Drafted.
Why, God? Why do you have to take away everyone I love?
Why do you have to take him too?
She heard nothing, perceived nothing, until he reached out and stroked her neck with a gentle hand, bending his face to hers.
Placing a soft and reverent kiss on her lips.
And she was overcome.
She was overcome with the force of his emotion, with the depth of his love. And her own. For she did: She loved him despite all the reasons she’d given herself not to. Against that formidable weapon, her reason faltered. Her logic failed. And then it crumbled. And when Billy stepped away from her, she was weeping.
He drew her to his chest. “Don’t worry. It will be over soon.
It has to be over soon.”
But that’s what everyone had been saying for the past four years. And he hadn’t seen what she had. He hadn’t seen those poor soldiers. He hadn’t toured the trenches. War was hell. It was eternal. It would never end. She shook her head.
“What is it? What have I done? Was it . . . what I said?” What he’d asked?
“You’ve done – nothing . . . nothing . . .” He’d done nothing but make her believe for one short instant that everything would be all right. And then he’d dashed all her hopes in the next.
“I’ll be back. You’ll see. Before you can even miss me.” She despaired that he would ever return at all.
“But I want to marry you. Before I go.”
She shook her head once more, for she didn’t trust herself to speak. There was too much still between them. Too much he didn’t know. Too much left to say and too much left to overcome. “I am not who you think I am. And who I am can only be a danger to you. I could only bring unhappiness to your family.”
“I know who you are. You’re Italian.” And his mother would just have to learn to live with it.
“I am the daughter of the Count of Roma.”
She was so grave, so . . . sad, that he couldn’t resist trying to lighten her mood. He knelt on one knee, took her hand in his. “Then marry me, Luciana, the daughter of the Count of Roma.”
“You don’t understand! I can’t.” She wouldn’t. How could she? The anarchists were at work in the city already. And her father’s murderer was among them. She knew he had to be. Their targets were the rich and the powerful. The only thing she could possibly do for Billy and his family would be to lead them to his doorstep. Her own family had been cursed, there was no denying it. But why should she bring that tainted dowry to his?
“You can.”
She shook her head as tears streamed down her face.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket to try to stem them, but he would have been more successful at stopping the tide.
“Why can’t you? Are you . . . already engaged?” He hadn’t considered that. Hadn’t even thought to wonder whether anyone else had any claim to her affections.
“No.” The only other man who had come close to any such claim had forfeited all of his rights by murdering her father.
“Is it . . . your grandmother? She can come live with us. It wouldn’t be a problem at all.”
“I can’t. I’m no good for you.”
“Why not? Because you’re Italian?”
Because she was Italian. Because she had nothing. Because sending him off to die of a German bullet would be easier than watching him die from an anarchist’s bomb.
“I can’t.” She looked, one last time, into his eyes, put a hand to his cheek, and then ran away.
Luciana left Billy standing in the park, wondering where he had gone wrong, and turned, in her sorrow and heartbreak, toward the church. She didn’t have anything she wanted to confess, but she wanted to talk to someone whose job it was to understand. So she stood in line behind a dozen other scarf-clad women. And when it was her turn, she stepped into the booth and shut the door.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been . . .” How long? How long had it been since she had bared her soul to man and to God? She hadn’t done it in the week before the bomb had blown her world apart. There had been too many parties and weekends in the country. And before that had been Easter. She had been to confession at Easter. Just as she was supposed to have done. “It has been five months since my last confession.”
Five months. Easter. Father Antonio sat up straighter in his chair. It must be something terribly bad to bring a soul to confession seven months before she was due again.
A doctor would have given anything for Father Antonio’s cure. A doctor like Mauro would have loved to have dispensed his medicine once a year, at Easter. Would have loved for his patients to have been able to save up their sorrows and their cares, bring them all before him together, and lay them at his feet with perfect clarity. He would have loved to have given absolution instead of vague prescriptions and best guesses . . . just as Father Antonio would have given anything for parishioners who came to him on a regular basis, as needed, who let him peer into their hearts the way Mauro peered down their throats or into their ears. Disease and sin have this in common: It’s much better to treat them at the first symptom than to stand witness to their last.
Father Antonio folded his hands together. Waited for the confession.
It did not come.
“Just say it, child. The burden will grow less in the confessing.” “I have nothing, Father.”
“Nothing to confess?”
“Venial sins.” She’d lied in a fashion by donning peasants’ clothes, hadn’t she? And she’d been enticed into shouting at Julietta. But her sins weren’t the reason she was there. “I need help.”
Help? A young woman by the sound of her. “Are you . . .
with child?”
“No! No. It’s nothing like that. I’m being hunted, Father.”
“Hunted?”
“By an evil man.”
“For what reason?”
“Because of my family. He doesn’t like my father’s politics.”
Father sighed. He was weary to death of politics. And families. Of their grudges and their vendettas. Of people who swore they would never speak to each other again and then spoke of their feuds to anyone who would listen. “Our Lord Jesus counseled His disciples to turn the other cheek.”
Turn the other cheek? She’d turned her tail and run. That wasn’t the kind of advice that she was looking for. “There’s a man, Father.”
He tried not to sigh. There was always a man. There were so many men. So many irascible, hot-tempered, intractable men.
“A man who says he loves me. He’s asked me to marry him.”
Love and marriage did not always come together in Father Antonio’s long experience. “And?”
“How can I marry him, Father, when my life is in danger?
How can I deliver trouble to him? And to his family? I just want to know . . . what’s right. What is the right thing to do?”
“Have you told him about this danger?”
“No.”
“What have you told him?”
“I’ve told him I can’t marry him.”
“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. And yet you’ve chosen to take away his opportunity to do any of those?”
“I love him too much to subject him to this. The other man means to kill me, Father. And what if this man – the man I love – is killed too?”
“You say you love him, and yet you don’t trust him enough to let him decide if it’s a risk he’s willing to take. Perhaps . . . you don’t love him.”
She sat silent for a moment, contemplating his words. “I do love him.”
“Perfect love casts out all fear. Let the fear go, my child. Let God grant you peace.”
God. Again. “I’m not so sure I believe in God anymore, Father.”
“You’re here, in my confessional, aren’t you?”
“God took my father. He took my money. He’s taken my entire life. I have nothing left, Father, of what I use
d to have.”
“And is what you used to have so very valuable? That you would blame God for taking it away?”
Was it? Truly? Because what had she had but a life of idle luxury in a society filled with people she only tolerated, if not downright despised? She had lost her father, it was true. But had that really been God’s fault?
“Perhaps God has not stolen from you. Perhaps he has given you a gift.”
A gift.
“You said you needed help. If you could put this evil man behind you, would you accept your young man’s offer?”
“Sì.”
“Then let him help you put that evil man behind you.”
33
As Luciana was daring to dream what life might be like with Billy, Annamaria was imagining what it would be like to walk with Rafaello. In public, through the streets of the North End. Anywhere they wanted. Whenever they wanted. In her daydreams, Annamaria was free from her family, free from her responsibilities, free from expectations. She was free to love Rafaello exactly the way she longed to do.
What would that be like? To love and be loved? To take up someone’s hand, not to assist them in crossing the street or return their attention to a schoolbook, but to take it up and simply hold it?
That would be . . . why, that would be paradise!
She pondered love and freedom and paradise as she walked along. As she climbed the slumping stairs of her building, as she walked the sour-smelling hall and pushed open the age-worn door – she didn’t see or smell any of those things. She was walking into the oasis that was Zanfini’s, smelling delectable onions. And apples. And seeing the tender greeting in Rafaello’s eyes.
But she was roused from her daydreams by the tumult of her family.
“What is it?” She unfastened her scarf with fingers gone suddenly clumsy.
“A letter!” Mama was fairly bouncing with excitement. “From my sister.”
Aunt Rosina?
“It’s just come. In the mail!”
A letter. All the way from Taurasi? “What does it say?”
“We were waiting for you.”
For Annamaria. The only one who knew how to read. She took the letter from Mama Rossi, and as the others crowded around she tore an end off the envelope and pulled out the letter.
Her Aunt Rosina. She wished she could walk into the woman’s arms for just a moment. Be surrounded by her love, welcomed into her warm heart.
“What does she say?”
“She says, ‘Dearest Sister, Mama and Papa are dead – ’ ”
The family gasped and crossed themselves as one. “They’re dead? How did they die?”
“ ‘ – from the grippe.’ ”
Mama crossed herself again as Papa patted her on the shoulder. “She’ll have to come over, then. We’ll tell her she has to come over. That’s what we always said. Once our mama and papa had gone, she’d come over.”
“ ‘ There’s not much else to tell except that I’ve married Cesar Fragasso. There wasn’t anyone else left after everyone went to America. I’m just too old to travel.’ ”
Mama hissed. “Cesar Fragasso. He’s a nasty one for sure! At least he always had been.”
Papa cocked his head. “Didn’t he have children?”
“Did he have children?! They live right down the street. The son married the Riccio daughter. And has either one of them ever said hello to you or me?” Mama gestured for the letter. “My dearest Rosina.” She held it up to her lips and kissed it, then passed it around so that everyone else could do the same. At last it was returned to Annamaria so that it could be put back into its envelope.
Annamaria watched as her mother carefully slid it under the jar of olive oil, where she kept the family’s most important papers.
Aunt Rosina had married Cesar Fragasso? That nasty old man?
All those years of caring for Nonno and Nonna and that was her reward? Hadn’t she always called Annamaria her very own girl?
And hadn’t she assured her, whenever Annamaria had felt sorry for her, that she would someday have a family of her own? Just a bit later, rather than sooner. After she’d done the work that God had given her to do.
As Annamaria took over the preparing of dinner, she retrieved the letter from beneath the jar. A ring of oil had already been stamped upon the envelope. Turning her back to her family, she hid it from view as she reread it.
Dearest Sister, Mama and Papa are dead from the grippe.There’s not much else to tell except that I’ve married Cesar Fragasso.There wasn’t anyone else left after everyone went to America. I’m just too old to travel. Your loving sister, Rosina.
Your loving sister. The sister who had loved everyone enough to let them all sail away, leaving her stranded in Avellino, married to a man she didn’t love. She didn’t. Annamaria knew she didn’t. How could she? He’d been a vile old man fifteen years ago, before they’d ever left. And there was nothing in her aunt’s letter to make her think that he’d changed.
There wasn’t anyone else left.
She put the letter back underneath the jar, but it haunted her as she cooked. Is that all the reward she had to look forward to? After Mama and Papa were gone? After Stefano had grown and married and left her all alone? Who would still be waiting for her then? Surely not Rafaello. Not after all that time.
But that was what she wanted. He was what she wanted.
And why shouldn’t she have him? Why should anyone keep her from him?
Unclasping her Saint Zita medal, she set it on one of the high shelves and pushed it back toward the wall where it was hidden behind some bowls.
Toil and turmoil? No. That wasn’t the life for her. Not if she had anything to say about it . . . and she was beginning to believe that she just might!
Madame Fortier was a lie. Two, yes, even three times over. She was not French. She was yet a mademoiselle. And she had never been a Fortier.
Fortier. Strength. Ha!
What had she done but use the sheer force of will to create a life for herself? But once that had been achieved? She had not once ventured from her gown shop outside of the city, let alone to France. She who was the most renowned interpreter of French fashions in Boston!
Madame Fortier?
Madame Farce. That’s what she ought to call herself. Which made it even more important that no one ever know. No one ever suspect.
She took a collar from one of the second-floor girls and walked it up to the third floor. The third floor where Annamaria was dreaming about Rafaello, Luciana was trying very hard not to cry over Billy, and Julietta was thinking about how to get the jewels back from Angelo. She couldn’t believe he’d stolen them. Well . . . yes, she could. She did. What she couldn’t believe is that he’d done it when he knew how much her job meant to her. That he’d done it when she was so in love with him. With love on her mind, with love clouding the very atmosphere, it was not so surprising that when Madame came to visit them, that Julietta asked the question that she did.
“Have you ever been in love?”
Annamaria gasped. Luciana pricked her finger with the needle. This time, Julietta had pushed too far. They could see it on Madame’s face.
Julietta regretted her words the moment she had spoken them. But it was far too late to recall them.
Madame Fortier blinked. She took in a deep breath, enough that it strained her bodice, looked at Julietta, and said, “No.” But of course she had. What she might have said, what would have been more truthful, was once.
Once, she had been.
“Never?” Julietta couldn’t imagine that somewhere in Madame’s past there had not been some handsome fellow bent on winning her heart. In fact, looking at Madame with a speculative gaze, she became convinced of it.
“Never.” Madame dropped the collar on the table and went down the stairs, a hand to the wall for support. She sat in her chair, opened up her drawer, and poured herself a shot of grappa.
There had been someone. Once. Oh! – she’d been so in love, so comple
tely beguiled, that she had refused to listen to reason. But she was not the daughter of a tailor for nothing. Eventually, she had foreseen how the pieces would fit together and what an ill-suited couple they would have made. She wouldn’t have been any good for him, and might have brought a great deal of harm to him.
She had done what she had to do. For him. On his behalf.
He had married, in any case, not so very long after she had refused him.
But what did it mean? Should she be delighted that he had found someone, or should she be offended? She still hadn’t decided. Not even after twenty-one long years. And every once in a while, when the moon was full and the wind was restless, she pulled out the string of facts and worried over them like a rosary.
She had been beautiful. She still was. She had left him. And apparently he had not mourned. Not that she had expected him to. But he had married. Had he been blinded by grief? Oh, Madonna! – she hoped not. She could not have borne the guilt.
Not on top of everything else. Had he just not . . . cared?
One thing was certain: She had been poor.
His wife was rich.
She had offered him beauty.
His wife had offered money.
She had spurned him.
His wife had accepted him.
So who was at fault? Was it her fault that he had married the woman, or was it his? And in the end, what did it really matter? She generally ended such musings in front of the mirror, staring at herself.
In the end, what did it really matter?
“Whose do you think it was?” Julietta asked the question after Madame had gone. “The wedding gown. Whose do you think it was?”
Luciana considered the question. Tried to recall the gown. She hadn’t seen it for very long, but those several minutes had left several impressions. “It wasn’t made recently.”
But Julietta already knew that. Hadn’t Madame said it was the first gown she’d made?
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