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Murderous Shepherds
Sharon and I spent a chilly night beneath too few blankets on a too small cot in the Tubby's living room. The only source of heat for the entire three bedroom apartment was from a pixie-sized wood stove in the hallway. Hot water registers decorated each room, but like a foxy-looking babe who turned out to be celibate, they were stone-cold. In the morning, Mr. Tubby served us a breakfast of hot chocolate and sponge cake. "Cake is a good thing to eat in the morning because it's light," he assured us. "Not heavy to weigh you down so you don't feel like doing anything," he said, and patted his ample abdomen - testament that he prescribed to his theory. Over our questionable healthwise breakfast, Mr. Tubby invited us to stay another day. Without waiting for our answer, he announced his plan. "This afternoon I will drive you to see the church," he said, and muttered something unintelligible about murderous shepherds and their nefarious ways. I glanced outside. His plan didn't sound half bad. The day was gray and gloomy with a strong northerly. It looked like a perfect day to spend inside and be chauffeured about. We were happy to hear Mr. Tubby's gracious offer, but first we wanted to know if the invitation had been cleared with Mrs. Tubby. "Have you asked your wife?" Sharon explored. "Oh, yes," Mr. Tubby replied. "My wife no problem." We accepted, hoping Mrs. Tubby had been consulted. At nine, the two younger girls skipped off to school accompanied by their older sister, their dark pigtails bobbing in unison. Mrs. Tubby went to Sassari with her mother (who lived in the apartment building across the street) for a doctor's appointment. Mr. Tubby, Sharon, and I lazed around the apartment and watched Italian television. At twelve, we walked to the nearby nursery school and collected the two youngest daughters. (The oldest was allowed to walk home from school by herself.) When we arrived home, Mrs. Tubby had returned and was busily preparing a lunch of fried eggs, rice, and cheese. During our midday meal we were treated to a first-hand display of what I considered the "Italian schizophrenic personality." One minute Mr. and Mrs. Tubby were praising their children, cooing, "You're my little flower," and stroking them with loving caresses. The next minute they were yelling at the children: "You're a dog!" Yikes! I was truly repulsed (being a teacher committed to empathy-based philosophy) to witness the parent's dehumanizing behaviour. The distressing experience certainly provided me with some insight into why some children grow up to have such volatile personalities. After our unsettling lunch, I set about preparing for our car journey to Santa Trinità. The drab sky was still brooding, so I packed a windbreaker and a rain coat into a day pack. Just in case. Mr. Tubby, on the other hand, packed his gun. And an extra clip of bullets. And a pocketful of loose bullets. Just in case. Apparently, country churches were as dangerous as hell. Personally, my belief was: You could live life scared or you could live life. "My gun is my god," Mr. Tubby said as he shoved another fistful of bullets into his pant's pocket. "You have many small gods," Sharon observed. We went downstairs to the garage and the seven of us crammed ourselves into their compact car. I hoped we didn't have an accident. Who knew what may happen with all those bullets in Mr. Tubby's pocket . The drive to the church was eventful. Mr. Tubby pointed his finger at every shepherd we passed, and shouted "bang!" with enough venom that I jumped each time. I got the distinct impression he didn't like pastoralists, and I was sure he believed that once he had annihilated all the local shepherds, the world would be a better place. In general, I found that city inhabitants were convinced all country folks were murderers and rapists. Country denizens, meanwhile, held the opposite belief. Personally, I was inclined to side with the peasants. Before Mr. Tubby's finger ran out of bullets, we arrived at the secluded rural church. (The Romanesque church had been built at that spot because it was there that a nobleman's wife in the 12th-century had been informed by a divine visitation that she was with child.) As I stepped out of the car, a savage north wind ripped through me. "It feels like it's about to snow," I said with a shiver, and wondered what had happened to the wonderful spring weather we had been enjoying. Fog enshrouded the church, giving it an eerie otherworldly quality. The gargoyles staring from the eaves didn't help to lighten the somber mood. We circled the building, admiring its conspicuous zebra-striped facade. The church's lofty bell-tower, also constructed in alternating layers of black and white rock reminded me of a tall stack of licorice and vanilla Allsorts. Perhaps that light breakfast had left me hungry? Mr. Tubby must have been feeling a little peckish himself. He searched the grass beneath the courtyard's almond trees and picked up a few nuts leftover from the previous season that the mice hadn't chewed open yet. Using a rock, he cracked them open for us to sample. They were much sweeter and softer than the ones at the grocery store back home. We gave them two thumbs up. Satisfied with our almond approval rating, Mr. Tubby used his pocketknife to unearth some green shoots. He cut the top off, discarded it, and handed us each a piece of root. I looked at it, puzzled. "Fenocci," Mr. Tubby informed me as he took a bite of the one he held. I tentatively nibbled the white root, and was pleased to find it tasted like licorice. After our impromptu snack of nuts and licorice, everyone complained about how cold they were. We piled back into the car. I imagined Mr. Tubby was rather disappointed that he hadn't had to shoot a single shepherd at the church. He made up for it on the way home though. Not only did he yell "bang!" at every shepherd we happened to pass, but also at any oncoming cars he deemed were speeding. He was sole judge, jury, and executioner. When we arrived back at the apartment it was late afternoon. A cold drizzle pattered at the window pane. "It's definitely a good time to be under someone's roof," I declared to Sharon. But that was about to change. Sharon and Mrs. Tubby walked to the neighbourhood store to pick up items for dinner. Soon after the women left, Mr. Tubby motioned me to follow him. He led me into their bedroom, and pulled open a dresser drawer exposing his gun and handcuff collection. Then, he slid open another dresser drawer. I was shocked. The entire drawer was filled with bullets. After I marvelled over his stockpile, we were set to leave the cache. At the doorway, Mr. Tubby stopped and lowered his voice. "Top secret," he said. "Don't tell Sharon." Thinking he meant his ammo and gun paraphernalia, I nodded my consent. But then he pointed to the bed, banged his fist on his palm twice, and whispered conspiratorially: "Me, you, wife scopo." Shocked, I attempted to appear as though I didn't understand what he was intimating, and with a furrowed brow, croaked, "No capiche." Then I tried to change the subject. "How do you say 'dresser' in Italian?" I lamely asked, feigning great interest in a close-up view of the cabinet's wood grain. Luckily, before Mr. Tubby could clarify his proposal, Mrs. Tubby and Sharon's footsteps echoed in the hallway. Mr. Tubby quickly exited the bedroom and met them. With a sigh of relief I followed, and hoped that now the women were back, the "scopo" subject had been dropped. However, while Sharon and Mrs. Tubby prepared supper in the kitchen, I was left alone with Chic Zombie again. I sat rigidly with my back to him, pretending to be totally engrossed in the program blaring on the idiot box. Mr. Tubby decided that rather than pussy-foot around, he would cut directly to the chase. He tapped me on my forearm and whispered in perfect English: "Free sex wife swap no problem?" I suspected he had been watching too many American movies. "I'm not interested," I said, and shook my head no. "Okay," he shrugged casually. "I had to ask . Friends?" He stuck out his hand. I shook it, but still felt ill at ease over the whole affair. We would have hit the road, but it was already dark outside. I didn't tell Sharon what had transpired (at least one of us could sleep that way). My second night at Mr. and Mrs. Tubby's passed even less comfortably than the first. I lay awake tossing and turning, a knot in the pit of my stomach burdening me like a lump of cold porridge. I felt vulnerable, and couldn't wait for morning light to make my getaway. Sharon passed the night peacefully, unaware of Mr. Tubby's proposition. |
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