Francesca shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes they did, or knew of each other from neighbouring towns. Other times, they were perfect strangers who exchanged a few letters and photos via sea mail. Which also took months and months to arrive between the countries.’
‘So you’re saying there’s every chance Nonna married Nonno without knowing him? And then boarded that ship to Australia to meet him, completely unsure as to what awaited her. In a foreign country. Where she didn’t speak the language.’
She gave a gentle smile. ‘That was the usual scenario. And this is a big part of the migration history of southern Italian women. Nonna Maria has told me all kinds of stories over the years.’
Alessio closed his eyes, feeling winded. His mind swirled with memories of his nonni together. Images of respectful conversations. Kind actions. Polite words. He searched back to the deepest recesses of his childhood and youth. Had there been love and affection? He couldn’t remember that side of their relationship. Nonno had died so long ago. Perhaps his memories were simply recreations of photos, and his imagination had painted in narratives and stories, knitted together fabrications of a life lived in a particular way.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened a new browser.
‘Are you calling your parents?’
‘Not yet.’ Into the search bar he typed proxy marriage Italy Australia effects.
What followed was a flood of words which suddenly sharpened in his mind as he pieced together some of the behaviours he had seen lived out in real life. Depression. Anxiety. Social withdrawal. Apathy. Language barriers. PTSD. Mental health conditions . . .
‘Would she have had to agree to this proxy set-up? Could she have been forced?’ He gestured to the fading ink of the signature on the proxy marriage entry.
‘Technically, I guess she would have had to agree. But by a force of hand, anyone can agree to anything. And not necessarily in spirit or heart.’
He knew his nonna had been tough beyond compare. She had erected a high, resilient wall around herself, that even those close to her couldn’t penetrate. See over, yes. Peer through, at times. But break through or knock down? Never. It had gone right to her roots, which had been grounded in independence, self-reliance and resourcefulness.
Alessio suddenly had a thought; what if the fact she had never shared any of this was intentional, a deliberate act to hide the turmoil and pain of something deeper? Had she not wanted to leave Impastino? She used to actively avoid conversation about ‘Quella terra . . .’ That land.
Alessio shook himself. ‘I think there’s much more to this proxy story.’
Francesca stepped towards him. ‘Today we made great progress. Let’s focus on that. And now, let’s go ask Nonna. She might have some light to shed.’
* * *
They found Maria sitting on the balcony by her apartment door, looking out over their vegetable garden with pride and expertly top and tailing string beans with a serrated knife.
‘Nonna,’ Francesca started in Italian, keeping a supportive hand on Alessio’s shoulder. ‘We’ve just learned that Alessio’s nonna Immacolata wasn’t a Mazzotta. She was a Martino. Do you remember her?’
There was no mistaking the immediate tension in Maria’s arthritic shoulders, the way her gaze snapped up from her work. ‘That Immacolata? Of course I do.’
Maria turned to face Alessio, and he couldn’t help but see the shadow that passed across her face. ‘The nose. I should’ve recognised it. The very same. Not a Martino nose. It came from her mother’s line.’
‘Nonna Maria, you knew my nonna from her time here?’ he asked.
Francesca translated, her hand never leaving his shoulder.
‘I knew her. We all knew each other. The town emptied of most of the men during the war. We women lived together. Looked out for each other. The ones who didn’t work in the camps as nurses, that is . . .’
Francesca relayed this info to Alessio, then asked, ‘Nonna, what can you tell us about Immacolata?’
‘She was teased for her nose. She hated it.’ Maria’s hand, still clutching the knife, came down on her own nose and gave it a pull. ‘She used to wear wooden clothes pegs on it at night to thin it down. I remember her telling me.’
Alessio absently tapped his own nose, half laughing at this news and Maria’s miming. ‘Of course she did.’
Francesca squeezed Alessio’s arm. ‘And what else?’
Keeping her voice neutral, Maria descended into dialect, watching Francesca carefully. ‘Does he really want to know?’
Francesca felt her stomach flip. ‘He needs to know whatever you know.’
‘Come,’ Maria said, passing Alessio the bowl of beans and knife and ushering them inside. ‘But I can’t promise you will like this . . .’
* * *
