She was a forty-three-year-old mother of four when she discovered she was pregnant with Antonello. She was furious. Each of her children’s births had been more difficult than the last, and in between there were six miscarriages. Her periods were less regular and lighter and she considered herself no longer fertile, able to enjoy sex with Franco without anxiety. But Antonello was a healthy, happy baby, born at the end of the war, into a world at peace. You had to be grateful for that.
In Vizzini, the war had been a distant ogre. Occasionally there were bombings in the nearby hills, sending people scattering into church basements, but the village was never targeted. However, they had their losses too. Vizzini sent its sons to fight, and Emilia’s favourite uncle was one of thirty-three local boys killed. She remembered her mother’s youngest brother as jovial and kind, always willing to carry his young niece on his shoulders, to spin her in circles, to tickle her until she laughed so much the tears rolled down her cheeks. Starving in a prisoner-of-war camp near the Italian and German border, he and a friend had escaped. They were caught and beaten so badly that several of his ribs were broken and his lungs collapsed. Two days later, the war was over and he lay in a hospital bed, dying. Emilia’s grandparents travelled non-stop for two days, but by the time they reached the hospital he was dead, and all they could do for their youngest child was buy a cheap suit and weep over his grave.
Her grandmother came back wracked by grief, but she remade her life. Emilia didn’t think she had that strength. Antonello was her baby. Named after her favourite artist, Antonello da Messina, whose painting of the Madonna hung on the wall of her childhood kitchen. She believed he was destined to be an artist, to leave a legacy, to live a long life.
Emilia remembered her uncle as she lit candles to thank God and all the saints for her son’s life. And she prayed for the other women, including her friends Sandy and Marisa, Slav’s aunt, who weren’t so lucky, whose men hadn’t survived the bridge collapse. And she prayed for the men, who died without the last rites, that God would forgive their sins, and welcome their souls into heaven.
The collapsing bridge buried the hut that contained all the work cards and the time clock, as well as Bernie, the only one who knew how many workers clocked on that morning, and so it took a couple of days to confirm that there were sixty men on the site. Sixteen men at the top and more men in the hollow tunnel of the span, most working to strengthen the bridge. They fell 150 feet to the ground. There were men in the huts, in the cranes, in the elevator, and on the ground below. In The Age on 16 October it was reported that thirty-two men were confirmed dead, not all had been identified, and the names of several men could not be released until relatives — some living overseas — could be notified. There were eighteen men in hospital, six of them in a serious condition, and three workers, including Bob, were unaccounted for. Rescue workers continued digging through the rubble.
The rescuers found Bob’s body on the third day after the collapse, crushed, and almost unrecognisable. He’d been wedged under tons of debris.
Sandy asked Antonello to speak at Bob’s funeral.
‘Do it for Sandy,’ Paolina said, trying to give him courage. They were sitting drinking coffee at the small square table in the front room of their two-room bungalow.
‘You have no fucking idea how hard this is for me,’ Antonello yelled at Paolina. It was the first time he’d raised his voice at her. It shocked both of them, and neither spoke for several minutes. Antonello ran his hands over the surface of the table, speckled red and white. The table was secondhand. As soon as they had put out the word they needed one, plus a few chairs and a wardrobe, their aunts and uncles opened up their garages and furniture poured out. These older relatives who, after years of hard work in textile factories, in motor-vehicle manufacturing plants, on building sites, and on the railways, had renovated their kitchens, updated bedrooms, and bought new furniture — some of it ornate and imported — but were unable to discard what was useful and functional. Paolina made green curtains they could pull across the window for privacy. In a small glass cabinet, given to them by Zia Teresa, Paolina displayed their wedding presents: crystal glasses and gold coffee cups, a water jug engraved with swirling flowers. They hung pictures on the wall, including a reproduction of the Virgin Annunciata, by Antonello’s namesake, fifteenth-century artist Antonello da Messina. On Paolina’s request one of her aunts had sent the print from Sicily. She had framed it and given it to Antonello on their first night as a married couple. Next to it was one of his watercolour sketches of the half-made bridge. The bridge at sunset, its snaking curves reflected as ripples of light on the river. When Paolina had suggested framing and hanging his sketch on the wall, he said, ‘Only real art belongs on the wall.’ She wrapped her arms around him. ‘This is as real as art gets, and I want it on our wall.’ He was embarrassed but also secretly pleased. La nostra prima casa. The bungalow everyone else called tiny and cramped was an oasis, bright and warm and magical.
Now the room closed in on Antonello. It was airless and stuffy. Like a coffin, he thought, like a coffin. He avoided looking at the sketch. He avoided looking at Paolina. Unable to sit any longer, he got up and pulled the sketch off the wall. Paolina flinched.
‘Get this fucking thing out of here,’ he said, dropping it hard on the table. The glass shook in the frame. ‘I never want to see it again.’
‘Okay,’ Paolina whispered, reaching her arm out to touch him. ‘I will. Please, Nello, sit down, talk to me.’
He resisted the urge to push her hand off his shoulder. Every muscle was tense and taut, ready to snap. The heat rising, rage burning hot, a fever, inevitable, uncontrollable, explosive. And destructive. He recognised his father in himself. Anger was his father’s master: it pulled the strings, cracked the whip, and his father was weak and helpless in its wake. He blasphemed. He abused. He cursed. He smashed plates, punched holes in walls, threatened. And the family scattered, terrified. Now that rage was aroused in Antonello, like a wild animal waking to find himself trapped. He feared it was untameable — furious and feral. The desire to surrender was irresistible. If he stayed in the bungalow, he would yield to it. And so he left, slamming the door shut behind him and running fast, with no idea where he was going.
Not to the bridge. Away from the bridge.
The anger pounded through the soles of his feet. His knee screamed with pain, but he kept running. Fools. He and all the other men were fools. They had believed the lies. The bridge was so important. Bringing a city together. They worked so bloody hard on that bridge, as if they were called to it. Tough and dangerous work. But they felt lucky to be doing it. Fools. They were fools, so excited to erect the trusses, to slide the spine units into place. Long days, double shifts, so eager to see it come together, piece by piece, taking shape. Each arm, east and west, reaching out to the other with an irresistible longing.
He and Slav and Sam, so happy to be working on the bridge. It was a big job. Essential and important work, so everyone said. His cousins, his soccer mates, even some of his Australiani neighbours who hated the dagos who’d taken over their street, patted him on the back when they saw him. Hey, heard you’re working on the West Gate Bridge.