But the invitation hadn’t been discreet in the slightest. It had burst into the household yesterday in the form of an open note, delivered along with a gigantic bouquet of flowers and received by her mother and sister in the presence of the entire landing, which had been summoned in a plenary session. In practical terms, Enrica had been the last one to know about it.
Manfred asked her to give him an hour of her time tomorrow afternoon. If that weren’t possible, he hoped she’d tell the messenger boy who had brought her this note, but, he added in his strange, upright, and slightly gothic handwriting, he ardently hoped that her answer would be a yes.
Since that answer was issued with great impetus directly by the committee of floral reception, a committee which did not include the young woman, that answer was positive and then some. And the appointment was set via messenger boy for four o’clock.
The question, from the very outset, had been one and one alone: what are you going to wear? In the thrill of choosing the outfit, accompanied by a discussion of the tidal wave of alterations that would have to be done on any of the inadequate items in Enrica’s scanty wardrobe, no one paid any attention to the distinct lack of enthusiasm on the part of the person in question. No one but Giulio, of course, though he was given the standard justification of a nagging migraine.
Still, he continued to wonder what had happened on that walk, resulting in one Enrica going out the door and a very different one returning home.
The young woman, for her part, was distracted, to put it lightly. The absurd and unexpected chance encounter with Ricciardi had thrown her into a state. She hadn’t been prepared for such a thing, and instead of adopting a formal and detached demeanor, she had spoken without thinking, something that to her was roughly as mortifying as walking naked down the street.
She had thought for hour and hours about what she had said and what he had said, and she couldn’t get over it. What good is all this sea? she had asked him. What kind of a question was that? What did it mean? She didn’t have the faintest idea, and yet right there and then it had seemed like the only sensible thing to say.
The brutal shove that knocked down the castle of certainties that she had painstakingly assembled had come from the man’s expression. Had he only displayed indifference, courtesy, or simple kindness, it would have been easy for her to issue a greeting, perhaps with a nod of the head and a smile, and then continue on her way, even if her heart was in utter tumult. But that’s not how it had gone: he was even more upset than she was.
The image of his staring eyes, his open mouth, the lock of hair on his forehead was vivid and unequivocal. Surprise, bafflement; even fear. And those absurd words: I saw you. What had he seen? What could he have seen, if not a perfectly ordinary guest sitting at the family dinner table on a September evening?
Deep down, she had to admit it. Manfred wasn’t some perfectly ordinary guest on a September evening, he was the man who on a July night had kissed her beneath the moon and whom she had not pushed away, out of a mix of sorrow and fear of the life that awaited her, of the past and the future.
But that kiss, there was certainly no way Ricciardi could have seen that.
With her head elsewhere and without enthusiasm, she had however submitted to the excitement of the female part of her family, with the female neighbors standing in as a sort of Greek chorus; one of the worst moments was the massive offering of horrible jewelry and garish accessories, all of them rejected with perfect courtesy.
As for the dress, the committee opted in the end for a skirt with blouse and jacket, ecru with polka dots, and a cloche hat in the same fabric and matching gloves, with beige handbag and shoes; her mother managed to talk her into taking in the blouse a bit at the waist to highlight her breasts, one of Enrica’s better features. The young woman lacked the strength to even object.
At four o’clock on the dot on the following afternoon, her sister Susanna, standing watch behind the shutters, announced Manfred’s arrival. How German they are after all, she said, with admiration for his punctuality, as if it were a matter of national pride. Enrica went downstairs and the man greeted her by kissing her hand, sending a grandstand full of family members on the balcony into a collective swoon.
Only Giulio, if he hadn’t been at the family store, would have noticed the glance that Enrica shot toward a certain window in the palazzo next door. A window that was shut.
Fortunately, the stroll arm in arm with Manfred hadn’t been unpleasant. The major had so many stories to tell about his first period living in the city, and she could take shelter behind courteous and interested monosyllabic replies. He told her about what it was like at the consulate, how lovable the Italian clerks and janitors were there, and the saga of the consul himself. As they walked toward the center of town, facing into a light breeze that rose from the sea, he told her amusing anecdotes about the day he’d spent at the archeological digs; he told her about a German professor who was absolutely convinced he spoke excellent Italian but whom no one could understand, and who generated absurd misunderstandings with the local laborers, who exclusively spoke in dialect.
In short order, Enrica felt a sense of tranquility wash over her. Manfred always had this effect on her. It was like moving through a new territory that nonetheless remained familiar, comfortable, and close to the serenity to which she so aspired. She even laughed, attracting the curious, pleased gazes of the people they crossed paths with. He was in uniform, handsome and exotic, and many young women shot him unequivocally interested glances. That gratified Enrica, though in a fairly bland way; it didn’t trigger even a stab of jealousy, even though it ought to have. This too, she told herself, was indicative of something, but she couldn’t have said exactly what.
Manfred committed the unconscious error of taking her to Gambrinus. A place of meaning for her, both pleasant and unpleasant. She went there with her father, she’d met Ricciardi there more than once, she’d seen that woman, Livia, there, so beautiful and self-confident in a way she could never hope to achieve. While waiting for a waiter to clear a table for them, she raised her eyes in the direction of a stretch of the sea that extended into the distant afternoon, like a threat. What are you good for? she thought. What are you good for?
She took a seat, while Manfred courteously held out her chair for her. They ordered: she a vanilla gelato, he a glass of white wine. From inside came the muffled notes of a piano, but not far away a skinny young man was playing another song, his fingers flying over a mandolin.
People could say whatever they liked about this city, Manfred commented, but not that there was any shortage of music.
Why, what could people say about the city? Enrica enquired.
The major shrugged his shoulders, gesturing vaguely toward the gentle slope leading up to Monte di Dio. Nothing, you know, the usual things.
What usual things? she asked. Behind the plate-glass window she could see an unoccupied table. Not once but twice she had seen Ricciardi sitting there, his rapt gaze focused outside while he drank his espresso, in front of him a small plate with a sfogliatella pastry, half-eaten.
Manfred smiled with a hint of embarrassment. The mess, the dirt. The criminals. What people say.
Enrica narrowed her eyes, behind the lenses of her glasses. A little more than ten feet away, three young women were trying to capture the attention of the handsome fair-haired soldier by giggling, shooting glances, and crossing and uncrossing their legs.
Ah, so that’s what they say about the city.
The officer shifted uneasily in his chair, though he never stopped smiling. But it’s people who don’t know the city, that say those things about it, without ever having seen it.
Enrica felt a strange anger surging within her. She knew that Manfred had invited her there to talk about something else, to establish once again the contact of that night in the moonlight, and she understood that, perhaps, her excessive reaction to a perf
ectly innocent phrase was a way of seizing on the first pretext that came to hand to put off a situation that she didn’t know how to confront.
Not yet, at least.
And you, she replied, you who know the city, don’t you know how to explain to them that it’s something very different? That it has a thousand extraordinary beauties?
Manfred’s smiled faded, but only for a moment. You’re not being fair, he replied. You know that I never let a vacation go by without coming here, and that I chose this destination among the many that were offered to me. And you know that among the motives that drove me to make that choice there was you.
The table behind the plate-glass window. An empty chair in which a ghost sat, sipping an espresso and looking at her, of all people, her.
That doesn’t have anything to do with it, she said. Do you hear this music? The mandolin, not the piano. It seems as if it’s being played for tourists, just to get a few pennies of charity. But that’s not what it really is: it’s an expression of the city, it’s the song of the city. It’s a story, a story being told. This place tells stories, Manfred. It tells them by talking, playing, singing, and even just with its colors. And you, in that chilly gray place where you live, all you know how to talk about is mess, thieves, and criminals. What about the air? What about the songs?
What about the sea?
Manfred’s face darkened. He didn’t know what direction this afternoon’s outing was taking, but so far he didn’t like it one little bit.
That’s not what I think about it, Enrica. I love your people, and I love this place, if you love it. I came here to . . .
You shouldn’t love it because I love it, Manfred. You should love it for itself. Because it’s beautiful, and magical, and even if at times it’s a place that seems caught in desperation and dire need of help, it remains the only place on earth where you can be completely happy. Don’t you understand that?
The table behind the window. The mandolin that gently emitted its laments. The colors of the women’s clothing, the waiters who whisked past in their tailcoats, skillfully balancing trays piled high on gloved hands.
Without warning, Enrica stood up.
Excuse me, she said. I haven’t been feeling very well for the past few days. I have a headache. Would you see me home?
In his turn, Manfred got to his feet, looking disconcerted. Of course, darling, of course. Forgive me. Let’s put this off to another day, but you can be sure that I’ll send another invitation, perhaps tomorrow, or the day after that. We live in a place that’s chilly and gray, but we aren’t chilly and gray ourselves, and when we find something that matters to us, we don’t give up easily.
He extended his arm, gallantly, after depositing some money on the table. The young women nearby shot venomous glances at that vinegary, tall woman, far less pretty than any one of them, but who had the power to bid such an attractive man to come and go like a lapdog. She must be rich, murmured one of them, making all of them laugh.
The skinny young man’s mandolin went on telling a heartbreaking story of love and grief.
Before turning around and heading home, Enrica thanked the long strip of blue water that was turning dark as evening fringed the horizon.
After all, she told herself, that’s what all this sea is good for.
XLV
Canta lu addu e tocola la cora: iamo a mangià cà è benuta l’ora, murmured Nelide. The rooster is crowing, move your derriere: let’s get something to eat, because it’s time.
Sometimes she thought she could hear her father’s voice, as he battled the fields, the cold, and the heat the way he always had done, with never a complaint. He spoke only in proverbs, her father did. Zi’ Rosa used to make fun of him for it, but she remembered every one of them, and used them the same way he did.
Behind her, just on the edge of her field of vision, she glimpsed a movement and nodded; Rosa was there. Her presence made Nelide feel safer and reassured, because she knew that if she got anything wrong, her elderly dead aunt would have wasted no time letting her know, one way or another, correcting her before the error became irreparable.
The home wasn’t a problem, though. The problem, the only one that she had, was the Baron of Malomonte.
Rosa called him the young master, because when he was little she had held him on her knee and because to Rosa the baron could only be Ricciardi’s father, a big jovial man whose pranks and exploits were still the talk of the town, and stories to enchant with. But to Nelide, to her relatives, and to all the people of Fortino, the only true Baron of Malomonte was that slender, silent man with his large, sad green eyes: Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi. And she was the person appointed to look after him.
The problem was that the baron wasn’t well. He wasn’t a bit well.
Rosa sighed gently behind her. The young woman narrowed her eyes as she reviewed the ingredients for dinner. Zi’ Ro’, she thought, don’t worry. Maybe he’ll get over it. Maybe he just misses you. The way I do.
But things had to be kept running, and that was her job. Certainly, mistakes might be made: ma sulo chi nun face nienti nun sbaglia nienti, as they said where she came from. If you don’t want to make mistakes, don’t try to do anything.
And she also told herself that, in order to feel better, a man must eat well. Panza chiena core cuntento, in other words. Full belly, happy heart. And so she had consulted with her aunt and had come to a decision: pumpkins with cheese and eggs, borage pizza, and eggplant Parmesan.
The problem of obtaining the best ingredients was, as always, a matter for some careful thought.
As long as we’re talking about Romano cheese, olive oil, and cacioricotta cheese, she could draw on the provisions in the pantry, the ones brought by the donkey cart that came in from the villages.
But the borage, the onions, and especially the pumpkin would have to be bought locally.
Nelide was reminded of that vegetable vendor surrounded by women, ’o Sarracino, that’s what they’d called him; but what she needed was vegetables, not theater. And so she went downstairs with her bag, her eyes fixed straight ahead of her, determined not to fraternize with anyone and to head home as quickly as possible. Her stout body, broad shoulders, and powerful forearms, along with her small eyes and square jaw, discouraged anyone from trying to strike up a conversation with that strange woman, proud of being a hick, equally proud of a virtually incomprehensible dialect, and ill disposed to smiling.
Tanino, the bold vegetable vendor, had seen her appear from a distance and had called out to her over the heads of the young women who surrounded him, pretending to be interested in his wares.
“Signori’, and where do you think you’re going with that lovely empty shopping bag? Who could fill it up for you, if not your own loving Tanino?”
They had all laughed, perhaps interpreting a second meaning where perhaps the young man had meant no such thing. Nelide stopped, turned around, and shot him through with a grim glare. Then she said: “Nun c’è ’ngnuranza senza presunzione, nun c’è pezzenteria senza rifietti. Every crass fool is conceited, every poor man has some lack. That’s what people say, where I come from.”
She’d spoken in a low voice, as if thinking aloud; but everyone had heard her. Tanino’s smile died on his face, while the other vendors laughed even louder. An elderly pasta vendor courteously inquired: “What do you need, Signori’? You’re new around here, forget about ’o Sarracino, all he ever wants to do is kid around.”
Nelide snarled: “Vurraina, cocozza e cepudde. Borage, pumpkin, and onion.”
“You’ll find them in an hour or so, Vittorio is coming, he’s a vegetable vendor a little less in love with his own voice. Maybe you’d get along better with him. Come back later.”
Nelide had nodded her head ever so slightly in assent and had then turned to go, accompanied by the murmurings from the alley. She was a tough nut, Commissario Ricciardi’s new
governess. The old aunt, God rest her soul, had at least smiled every once in a while: this one, never.
Half an hour later she heard a knock at her door. Drying her hands on the front of her housecoat, she’d gone to see who it was, and had found herself face-to-face with an unexpected visage.
There was Tanino, panting slightly but with a broad smile on his face, and with a bag in his hands. Behind him she could see the whispering heads of a half dozen curious housemaids.
“Signori’,” said the young man, “I’ve been a little unfortunate with you. You never laugh, and I don’t know how to converse with ladies who don’t laugh.”
“A parlà è art’ leggiera,” said Nelide. Talking is easy. “I don’t have time to talk, young man. The gentleman I look after will be home soon, and I have a meal to get on the table.”
’O Sarracino smiled.
“And that’s why I’m here, Signori’. Let it never be said that Tanino ’o Sarracino let one of his customers go to another vegetable vendor. My merchandise is the best there is, why just look here: a borage that’s smooth as silk, a pumpkin that’s pure gold, and certain onions that are . . . ”
Nelide grunted.
“Yes, yes, all right. How much do I owe you?”
Tanino put on an air of offended nobility.
“Signori’, this is my own personal complimentary sampling, to show you that we know how to extend a welcome to . . . ”
Nelide looked at him, mistrustfully.
“You mean you don’t want money?”
The young man nodded.
“Not a penny!” he declared proudly.
Nelide thought it over for a second or two and then said: “All right. Arrivederci. See you later.”
And without a word of thanks she took the bag and slammed the door in Tanino’s face, to a gale of laughter from the women behind him. The young man called out cheerfully to the dark wooden door: “But remember, Signori’! You said: See you later!”
Glass Souls Page 32
