Belladonna

by Anbara Salam

  “And she already learned the pinwheel fold before her coming-out,” Greta finished, staring at me with an incredulous expression.

  I supplied her with a sympathetic smile.

  Greta was still twirling the earring. “What luck to have your best friend with you. And here I thought you were an orphan like me.”

  “Promise, we’ll look after you,” I said, trying for a reassuring smile. It hadn’t occurred to me before how difficult it must be for the others, to come to the academy alone.

  A different nun, one with beady brown eyes and heavy jowls, collected the pasta plates and left us with a silver platter piled with fruits. Red grapes and rough-skinned ginger apples and egg-size violet plums, cloudy, as if they were breathed with condensation.

  Greta and I attacked the fruit plate, and my tongue was soon raw; the apples were tart and coarse. Even if we did have to take meals in silence, I decided it wouldn’t be so bad. In the far left of the room one of the nuns cut an apple in half and passed a section to her sister, who accepted it without even acknowledging the gesture. It must be quite relaxing, I thought, to be so close to someone you can forsake all the petty transactions of offer and reward.

  6.

  August

  Over the next few days, yet more students arrived, and the academy class of 1958 was nearly complete. Nancy was a tall, pale girl from LA who wore her hair in twin auburn braids. There were two girls from New York City—Bunny and Barbie—who’d met on the United States and spent a week together in Milan before coming up to the academy. Patricia was a mousy-haired girl from Chicago, Katherine a tall, striking brunette from Boston who spoke with an English-sounding accent. Sally was from Florida, blond down even to the hairs on her legs, and deeply tan. There was a curly-haired girl, Betty, from Dallas, who spoke with the same chewy friendliness as Sophie LeBaron. Ruth, from Michigan, I took against straightaway. She had the vague shadow of a mustache and the dour self-righteousness of the unreasonably pious. There were two Marys—Mary Leonard, whose father was a professor at Princeton, and Mary Babbage, from Washington, DC. And there were Joy and Joan, whom I couldn’t tell apart, and Sylvia, from Seattle, who had blond-red hair and a manic, lilting laugh that you could hear through the walls.

  The upper corridor was now suffering under the collective enthusiasm of so many young women. Tubes of toothpaste squeezed out underneath the mirrors, face powder caking the tiles, sponges abandoned at the bottom of the bathtubs, limp stockings hanging to dry over the banisters. The corridor was hazy with hairspray and magnolia hand lotion and cigarette smoke and Dior perfume. It was noisy with running water and slippers clacking over marble and coughing and the humming of half-remembered jingles and “Will you just pull this zipper?” or “Have you got a needle?” or “Did I leave my grammar book here?” Our main entertainment was lining up in the corridor and watching the sisters coming and going from the chapel, debating which was the oldest or the youngest nun, the prettiest, the tallest. Barbie and Bunny developed a short-lived game that involved whistling like a cuckoo from windows on opposite sides of the corridor until one of the sisters looked up—and then hiding below the frame. I suspect Ruth gave them a scolding for it, because one afternoon both of them appeared from Ruth’s bedroom with chastised expressions.

  I lay in my rickety bed each night and hoped the next day would bring Isabella. We would get up early to go to the market in La Pentola on Saturdays, I decided. We’d collage signs for each other’s doors, as Bunny and Barbie had done. I tried to relish the solitude of my room in case it was my last evening before my roommate arrived. The only time I’d ever shared a room had been at Camp Waramaug the summer after seventh grade, and I wasn’t keen to repeat the experience. What if my roommate snored, or spoke in her sleep? What if she suffered from head colds and I had to listen to her turning and sniffing, accruing jars of allergy pills and sinus compresses? One of the truly liberating things about my life at the academy so far was my release from the regimens of the sickbed. And what if she wanted to stay up late chatting? We could set out a system of rules, I decided. A timetable. And a penalty scheme for indiscretions. Of course, I hardly dared to hope, but there was always a chance my roommate might be Isabella.

  * * *

  The weekend before term precipitated a scurrying panic as girls sorted their papers and notes and arranged their bags and their outfits. As if the clothes we’d been wearing so far would no longer be glamorous enough for the scrutiny of the same group of people once we were sitting side by side in classrooms instead of in each other’s bedrooms. Greta and I retreated to my room so she could instruct me in the art of French braids. I sat on my bed, and Greta knelt in front of me on a towel on the floor. She combed out her hair so it was full like a cloud. “Now gather more from the left and cross it over.”

  I brushed it again, until her ears grew pink at the shell. I bit my tongue in concentration. Greta’s hair was so fine it kept slipping through my grip. It was like combing the locks of my old china doll. “Am I pulling?” I said, my eyes watering in sympathy. Having my own hair brushed by another person was close to a phobia—even Mama tugged at my curls and yanked my scalp.

  “Not at all,” she said, raising the hand mirror on her lap to catch my eye in the reflection. “You’re a natural! I can’t believe you don’t have any sisters,” she said. “Brothers are such bad luck, aren’t they?”

  Startled, I paused in the middle of braiding. “Oh.” My pulse swirled through my eardrums. She didn’t think I had a sister? Had I said something to suggest that? I cleared my throat. “I don’t have any brothers actually,” I said, deliberately leaving the first part of her sentence unattended. Now would be a good moment. I could mention Mama’s curly hair, or say that Rhona’s was fine due to illness. It was a casual opportunity to hint at complications to come. “How did you learn to French braid?” I said eventually, stalling for time. Greta had taken a breath to reply when the door opened. Standing in the corridor was Isabella. Her hair was faintly tousled, and she had the rumpled and rosy-cheeked air of someone who has been sitting on the prow of a ferry.

  “Ciao,” she said, in a careless sort of way, letting the door slam behind her and climbing onto the chair under the window.

  I stared at her, trying not to tweak Greta’s hair. “You’re here?”

  My heart began a pathetic flutter, like a butterfly trapped in a matchbox. She was here! I was itching to go to her. But the bunny softness of Greta’s sweater was firmly tucked between my legs, my fingers in her hair. I would’ve had to swing one leg over Greta’s head to get out, or else she’d need to wriggle. But she didn’t wriggle.

  Isabella looked from me to Greta, giving me a small-mouthed smile and raising her eyebrows in an ironic gesture I couldn’t interpret. “Did you miss me?”

  “It’s you,” I croaked. I had a ridiculous urge to cry.

  “Hi, I’m Greta.” She reached out to shake Isabella’s hand.

  “Isabella Crowley, how do you do?” As she leaned toward Greta, a lock of hair fell across her face, and she swept it back with a toss.

  Greta clapped. “But you’re the famous Isabella—I’ve heard all about you!”

  Isabella smiled. “Don’t believe any of the rumors Briddie has been telling you.”

  Greta glanced at me over her shoulder. “She never told me how gorgeous you are.”

  Isabella wrinkled her nose dismissively. But she did look gorgeous. Her skin was tan and glowed with a wealthy polish. Her brows and hair were lightened from the sun. “Oh no, I’m a dreadful mess.” Isabella tugged at the worn boatneck that was still somehow chic on her. She took a tress of hair between her fingers and examined it. “I’ve been going totally wild in France. I was on the coast, and all the women were bathing nude.” I knew she composed this declaration to see if Greta would react with ladylike shock.

  But Greta looked down at her arm and said, “Good for you! If I go out in the sun
I turn red as a cherry. It’s hideous. If I had your coloring, I’d never wear my bathing suit.”

  Isabella laughed as if Greta had said something witty. But it meant Greta had passed the test. “While you’re hairdressing, do you think you could cut mine?” she said to Greta, drawing a strand away from her head.

  “No, really? But it’s so beautiful!” Greta hobbled toward her on her knees. She put her fingers through Isabella’s mane and lifted it so all the hues of brown and gold caught in the sunlight.

  “Just a trim. To neaten it up for the holy sisters. Please? You’d be such a darling.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.” Isabella beamed at her.

  Greta stood up stiffly, holding on to the bedside table. She groaned, rubbing her knees where they were pitted from the weave of the towel. She limped out of the door, and it swung shut behind her.

  Isabella and I were alone for the first time in months. The last time I had seen her was a hasty farewell at St. Cyrus’s Fourth of July parade, Ralph watching with the closest to bemusement his bland features would allow.

  Isabella pouted. “Aren’t you going to welcome me?”

  I agonized; I wanted to show her how truly happy I was to see her, but now that she’d asked me to celebrate her arrival, anything I did would seem phony. I embraced her, and she patted my back with a sort of perfunctory acknowledgment. I was on the verge of tears. I’d ruined our meeting in Italy. I should have been downstairs to meet her at the door. I should have knocked Greta over and cheered. I searched for a prop to smooth over my thoughtlessness. And there, flashing on her finger, was as good a distraction as any.

  “What is that meteorite?” I said, feigning astonishment.

  Isabella grinned, sticking a dart of tongue between her teeth. She held up her hand and raised her eyebrows.

  “Oh my goodness!” I fell to the side of the chair, gathering her hand in mine. “He asked you? Why didn’t you tell me? Wow, it’s beautiful!”

  Her eyes crinkled in disappointment. “But didn’t you get my carte postale?”

  I shook my head.

  “What a shame. Well, anyway. Yes! Ralphy asked me in Paris! It was his grandmother’s. He went all the way to Nantucket to ask Auntie Kathleen for it. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  “Marvelous,” I said, still pretending to be entranced by the dim spittle of the ring.

  “It’s kinda old-fashioned. I’ll have it swapped when we get back to the States.”

  “I’m so happy for you,” I said. But there was a ripple in my throat, a lurch of desperation. She was still engaged. They hadn’t fallen out. My lip wobbled. I let it travel over my face in the hopes Isabella would read it as sentiment.

  “And you’ll be a bridesmaid?” Her voice was soft and real.

  “Really?” Despite myself, I almost forgot my distress—she wanted me by her side on her wedding day.

  She laughed. “Of course, Briddie.” She kissed me roughly on my forehead. “You know you’re my favorite.”

  My stomach squeezed. “Of course, of course.” I breathed in the Isabella smell. Soir de Paris and cigarette smoke and something else, maybe traces of Ralph’s cologne. “I’ve missed you,” I said quietly.

  Her face softened. “I’ve missed you, Briddie. There’s so much to catch up on.” She folded her legs over the arm of the chair. “But listen—before Goldilocks comes back, you won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “About?”

  She rolled her eyes. “The engagement.”

  I tried to settle my expression to cover the eager leap in my gut. “You’re not sure?”

  She smiled. “It’s not that.” She twisted the ring from her finger and pinched the stone. “You know how serious Mom is about school. And if Ralphy gets married before twenty-one, then his trust fund— Well, I’m sure you’re the same.” I nodded, although I had no idea. Rhona had alluded to some kind of “arrangement” for after Granny died, but no one thought to involve me in those discussions and I never offered.

  “I don’t want to keep it a secret,” she said. “But I mean, you know that girl Sylvia Carrol?”

  I nodded.

  “Her mother was on the Gardening Committee with Mom.”

  “She was?” My mouth was dry. “I thought she’s from Seattle.”

  “Apparently her mom grew up in Aspen. Mom practically called everyone in her phone book when she saw the class list.”

  A door shut against me somewhere, and I was crouching down behind it, peering through a keyhole. I tried to keep my voice steady. “I didn’t realize you two were already friends.”

  “We’re not,” Isabella said. “The point is—you just never know who’s going to blab. And me and Ralphy can’t say anything ’til after graduation, so . . .” She trailed off.

  The leap in my stomach gathered itself into a garland. She didn’t want anyone to know. She couldn’t be that certain. And here we had almost a year for her to change her mind. “Of course,” I said. “I won’t say a word.”

  “Thanks, Briddie.” She pressed her cheek against mine. She squeezed the ring into the top pocket of her jeans, as if it was a loose button and not a diamond. “I only wore the ring for you. So you could see it.”

  The door opened and Greta came back in, holding her scissors aloft like a trophy. “Sorry, girls, I couldn’t find them anywhere— Oh, but what’s wrong?” She stopped, her face falling at the sight of our tearful embrace.

  “We’re just being silly,” Isabella said, wiping her damp eyes like an actress.

  That night I lay alone in my single bed. Isabella wasn’t to share with me after all. She had a room on the east side of the building, overlooking the lake. Although it was a single, her room was far nicer than mine. It had an antique trunk at the foot of the bed, and on the wall next to her closet was a Mariani fresco panel of a wasp burrowing into an apple. So I didn’t even suggest she abandon it to join me in mine. I lay awake long after the curfew bells had rung. I heard Isabella’s voice again in my head. “You know you’re my favorite,” I heard her saying. “I only wore the ring so you could see it.”

  7.

  August

  The first morning of term, we assumed our usual positions in the corridor to watch the sisters waiting to enter chapel. They were lined up two by two, and when one of the nuns at the back stifled a yawn, her partner caught it from her moments later.

  “What’s the point of going to Matins if they can’t say anything?” Sylvia asked suddenly.

  We stared at her.

  “I mean”—she folded her arms—“why not just pray in their bedrooms or something?”

  “Sibbs!” Katherine nudged her. “You are such a heathen.”

  Sylvia blushed. “I just don’t understand,” she said, looking down into the courtyard. “What’s the use?”

  We turned back to watch the sisters. But Sylvia’s question bothered me. What was the use in their silence? It must make it easier to be holy, I decided, if you have no other option.

  Just before ten, we congregated at the top of the stairs for the opening ceremony. Everyone was swinging satchels or clutching notepads or nibbling pencils or adjusting ponytails. The bells rang and we all pulled our shoulders back. Even though we were already quiet, Ruth whispered, “Shh!”

  We walked down the dark stairs and into the downstairs corridor. Donna Maria was standing by a pair of glass doors open onto the courtyard. Silently, we filed out into the sun. None of us had been permitted into the courtyard until then, and we took the privilege seriously.

  Standing on the left was Mrs. Fortescue, the academy coordinator. Her silver hair was coiffed into a pageboy and she wore a navy sheath dress with matching jacket. A thrill went through the girls. We’d all met her in New York during our interviews and followed her florid signatures on our slips and brochures. It was like being presented to a respectabl
e minor celebrity: a Rockefeller widow or an aging De Beers model. Standing behind her was a youngish priest in a black cassock, a white-haired woman wearing bright red lipstick, and an older man with graying sideburns and the dappled nose of a secret drinker.

  “Two lines, two lines, please.” Mrs. Fortescue pointed in front of the palm tree, her handbag wobbling in the crook of her elbow. We arranged ourselves with the taller girls at the back, like a class photograph.

  The priest stepped forward. “Good morning,” he said. “I am Father Gavanto. Welcome to the Accademia di Belle Arti di Pentila.” He ran his fingers through his hair with the twitchy, flustered gestures of seminary school. He gestured to Mrs. Fortescue. “We are lucky to have Signora Fortescue visit us today. Please applaud.”

  We all applauded with genteel restraint.

  Mrs. Fortescue stepped forward. “Ladies. I’ve had the pleasure of interviewing you at the beginning of your journey, and I’m delighted to welcome you here, at one of the most picturesque locales in Italy.”

  Now that she had given us permission, we conspicuously took in the surroundings. The upper floor of the building was decorated with sun-bleached Mariani frescoes of golden leaves and green apples. A brittle swallow’s nest dangling from the eaves above the library shed feathers onto the flagstones.

  Mrs. Fortescue gestured to the white-haired woman. “This is Signora Moretti.” The woman grinned and waved. “And this is Signor Patrizi.” She gestured to the older man, who bowed.

  “You have all been particularly selected for this program as a result of your academic scholarship and excellent deportment as ambassadors for the United States of America. Over the next nine months, you will have to work hard and devote your utmost attention to your studies. And this time next year, you will join our esteemed alumni as a Pentilan scholar. Welcome, class of 1958.”