If The Full Moon Loves You, Why Worry About The Stars?

By Julian Gallo

Tunis, 1904. Ernesto Nicari, a laborer living among the Sicilian immigrant community in La Goulette, and his wife Luisa, dream of one day going to America. Unable to conceive children, they are destined to live a life together alone. Leyla is a seventeen year old Berber girl who ran away from home after refusing to marry the man that was chosen for her. Seeking protection from her cousin Houssem, who is also Ernesto's best friend, she wants to live a life of her own, make her own choices, including who to love. 

Now pregnant with Ernesto's child due to an ongoing illicit affair, Leyla hopes Ernesto will leave his wife in order to be with her. As Ernesto tries to keep Leyla's pregnancy secret from everyone, including Houssem, and especially Luisa, a tragic and unlikely love story unfolds, testing Ernesto's marriage, his friendship with Houssem, as well as his own morality. 

In this second book of an informal quartet of novels — begun with 'The Other Side Of The Orange Grove' — the author explores issues of immigration, culture, colonialism, and how sometimes dark secrets from the past will inevitably reverberate for generations to come.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Empty Canvas
• Release date: Jun 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386066897

Julian Gallo

Julian Gallo lives and works in New York City. His poetry has appeared in over 40 journals throughout the Unites States, Canada and Europe. He is the author of 9 poetry books, "Standing on Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion" (Alpha Beat Press 1996), "The Terror of Your Cunt is the Beauty of Your Face" (Black Spring Press 1999), "Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes" (Budget Press 2000), "Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke in the Air" (Black Spring Press 2001), "Existential Labyrinths" (Black Spring Press 2003), "My Arrival is Marked by Illuminating Stains" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Window Shopping For a New Crown of Thorns" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "A Symphony of Olives" (Propaganda Press 2009) and "Divertimiento" (Propaganda Press 2009). He is also the author of 6 novels, "November Rust (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Naderia" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Be Still and Know That I Am" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Mediterraneo" (Beat Corrida, 2012), "Europa" (Beat Corrida, 2013), the short story collection "Rapid Eye Movements" (Beat Corrida 2014) and "Rhombus Denied" (Beat Corrida, 2015)

Book preview

1

The bells of St. Augustin and Fidèle toll at exactly ten o’clock as it does every Sunday morning. Within moments the normally dressed down residents of the neighborhood begin to gather around the church steps, all wearing their Sunday best, in most cases the only good suit any of the men even owned. The women, dressed mostly in black and veiled, huddle together and greet one another, catch up on the latest gossip as the men break off into their own group on the other side of the steps to enjoy one last smoke before entering the church.

Ernesto Nicari fishes a cigarillo from his shirt pocket, places it between his lips. He pats the pockets of his pants, then the pockets of his newly cleaned and pressed blazer.

I left my matches in my other pants, he says, leaning forward to light his cigar off Carmello’s flame. The tobacco is harsh, these cheap cigarillos bought from Nino’s market which were supposed to be imported directly from Sicily. He has his doubts. Who knew what else besides tobacco were rolled up in them.

He thanks Carmello and walks up the church steps, watches Luisa as she concludes her conversation with Giulia, the nosy widow who lives upstairs from them. 

Must you smoke that here? Luisa asks, waving her hand in front of her face. Show a little respect.

Let me enjoy it while I can, Ernesto says. It’s going to be a while. You know Father Sorrentino — on and on and on...

Stop it. Be nice.

Giulia again vies for Luisa’s attention.

Go ahead, Ernesto says. This way I can smoke in peace.

Carmello taps Ernesto on his shoulder, whispers, I didn’t want to say anything in front of your wife but I think you should look across the street.

When Ernesto sees the young girl dressed in her black gown, her hijab framing her youthful face, he experiences a moment of panic, which then turns to irritation. How many times had he told her?

The young woman’s dark and heavily mascaraed eyes stare directly at him, her her plump red lips breaking into a smile. Ernesto glances back at Luisa who’s still deeply engaged in conversation with Giulia on the other side of the steps, unaware of the girl’s presence.

What do you think she wants? Carmello asks.

I’ll handle it.

But your wife...

I said I’ll handle it. Don’t draw attention to her.

Luisa walks back over to him, happy to see her husband squashing the remainder of his cigar under his newly shined shoes, the only pair he owned that are remotely presentable. She notices he keeps looking across the street, turns to look herself.

Why don’t you go inside, Ernesto says. Save me a seat, I’ll be right back.

Who is she?

Houssem’s cousin. She probably has a message for me. Don’t worry about it, go inside. I’ll be right back.

Luisa takes one last look at the young woman then makes her way inside the church. Ernesto waits until everyone is inside before starting down the stairs.

What are you doing here? he asks. 

The young woman reaches out to touch him then stops herself. I wanted to see you, she says in a halting Sicilian.

Ernesto smiles. He adores it when she tries to speak his language. Ernesto picked up a few Arabic words and phrases since moving to La Goulette a few years earlier but not enough to engage in any meaningful conversation. His French isn’t any better, making communication between them virtually impossible. This hodgepodge of broken French, pidgin Sicilian, the occasional Arabic phrase, and sign language are the best they can do. 

Leyla, I told you to never come here when I’m going to church. My wife is here. My friends, co-workers. It doesn’t look good. Understand?

Leyla smiles. I want to see you.

I want to see you too, but later. I’ll come later. Not now. Is everything all right? He presses his palm against her belly. Still nothing and one couldn’t tell anything from behind her flowing gown. Go home, he says. I’ll come by later. Later. He gestures with his hand to indicate ‘later’.

The smile drops from Leyla’s face and she reaches out to touch him again. She stops just short of making contact, pulling her small, delicate hand away, leaving behind the faint scent of sandalwood. He wants to kiss her, wants to take her into his arms, to smother her.

I make fish, she says, the smile returning to her face.

Yes. Fish. Good.

He watches her walk away, the hem of her gown trailing along the sidewalk. As she turns the corner, she looks at him on last time, flashes another smile before disappearing from view.

He finds Luisa sitting in the third row pew, looking over her shoulder towards the door. He waves to her and quickly makes his way down the aisle.

Sorry, he whispers. She had a message from Houssem. Problems at work.

It’s Sunday.

Houssem’s Muslim. This is not his holy day.

What’s wrong?

Nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it in the morning.

He takes one of the mass books from the holder on the pew in front of him, begins paging through it. It comes in three languages: French, Arabic and Sicilian. He feigns reading it, daring not to look at Luisa, hoping she’d lose herself in Father Sorrentino’s boring sermon and forget about everything. He knows she won’t. Once they return home there will be a million questions, questions he’d already answered a million times. As he tries to lose himself in his own thoughts, he tells himself that it’s a miracle he isn’t stuck down right then and there. Some Christian, he tells himself. Some husband.

2

Leyla spends the rest of the afternoon looking for just the right fish to prepare for Ernesto. Knowing the Sicilian market is closed, she walks to the other end of town to the souq where she knows she can procure the best fish.

She spends some time there, buying other items she thought she’d need, all the while brimming with excitement at the prospect of spending a nice quiet evening with her beloved. It isn’t often he comes for dinner and whenever he does it was usually a short stay, then off he went, back home to his wife.

His wife...

She places her hand on her belly and holds it there for a long moment, her eyes welling up with tears. Not allowing herself to break down in front of everyone in the market, she absentmindedly puts another few items in her basket.

The weekly allowance that Houssem had given her is barely enough to pay for all the items she wants. She puts a few items aside, waits for the merchant to wrap the cuttlefish. She again places her hand on her belly, unconsciously begins to rub it.

Ah, you are with child, the merchant says. Praise God. Your husband must be very happy. 

She waits until she’s far from the market before allowing herself to cry, drawing unwanted attention to herself. She keeps walking, her head down, the grocery bag clutched to her breast, her gown billowing in the breeze.

3

Luisa prepares the Sunday meal — escarole soup, cecci and vegetables. While Luisa cooks, Ernesto takes the short walk over to Houssem’s house.

He peers in the window, sees no movement behind the curtains but he decides to knock anyway. No answer. He knows he isn’t at the job site. He doesn’t work on Sundays. No one does.

He walks the few blocks toward the café where Houssem regularly hold court. The café, usually populated by hookah smoking old men in djellabas and red fez’s, is Houssem’s place of refuge. It’s where he can come to read, smoke, and generally be left alone to think whenever he felt his tiny house had become a bit too oppressive. There are never any women at the café, Ernesto notices, but then again there are hardly any in the Sicilian cafés either. He’s never sure whether or not women were banned from the Arab cafés but in the few years he had been living in La Goulette, he never once seen any.   

He finds Houssem sitting by himself as usual, hookah pipe in one hand, a book in the other.

Mind if I join you?

Ernesto! What are you doing here?

I need to talk to you.

Ernesto picks up the book Houssem is reading, its title in Arabic. He slides it back across the table, grabs the hookah pipe from his friend’s hand and takes a toke. The smoke is strong but he savors its taste as it fills his lungs, much more pleasant than his harsh cigarillos. 

It’s your cousin, Ernesto says. 

Houssem places the tip of the hookah pipe between his lips. I see.

She came by the church this morning.

I told her to never do that. What is she thinking?

I told her, as well. Many times.

I will talk to her. Don’t worry.

Don’t be harsh with her, Ernesto says. Just talk to her. Try to make her understand I can’t communicate with her all that well. It’s becoming a problem.

She’s trying to learn Sicilian. Imagine?

You speak it.

I’ve been around your community for a long time. You should try to learn some Arabic. I can teach you. French as well. Now everything is French. I know a little French too.

Too old to learn all that now and besides I’m not exactly a genius like you.

You’re never too old to learn, my friend. Knowledge is a constant quest, something one never can get enough of. The Prophet Mohammed — peace be upon him — commands it.

What’s with this ‘peace be upon him’ stuff? You’re not even religious.

What does that matter? Just because I’m not religious doesn’t mean I can’t agree with what he said? He lowers his voice. There’s a lot I don’t agree with, as you know, but that is one commandment I can stand behind.

Ernesto laughs. Houssem is brilliant, learned, wise; wise enough to keep his feelings about religion to himself.

Leyla doesn’t speak French nor do I.

Yes this is quite the conundrum, Houssem says, taking a long pull from the hookah. Love is a strange thing, indeed. Language doesn’t matter. The heart speaks its own language.

I should have never gotten involved with her, Houssem, Ernesto says, reaching for the hookah pipe. I’m a married man. It’s not right. It’s not fair to her either. Certainly not fair to Luisa.

Sometimes the heart wants what it wants, my friend. Too bad you weren’t a Muslim. You could have more than one wife.

Ernesto gives a hearty laugh. I’m being serious. Things are getting a little...complicated.

He doesn’t know how to broach the subject. How can he possibly tell him? Sooner or later Houssem is going to find out. Leyla’s dress will only conceal it for so long. Not to mention what would happen once Luisa finds out.

Just talk to her, Ernesto says. Try to help her understand. I’m going to see her later tonight. I’ll try to talk to her as well. I need your help.

I’ll talk to her.

When Ernesto returns home Luisa is setting the table. Where did you go?

I needed to talk to Houssem, he says. I told you earlier.

I thought he was working.

He left early. Found him down at the café. Just some issues regarding the job. Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow morning.

Luisa ladles the escarole soup into the waiting bowl and kisses her husband on the forehead. Eat, she says. You must be starving.

I’m waiting for you. I want us to eat together. It’s Sunday.

But I have all these dishes to clean...

Sit, please.

Luisa