Mario – A Story
Word Count 1058
Brrr.
Brrrrr, brrrrrrrr. He listened to the dark, deadly rain as it fell into the
night.
Only
minutes beforehand there was not a cloud in the sky as he watched overhead, the
planes speeding past on a mission, literally. Young, still just a boy inside,
he ran across the street in search of shelter. Fright and intrigue for the
planes’ cargo crawled around inside him. He raised his hands, cupping them only
to vomit nothing into the air. There was no point pretending like it wasn’t
coming anymore. It was. The war had been only a small drumming on the door of
his life until this point but now it was a loud and abusive bashing that could
not be sent away…
Just a few years later as he stood
there on the dock his stomach rolled, once and again, flipping over and over.
His mamma squeezed him for all he was worth, her tears brushing against his
forlorn face. If anything truly scared him in this world, it was today. Turning
nineteen was nothing he wished to celebrate. No festivities or well wishes
thank you very much. A minute passed, then another, each drawing his departure
closer. His saving grace was the knowledge he was about to take the chance to
escape those little men in their straight edged suits with their sickening
ambition and selfish greed for power. So many others, just like him, had not
been granted the same opportunity and were now either responsible for burying
other soldiers in the ground or lay there themselves.
For an entire month he reminded
himself he was incredibly lucky, losing his family and friends, livelihood,
homeland, that was nothing compared to losing your life, right? The trip was
dangerous and difficult. Cramped and dank, unpleasant at the best of times as
if those little men were haunting him from afar, seeking revenge for shooting
through at the call of duty.
His eyes were watery from the
blaring sun as he got off the boat in the harbour. They widened as finally, the
smallest slice of excitement found a reason to stretch out and venture from the
darkness that had been consuming him. Sydney,
his new home or so he had thought at the time. It did not take him long to
realise the work he so desperately needed to get by, having brought only
himself and a suitcase from Italy,
was not to be found there. Unable to speak a word of English, he struggled
through conversation after conversation not really saying much at all. Tired
and alone, he finally chanced upon some other Italian migrants who said they
were to board a train in the morning to a town called Lismore on the far North
Coast of New South Wales and that he should join them, not that any of them had
any idea where that was. They too were in dire need of work and according to
sources the Northern Rivers of which Lismore was the beating heart was where it
waited.
As the train raced
across the Australian countryside, northbound, his mind raced back to Italy. He
wondered about his mother and father and whether he would ever see them again.
As the paddocks turned greener and hills began to roll over themselves in the
distance he took a deep breath and filled his lungs with the country air. He
had arrived. Farm work was quickly attained, hands dirty, back breaking work
that offered no respite. Day and night he broke a sweat stopping only for
meals. He lived by the rise and fall of the sun. For six months he laboured, not going to town
once, waking up at dawn and working till dusk, eating a staple of bread and
pasta. His hands blistered, tore and bled, then calloused until they became
leathery and cracked. His natural olive complexion soon turned a deep brown and
the hint of muscle he had arrived with quickly grew tough and strong.
Upon finally acquiring land he
could call his own, the work only increased. It never ended and became that by
which he led his life. It shaped his character as he became a man of pride and
honourable hard work. His back bent, sweat crawling the length of his spine
each week as he walked the bags of beans, tomatoes and bananas to the roadside,
five kilometres away, for the market in town. At forty kilos each, they were
like his small children, too valuable to be dropped and bruised. He never once
complained, just took it all in his long stride, his work and farm his only
love. And then he met Edda.
As she walked towards
him that late May afternoon, glistening, angelic and beautiful, he was unable
to draw his gaze. A chance meeting had brought them together and now he was
about to marry the blonde girl who so easily made him laugh. He clenched his
fists closed tight, then released them uncurling his fingers only to repeat the
motion over and over.
The wedding was a typical Italian
affair, the smell of food rich and intense and in grand abundance. The guests’
conversations flowed almost as freely as the wine. It was one of the days in
Mario’s life that filled with shear joy, rivalled only by the birth of their
children, the little bundles they made and brought into the world.
Despite time and how
hard he tried to silence it however, his heart never stopped longing to return
home. It had been nine years since he had fled the grasp of conscription and he
was both afraid and excited to go back for their honeymoon. When he at last
looked into his mother’s face though he knew she had thought of him every day
since he had left and that was enough to bring a peaceful calm over him. The
sadness of leaving them would never leave but her wrinkled face and dark brown
eyes assured him he had had no choice and that everything was meant to be. He
knew in that moment it didn’t matter where he was, that she and his family would
always love and remember him. He understood that life was a journey and its
biggest achievement was to do the best with what you’ve got and to be happy.
And he was.
