maria Tambini.’

  Applause.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘The Isle of Bute.’

  ‘Is that Scotland?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What a loud baby you must have been.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Your mum and dad sing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Loud?’

  ‘My mother loved Shirley Bassey and I think she’s great too. My manager goes for Frank Sinatra.’

  ‘Don’t we all. Do you have commercials in Britain?’

  ‘Yes. We do.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well. For loaves.’

  ‘Loaves?’

  ‘Yes, you know. Bread.’

  ‘My God. Like loaves and fishes. Well, folks, we’ll be right back with Maria Tambini after these messages.’

  THE TONIGHT SHOW WITH JOHNNY CARSON

  ‘She’s the talk of the town. Blows you right out of the theatre. Here she is – Mary Tambini.’

  Applause. Whistling.

  ‘So you come from Scotland?’

  ‘Yeah. Scotland, USA.’

  ‘Oh, a comedian too. Do you go back there much?’

  ‘No, things have been busy.’

  ‘Your family’s there?’

  ‘I speak to them on the phone when I can.’

  ‘They must be proud of you, huh?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You like haggis?’

  ‘Horrible.’

  ‘You don’t like haggis?’

  ‘God no. It’s a sheep or something.’

  ‘I love your accent.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re cute.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘D’you have a boyfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I have your phone number?’

  ‘Cheeky.’

  ‘Cheeeeky. You know I love your accent. I’d like to take you home and sit you on the mantelpiece.’

  ‘They told me about you.’

  ‘You play the bagpipes?’

  ‘You’re daft.’

  ‘Stay tuned, folks. I’m daaaft. Join us again after this word from our sponsors.’

  THE DICK CAVETT SHOW

  ‘You are such a talented little person I want to kill you.’

  ‘Thank you. I think.’

  ‘No, seriously. You’re amazing. Do they love you in Britain?’

  ‘They like singers.’

  ‘You sing old songs?’

  ‘People like those old ones. I’ve always sung them. I don’t really know why.’

  ‘You’re a skinny girl, Maria. You exercise a lot?’

  ‘It’s just being on the road. We work hard but I’m always eating something.’

  ‘That’s like what my wife says about me. Well, actually, she says there’s always something eating me.’

  Maria giggles. The audience applauds.

  ‘You have nice teeth, Maria. Did you buy them over here?’

  ‘I brush them.’

  ‘You brush them?’

  ‘I clean them, Mr Cavett.’

  ‘Well. Who says that Britain no longer leads the world?’

  Maria laughs into her hands.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, Maria Tambini is going to sing a little song for us. It’s called “Paper Roses”. Thank you, Maria.’

  *

  She sang for President Reagan at the White House. He pinched her cheek and she didn’t know whether to laugh or curtsy. She stood at the reception and drank her seventh Diet Pepsi of the day, and it felt awfully nice to her, like a passing shower of rain inside, and harmless, under control, the taste of zero, the buzz of Diet Pepsi. At the dinner, when no one was looking, she got rid of the stuff on her plate. She folded a piece of chicken, two new potatoes, and a heap of julienned carrots in a napkin and passed them into her sparkly handbag.

  The President had said, ‘I know girls just like you on the West Coast.’

  ‘I’m from the west coast too,’ she said. ‘The west coast of Scotland.’

  ‘You don’t have sunshine there.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or oranges. Or Disneyland.’

  ‘I’ve been in California,’ she said.

  ‘You sure don’t have that in Scotland,’ he said.

  Mr Reagan moved on and another man in black tie shook her hand. ‘But you have the Loch Ness Monster,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Great to meet you,’ said the man. ‘I’m Ed Meese. You sing beautifully.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Mrs Reagan had a very weak handshake. ‘My word,’ said the First Lady, ‘you’re so terribly thin, my dear.’

  ‘I’ve always been wee,’ said Maria.

  ‘Well, never mind,’ said Mrs Reagan drawing close to her ear then drawing quickly away. ‘A girl can never be too thin.’

  Maria went down in an elevator and asked a security man to order her a car. She felt more and more ill as the car progressed down Pennsylvania Avenue.

  From her hotel room that night, Maria could see a white steeple-like thing covered in light outside. She felt very cold. She had a headache and only the crackle of the TV news distracted her from the pain and the thought of how cold the room was. There was a drumming inside her head as she lay down on the floor and snuggled up to the radiator; she turned it up full, and the metal was very hot, but she still felt the cold and for an hour shivered there.

  She had sung well tonight. The people at the party liked her. They all seemed so happy, thin, and so good-looking in that ballroom, in their clean shoes, bow ties, long dresses, and what bright teeth they had when they laughed. The President used to be a movie star and so did his wife. She was lovely and thin. And when she smiled it was as if cameras were clicking all over the world. Nobody seemed tired or poor. Nobody seemed to belong in any other place. The people were warm, but the air-conditioning made the room cool.

  My father is American. I think my father is like Ronald Reagan and his hair is neat and tidy. He has white teeth. My father has white teeth and smiles at people. My father is a famous American person and might live in California.

  Maria’s mind was filled with the room, with tonight, and also filled with other rooms, other nights. She lay on the carpet and in an instant felt that the hotel was too big and so was Washington, DC. The world was encroaching, enormous, country within country, city within city, so many rooms, she said, and in the middle ‘me’.

  She climbed up on the pillows and wrapped the bedclothes around herself, yet she felt the heat passing out from the skin of her back into the headboard. She was shivering and the hours passed. Around four o’clock, she dialled a long-distance number and spoke on the phone for half an hour. The person on the line began to worry about the cost of the call.

  ‘It’s a faraway place,’ said Lucia.

  ‘I know, granny,’ said Maria. ‘Your voice is echoing.’

  ‘Are you dressed for the weather? Are you looking after yourself now?’

  ‘Aye, granny. I’m doing well.’

  ‘Good and good enough,’ said Lucia. ‘Just remember you’ve got good Italian blood in you Maria, and you’re used to the nice weather.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I’ve been sittin
g these past afternoons with an old suitcase at my feet,’ said Lucia. ‘Would you believe it – a suitcase of stuff from years ago, from a lot of years. They found it in a store cupboard up in Glasgow, and they brought it down. It’s been here a while now. It’s been in the cupboard in the back bedroom.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Maria.

  ‘Just old bits,’ said Lucia, ‘stuff of mine, stuff of yours as well.’

  Maria could hear a delay of her own breath on the phone line.

  ‘It can’t be mine, granny,’ she said.

  ‘It’s from the war,’ said Lucia.

  ‘Well, that’s not mine, granny. I wasn’t …’

  ‘Aye, right enough.’

  ‘Maybe mum’s.’

  ‘They are not your mother’s,’ said Lucia, ‘not hers. She was always a difficult one to dress.’

  ‘The clothes are somebody else’s.’

  ‘Aye, they can’t be yours, right enough.’

  ‘Why do you have them?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why didn’t you open the suitcase or throw them out?’ asked Maria.

  ‘They’re here in front of me,’ said Lucia.

  ‘I know. Whose are they?’

  ‘From the war.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re from the war.’

  ‘Can you mend them?’ asked Maria.

  ‘They’ll go in the bin,’ said Lucia. ‘That’s where they’ll go, in the bin, Sofia.’

  ‘Granny, this is Maria.’

  ‘I know, hen,’ she said, ‘and you’re that far away. You’re in a far place but what a miracle to hear you.’

  ‘Did the things belong to Sofia?’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘You should look after them,’ said Maria. ‘Those old clothes and things can be valuable.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Lucia. ‘You can go through them the next time you’re up.’

  ‘I better go, mammo.’

  ‘Right you are, dear. I’ll watch out for the steamer. Will you come and see me?’

  ‘Of course, mammo,’ said Maria. ‘I can’t wait to see you and we’ll have a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘How right you are. I’ll hang up the phone now.’

  ‘Goodnight mammo.’

  ‘Is it night time?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Cheerio, my darlin’.’

  Maria replaced the receiver and sank into the pillows. How lovely to hear Lucia’s voice all those miles away. What a nice person: she was getting old. Maria put out the light. The blankets were heavy, not warm, and by contrast her head was light – so light, she felt that her mind could easily have broken away, rising up to the ceiling to bide for the night, from there to contemplate its sleeping enemy. Before she closed her eyes she looked over at the window. The glass was clear, but just before the darkness of sleep, for the briefest second, she was sure she saw the face of a small girl. The girl looked in, tapped at the glass, and disappeared.

  9

  Lucia

  My husband Mario took a handsome picture. The one over the fireplace is the best one of him I think. He has all the dignity in the world in that picture, and his eyes are grey, like the grey wall around Lucca we walked along in 1930. We wanted that evening to last all the hours God sends – there it was and there it always will be, despite everything, an evening from heaven, walking together for two hours around the old wall, holding hands and falling in love with each other.

  I can still smell the rosemary. I can still see the spires of San Michele and San Martino, and the bicycles passing, and feel the sunshine going strong in the evening like a great blessing, and we were young, Mario, seventeen years old the two of us, children more or less, nothing in the world can bother you at that age, your nice shirt, clean hair, the lovely hands you had, and my God, we had the whole world in front of us.

  ‘I’m not one of those girls who enjoys silly talk,’ I said.

  You were quiet. I liked that. You walked with me and held my hand and knew how to pass the time. You always knew how to be with a person and not smother them, Mario, or make them tired with too many jokes. I began to love you then. The way I remember it you said nothing for half an hour and just walked with me and shaded your eyes from the sun. There was no nonsense or pretending between us. We were quiet so we were. But I remember the gardens in the city and the promises we made by just walking and then stopping to laugh. I remember the heat on my arms, the tall trees and the look of the hills.

  You had a newspaper in your pocket and money from your father because of all your hard work. You took out the paper and read me a story on the front page about the death of Mrs Puccini in that old house at the Torre del Lago. ‘She outlived the old man by seven years,’ you said. Seven years. The very first time we met we spoke of Puccini and you said he was a hero. You stood in the street when you were only a child and cried with the women when he passed in his hearse. And the story about Mrs Puccini was in the paper the night we walked around the city wall.

  You took me into the via Fillungo. We looked in all the shop windows then went into Carli. I still remember the red velvet on the walls and the glass cabinets, Mario. All the silver was polished to hell and you had a cheeky smile for the lady and you made her take the trays out. She told you not to waste her time but you said it was our time not hers. Then you bought me this Miraculous Medal and the gold cross to go with it on a chain and I got it blessed on the Monday but oh that night when you paid for it out of your own pocket I could have clapped my hands together for prayers.

  ‘Let us consider the old man,’ he said. ‘And let’s remember his wife who joins him today.’

  That was Mario. He took me to the square beside the pink house where Puccini was born and we sat in a trattoria there and ate ice cream and were happy then, the night was still and calm. You said, ‘This is a good place.’ ‘E un’ buon luogo.’

  ‘Like a painting,’ I said. ‘Come una pittura.’

  It seems like a thousand years ago now.

  These things out of the suitcase, they’ve been spread over the carpet for days now. I’m counting them. I have never seen them before and yet they are more personal to me than anything in this house. I don’t own them in any way, but I was meant to own them, they are relics of some life that failed, Mario, our life, my own, Sofia’s. For five years it’s been in that back cupboard. Couldn’t open it. Couldn’t send it back to anywhere. Not now.

  I’m counting them, these old things.

  Three small cotton dresses. Four pairs of white pants. One pair of boots for a child. A mirror. A hairbrush. Socks. A child’s winter coat and knitted hat. Three packets of hose. One embroidered black blouse. One pair of ladies’ pumps. A satin blouse with a small collar. A brown fitted suit. A man’s grooming kit. A man’s green gabardine suit. A red waistcoat. A panty girdle. Men’s drawers. A boxed jigsaw puzzle of Edinburgh Haymarket. Three tin mugs. Two bottles of wine. Assorted musical scores with inscriptions. Letters. Tins of tea. Chocolate.

  This suitcase has been in a storeroom full of junk at the main post office in Glasgow since 1940. That is what they told me when they brought it up from the pier. The post office was being knocked down and they decided to deliver these personal belongings if the people were still on the postal register. Mrs L. Tambini, Rothesay, Isle of Bute – said the label, the dangerous words on the label.

  Here I am. My married name. When Mario proposed to me that summer in Lucca he already had plans to move to Glasgow to go into business with his cousin. There was a café in Duke Street – the Cosmo Café – and so we came here to Scotland and worked hard and lived in a room over the café. I was quickly pregnant with Sofia and when she was born, Mario and I moved to Rothesay. Sergio gave us the money to open the café and we did so well we paid him back within two years. I’ll never forget it – down there in Rothesay, with the bay so nice and bright, we were home.

  There were so many hol
iday-makers then, the pier was heaving with boats. We built that café up from nothing. We had all the new milk drinks and the new sweets. Mario was full of life and so good with the customers. There were musical evenings down there and lots of Italian families would come from Largs and Greenock. It used to be a great community round here; we were never out of The Buteman with charity things and galas and competitions. I would go on stock runs to Glasgow and got friendly with some of the people on the Scottish-Italian newspaper, La Scozia. They were good people: they wanted the best for Italy. It always seemed that life was taking new turns in those days: people would come from Italy and start new businesses, and the community looked after itself. What happened? The days were good and busy. Sofia was growing up. I would brush her hair at the window every night. A hundred strokes of the brush every night on her lovely hair.

  I could never tell him. We were very young. Mario never wanted a life beyond the café and the counting-up at night. He wanted to write his recipes into the book and paste our memories in beside them. He was a meek man God bless him, a decent, good man, and everything he wanted was right there, his soda fountain and a dozen tables down at the front. La Scozia was exciting to a young girl and yes I wanted ideas in my life. Heavens above. Ideas and new ventures in life. My husband was good don’t get me wrong, he was proud and worked all the hours, but I’m telling you now I knew I had fallen in love not with a man but with a beautiful evening and a medal from the Villa Fillungo. God forgive me Mario: I fell in love with a walk around the city walls at Lucca and the smell of rosemary and a man’s clean hair and all the fine talk of Mrs Puccini.

  And to think you loved me for my freedom. You loved me for the interests that you didn’t have. My visits to Glasgow were escapes, my dear Mario, they were high times. Then I took a train to London with some of the people I’d met through the paper. You were proud that I met Gigli, and at that time, if you remember, you were not against the great patriots at St Peter’s Church. You were proud of the photographs. You wanted to put them up in the café. My dear Mario, life was unkind to you, I met somebody else. I met him in London and he adored me, Mario, and I wanted to run and run to Scotland and go upstairs and forget that terrible chance and be with my husband and Sofia, I promise you.