Catarina's Ring

by Lisa McGuinness

  He involuntarily let go of her hair, and in the moment it took for him to grab his nose, she was up and running from the laundry lines outside, and back through the house to escape. She threw the twisted sheet she had been pinning up when he grabbed her as well as a basket with wet clothes into his path as she went by, and then ran to the front door and desperately fumbled with the lock. She could hear his footsteps rushing toward her but didn’t dare lose time by looking over her shoulder. She threw open the door and slammed it as she passed to slow him down. She could hear Signor Carlucci yelling after her but all she focused on was the sound of pounding. She didn’t know whether it was her heart or the sound of her shoes on the cobblestones.

  She ran. Her one desire was to get home where she would be safe. She didn’t realize she was crying until her vision blurred and she had to wipe her streaming nose. Her side felt as if a searing hot knife was piercing her skin and her lungs were heaving. She looked over her shoulder and saw that she wasn’t being followed so she slowed and came to a stop, panting.

  She ducked into a side alley and crouched for a moment to catch her breath, but kept hidden in case he came after her. She put a shaking hand on her chest to calm herself. Her breath and the pounding of her heart slowed, but as soon as she was able to catch her breath, she was out of the alley and running again. As she entered the main piazza she saw her mother in the distance walking among others across the square. It was like seeing an island of safety: the most welcome sight of all.

  “Mama!” she screamed and her mother turned towards her, a look of shock on her face. She could hear the panic in her own voice but couldn’t calm down. She ran to her mother and threw herself into her arms. And as soon as she was there, she began to sob.

  “Catarina!” her mama shrieked. “What happened?”

  She took in her daughter’s appearance and immediately knew. Her disheveled hair was a tangle and her dress was ripped, askew, and splattered in blood.

  “Oh, mio Dio! Catarina.” She took Catarina’s face in her hands and looked in her eyes. “Did he…?” But she couldn’t bring herself to ask the question and immediately steered Catarina away from curious eyes. She couldn’t stand to think of anyone violating her daughter. Her most precious girl. But she also had to protect her from town gossip—which could be almost as damaging as a physical assault.

  “No…I got away from him. He grabbed me but I fought him, Mama. I think I broke his nose,” she said, thinking of the crunch under her elbow and the splatter of blood.

  “Let’s get you home.” Celestina wrapped her arms protectively around her daughter and walked with her, carefully blocking her from the view of people passing by.

  When they reached their house, they went straight up to Catarina’s room. Celestina sat her on the bed and went to get a basin of water. She came back with a cloth and warm water and with gentle hands wiped her daughter’s tear-streaked face and scraped knees. She helped her out of her torn and blood-splattered dress and soaked it in the basin to loosen the blood. While Catarina sat in her slip, her mother gently combed out her hair and they began to talk.

  “What will I do, Mama?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but we’re going to have to tell your babbo. That’s clear to me now.”

  “He said he’d tell everyone I’m a putana. That I threw myself at him—and he, a married man. He’ll shame us.”

  “We won’t let that happen. We’re a respected family, too.” Her mother’s words were firm, but Catarina saw that she looked away to brush aside a tear of her own.

  “You know what I’m thinking, Catarina?” she said after a few moments of silence.

  “No.”

  “I’m thinking that if we talked to Father Pinzano about this, just maybe he would say it’s the sign we needed to finally make our decision about whether you should go. Maybe this is the Virgin hitting us over the head to say you shouldn’t stay here. That you should go to San Francisco, where this won’t happen to you.”

  “What? Let Signor Carlucci, that porco, ruin my home for me?”

  “It’s not just about this. Senior Carlucci’s threats don’t frighten me. We can take care of him, cara. I don’t want you to go, it’s true, but what I know deep in my heart is that you should go. It would be better for you there. I want what is best for you. You’re the sunshine in my day. You’re precious. And that’s why I have to let you go.”

  “Mama…,” Catarina started to speak, but paused to wipe another tear. “I wanted to convince myself that I should stay, because I don’t want to be away from you. But deep down, I think you’re right. I should go. I’ve been frightened, but then when this happened today . . . I think . . . maybe it is a sign.”

  She started to cry and hugged her mother as if she were being torn away at that very moment. The words she said were muffled against the cloth of her mother’s dress.

  “I should go.”

  After Catarina and Celestina talked, her mother settled her into bed for a rest and quietly left the house. She made her way to the Carlucci home and then lifted the heavy metal knocker and rapped it against the front door. Signor Carlucci opened the door—his eyes widening slightly when he saw Catarina’s mother standing on the threshold, but he recovered quickly and kept his features bland.

  “Signor Carlucci,” she said, taking in his bruised nose with some element of satisfaction, “I’d like a word.”

  Signor Carlucci opened the door and motioned her in.

  “Would you like a seat?” he asked, gesturing to a chair, his mask of superiority firmly in place.

  “No, I would not sit in this home,” Celestina spat out her words. “Instead I’ll come right to the point. My daughter will no longer be working in this household.”

  “Catarina told me what you did. And I want you to know this: I know every woman in this village and we talk. And if you say a word against her, I’ll tell every one of them what you did to Catarina today—starting with your wife.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Signora. I’ve done nothing. I’m a respectable man,” he laughed mirthlessly and waved his hand as if dismissing her words.

  “Maybe you’re a businessman and I’m just a farmer’s wife, but our family has been here for generations. I saw Catarina with my own eyes as she ran through the square trying to get away from you. And then, of course, your broken nose speaks for itself, “ she gestured to his face—a falsely sweet smile on her lips and her eyebrows raised in challenge.

  “What is it that you want from me, exactly, Signora?” he asked, as if giving in to a troublesome child, a sigh of resignation escaping him.

  “What I want is for you to keep your ugly lies to yourself. Don’t you dare speak my daughter’s name in this village or anywhere. Capisci?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, but if you hear any talk against Catarina, you can be assured, it didn’t come from me. I can’t speak for any other man that little tease might provoke,” he sneered.

  Before she realized what was happening, Celestina reached out and slapped his face. It was as if her hand acted on its own, but it felt good to slap the sneer off of him.

  “Don’t,” she said, and with that, let herself out.

  She wiped her hand on her skirt as if to remove any trace of contact with the loathsome man. Catarina would be gone in a few months, and then, once she knew she was safely away, she would casually drop a word or two to her friends at the water pump about Signor Carlucci, just to make sure that this never happened to any other girls in the village.

  She sighed and made her way home to start cooking dinner for her family. She thought about losing Catarina to America and Franco Brunelli, and for the first time felt not fear but hopefulness for the life her daughter would lead.

  Chapter 6

  JULIETTE, IMMERSING HERSELF IN ITALIAN, AND SHOPPING FOR MOZZARELLA IN THE CHILL AUTUMN AIR

  Out in the market, large crimson canvas tote bag in hand, Juliette wove her way along the market
stalls. Taking in new sights and sounds was a welcome distraction—even exciting—but the smells were what she found intoxicating. The aromas of pungent cheese and heavy-scented flowers filled the chilly late-autumn air and woke up her senses. She was suddenly seeing things vividly again after the haze she’d been in since the accident: as if her senses had woken up when the plane touched down in Italy, during the train ride from the Florence airport to Lucca while passing olive orchards and vine-covered hillsides, and finally during her long, dreamless sleep.

  She walked up to a cheese stall and stood back, observing the huge variety. She was shy to dive in and speak the language after realizing how rusty she’d been while trying to communicate at the train station.

  As she hesitated, a man walked by, accidentally brushing her arm as he approached the vendor.

  “Mi scusi, Signorina,” he said, turning to Juliette with a smile.

  The response Juliette was forming in her mind immediately left her consciousness and only a confused sound came out of her mouth.

  The man was absolutely beautiful as only Italian men can be.

  “Ciao, Roman,” the cheese vender smiled and clapped the man on the back in a friendly manner. “Come stai?”

  “Bene, bene. I need some cheese for my class this week, Vito,” he said in rapid-fire Italian. “The new term is beginning, so we’re going to start with something simple. I’m thinking about gorgonzola because I don’t want to intimidate the students. Polenta with gorgonzola. How does that sound?”

  Juliette stood to the side, trying to comprehend the words he was saying to get her brain into Italian mode. She enjoyed listening to the rich language being spoken all around her. It revived early childhood memories of spending the night at her grandparents’ house and gradually wakening in the morning to the murmur of Italian being spoken in the kitchen, but that was more than a few years ago and she worried about being able to keep up with the torrent of words rushing at her.

  She purposefully focused on the cheeses in front of her instead of looking at the two men speaking. They spoke quickly so Juliette didn’t quite catch all of what they said, but the phrases she picked up, while pretending to look around the stall, seemed to indicate that the younger man buying the cheese was some sort of chef, which piqued her curiosity further.

  While the gorgonzola discussion continued in Italian, a younger woman who also worked at the cheese stall—instantly reminding Juliette of Julia Ormand in one of her early films—stepped up to help.

  Juliette had decided on some mozzarella. She was in the mood for crusty bread with mozzarella slices and olive tapenade to go with a roasted artichoke. Even though she was quite accomplished at sophisticated Italian dishes, Juliette’s real love was basic peasant food.

  She gathered her courage and spoke to the young woman in Italian, and was rewarded with a smile and plenty of encouragement.

  The younger man stopped speaking and turned towards Juliette again with a look of interest before turning back to the vendor to finish his purchase.

  She felt her face flush. She was afraid she had made a fool of herself with her imperfect accent, but she decided to keep going in Italian anyway.

  She looked away from him and back to the woman who leaned towards Juliette.

  “Watch out for that one,” she whispered in heavily accented English and winked.

  Juliette waved her hand to indicate that the last thing she was looking for was romance.

  “He is handsome, no?”

  “Si, in a different way than American men.”

  “Sei americana?”

  Juliette nodded and reached across the stall to shake hands and introduce herself. “I’m Juliette Brice. I just moved here.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Juliette. I’m Odessa Savelli.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Juliette responded. “Odessa is a beautiful name, but isn’t it French? How did you come by it?”

  “Simple, really. My mother’s French and my father’s Italian,” she smiled. “Maman’s family also makes artisan cheese, so when my parents met at a seminar for cheese makers, it was a match made in heaven.”

  Juliette couldn’t help but admire her accented English. The way Odessa spoke made everything she said seem more interesting.

  “Well, I’m glad to have met you, and thank you for your help today,” Juliette said as she tucked her mozzarella into her bag.

  “It was my pleasure, Juliette. Hopefully I’ll see you here next week.” Odessa’s natural warmth added to the invitation and Juliette felt like she’d made a potential friend. As she walked away, she wondered why some people were immediately drawn together with an instant sense of familiarity and companionship while others could be known for eons and yet remain distant. She instinctively knew Odessa was the former and that she’d be back to see her again.

  She left the stall and worked her way around the market picking up artichokes here, bread there, flowers, soap, milk, tea and coffee. As the sun began to sink and the air to cool, she had two items left on her list and an aching shoulder from the weight of carrying everything she’d bought. She still needed olives and olive oil. She hadn’t seen any stalls selling either, so she stepped into a corner store with a window display touting several olive oil varieties. When she emerged with her shopping complete, the square was emptying out. She saw Odessa from afar and gave her a smile and a wave, which was returned, as she headed towards her apartment. Then she saw the chef as well, talking and laughing with other local men. She smiled, wondering about him. He seemed nice, she thought. But, as she rounded the corner on her way back to her cozy home, her contemplation ended and she returned to her new kitchen to make dinner and unpack.

  Juliette woke with a start. In her dream, the car was speeding towards them and she knew she couldn’t stop it on time. She sat up covered in sweat, light shining in the window. Her alarm hadn’t gone off yet and for a fleeting moment she had no idea where she was. But then she looked around the tiny apartment and a small glimmer of excitement replaced the initial confusion and emotional pain. She rolled over, liking the slightly coarse, foreign feeling of the starched white sheets. She stretched and peeked out the window from her bed and saw clear blue skies. She inhaled deeply, threw off the duvet, and stepped out of bed, pleased to be somewhere new instead of facing the same four walls she’d been bleakly staring at for the previous seven weeks. Her bare feet met the cold floor and she scrambled to the bathroom.

  While she showered, she purposely shoved thoughts of the accident into a corner of her mind where she could squelch them as much as possible. Denial was her plan during her time in Italy. She hoped it worked.

  Once she was out of the shower, Juliette dressed in comfortable-but-cute faded jeans and a long-sleeved casual tee shirt—her preferred “uniform” for the first day of cooking school so that splatters of food would be nothing to worry about.

  Walking around Lucca the previous afternoon had been interesting. She felt like a veritable giant compared to the Italian women. She could just see her mother and her grandmother fitting in perfectly among the population of this country, whereas at home they were tiny. In California, Juliette’s five foot seven was nothing remarkable, but here it was quite tall.

  She stepped into her diminutive sun-filled kitchen and put on the kettle to boil water. The strange coffee press that came with her apartment was more medieval contraption than coffee maker. Juliette spent about ten minutes trying to take it apart and figure it out and even then she wasn’t sure that it was going to work, but she gamely spooned in the coffee grounds she had picked up from the market, put them in the top part, which looked like some tiny version of an old-fashioned percolator and drenched them in the scalding water. She steamed some milk and mixed the two together creating a passable caffè latte. An unabashedly heaping spoonful of sugar made it complete. Heady from her small victory, Juliette leaned against the counter and took the first large sip, then turned one of her chairs to face the window and sat down to enjoy her coffee.
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  She wished she had made the leap of faith to leave her job and pursue her dream of Italy and cooking school under better circumstances, but she believed her mom would have been proud that she had either way. She hoped her mom would have been happy she’d gone to Italy alone to at least make something good happen from something terrible.

  Juliette glanced at the box of letters she’d brought with her. She had been intrigued by them from the moment she had opened the lid. Juliette planned to read them while she was in Italy, where her nonna had grown up. She was looking forward to getting a glimpse into her grandmother’s past.

  Because she’d woken at the crack of dawn, she was way ahead of schedule and was tempted to slip a letter out of its old, faded envelope, but she decided to wait until later when she could take her time with the Italian. Instead, she finished her coffee and blew her hair dry, then twisted it back in her standard work-style knot. She knew a few strands would undoubtedly escape by the end of the day, but at least it was secured to start. She put on a little makeup, and after eating her breakfast was ready to walk to the school. She knew from looking at the map that it was just inside of the ancient walled section of Lucca. The photo showed a white limestone building, with an arched entry. It looked to her like it was simply the first in a larger row of shops and businesses but she would know soon enough.

  Juliette ventured out, map in hand, toward the address of the school. Along the way she peeked into numerous cafés with patrons lined up at the bar, sipping espressos out of tiny cups. The women were fashionable and the men were as coiffed and heavily scented as the women.

  She turned a corner and came to an abrupt stop.

  “Uh oh,” she murmured, because she was sure she had walked by the same street before.

  I hate this about myself, she thought. Why do I always get lost? A familiar sense of panic lodged itself in her chest.