Cassandra Behind Closed Doors. Linda Sorpreso

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СКАЧАТЬ too much food and a lot of noise. You’d think we were at a soccer match or something with all the yelling and screaming but we weren’t. We were just a typical Italian family, celebrating Christmas.

      I looked at my watch and realised it was midnight. “Merry Christmas Mum,” I said, kissing her on the cheek and held her close. I could hear the shouts and smack of lips against cheeks in the background. I knew it was time to let go, but I didn’t want to yet. I just wanted to be cuddled like a child again and be told everything would be all right.

      “Come on Brat!”

      I groaned. Older sisters; they would protect you without the slightest hesitation but they were also your worst tormentors.

      “Shut up Carla,” I said, easing away from Mum and pivoting around, towards her and my other sister Abby. “You know how much I hate it when you call me that!”

      ‘Brat’ had been her nickname for me since the moment I had been born. Carla was seven years older than I was but sometimes it felt like we were a million years apart. Our personalities clashed, maybe because we were too much alike in some ways. We were both stubborn, bitchy and very opinionated.

      “I’m sorry, it’s a habit.”

      “Well, break it!”

      “I don’t know why you hate it so much, it’s an affection-ate nickname.”

      “Just like mine for you, huh? Bitch!”

      “Merry Christmas Cassie,” Abby said, giving me a hug, obviously interrupting, trying to prevent Carla and me from whacking and slapping.

      “Same to you,” I said.

      “Come on, it’s Christmas. Truce please, for Mum,” she whispered in my ear.

      “All right,” I replied grudgingly. I wished Carla a Merry Christmas and hugged her.

      I started making the rounds, kissing my grandmother, aunties, uncles and cousins. By the time I was finished, I had had enough. My lips needed lip-gloss and I needed ice for my cheeks. I didn’t understand why Italians had to pinch cheeks. It killed and they see you grimacing in pain and instead of stopping, they did it more. It was as if they enjoyed inflicting pain on you, especially Commare Caterina and those sharp, long nails digging deeply into my flesh for at least half-an-hour. All right, I was exaggerating a little bit, but it felt that long. I wished I could squeeze their cheeks and see if they liked it. I bet they wouldn’t find it very amusing, but I could never do it. I would probably receive a lecture on respecting one’s elders or worse, end up with malocchio.

      Many people didn’t believe in the evil eye but like most Italians, I was brought up believing in it from the day I was born. What else could explain the constant pounding in your head or the misfortune in your life? A doctor couldn’t diagnose it but water and oil certainly did.

      Malocchio was caused by the bad thoughts of other people — either they disliked you, were envious of you or jealous of your possessions. They could be talking behind your back or just give you one long unfriendly stare in the eye and you would have it.

      Panadol couldn’t even ease the pain of the migraine. Nothing could, unless you knew the spell to remove it. Mum was taught years ago the chant to check for the evil eye, though couldn’t get rid of it.

      There were ways to ward off malocchio, by wearing gold good luck charms of a mano cornuto or a corno. The mano cornuto is an Italian hand gesture of a horned hand, where you made your hand into a fist, held your middle and ring fingers together with your thumb while extending your index and pinkie finger outward like horns, whereas the corno was an amulet of a long, twisted horn. I had both charms and usually wore them on my bracelet but I didn’t wear them that often. At Newton Secondary College, the high school I attended, the amount of jewellery we were allowed to wear was limited and I preferred not to anyway. Once I did and my friends asked me if I had a fascination with chillies. I tried to explain it was to protect me but gave up eventually. There was no use trying to explain a custom they didn’t know of or didn’t believe in.

      There was another way to cure malocchio but it was rather difficult. You needed to spit three times on the person that gave it to you. You may have suspicions about who cursed you but unfortunately you never really knew and you couldn’t really go around spitting on everyone. It was offensive and dangerous, especially if you were living in a small town in Italy. There would be a flood from all of the saliva. It would actually be pretty funny to see, wogs in all shapes and sizes, dressed in black, spitting and screaming out puttana. Usually, malocchio was from someone fairly close to you, a person you would never suspect because they always seemed nice to you. I was definitely wearing the charms tonight though and had to at most family occasions like weddings. You needed them at places like this. Italians always gave you malocchio, deliberately or not.

      “All right everyone,” my cousin Cynthia began. “It’s time to open presents!” Cynthia was Tessa’s nineteen-year-old sister. She was a lot of fun to be around with and very easy to talk to, which was why I chose her to be my sponsor for my confirmation last year. Ever since she sponsored me, she had never once failed to come over for occasions, whereas my Commare Rose, who baptised me, had neglected me the last couple of years, which was very strange. Every year, she would visit me for Easter, my birthday and would often call just to see how I was. Except now, things had changed. She no longer came over, nor phoned regularly and it really hurt me. Especially since, she still visited Sophie. My once high opinion for her had faded and I didn’t appreciate being ‘second best’ and although I still loved her, I couldn’t display any affection to people who couldn’t show me love in return.

      Not that Cynthia was Saint Theresa either, far from it. She had her faults, everyone did. Eight months ago, she married Tom Corvi and I was very upset with her regarding her bridal party. Not because I wasn’t in it but the outcome of the entire event. When Cynthia chose her bridesmaids, she apologised for not picking me. She claimed she had too many and couldn’t afford another. I accepted that, you couldn’t have everyone. I honestly didn’t expect to be in her bridal party and wasn’t offended. However, a week after her apology, she chose another bridesmaid and that hurt me. If she didn’t want me, that was fine but why did she have to give me some little speech when it wasn’t true. I would have been better off not knowing as being lied to was the one thing I hated most. I was over it now but at the time, I was pretty pissed off.

      It may seem like I had about fifty Commares but I really didn’t. Commare Caterina was actually my Godmother Rose’s mother but as a sign of respect, every married female or male were called ‘Commare’ or ‘Compare’. Personally, I thought it was stupid. By addressing everyone this way, it actually demeaned the titles your real godparents had. However, no matter how silly I thought this custom was, I had to do it. People actually became quite offended when you didn’t use the correct terminology and it was so much easier to give in to Italians, than to argue with them. You would never hear the end of it and then be labelled as bad mannered for the rest of your life.

      We all followed Cynthia into the formal lounge room and gathered around the tree, its bright multicoloured lights flickering on and off against the window, illuminat-ing the enormous mass of gifts underneath. We sorted through the pile, picking up and giving the presents we had bought.

      Our families have always celebrated Christmas Eve together and then opened our pressies at midnight. I loved our tradition. I knew all my friends had to wait until the morning to open their gifts and I would have hated that extra day of suspense.

      “Here Brat, open this one first,” Carla said, throwing her gift СКАЧАТЬ