La Maestra

Midday. A forgotten cigarette curled bluish-hot smoke from its perch in a faded melamine ashtray, while a persistent fly played toccata e fuga with Gennaro’s bushy lughole. He didn’t wince, concentrated as he was. Next to him, Mario, aka “O Capitano”; across the table, Piero “O Communista” Esposito, and on his right, the one whose name no-one ever recalled – he usually answered to Lorenzo, would also accept Vincenzo, but generally went by Coso (Thingy.)

Gennaro exhaled as he played his hand; with an almost boy-like glee he scooped up the Settebello from the cards on the table as the other old-timers cursed and groaned in irritation.

On the other side of the door to the bar, a teenage girl with an apron tied around her waist perched on the arm of a chair, looking out over the square. Heat shimmered a few inches from the ground as the sun beat down upon the paving stones; the town lay quiet, most of the population preferring to shelter from the sweltering temperatures of the last few days indoors, with the exception of a few mangy-looking strays wilting in the scant shade of the handful of orange trees.

At the far end of the square, a woman approached. The pale shift dress she wore- the height of fashion back then – was scandalously short, revealing what seemed to be miles and miles of slender legs; the colour offset the warm glow of her tanned skin, a tan which could only have been curated on the beaches of the Costeira Amalfitana . She wore dark glasses and carried a leather weekend bag, which appeared to be rather heavy. Her hair glowed like corn in the sunlight.

Mariangela – the teenaged girl – was the first to notice her; she leaned over to Coso and muttered something with a sly smile. He was the first to look round, and then they were all staring openly and unabashedly as the mysterious stranger drew closer. It was only when she was practically under their noses that a feeble attempt was made to feign interest in their cards once more.

“Buongiorno” she addressed Mariangela with a smile. “I’ve just arrived… I was wondering if you could tell me where the hotel is?”

Piero snorted; Mario laughed out loud. Gennaro shook his head. “There’s no hotel here.” The woman looked crestfallen as he continued, “Franca might have a room though.” The others nodded in agreement. “Mariangela, show her where.” The waitress nodded and got to her feet, beckoning to the newcomer. “I’ll take you there.”

As the two left, the group at the card table watched with interest. “Is she an American?” Coso asked. Mario shook his head, “You heard her talk. She’s no American.” He scoffed. “No wedding ring.”

Piero breathed out through his nose. “Maybe divorced.” A tremor of excitement ran through them at the idea of something so illicit; Coso’s eyes widened. “She’s fast, that’s for sure. Maybe she’s a whore.” Snickering all round. “Those legs,” he added. “Maronn…” He bit his fist and the band dissolved into more coarse, schoolboy laughter, before moving back to their card game.

Word got round quickly in a town like theirs; the bar was the perfect place to catch up on the local news. By dinner time, everyone in the town had heard about the stranger, although her description had been somewhat embellished. In one version, she had a thick Russian accent and was, perhaps, a spy; another suggested she had an Adam’s apple. Gennaro’s wife, Rosaria, listened to the tale without passing comment, although when he mentioned the newcomer’s “endless” legs, she gritted her teeth and twisted the tea towel between her hands as if she were wringing a chicken’s neck.. Mario’s Annarella went one further and sent him back to the bar, “See if the American can make fusilli!”

Bar Roma closed from 2 to 4, as was common practice; when the young barista Mariangela returned, keys in hand, slightly sluggish after Nonna’s lunch, a modest crowd of local biddies had gathered, all hoping to question her for details on the outsider.

“She said she was from Milan. That’s all I know.” She shrugged as she unlocked the door to the bar and shoved the doorstop in place with her foot. “Madonna santissima, it’s so hot!”

“No wedding ring?” That was Lucia Picariello, aglow with curiosity. “How old?”

“No wedding ring. Not young. Maybe 30?”

“And you’re sure she wasn’t Russian? Or German?” Giovanna Ercolino’s eyes were narrowed, her brow furrowed with mistrust. Mariangela reached up and plucked her apron from its hook, shaking her head as she tied it in the back. “No, no, Italian for sure. Said her name was Sara.”

“Sara!” echoed Giovanna, turning to look at Lucia with a knowing expression. “I used to know a Sara up in ‘Ròtta, when I worked in the laundry. Nasty piece of work.” She tutted. “A coffee, please, Mari. Just a drop of milk. My stomach these days…”

Franca, the owner of the guest-house, usually wandered down for a coffee at around four-thirty. A handsome widow in her fifties, she bore a reputation as a battle-axe that was not wholly unfounded; she had, some years prior, dragged a lodger who had disrespected her from his room by the ear and thrown him through the front door out onto the step. Some said she’d once beat a man at fisticuffs, others alleged she’d done away with her own husband and used the War as her cover story.

Today, however, she was the star of the show and she knew it. She’d even put on rouge and face powder for the occasion; even so, a fine dew of sweat glistened on her faint moustache. She dabbed delicately at it with a napkin.

“Beautiful. Looks like a film star, really. Said she’s staying for a while.” Franca propped herself up on the bar and turned away from her eager audience as she called, index finger raised: “A coffee, please, Mariangela. And a glass of water.”

“But what the cabbage is she doing here?” Rosa Mustone, the dressmaker, turned the palms of her two hands outwards in sincere confusion.

It wasn’t that the town was a dive. Far away from that – everyone knew that the pasta old lady Ercolino sold was the best for miles around, that they had the largest and cleanest piazza, that their young priest, Padre Giacomo, was the most handsome the Vatican had to offer – he always sent the old girls aflutter. But for an outsider, one who had clearly come from some sophisticated city up North, the place bore little attraction.

Franca glowed with power. “Wait’ll I tell you.” She took her time, sipping her water, stirring sugar into her coffee, while the curious crowd looked on expectantly, the air humming with nervous excitement.

“She’s going to take over from Signor Matarazzo.” The nugget of information was delivered with a self-satisfied smile. Someone gasped. Murmuring. Even Mariangela looked up, interested, from the orange slices she was preparing.

“A woman?” “But so young!” “A girl!” “How strange!” “And so beautiful?!” Surprise, shock, rippled through the old women.

Franca shrugged. “She said she’s been to university.” Incredulity. “But why?” someone demanded.

Signor Matarazzo was (had been) the town’s schoolmaster. He was as much of a fixture as the statue of Santa Filomena which stood in the town’s square; he’d taught Mariangela, her mother before her, and her grandmother before that. Now, though he still emanated a quiet dignity, with his sharp nose balancing thick glasses, his pocket watch, the kerchief which embellished the top pocket of his waistcoat, his mind was no longer what it had been. The situation had come to a head when he had begun to speak of Abyssinia, of Benito, ‘Sua Eccellenza;’ he’d been “resting” since then in a nearby village at his sister’s, where it was believed the mountain air would have a purifying effect on his addled brain.

“Well, I really want to see how long she’s going to last.” Teresa Iannuzzi shrugged, lips pursed. With murmurs of agreement, the gaggle dispersed; back to their crochet, their quiet supper, asleep by ten.

Monday rolled around. Word had spread to the younger residents of the town about the new and attractive schoolma’am; Carlo’s hair was slick with his father’s Brylcreem; Angelo had tried to shave, and every time he moved wafts of cologne sent his deskmate into fits of coughing. When Maestra Sara arrived, Tommaso Caruso was waiting outside, smoking a cigarette and trying to emulate Mastroianni.

Miss Sara wore pale blue cotton trousers(!) and a beautiful white blouse. She also wore lipstick, and Giulia said that meant she was fast and probably not a virgin. The younger children thought her perfectly charming. Maria Pia thought she might be a princess, and Angelina said she was even more beautiful than Gina Lollobrigida.

School ended at 1pm; the older children had work to do at home, but the younger ones had time to dally. They crowded around the teacher’s desk with shy smiles; Maria Pia was brave enough to confide in her about the new baby brother who was stealing her mothers’ sleep and attention. The young teacher nodded sympathetically; she had a younger brother, too.

And so the lovely, mysterious, improper teacher settled into the small village, without much ado. She kept herself to herself – Franca said; taking her dinner in her room on Saturday evening, and sometimes venturing out “for a walk” on Sundays.

After a week, Tommaso, the oldest student in the school (at 16) confessed his love for her; he waited for her after school, and spoke earnestly to her as Carlo and Angelo looked on. She was kind enough to let him down gently; though he may or may not have cried into his pillow that night.

And thus the young teacher had won the small school over with her looks and fashionable clothes; before long she had their respect, as well. She spoke of Austen, of Shakespeare, of Dickens – she’d been to London, she said; it was very cold there, and there was even snow. (SNOW! These kids had never even seen a frost.) She was patient, and kind, and interesting; she knew how to bop, how to twist, and even how to jive. And her eyeliner was PERFECT.

She took a real shine to thirteen-year-old Giulia, the butcher’s daughter, who was somewhat the black sheep of her family. As her mother put it: “I knew she was weird when she came out with all that red hair.” The girl was a bright spark – quick-witted, small, with a nervous energy about her; her brown eyes full of fun. She was always in trouble, but it wasn’t because she was bad; in reality, the esteemed. Maestro Matarazzo had never been able to hold her interest for more than sixty seconds, dry as his lessons were.

With Maestra Sara, things were different. She made learning interesting, and challenging. Giulia stopped clowning around and really applied herself, despite the ribbing from the older classmates she had once tried to impress by being impertinent.

When the teacher passed by the macellaio which Giulia’s father owned, she gave a glowing report on how naturally gifted their youngest daughter was. Why, she could even go to university, one day, if she wanted to and applied herself. There was a good chance of her getting a scholarship for her mathematics.

Giulia’s mother blinked. She’d already left school when she was Giulia’s age; now this well-meaning but completely clueless polentona was suggesting her daughter was some kind of genius. “Oh, really? Interesting…” She fumbled, as she handed over the maestra’s change.

The comings and goings of young Sara never ceased to interest the inquisitiveness of the people of that small town. If she farted, within five minutes it was public knowledge. Small towns are like that. Nonetheless, she stayed for several years in that sleepy mountain village; she never really gave much away about her background, though she was always polite and smiling with the locals.

Suddenly, one day, as unexpectedly as she had arrived, she was gone. Franca had no details – at the bar, while she sipped her afternoon espresso, when asked about what had happened, she simply shrugged, eyebrows raised, palms outstretched in the “boh!” fashion that meant: “I haven’t the foggiest.”

“She only gave me a day or two’s notice. Said she had to leave. Family problems.” Franca shrugged again. “No forwarding address.”

Lucia wagged her head knowingly. “The last time someone ran away so fast, they came back nine months later.” Wise nods, clucked tongues. Franca only shrugged again. “I never saw her with anyone, that’s all I’m saying. I hope she’s well. She was a good girl.”

Again, shrugs. “Something odd about her…” “I never was sure about her…” “She was fast. Lipstick! Not even married!”

But, anyway, just like that, she was gone. The Scopa players continued playing scopa; the pasta grannies continued making their pasta. Life, as they say, goes on. After a while, the townspeople ceased to speculate on what might have befallen the maestra. However – her legacy remained. The replacement (an earnest young man named, well, Ernesto…) was surprised to be interrogated by the class on his opinion of Dickens. Giulia continued to apply herself and yes – made it out of that humdrum town to study Maths at the University of Naples. Angelina became a teacher herself. Tommaso still loves blondes to this day.