by Anbara Salam
The two-story building at the top of the stairs was the academy proper, a sun-bleached ochre square with a mossy terra-cotta roof. To the left of the academy was a chapel with a rough stone bell tower, gray-brown and much uglier than I had anticipated. Farther left, the landscape rose to sparse woodland. I hoisted my cases up the steps toward the grand front door, and on my right the cypress trees thinned out, sunlight flashing on the lake. Finally, I got close enough to read a tarnished panel fixed to the stone: ACCADEMIA DI BELLE ARTI DI PENTILA. I nearly cheered out loud. By the door was a discolored pull cord, and when I yanked on it, a bell echoed inside the building.
Almost immediately, the door opened to a tiny bird of a woman. She was very small and very old. Her face was round as a peach and marked with deep lines.
“Welcome, welcome,” she said, standing aside.
I took off my hat and stepped past her, trying in that step to demonstrate my studiousness, my respectable upbringing, my right to be an academy scholar.
She patted my arm and shuffled behind a desk. The room was dark and faintly musty with the lingering scent of damp plaster. There were two bucket chairs on the right, worn through to the weave at the back, with shiny patches on the arms. Over the desk was a cheap-looking clock that filled the room with its deliberate tick.
“Here,” she said, opening a ledger near the telephone and tapping it with some urgency.
It was a pencil-lined visitors’ book. I scanned the page for Isabella’s name, but there was only one other entry from August, and it was a “Greta Sniegowska.” I wrote my address and name carefully, although my hand was sweaty and left a crescent-shaped mark on the paper.
“OK,” she said, smiling and showing the stumps of three teeth. She crossed to a door on the far side of the room. “Come, come.” She motioned. We climbed up a dark, narrow staircase that opened out onto a bright landing.
“Santa Teresa,” the old woman said, crossing herself before an alcove where a faded tapestry of St. Teresa of Pentila hung. St. Teresa’s red hair cascaded down her back, a golden arrow parted her lips, another pierced her heart. Her hands were folded over her chest in pious contemplation. I crossed myself politely and pretended to gaze upon it appreciatively.
“Galleria.” The old woman gestured in front of us to where the marble landing became corridors with shuttered windows overlooking a central courtyard. The academy was a square building. The top floor contained bedrooms for the students, and on the ground floor there were classrooms, a refectory, and a library. I knew this much from my welcome folder.
The old woman turned to me. “Donna Maria,” she said, pointing at herself.
“Donna Maria,” I repeated, giving her a curtsy and cursing my stupidity.
But Donna Maria smiled and patted my arm. “Good,” she said.
She took a right along the corridor, and I glanced out onto the courtyard. It was paved with honey-colored stone, and in the center was a stunted palm with a circular bench around its base. The upper-floor corridors projected over the courtyard, creating an arched cloister gallery below. On the far side of the courtyard was the convent itself: the church with its ugly bell tower, and a single-story, narrow building, which contained the nuns’ cells. Behind that was another complex of cabins whose purpose I didn’t know. The tips of the Blue Mountains framed the landscape, and to the right, ribbons of fruit trees stretched out as far as I could see. Just then, a figure in a white dress and mantle opened the convent gate and crossed into the sunlight.
“Wow,” I said, gripping a window frame.
Donna Maria paused and raised her head to look out into the courtyard. Her face twitched as she surveyed the scene, and, clearly not able to imagine I’d exclaim over the sight of something as mundane as a nun, she frowned at me. I tried not to blush—it was stupid of me to yell out like that. But a real Italian nun! It was like spotting a zebra or an elephant in the wild.
We followed the shape of the building, traveling parallel to the lake. Lined up on our right were neat little bedrooms. Through the windows on the far side, sunlight glittered on the water. I crossed my fingers over the handle of my suitcase and wished my room would have a lakeside view. But we reached the corner of the building, and as we turned away from the water I cursed my luck.
Donna Maria took me two doors down and unhooked a key from a ring in her pocket. The room was larger than any of those we had passed and had brown floor tiles and two single beds, one on either side of the window. It smelled like cider vinegar and beeswax. The window looked out onto the Blue Mountains, and stretching out below was an apple orchard.
“Grazie,” I said.
She put the key on an oak dresser behind the door and waved good-bye at the doorway. Her slim tread echoed along the corridor.
I tested both beds and settled on the left-hand one, for no other reason than that the two screws at the joist were pleasingly symmetrical. Hopefully, my roommate wouldn’t think I’d been selfish enough to choose the better one. We could swap, I decided generously, so she could see for herself how thoughtful I’d been.
On the dresser was an envelope with my name written in blue ink. As I picked it up, a pamphlet about the “Quickening Miracles of Santa Teresa” skittered to the floor. With it had fallen a postcard reproduction of the Mona Lisa, and I turned it over to find Isabella’s cramped writing.
You’ve arrived early, haven’t you? Send the nuns my love! Paris is splendid, I’ve drunk buckets of champagne, and guess what? Ralphy asked me & I said yes! It was terribly romantic. He says you have to swear to protect me from all the Italian lotharios. Ciao! Izzy xx
5.
August
I sat for a while on the bed, staring at the orchard below my window. Ripe apples dropped to the earth with dull thuds. Bumblebees stumbled frowsy girdles around the trees. Isabella had been talking about her French vacation for months, and I knew of course that when Ralph met her in Paris, there was a risk he’d ask her to marry him. My skin felt suddenly saggy and limp on my body. Ralph had known to seize his opportunity; maybe he was smarter than I’d realized. It was meant to be our year, I thought sullenly. Our year of freedom. Isabella wasn’t supposed to spend it yoked to Ralph.
I stared at the bland expression of the Mona Lisa. Why would she have chosen to send me this postcard? Perhaps the image was so cliché it had come back around to being fashionable? Or perhaps she really thought I was so dull and unimaginative that I’d appreciate such a stale keepsake. I read through her message again and noticed it was postmarked three weeks ago. A spark of hope twinkled in my chest. Isabella often got carried away. She could easily have changed her mind after three weeks of listening to Ralph’s theories about federal income tax rates. Probably, most likely, almost certainly, she got wrapped up in the moment. And by the time she arrived, they’d have had some foolish squabble and called it off. She’d be poking fun at Ralph’s Yale cufflinks and complaining about his loud, boorish friends with names like Peanut and Stoaty. Probably, most certainly, there was nothing for me to worry about.
I rummaged for my toiletry bag and followed the corridor down to the bathroom at the end of the hallway. It was so large it was almost industrial, as if you’d wash sheep in there. On the right were three ancient tubs stippled with verdigris under the faucets, and on the left three sinks and three cubicles with toilets. The unshuttered window at the back of the room looked onto the sharp contour of the Blue Mountains, so anybody for miles around would be able to see us bathing. Peering out, I thought of those boys by the train tracks, lining up to throw mulberries at the glass. I washed my face and hands at one of the basins, and the door swung open to reveal a blond girl.
“Oh hi,” she said, her eyes alarmed. “Please tell me you’re a student.”
For a wild moment, I imagined telling her that I was the headmistress, a new chambermaid, faking a French accent, affecting a lisp. I grappled with the urge like a big billowing sa
il until it collapsed. “Yes, I just arrived.”
“Thank goodness!” She gripped my hand. It was Greta of the visitors’ book. She had a creamy complexion and the hale prettiness of a cherub. “I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been here for a week already and I’m going out of my gourd.”
“No one else has arrived yet?”
She shook her head, leaning against the edge of the basin. “It’s just been me and Donna Maria. And the silent sisters. If they count. I suppose they don’t. Do they?” She laughed in a teetering, unsteady way.
“Where have you traveled from?” I had practiced the phrase on the train, deciding it was exactly the right tone of elegant curiosity with which to quiz my new classmates.
“Oh, hardly far,” Greta said, slouching against the sink. Her backside was ample and shapely, and her curves spilled over the rim of the basin. “I was in Venice with Bobby, my fiancé.”
I braced myself for the phoniness I’d need for the next part of the conversation. “How exciting! May I see?” I gestured toward the diamond on her left hand.
“Please.” She yanked the ring from her finger and handed it over with so much enthusiasm I realized I’d misjudged her. As I held up the stone, I thought, She’ll be one of those girls who stretches out her angora sweater by sitting with her knees inside it, and gives her last cigarette away to a veteran at a tram stop.
“Lovely,” I said.
“Try it on, if you like,” she said, gripping the edge of the basin. “Unless—you’re not engaged, are you?” She scanned my hand in a panic. Her eyes were green like a cat’s, her lashes blond.
“No.” I smiled and slipped on the ring. I held out my hand. “How pretty.” I took it off as quickly as seemed polite and gave it back to her. “Do you have any photos?”
“Of Venice?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, hundreds. And postcards, too. It’s simply divine. Have you been?”
I’d been referring to her fiancé but was relieved she’d misunderstood me. I shook my head.
“You must come to my room and let me show you my album. It’s exactly as nice as everyone says it is,” she said with a sigh. “Even so, it doesn’t really make up for being away.” She looked over to the window and back at me. “I think I’m homesick already. I’ve been bawling my eyes out.” She swallowed. “I promised Mom I wouldn’t. But even she was bawling her eyes out when it came time to say good-bye. I bet there are moms all over America worried to death about their little girls being so far away.” She smiled, but her lips were twitching. “Was your mom awful sappy about it?”
Startled, I opened and shut my mouth. “No,” I said.
She frowned.
“I mean—” The day I had left to board the United States, Granny had taken Rhona for an anemia test and Mama had been distracted on the drive, looking again and again at her watch. “My mom has this big party to plan.” I licked my lips. “She’s kind of preoccupied with entertaining.” I searched for possible reasons to celebrate and settled on the annual LeBaron extravaganza. “Labor Day.”
Greta smiled, rolling her eyes. “Oh boy, my mom is just the same. We always have a cookout, and this year my brothers insist on catching all the fish themselves.” She shook her head. “It’ll be mayhem—all wet Labradors and piles of sailing gear on the dining table—” She broke off, shrugging. “But I don’t need to tell you, I’m sure.”
I gave her a smile but my chest was tight. “Yes,” I said. “I know exactly what you mean.”
* * *
Before supper, Greta insisted on touring me around the downstairs landmarks: the whitewashed classrooms, the mail cubby, the Mariani frescoes of golden apples across the library ceiling. Then back in my room, she fell into ecstasies over the view of the swollen afternoon light falling in spokes through the apple trees. At six, we washed our hands and faces and Greta brushed her hair. She offered to brush mine, but I knew it would make it frizzy more than neaten it up, so I pinned it behind my head with the tortoiseshell hairpin Rhona had given to me. Or rather, Mama had given to me and written, Love from Rhona, on the card.
We sat about in my room with our neat hair and washed hands and waited until the peals of a bell rang through the building.
“Suppertime,” Greta said, leaping from the mattress of the other bed.
The refectory was a large room with wood-paneled walls and two long banquet-style tables with benches. We lingered on the threshold as the nuns filed in from the door on the left wall. In their white habits and scarves the sisters all looked identical at first, but as I let my eyes settle on them I began to pick out the details. Not all the nuns were old, as I’d expected. Some were older even than Donna Maria, with gummy mouths and lined faces. But there were young nuns, too. I figured at least five nuns were under thirty, although it was difficult to guess their actual ages without hairstyles or clothes to give them away. Most of the sisters appeared to be Italian, tan and freckled from outdoor work. One nun walked with a limp; one had such rosy coloring I would have sworn she was wearing rouge if I didn’t know any better. There were even two black nuns.
“Before you came, I was by myself on this whole table; it was dreadful,” Greta whispered.
“Are we supposed to talk in here?” I whispered back.
She shrugged. “How would I know?”
This struck us as terribly funny and I had to look away from her so as not to catch the giggles. A pale nun with a long nose served us a jug of what I took to be apple juice, and two small glasses, like the kind you might use to gargle mouthwash.
“This is the famous hard cider,” Greta said, sticking the tip of her tongue out as she poured.
“I don’t know,” I said nervously. “I mean, are we allowed?” The only alcohol I had ever tasted before was champagne, since dawdling by the catering table was a convenient form of social camouflage at St. Cyrus events.
Greta smiled. “It’s positively encouraged. Look, even the sisters are drinking it.”
And true enough, the sisters were pouring themselves glasses and sipping it as if it were pink lemonade instead of liquor.
Greta held up her glass to mine. “Cheers,” she said, and we clinked.
The cider was bitter, with a loose silt swirling in the bottom of the glass. It was flat, ice-cold, and terribly strong. My eyes watered.
The long-nosed nun returned with two plates of buttered pasta with slivers of garlic and tiny clams. Donna Maria rang a bell and said a short grace in Italian. Then all around came the clink of forks against plates and the clatter of hollow shells tapping against the china.
I watched a young nun with a pointed chin slurp noodles from her fork. “Have you ever seen a nun eat before?” I said.
Greta put down her fork. “I guess not.” She paled.
“You don’t think we’re supposed to wait for another sitting?” I said.
We looked around us hopelessly.
“Maybe it doesn’t count because it’s not term yet?” Greta said.
“Maybe.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Greta said seriously. “It’s like being chaperoned by ghosts.” She lowered her voice. “They don’t even really look at you.”
“The others will be here before too long,” I said. Isabella would probably be late, I decided. Just to keep me waiting, as usual. I focused on prying a tiny clam from its shell, but it kept slipping through the tines of my fork. It was queer, though, how the sisters were in the room with us, but still separate. All year we’d be running parallel.
“Do you think the other girls will all speak Italian?” Greta said, suddenly.
I dabbed the butter from my mouth with my napkin.
“I mean, it’s not a requirement, so . . .” She trailed off. She was looking down at her plate, but there was tension through her neck.
“I’m sure we don’t need to worry,” I said. “I know Isabella can’t speak a word.
”
“Is she another student?” Greta frowned, fumbling in the pocket of her dress.
“Yes, she’s a friend from high school.” After a moment, I added, “My best friend.” As I said this, I tested it in my mouth. It was a new era, after all, and I was poised to take over as best friend, confidante, champion.
“Hello there—oh dear.” Greta yanked a single pearl earring from her pocket. She grimaced. “I’ve been searching for this everywhere.”
I waited silently so we could return to the matter of Isabella.
“Wait.” She twirled the stud between her fingers. “You have a friend coming? Oh, but you must both be awfully smart,” she said with some alarm.
“Well.” I hesitated. I wished with a palpable ache that Isabella was there to laugh off the question, to put Greta at ease without talking us down. “Our school always has two academy places,” I said carefully. “This year, we were the most eager. I don’t know about the best,” I finished with an apologetic shrug. I had tried to talk myself into guilt about our placement, despite our B grades. But it was hard to feel anything else but blessed—it was something closer to a miracle.
Greta smiled. “The other girl who was supposed to come with me, Maggie Asquith, her mom got squirrely about it, and so I ended up coming alone.”
“That’s bad luck.”
“Tell me about it,” Greta said. “She has to take etiquette classes in DC instead! I already had such mournful letters from her. Did you know there are twenty-nine different types of spoons?” Greta began to rattle off a taxonomy of spoons and I stared at the backs of the sisters’ heads. If Isabella were here, I thought, she’d be pointing out how noisily the nuns were eating, she’d be kicking the bench, poking fun at the middle-aged nun who had dropped a clam inside her wimple and was now searching for it with some consternation.
