The Train to Orvieto

by Novelli, Rebecca J. ;

  “…it’s already nine o’clock and she’s still asleep,” Willa overheard her mother-in-law saying as she neared the kitchen. “Does she think this is a hotel?”

  When Willa entered the kitchen, she saw six loaves of bread cooling on the counter. Signora Marcheschi was busy with some papers. She wore black stockings and black shoes and had wound her grey hair on top of her head and pinned it in a roll. Her black dress was fully covered with an apron that buttoned at the back of her neck. Nearby, Grazia, also in black, held a dead chicken by its legs. She dipped it into the kettle of roiling water on the wood-burning stove, pulled it out, laid it on the counter, and began plucking the feathers. She looks like a vulture, Willa thought, imagining her as a black shape on a greenish-yellow background with dead prey around her.

  “Buongiorno. Come state,” Willa said using the respectful voi. She wanted to impress Signora Marcheschi with her good manners. Gabriele had explained that she must wait until her new mother-in-law invited her to call her mamma, thus acknowledging their warm relationship. It was an important Italian custom, he said, especially between older people and younger people.

  “Buongiorno,” Signora Marcheschi said without looking up from her papers. “Sto bene. E tu, come stati?” Tu? Signora Marcheschi had addressed her in the informal way. Is that an invitation? Willa wondered. She wasn’t sure. Grazia grunted and continued to pluck the feathers off the bird. Some of the feathers floated through the air toward Willa. Her nose started to itch. Will Signora Marcheschi or Grazia serve breakfast or should I make it myself? Her nose ran and she sneezed.

  “You will be responsible for making lunch for the workers,” Signora Marcheschi said, still looking at her papers.

  Willa wasn’t sure she had understood her mother-in-law correctly. “I’m planning to paint today.”

  “Santo cielo!” Signora Marcheschi waved her hand as if to swat an annoying bug. “We have work to do.” Willa wasn’t sure what Signora Marcheschi meant. Grazia shook her head and dipped the chicken in the kettle again. Willa stepped closer and stared at the wet, headless bird. “Today, we’ll visit our tenants so you can meet them and their wives,” Signora Marcheschi continued. Perhaps the tenants’ wives could be the subjects of another painting of life in Orvieto, Willa thought. Does Signora Marcheschi mean that I need to bring my pencils and a sketchbook?

  “May I have some breakfast first, please?” She remembered to say colazione, the word for breakfast, correctly. Often, she mixed it up with collasso, the word for heart failure, which had made Gabriele laugh. Now, every time they made love, he joked that she gave him un collasso when he only wanted a cup of coffee. Willa smiled at the thought of Gabriele’s little jokes. How happy we are!

  Signora Marcheschi pointed to a grey enamel coffee pot with a large spout on the stove. “There’s bread on the table.” Willa looked around for a cup, but saw only one that someone had already used. It was chipped and had a large crack up its side. As there was neither a place to wash it nor any clean cups, she filled it with coffee and said nothing. No need to embarrass her mother-in-law already by suggesting that her dishes weren’t clean. The almost black liquid in the cup looked like thick syrup and tasted bitter.

  “Is there any cream and sugar, please?”

  “La straniera!” Signora Marcheschi muttered without looking up. What does she mean? Willa wondered. She wished Gabriele were there to explain, as he had done during the previous six weeks on their honeymoon at Montecatini whenever she hadn’t understood what people were saying or what was expected. So much to learn all at once.

  Grazia picked up the bald chicken by its legs. Blood dripped from the bird’s neck onto the old linoleum floor. She wiped the floor with a towel she had nearby; it came up with dark streaks of dirt and chicken blood. She tossed the towel on the counter and passed the bird back and forth directly over the fire on the wooden stove, twisting and turning it constantly. The smell of burning pinfeathers made Willa feel lightheaded. She took her coffee to the table in the middle of the room and sat down. Faded green paint flaked off the tabletop. She brushed the pieces away with one hand. Grazia grunted and came over with the towel to wipe the specks from the floor before putting the towel back on the counter and then resumed butchering.

  Willa watched her cut open the chicken and pull out the insides, piling the entrails on the counter next to it. Flies cruised nearby. She looked away and cut a slice of bread from the warm loaf. She wished she could have butter and jam, too, but decided not to ask just in case it might seem impolite. As there were no plates, she nibbled at the bread from her hand and took a sip of coffee. Both tasted burnt. A painted clock on the wall above the stove ticked in the silent room.

  “It’s very warm today,” Willa said.

  “We’re too busy to notice the weather,” Signora Marcheschi replied.

  Taking up a large black knife, Grazia made a single, sure cut between the thigh and the breast of the chicken; then she twisted the joint where the thighs joined the body in a smooth motion. Willa heard the cracking of sinews and cartilage as the thighs separated from the breast and the back of the chicken. Grazia dropped pieces into a smoking skillet on the wooden stove and then disappeared into the garden. The chicken sizzled in the pan. Willa carried her cup to the counter and set it down. The chicken’s head lay nearby still covered with reddish feathers, its red comb drooping, and its eyelids closed as if a whitened film had grown over them while the chicken slept. She noticed the tiny eyelashes, the yellowish beak slightly parted as if the chicken were merely trying to get its breath or were panting in the heat of the kitchen. She looked into its pinkish mouth, open and vulnerable. A wave of nausea swept over her. She looked away until her stomach calmed, then remembered the visit to the tenants and went to get her sketchbook.

  The silver coating of the mirror in their room had crazed and peeled, leaving gaps in her image. She found some fresh water in the pitcher by the bed, brushed her teeth, and applied some lipstick. She pinched her cheeks until they looked pink and healthy. By the time Willa returned to the kitchen with her sketchbook, Grazia was stirring tomatoes and herbs into the boiling pot. She poured boiling water into an empty pot and dropped in the neck from the chicken along with its feet, liver, and finally its heart and another organ Willa couldn’t identify.

  Signora Marcheschi looked at the clock and then at Willa. “It’s 9:45. Make late.” She had packed two large, wicker baskets with numerous vials; some used clothing, including shirts, socks and a tiny pink dress; and several bottles of wine. She added the loaves of bread on the counter. “Take,” she said to Willa, indicating two large, metal containers with handles, which were still sitting on the table.

  “Where shall I put my sketchbook?” Willa asked.

  “No draw,” Signora Marcheschi said.

  “Why?”

  Signora Marcheschi didn’t answer. Willa lifted the heavy containers, holding one in each hand, and followed her mother-in-law outside. As she stepped onto the top stair, the loose step came up. She stumbled, scraping her shin on the metal can, but managed to regain her balance without dropping the containers or falling. She continued down the stairs and followed Signora Marcheschi along a dirt path that led toward a wooded area. There the path ended. Willa stepped over the fallen branches and around stumps. Dirt, sticks and rocks invaded her sandals. She stopped to remove the debris. Signora Marcheschi shook her head and sighed. “Shoes no good.” They continued walking for nearly twenty minutes until ahead of them in a clearing in the woods Willa saw a young woman in a tattered, print dress washing clothes in a wooden bucket. Around her, several small children close in age, dirty and dressed in rags, crawled on the ground outside a small, wooden structure, the only building Willa could see. Could this be their house? The young woman stopped her work to greet Signora Marcheschi and accepted the gift of the pink dress and a loaf of bread.

  “Grazie mille, Signora Marcheschi.”

  “You’re too thin, Theresa,” Signora Marcheschi said. “Tell
your husband that I said you are to eat more.”

  “I will, Signora.”

  “How can she eat more if they don’t have enough food?” Willa whispered to her mother-in-law after they left.

  “Why must you insult everyone?” Signora Marcheschi said.

  14

  Willa turned over and looked at her watch. Eight-thirty. She had intended to get up early, as early as Signora Marcheschi and Grazia. As she hurried downstairs and through the passageway, however, breakfast was her only thought. She heard Signora Marcheschi’s voice in the kitchen. “Why isn’t that ragazza around when I need her?” She heard the sound of a metal spoon against a kettle. Willa paused. They’re talking about me. Should I go in?

  “Perhaps she’s outside,” Grazia said. Willa listened without breathing.

  “Painting pictures, you mean? Nonsense! I don’t know what she and Gabriele could be thinking.” So this is what Signora Marcheschi really thinks.

  “We say ‘To help a husband, help a wife,’ Signora,” Grazia replied.

  Signora Marcheschi laughed. “She doesn’t want to learn our ways, so how can I help her? No wedding chest, either. No linens. No furniture. No clothes. She costs us every day and produces nothing except chatter about painting pictures. Gabriele refuses to speak to her, and he won’t let me. What am I to do?”

  Lies. She’s telling lies, Willa thought. She turned away and bumped a small cabinet. The sound echoed in the passageway.

  “What’s that?” She heard Signora Marcheschi’s footsteps. Pretending she had heard nothing, Willa righted the cabinet.

  “Scusate…Buongiorno. Come stati?” Willa said giving her mother-in-law her best smile.

  Signora Marcheschi seemed to take offense. “Come state,” she replied, insisting on the formal form of the greeting.

  Willa and Gabriele had already been married for nearly two months, and Signora Marcheschi had not yet suggested that Willa call her mamma though Gabriele had said she would. “We begin the vendemmia today,” Signora Marcheschi continued. “You’ll supervise the meal for the family and our workers.” There wasn’t enough space for all of the workers to eat at once, so they were to be fed in shifts. “First, you’ll make the soup. There will be bread, cheese, some fruit, wine, coffee. Grazia will help you.” The process of preparing, serving and cleaning up would take most of the day. Once again, there would be no time to paint.

  “I don’t know how to make soup,” Willa said.

  Signora Marcheschi frowned. “What do girls in America learn?” She picked up a small knife and began to sharpen it. The sound of the knife against the whetstone grew more rapid and urgent. Signora Marcheschi tested the blade with her finger and then handed the knife to Willa. It was so old that the sharpened side of the blade had worn into a curve, and the steel had corroded to a mottled grey color. The newly sharpened edge gleamed with a silvery threat. Signora Marcheschi pointed to an enamel basin on the counter filled with vegetables that still smelled of the soil in which they were grown. “Peel. Cut. Pezzi piccoli.” Little pieces.

  “Where?” Willa said. Signora Marcheschi pointed at the counter.

  “I mean where do I wash them?” Signora Marcheschi pointed to the door. Willa took the knife and the vegetables and went outside, stepping cautiously on the loose plank. Don’t fall with a knife, she reminded herself. She put the basin under the water faucet and began to work the pump, which sucked and gurgled, until, finally, the water came out, a thin stream that immediately turned brown in the basin. Willa emptied the water and rinsed the vegetables separately—chard, carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, zucchini, fava beans—before returning them to the basin. She pumped more water over the vegetables, ignoring the muddy plot at her feet. The water was cloudy. Signora Marcheschi came out.

  “They’re still dirty,” Willa said. “I’ll wash them again.” Signora Marcheschi seized the basin and poured the water out. The mud on the ground thickened and stained the hem of her dress.

  “Good for soup,” Signora Marcheschi said. Should I even eat the food here? Willa wondered. She stepped over the mud and went back into the kitchen.

  Signora Marcheschi pointed to the vegetables in the basin and made a cutting motion with her hand. Willa put the chard on the counter. The rumpled green leaves gave the newly sharpened knife no resistance. “No.” Signora Marcheschi took the knife from her, cut the stems away from the leaves and chopped the stems into pieces. Then, she tore the leaves into small pieces.

  “But there’s still dirt,” Willa said.

  Signora Marcheschi seemed not to hear. She peeled the carrots and the potatoes, too, letting the peelings fall on the floor. “Take,” she said pointing at the peelings and in the direction of the compost pile outside. “Forza! Forza!” Hurry. Willa put the muddy peels and scrapings into the basin and went outside. The compost pile made a faint frying sound as though it were alive. She dropped the scrapings on top. A small, brownish worm crawled out and then burrowed back into the heap. She rinsed the basin before bringing it inside. With a disapproving look, Signora Marcheschi handed her the knife and pointed to the tomatoes. Willa began slicing. The tomatoes succumbed easily to the blade. As she quartered the last tomato, she heard Gabriele and his father on the stairway. She looked up, relieved. During this moment of inattention the knife completed its passage through the soft flesh of the tomato and sliced into Willa’s hand between her left thumb and index finger. She dropped the knife and the tomato. Blood erupted over her hand and dripped onto the tomatoes she had just sliced. She knew it was deep.

  “Gabriele!” Blood poured from the wound. She couldn’t stop it. Willa cupped her left hand with her right. “Help!” Signora Marcheschi came closer, watched the blood flowing, and shook her head. Grazia looked at Willa’s hand and crossed herself, then reached for a towel and covered the bleeding wound.

  “No. It’s filthy!” Willa pulled away and wrapped the skirt of her dress around her hand. The blood soaked through the thin cloth. “I need a clean towel and a doctor,” Willa said to Gabriele.

  “Come, sit down,”

  Gabriele said. “Grazia will take care of you.” Grazia wrapped the skirt of her apron around the handle of a metal spoon then went to the wood stove and opened a small door in the chimney. Signor and Signora Marcheschi watched silently, their eyes darting from Willa’s hand to Grazia. With the spoon Grazia scraped out soot from the hot chimney and carried it to where Willa sat. Gabriele held Willa’s shoulders as Grazia pressed put the soot into the wound. Willa pulled her hand away with a shriek.

  “Let her help you. She knows what to do,” Gabriele said.

  Willa held her hand tightly against her body. “She’s putting dirt on it!”

  “It’s not dirt. It’s soot.” Gabriele took Willa’s hand in his and held it out for Grazia. “Be still and let her help you.” Grazia pressed more soot into the wound. The bleeding slowed. At last, it stopped. Then Grazia asked Gabriele’s father to remove his shirt, the one he had been wearing to work in the vineyards. It was dirty and damp with sweat. Willa watched as he unbuttoned the shirt and handed it to Grazia, who tore it into pieces of varying widths. With Gabriele’s help, she wrapped the largest piece around Willa’s hand.

  “The shirt of an old man makes faster healing,” Grazia said. She tied the wrapping with more pieces of cloth torn from the shirt.

  “Done!” Gabriele said, pleased. He held Willa’s hand with his. “Don’t you want to thank Grazia for taking such good care of you?”

  Willa pulled her hand away and fled outside. Gabriele followed her. As she walked along the road between the olive grove and one of the vineyards, he reached out to her. She turned away from him. “Liar,” she said. “When you said that I could paint here, I believed you. When you said your friends would get used to me, I believed you. When you said your mother would tell me to call her mamma, I believed you. You knew that none of it was true. My father was right. You just wanted money.”

  “No, Willa, don’t say that. You’re my w
ife, and this is our home. You are part of our family and our business now.” He tried to put his arm around her shoulders, but she shook him off.

  “You’re my husband, yes, but this isn’t my home or my business. I don’t belong here.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “And now I know I never will.”

  Gabriele put his hands on her shoulders once more. “Don’t say that. You’re just upset.”

  “You let her rub dirt into my hand. I could get an infection!”

  He took her hand and kissed her bandaged palm. “Grazia always treats our cuts this way.”

  “I can’t live like this. I won’t.”

  “This is how we can love you. Please, Willa, this is the only life I have,” he said. “You must let me love you the way I can.”

  “We must have a house of our own.”

  “A separate house?” She nodded. “What would my family think if I tell them you don’t want to live with them?” Gabriele said. “No one does that.”

  “When you promised that we would have a life together here, I thought you meant we would have a home of our own.”

  “Families must stay together. That’s how they grow. We make my family stronger,”

  “We can help your family’s business become stronger and still live and work in town.”

  “But my work is here,” he said.

  “Mine is not.” She remembered the check on the dresser. “My father gave us enough money to buy a house of our own, and I want our house to be in town with a place for me to paint.”

  Gabriele shook his head. “That’s pazzesco,” a crazy thing, he said. “No one does that.”

  That evening, as they sat at the dining room table together, Willa listened while Gabriele and his father discussed the upcoming harvest. Willa picked at the cracked veneer on the edge of the table, piling the broken pieces next to her plate. It would be a bountiful year. She studied her bandaged hand and dirty fingernails. In them she saw the ugliness of her existence. She thought of the women she had seen in National Geographic gazing at the camera, smiling through black or missing teeth, exhausted by the need to feed themselves and the infants crowded at their pendulous breasts.