Open Writing

In some parts of Italy children receive their Christmas presents from Santa Lucia on the night of December 12th.

"Do you know who Santa Lucia is?" my little sister asked, propping herself on her elbows and fixing her eyes on me.

I stared back in surprise.

"Of course I do. She's the beautiful lady who wears a dark blue dress with bright stars all over. She comes down from the sky to bring toys to children who obey their parents."

"But have you seen her?"

"No. If you try she'll never visit your home again."

Bianca pursed her lips and shrugged.

Just then a rustling sound came from outside. "Shush," I said, frowning, pointing to the window. "Did you hear that? She's checking things out. You'd better be careful."

Bianca's black eyes widened.

"Quick. Ask her to bring you the doll you want," I said.

Bianca mouthed her wish.

"Now, lights off. It's your turn."

"You do it," she muttered, pulling the blanket over her ears.

"I suppose I'll have to." I was glad the darkness hid my smile.

In the morning I heard Father open the bedroom door.

"Anna," he called. "You awake?" He hooked his finger to get my attention. "Come over to my office, after morning class. Don't say anything to Bianca," he whispered.

"But we always come home together."

"Mamma will pick her up . . . with an excuse. Alright? Don't forget."

I nodded, sensing what the secrecy was about. Ever since I'd started grade six my parents had been emphasising two words: cooperation and responsibility. They meant I had more chores and less play time. What annoyed me most was that Bianca was never asked to do anything.

"She's only eight," Mother would reply to my complaints. "Besides, you must set an example." That was another expression I disliked.

At the appointed time, Father was waiting. He took my heavy bag and tied it to the parcel grid behind the bike's saddle. "Jump up," he said. Sideways on the middle bar, I listened to him puffing as he cycled down the main street.

He stopped in front of the toy stall, near the Town Hall. The tower clock chimed one and the seller was beginning to pack up.

"Hold it," Father cried. "We've come to choose the doll."

"Here they are," the man said, indicating a row of boxes on the lower shelf.

Except for the colour of their eyes and their clothing, the dolls were similar. I chose the one with the dark blue satin dress embroidered with stars, a Santa Lucia look alike.

"I bet she sent you to do the shopping," the man said.

I couldn't reply. A knot was tightening my throat.

"What's the matter?" Father asked.

"I've got a trapped eyelash," I managed to say.

He gazed at me then stroked my head.

"We've all got to grow up, Anna. It's hard, I know. How about we stop at the stationer's," he added with a voice straining to be cheerful. "You can pick a box of watercolours. Any size you like."

I chose the middle box. As we climbed the slope that led to our house I noticed for the first time two folds of loose skin running from Father's nose down to the corners of his mouth. They weren't there when he'd returned from a prison camp, a year earlier.

Mother and Bianca were waiting at table, plates of steaming minestrone before them.

"I've got Parmesan," Father announced, producing a wedge of grating cheese.

We ate in silence savouring the flavour of the flakes melting in the soup. Later, Mother put a bowl of persimmons on the table.

"We had a talk at school," Bianca said. "Maria told the class that Santa Lucia is mamma e papa."

"Really?"

"Did you believe her?"

"What did the teacher say?" We all spoke at once.

"The teacher didn't say anything and I don't believe Maria. Never, ever, ever," Bianca said, defiantly, an orange strip of persimmon flesh dribbling from her mouth.

"If I were you I'd go to bed early tonight," Mother said, trying to keep a serious face.

"I want to help Anna with the dishes," Bianca volunteered. "Will Santa Lucia ring her bells again?"

"After supper, as soon as Father has tucked us in bed," I said.

Bianca hugged me and I thought about the times when the sound of those bells had made my heart race with excitement and wonder.

© Carla Sari