My Heart Lies in Pisciotta Read online

  Cate Nielson Raye

  My Heart Lies In Pisciotta

  Copyright © 2020 by Cate Nielson Raye

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Cate Nielson Raye asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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  For my parents, who kept up with the literary thirst of an ambitious eight year old. For my husband, who didn’t mind the late nights.

  Chapter 1

  When I think of my life, I picture a zombie. Not the rotten kind with various appendages dropping off and arms outstretched demanding brains, more like a listless human tentatively being pulled along, this way and that, by a leash around its throat. When the zombie does well it is rewarded and put on a pedestal for the uninterested public to gush over. When it disappoints it is scolded and disowned. I am that zombie.

  My father has been holding my leash since the moment I could walk and talk. My mother is more concerned with whatever hobby she is currently engrossed in than with my personal and professional development. On my 10th birthday, my father sat me down and told me about the importance of education and ensuring I did something with my life that contributed to society. Only then was I allowed to join my friends and cut my birthday cake. He had decided there and then that I was to be a doctor, a surgeon in fact, and for the next thirteen years, I allowed myself to be pulled by my neck leash into any situation that would ensure that career path.

  I did not resent it. I hold my father in such high regard that I was simply happy that he was proud of me. I excelled in my studies and genuinely enjoyed learning about science and medicine. The problems began when, in a rare moment of softness, my father sent me to visit my grandmother in the Province of Salerno, Italy as a reward for all my hard work through my GCSE’s. My Nonna is the epitome of eccentric. She lives in a small apartment on top of the cliffs overlooking the town of Pisciotta and a vast expanse of the Mediterranean Sea. She believes in two things. Following your heart and filling the stomachs of loved ones with good Italian food. I adore her.

  That summer she introduced me to the joys of art. After a long day cleaning and cooking, she sat me down on the terrazza, handed me a glass of wine and placed an easel and a paint tray in front of me. I was not to go to bed until I had painted her something. I fell in love, passionately, with painting from that point on. That first clumsy canvas of a Mediterranean sunset hangs on her wall to this day. When I returned to England I no longer requested anatomy books and science magazines. I’d beg for paints and drawing supplies, for books on art history or famous artists, and I asked to visit the Tate museum for my birthday treat. My father allowed these “flights of fancy” until I came home from sixth form one day with the unfortunate news that I had only achieved a C in my Biology coursework. From that point on he began to tighten the leash.

  And that is how I found myself there, in the departure lounge at Heathrow airport, awaiting my flight to Naples. Two weeks earlier I had received my masters’ degree in Biomedical Science and my father was telling anyone who would listen about his daughter who was going to medical school. Of course, I had applied and been accepted as my father expected. He did not expect me to also apply for undergraduate Fine Art courses. And I did not expect to be accepted on the Fine Art course at York St John University. As soon as I opened that acceptance letter I knew my medical career was over.

  After the enormous sense of pride in my achievement, an achievement that was for once completely independent of my father, the waves of guilt came crashing over me. I spent days pacing around the house, urging myself to talk to him. I spent many sleepless nights crying into my pillow over the disappointment I was about to cause. The day I finally broke the news I found him in his office. He was distracted but I placed the letter in front of him where he bent over his papers. He did not move. “Dad?” I spoke, a timid whisper I wasn’t even sure he would hear. He was still some more. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ana,” was all that he said and pushed the paper away from him.

  I felt the metaphorical leash around my neck tighten, and I fought against it. “I’ve already decided.” My voice was surprisingly firm, even to my ears as I summoned all my previously untested strength against him. He rose slowly and placed his glasses on top of his notes, his voice eerily calm as he spoke. “If you choose this path you will be choosing to leave this house.” I stared at him, open-mouthed in shock as he turned on his heel and left the room. He has not spoken to me since. My mother suggested I get away. That’s her answer to everything. I knew I needed to see Nonna. I knew if I saw the painting that hung in her apartment I would know in my heart that I had made the right choice. My mother paid for my airfare. My father never said goodbye.

  * * *

  The journey was long and consisted of a flight with one stop, a bus ride, and a two and a half hour train journey into Pisciotta – Palinuro station. Near the exit, a young man in a loose crinkled shirt, shorts, and sandals held up a sign reading, “Anabella Ossani”. I approached him and smiled. “I’m Anabella Ossani”. He kindly took my bags and threw them into the back of what must have been a taxi. “I take you to your grandmother,” he clarified, gesturing for me to sit in the passenger seat. He did not speak at all on our ten minute journey up the cliffside. He dropped me at the bottom of a cobbled road that I recognised from my visit seven years before. Nonna lived nearby.

  As I dragged my bags up the hill I heard a familiar voice calling out from somewhere above me. On the rooftop at the end of the street Nonna jumped up and down, waving her arms wildly and yelling salutations in Italian. She vanished and appeared seconds later at the garden gate. I dropped my bags and ran to her. She could no longer pick me up, I was now a good head taller than her, but nevertheless she held me tightly and swung me around on the spot. “Let me look at you!” She took my hand and twirled me. “My, my, my! You are la passerotta no more! You’re a woman now!” She fussed over my hair and muttered about my “tiny waist” in Italian as she took my bags from me and ushered me inside.

  The apartment hadn’t changed much since I had last been there. There were cushions scattered here and there on futons and day beds ideal for lounging. Tapestries and paintings hung randomly on the walls and my grandmother’s various successful and failed attempts at pottery were dotted sporadically throughout. “You know where your room is. Go and clean up and then I will feed you. You need meat on your bones!” My bedroom had a glorious view of the coastline and a great expanse of deep blue Mediterranean sea. A gentle breeze blew through my window off the water. I felt calm and content for the first time in…years? I had not realised the stiffness in my shoulders, the furrow in my brow, but mostly the staggering pressure I’d been carrying in my soul until that moment when it was all released. In that instant, I felt I had lived to twice my age.

  After I showered the sticky heat and grime of travelling off my body I dressed in fresh linen and headed out to find my grandmother. Her bedroom door was ajar but she was not inside. I peered through the doorway, immediately spotting the painting above her bed. I wandered toward the centre of the room tentatively and stood staring
at my handiwork. Was it the painting that had ended it all? Or was it the beginning of something infinitely better? I backed out of the room with one last glance at the canvas as I closed her door. Nonna was already in the kitchen, stirring something on the stovetop that smelt heavenly.

  She handed me the parmesan and a grater and put me to work. We chattered amicably and reminisced about old times. “What has been happening in your life, Anabella? It has been so long. Your eyes are much sadder than I remember. You must not be happy.” I glanced briefly out of the window, avoiding her penetrating gaze and urged my tear ducts to clamp shut. I sighed and ceased chopping the shallots in front of me. Nonna placed a weathered hand over mine and smiled warmly. “Perhaps later, when you are ready?” I nodded and focused on dicing the vegetables.

  After a gut-busting feast of spinach and ricotta ravioli, a bottle of wine, and a slab of tiramisu for dessert, I was exhausted. Nonna pushed a dish of warm milk into my hand and sent me off to bed. I had the best sleep I’d had in months and woke up refreshed to warm sunshine streaming through my shutters. I wandered barefoot out onto the terrazza. Nonna lay on a sun lounger, dark glasses covered her face and she stared out at the brightening marina below. A small smile acknowledged my presence as I sat in the deck chair next to her, tucking my feet underneath me. “I’m not going to medical school, Nonna. I’m not going to be a doctor.” She turned her face toward me but said nothing. It was my cue to continue. “I couldn’t pretend anymore. I’m good at science, I did so well at university, but I didn’t love it. I know it’s not my passion. I couldn’t devote another seven years of my life to a career I would be miserable in.”

  I covered my face with my hands - the memory of my father’s hurt eyes was burnt into my retinas. Nonna spoke softly. She was sitting now and facing me. “You know what I always say, Ana? ‘Devi solo seguire il tuo cuore.’ You know you must follow your heart.” I suppressed my tears, “But I broke Papa’s heart.” She made a dismissive sound and flapped a hand at me. “Your father is a stubborn man. He has tried moulding you for years. I have always wanted you to find your fight. He will lick his wounds and soon heal.” Her casual manner dispelled my melancholy and I fought against my smile. “I got accepted on the Fine Art course at York St John. I’ll be back to being an undergraduate, but I get to study all the things I love.” She grinned at me and held my face between her fingertips. “There is the woman behind the sadness.” She kissed my cheeks and jumped to attention. “This calls for a celebration! Come! And do not worry about your father. I know that man more than he knows himself. By the time you return he will miss you too much to be angry.”

  * * *

  The next week with Nonna was the happiest of my life. We cooked and ate like queens. We laughed and drank wine every evening on the terrazza. She introduced me to her friends and neighbours and proudly announced that I had been accepted to art school. She also called my father. After not hearing from either of my parents since my arrival, Nonna grew angry at the lack of concern my parents had for their daughter who was so far from home. I begged her not to call them and when she ignored me I couldn’t stay in the room to listen.

  As I wandered toward the stairs I heard Nonna say, “Now you will listen to me, Franco,” in her sternest voice. I quickly climbed to the roof so as not to hear any more. I loved having Nonna on my side but I did not want a fall out in my family. I knew my father thought of his mother as a meddler and a bad influence on me. I knew he would blame her for my sudden change of character. But in truth, I was not a child anymore, and I had wanted my own mind for at least the past three years.

  I stood on the rooftop staring down at the twinkling lights in the marina. As I watched the light from the moon glint off the wave tops in the distance my mind wandered into my past. At twenty years old I had visited my father’s office in the city. He had introduced me to his colleagues and gushed over my successes in my undergraduate degree. He left me alone with his partner Martin Sear to take a phone call. Martin seemed friendly and charming and told me about a party he would be having at his family home that weekend. My parents were invited and he extended the invitation to me. I knew it would please my father to be socialising with his work cronies so I agreed to go along, graciously accepting his invitation and faking my excitement.

  I repeatedly try to forget about that night but I never could. I will always remember Martin cornering me in his guest bathroom, drunkenly pressing against me, and whispering how he had admired how much I’d grown over the years. When his fingers traced my thigh and headed north of my stockings I shoved his hand away and tried to leave. He threw out his arm to block me and firmly wrapped his other around my waist, pinning his body against mine. As I felt his arousal press against me and his lips at my throat something inside me snapped.

  I no longer wanted to be the naive young girl led blindly by her parents. I could no longer remain listless and compliant. For the first time ever I felt a spark of anger toward my father. If I hadn’t tried to be who he wanted me to be I would not have been in that situation. If he wasn’t mingling with London’s elite he would know I was in danger. The anger burnt hot in my chest as Martin’s tongue traced the line of my jaw. I managed to shift my weight backwards and create enough space to plough my knee as hard as I could manage into his groin.

  My parents never questioned why I had left the party early that night. They were too busy climbing the social ladder. Martin never approached me again and I never mentioned the incident to my father. From that night on the seed of doubt had been planted and I desperately wanted to rebel. It would be a few more years before I found my way out. I wrapped my arms around myself and shuddered at the thought of what could have happened that night. I heard a shuffle behind me and noticed Nonna trying to climb through the ceiling hatch from below. I rushed to her side, took her arm, and pulled her up.

  We stood side by side looking out into the moonlit night. “Well? What did he say?” I asked without looking at her. She placed a hand on the small of my back. “He will come around, you will see.” I laughed without humour. “That bad huh?” I gave her a wry smile and walked toward the ceiling hatch. Nonna called out to me before I disappeared below. “I have to meet a friend tomorrow. You should go out and explore the town. I have a bicycle. Take it and go have some fun.” I nodded and bid her goodnight. That night I went to sleep with a slightly heavier heart.

  Chapter 2

  The following day was Wednesday. Nonna had left early that morning, she had stuck her head into my room but I kept my eyes closed and steadied my breathing in the hope that she would not force me to talk about my daddy issues. I heard her leave and I lay awake for the next hour, sleep evading me before I threw the sheets off my bare legs and ambled to the kitchen to make coffee. I took my coffee and my MacBook out onto the terrazza and warily accessed my emails. There was nothing from my father so I relaxed a little more and sipped from my steaming cup as I scrolled through my inbox.

  My mother had contacted me. She mentioned nothing about my predicament, just asked me how I was and if I was having fun on my “holiday” like I had chosen to get away for some sun rather than because I’d been forced out of my home. I rolled my eyes at her deliberate obtuseness and returned to my inbox. I quickly noticed an email from York St John University and opened it eagerly. It detailed my acceptance and the process of enrolling onto my courses. There was also information regarding accommodation and housing around the university campus. After briefly looking into the student housing brochures I was gripped with a sudden panic.

  I had been so ecstatic with my acceptance to the university, and so caught up with the drama surrounding my family life, that I hadn’t even thought about how I would support myself once I got there. For my first year, I could possibly get a part-time job, but this would in no way cover the living expenses I would incur studying in York, let alone the materials I would need throughout my courses. My father’s high income would make me ineligible for any grants, which wouldn’t have been eno
ugh anyway even if I got student loans to pay my tuition fees. I was angry at myself. I was so dependent on my father even now after I had rebelled against him.

  If he refused to accept my chosen career path, if he continued to disown me completely, I would not be able to take up my course anyway. Surely he wouldn’t do that to spite me? I closed my computer and tried to ignore the gnawing fear that was growing inside me. I had too much pent up, nervous energy. Nonna was right, I needed to explore. I wanted to paint but her supplies were limited. I decided to head into town and buy some with the cash she had left for me. Abandoning my now cold coffee I quickly went to shower, determined not to let something like money ruin my hopes for the future.

  It was another gorgeous and hot day in Pisciotta. I didn’t remember the last time I had ridden a bicycle. Nonna’s bike was very retro and had a large wicker basket strapped to the handlebars. There was no need for road safety here - cars were prohibited from entering the network of alleyways and small cobbled streets. I pedalled down through the hilly town, carefully at first, my hand gripping the brake lever preparing to slow my descent at any minute. I reached a long stretch of cobbled street that swept down toward the centre of town. I looked around me but the streets were relatively quiet. Gradually I pushed myself to the brow of the slope, lifted my sandalled feet out in front of me and let the bike pick up speed.

  A scream from the mixture of fear and elation escaped my mouth and the wind whipped my long brown curls into my eyes. The base of the hill rapidly approached and I clamped my hand desperately over the brake lever. Before I had a chance to slow down and fully gain control a man stepped out of a doorway less than ten yards in front of me. I had barely enough time to call out to him, “Watch out!” He threw himself back against the closed wooden door he had just exited. I dug my heels into the cobbles beneath my feet and swerved violently. The bike skidded onto its side, my body underneath it, and slid a few feet before hitting a wall and coming to a stop.