“Yes, Father.”
“Still, she can be—let us say, unpredictable. Take care, Doria.”
“I’m not afraid of her, a fat old woman like that!”
“Doria! She is your mistress, after all.”
“I know. And I do my job better than anyone else could!”
“Yes.” He looked thoughtful. “I worry, though, Doria. There’s something about her—”
Doria smiled at him affectionately. “Don’t worry, Father. Everything will be fine.”
“I hope so.” He blessed her then, making the sign of the cross over her bent head. They said good-bye, and Doria went out into the brilliant sunlight again, blinking after the dimness of the church. Two warnings in one day! That couldn’t be a good thing. But, as she set out toward Villa Puccini, the bag of fragrant fennel swinging at her side, it was hard to feel anything but contentment. At least for now, with the signora away, there was nothing to worry about.
She let herself in through the garden gate and went to the back, where she could pump water into a bucket to wash the dust from her feet and ankles. She had just stepped into the bucket, lifting her skirt to keep it out of the water, when she heard the sharp voice above her head. “Where’s that girl?”
Doria gasped in dismay. The signora! But she wasn’t supposed to return until Sunday! She heard Zita’s murmured answer, though she couldn’t make out the words. Zita was probably trying to help the signora with her valise, which would normally be Doria’s task. Elvira snapped something else at Zita, drowning the cook’s explanation for Doria’s absence. With anxiety clutching in her throat, Doria stamped up and down in the muddy water to rinse her feet as best she could, then hopped out to dry them on the grass. She crept in through the door, careful to let it settle quietly into its frame, then hurried to find her shoes and stockings.
She didn’t waste time on her hair or her dress, but dashed up the narrow stairs.
“I’m here, Zita,” she said, at the signora’s door. “Signora, I’m right here. Do you—”
Elvira and Zita were struggling with the front hooks of the signora ’s corset. Her traveling costume, a skirt and fitted jacket of cream-colored broadcloth, lay in a heap on the floor, with her pleated shirtwaist on top of it. Doria saw, with a little flicker of revulsion, that it was stained yellow in the armpits, and would be horrible to wash. She forgot that in a moment, though, as the signora said, with tears of frustration in her voice, “Oh, Doria! Grazie al cielo! The hooks are stuck, and your fingers are thinner!”
Doria moved to assist the older woman. It was stiflingly hot in the bedroom. The curtains and shutters had been kept closed throughout the signora’s absence, but it hadn’t helped much. Elvira’s body radiated heat that Doria could feel even before she touched her, and her cheeks and throat were painfully flushed. Her hair, no longer contained by the wide-brimmed hat she had tossed onto her dressing table, fell every which way. She smelled of perspiration and sour breath. “I have to hurry,” she quavered. “Before Giacomo returns. I can’t let him see me like this.”
Elvira looked utterly miserable, and she panted with effort. She gave a sob of relief when Doria finally freed the hook from its snag of fabric and the heavy corset popped open. Beneath the layers of silk and boning, Elvira’s body was drenched with sweat.
“There, signora,” Doria said. “There, now, that’s better. I’ll mend this later. Zita, the signora needs a bath filled, don’t you think?”
Elvira said plaintively, “A cool one, Zita. I fear this heat will be the end of me!” Zita hurried off, and Doria helped Elvira out of her sodden shirtwaist and handed her a dressing gown. She went to the window and pulled the curtains aside enough to open it. A faint breeze stirred the heavy air in the room, and Elvira, with a sigh, collapsed onto the lacy stool before her dressing table. “Do you know where Giacomo is?”
“He went to Viareggio, signora. A hound bitch there has a new litter.”
“Mamma mia! All we need is another dog slobbering all over this house!” Elvira began searching through her heavy hair for pins, pulling them out and tossing them onto the dressing table. “Get my ivory cotton dress out for me, Doria. I hope you ironed it!”
“Sì, sì, sì! It’s hanging just here.” Doria opened the walnut wardrobe and pulled out the dress. It was light as a feather, with panels of lace inset into the lingerie cotton. She glanced back at Elvira’s substantial form, hoping the signora could still fit into it. She grew stouter every year, another cause for her to lament. She would have to put on a fresh corset.
Elvira caught her backward look, and scowled at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Niente, signora,” Doria said hastily. She draped the dress invitingly over the bed. “You see? It’s all ready for you.”
Elvira said, “My Fosca received an invitation to a house party on Lago di Garda, and there was no room in the car for me, or so they said. I meant to stay longer, but . . .” She gave a gusty sigh. “Children are so thoughtless. See you treat your mamma with respect, Doria! A mother’s life is a hard thing!”
“Sì, signora.” Doria hung up the traveling suit and took the soiled shirtwaist under her arm. “I’ll just set this to soak. Your bath will be ready soon.” She made her escape, pattering down the stairs and on through the kitchen. She checked on the water flowing into the bathtub, then went back to the porch to pour soapy water over the shirtwaist. She sprinkled an extra measure of bluing over it, but she wasn’t sure she would be able to get the stains out even so.
Zita was at the counter, rubbing potatoes with olive oil. She glanced up at Doria when she came back into the kitchen. “Did you get the fennel?”
“Oh! I forgot! Yes, it’s right here.” She handed the cook the bag, and saw her glance inside, nodding with satisfaction at the size of the bulbs. “Mamma says to thank you for the duck.”
“Good. Good. You can slice these for me, then.”
“Yes, and Zita . . . Mamma had a dream.”
Zita stopped her work, her greasy hands poised over the dish of potatoes. “Emilia had a dream? What was it?”
“She said people filled the house, all of them weeping.”
“O Dio.” Zita sketched the sign of the cross. “Just like when your poor pappa died.”
“Yes, I suppose. But it might mean nothing!”
Zita shook her head, and resumed oiling the potatoes. “In Emilia’s line,” she said dourly, “there is always the fé. You have to remember that.”
“I don’t have it, Zita.”
Zita flashed her a look, her black eyes glinting in the bright kitchen. “You are mistaken, Doria mia. I don’t have the fé, though I always wished for it. But you will one day. Every woman in your mamma’s line does, sooner or later.”
Doria shrugged. “Chi sa? There is no sign of it yet. If I had it, I might have known the signora had returned!” She grinned at the old cook, but Zita scowled, and shook her head so her frizzy hair flew around her face.
Doria took the fragrant fennel bulbs out of her bag and laid them on a cutting board. She was folding the bag to stow in the pantry when she caught sight of the basket of ironing. She had forgotten all about it.
All she could do now was hope that the signora didn’t notice it waiting here, still undone. Perhaps she would go to her bed when the men retired to the studio for their cards and music and talk, and give Doria the chance to get through it.
A sudden wave of weariness swept Doria as she took up the first fennel bulb and cut off its long, feathery top. She might, with luck, get this basket of ironing done before another was ready and waiting, but it was a faint hope. That lacy dress of the signora’s had to be laundered and ironed every time she wore it, and she would no doubt want it again soon, in this heat.
A moment later, the signora came through the kitchen on her way to the bathroom. As Doria wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm and began to slice the fennel, she heard Elvira sigh with pleasure as she sank into the cool water.
&nbs
p; Zita’s dinner was a great success with the gentlemen, although Elvira complained that the soup, a lovely thick ribollita using up the heels of the previous day’s bread, was a peasant dish and shouldn’t be served to guests. Peasant dish or not, none of the diners left scraps in their wide pottery bowls. Zita grunted with satisfaction when Doria carried them back into the kitchen and muttered something about nothing being wrong with good country food.
Doria, dressed in a fresh skirt and her long, voluminous apron, helped Zita to plate the servings of duck in fennel sauce, laying the filled plates in front of each guest, careful not to let the sauce spill onto the clean tablecloth. Signor Caruso winked at her, and said, “Elvira, how lucky you are in your housemaid! My own Ada would envy you.”
The maestro, with a wave of his cigarette, said, “The best in Torre, friends!” Elvira smiled, and nodded to Doria, but her eyes were cold. Doria made a shallow curtsy, and escaped to the kitchen.
She told Zita about the compliment. “I suppose I’ll be scolded for that, too,” she said tiredly. “The signora didn’t like it, I could tell.”
“Never mind,” Zita said. She was arranging slices of almond cake on small china plates, but she paused to pat Doria’s arm. “The signore appreciates you, and that’s what matters.”
Doria stretched to reach down the delicate gold-edged Murano glasses from the china cupboard, and set them on a tray with a decanter of vin santo. With great care, she carried the tray back into the dining room. As she slid it onto the tablecloth, she felt Elvira’s burning gaze on her every move. It made her hands tremble, and when she tried to pour out the wine, a few drops spattered across the tablecloth.
“Attenzione!” Elvira snapped.
Doria glanced up at her, sensing the triumph in her voice. She murmured, “Sì, signora,” as mildly as she could, but she knew, as surely as if Elvira had said so, how pleased the signora was to see her make a mistake in front of the guests. She managed to serve the wine and the dessert plates without further incident, and carried the tray back into the kitchen, but her cheeks flamed.
As Zita moved to damp the fire in the oven, Doria said, “Zita, leave the fire. I have ironing to do.”
Zita turned to her with a motherly click of her tongue. “You’ve been up since dawn! You should go to bed. If you don’t rest, you’ll be ill.”
The sympathy made Doria’s eyes prick with tears. She pressed them away with the heels of her hands. “I have to, Zita,” she said. “You know the signora will be angry if she sees the basket full in the morning.”
“She wasn’t even supposed to be here,” Zita grumbled. She banged the saucepan into the dishwater and began scrubbing at it with sharp, angry movements. “No reason you couldn’t do the ironing in the morning.”
“I know. But it can’t be helped. At least it’s a bit cooler now.”
“Well, you go on and get started, then. I’ll clean all this up and clear the table when they’re done.”
Casting her a grateful look, Doria fetched the irons from their cupboard and set them on the stove. The house was still warm despite the late hour. Mosquitoes buzzed outside the zinc screens, and white moths flickered through the darkness. Doria heard the scrape of chairs as the dinner guests rose from the table and moved into Puccini’s studio. She listened hopefully for the signora’s step on the stair, and when it came, she allowed herself a breath of relief. As Zita carried the last of the dishes back from the dining room, Doria began on one of Elvira’s flounced petticoats, careful to press each layer as smooth and flat as possible without scorching the delicate material.
Zita soon finished the dishes, and wiped down the wooden counter in the kitchen. “I wish I could help you with that,” she said, as she took off her apron and folded it. “We should ask the signora for another ironing board.”
“Oh, don’t do that!” Doria said with a laugh. “She’ll just say I should get it done faster.”
“Ironing is ironing. You can’t hurry it.”
“Isn’t that the truth? I wonder if anyone who doesn’t iron understands that.”
“Well, carissima, try not to stay up too late. I’ll let you sleep in a bit, shall I?”
“I’m all right, Zita. Thank you.”
“Sogni d’oro.”
“And you.” The sound of the piano began in the studio just as Zita closed her bedroom door, and Doria smiled again. She wouldn’t mind her chore so much if there was to be music. She shook out the petticoat, draped it carefully over its padded hanger, and hung it from the door frame. She pulled a lace-trimmed camisole out of the basket as the maestro began to play through the act that had been troubling him so. Caruso would encourage him, and that would be good. She worried about that. When he was unhappy, he smoked too much, and drank too much, and drove his boat and his car too fast, as if speed would spur his creativity.
You would think, she mused, that the signora would try harder to make his life more peaceful. He had almost died in the car accident, and it had been a whole year before he recovered. Perhaps Elvira liked that, though. All that year he was confined, she didn’t have to wonder where he was or who he was with. She had been happy, then, for Doria to sit with him, talk with him, nurse him. It was only now, when he was strong again . . .
The music stopped, and when it started again, Doria stopped what she was doing to listen, the iron poised in midair. Signor Caruso was singing. First there was a bit of the recitative, a few notes and words, a pause, then the notes repeated before he sang the opening bars of the aria. His voice was strong and insistent, yet his legato was faultless. She could imagine, if she closed her eyes, that great, steely voice filling La Scala, echoing from the vaulted ceiling, thrilling through the balconies and the boxes. She put her head on one side, closing her eyes, relishing the phrasing, the liquid connection between the notes of the melody and the chords beneath Puccini’s fingers.
There was something mystical about the music sounding through the warm night. It was like being in church, that same feeling of being above everything that was mundane, ugly, or harsh. The electric lights glowed yellow, making the kitchen cozy and private in the darkness beside the lake. The moths fluttered at the screens, like tiny putti gathering to hear the celestial music. Even the crickets seemed to cease their chirping to listen to Caruso sing Puccini’s music.
Doria opened her eyes to find that her iron had gone cold. She replaced it on the stove, and took up the other, but it was cooling, too, as the fire burned lower. She left them both on the top, and went to the back door for another stick of wood. After she fed the fire, she had to wait for the irons to get hot again. She moved closer to the door that led to the dining room and the studio, leaning against the wall, listening.
Puccini was singing in his smoke-roughened voice, first one part and then another, and Caruso answered him. Caruso was to undertake the role of Johnson when the opera had its premiere in New York. How wonderful it was that she, Doria Manfredi of Torre del Lago, should be one of the first to hear him sing it! She imagined the singers in their colorful costumes, the set rising around them, the orchestra playing in the pit. She closed her eyes again, delighted to see it all in her mind’s eye, to feel as if she were really there, perhaps in a fine gown with lace insets and gloves that reached all the way to her elbows—
She didn’t hear Elvira’s slippered tread on the stair, or her quick step across the kitchen floor. She didn’t know she was there until she felt the hot, heavy hand strike her upper arm with a stinging slap. “What are you doing?” Elvira snapped.
Doria jumped, her eyes flying open, her mouth instantly drying. “I—I’m ironing, signora,” she said faintly.
“You are not!” Elvira pointed at the stove. “Both your irons are right there, and you’re standing idle!”
“But, signora, the stove was—”
“Don’t argue with me! And why are you ironing at this hour?”
Doria had to clench her teeth to keep from snapping back that the signora had just accused her of n
ot ironing. She rubbed her stinging arm as she crossed to the ironing board, and took one of the freshly heated irons from the stove. “It was a busy day, signora,” she said, keeping her face averted. She heard the edge in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. “I was helping Zita prepare the dinner. You saw that for yourself.”
Elvira’s voice rose, and Doria braced herself for the onslaught of temper she knew was coming. “You don’t fool me, Doria Manfredi!” she began, interrupting the music, standing so close that Doria could feel the unhappy heat of her body. Doria kept her eyes on the ironing board, pressing the neck of the chemise smooth, flattening the lace with her fingertips. “You can’t fool me!” Elvira repeated. “You’re just trying to get close to my husband when you think I’m not looking. You think I don’t see! You little tart, I’ll have you out in the street—”
“Non è vero, signora!” Doria whirled, and her voice rose, too, full of resentment at the unfairness. “It’s not true! You know it’s not true!”
“Cosa? What did you say?” When Doria didn’t answer immediately, Elvira pushed at her shoulder with an impatient finger. “What?”
“I said it’s not true! I have told you before!”
At the same moment that Puccini put his head inside the kitchen to see what the noise was about, Elvira struck Doria again, smacking her shoulder with the flat of her hand. Doria, desperate to lift the iron up and away, to keep from burning Elvira, stumbled back into the ironing board. The board crashed to the floor, Elvira shrieked something about Doria trying to kill her, and the iron went flying, skidding across the flagstones to land with a fearsome sizzle against the base of the icebox.
Puccini shouted, “Elvira! What are you doing?”
She screamed back, “Io? I’m not doing anything! It’s this brat of a girl trying to murder me in my own kitchen!”
Doria sucked in an outraged breath, and shrieked, “Liar! How can you lie to the signore that way? You struck me!” Puccini and Elvira both stared at her, speechless with surprise.
The Glass Butterfly Page 11
