The Italian Party

by Christina Lynch

  Blood. They were asking if there was blood.

  I’ve lost the baby, she thought.

  It was like having six mothers at once—she didn’t feel embarrassed to be in the midst of these women. She felt the terrible cramping again.

  A hush fell over the room as, in front of all of them, she checked her underwear.

  “No sangue,” she said.

  A cheer went up in the room. The women beamed and held their hands together in joy.

  She had not lost the baby.

  “Medico?” she asked. She hadn’t seen a doctor since arriving in Siena. They must have them. She’d heard ambulances now and then.

  One of the women pulled in a little girl of about ten, with huge brown eyes, her blue flowered dress way too large for her, who was apparently studying English in school.

  “You have … cramp,” she said to Scottie, after the women had shouted at her for a while, gesticulating. Scottie was sitting at a tiny table on a rickety little chair. A single lightbulb swung over her head, dressed up with a frilly pink halo of paper. A hunk of bread was in front of her, and a glass of water. She felt drained and still crampy.

  Just a cramp, she thought. The women were trying to tell her something about a muscle, that her uterus was a muscle, that it had a cramp because it was growing. Incinta, incinta, they said.

  “Pregnant,” said the little girl.

  “Yes,” said Scottie.

  “They say you should eat, get strong again,” said the little girl.

  “What is the address of the doctor?” asked Scottie.

  “No need for doctor. Mamma send for herbs.”

  Scottie was worried, suddenly guilty that she hadn’t seen a doctor yet. “But when you’re pregnant, the doctor?”

  They all shook their heads. “The doctor is for when you’re sick.”

  “You take the herbs,” the girl translated for a sensible-looking woman in a simple blue maternity dress. “She has seven bambini, I mean children,” said the girl.

  “Herbs?”

  “Yes. You must—” Here the girl paused, her “Dick and Jane” vocabulary exceeded. “You must drink the tea to calm the cramps, so they do not get worse and you do not lose the baby. And you must eat.”

  The women talked over each other in their eagerness to get the girl to transmit their messages. Scottie could tell they were derisive about the doctor, a man. Clearly the women felt they knew their bodies better than he did.

  “This happens many times. No need for doctor. You eat. You drink tea. It will help, but the baby is coming when it’s coming,” they said with a glorious obviousness that flew in the face of all the conflicting articles in American women’s magazines obsessing about pregnancy. She had read one in McCall’s that said a woman should hardly gain any weight during her term at all. She doubted this group would agree.

  A slump-shouldered woman came in, eyes down, with a small packet wrapped in white paper and handed it to Scottie. “Tea,” she whispered. “Buono.”

  “Where did you get this tea? What is it?” Scottie asked in Italian.

  The woman, not understanding her, nodded and said, “Sì, té.” Scottie recognized her, suppressing a gasp—it was the prostitute.

  “Thank you,” Scottie said. The woman blushed and rushed out again.

  “Ah, Gina,” murmured the women, as if they were a Greek chorus. There was much eye rolling and sighing.

  The little girl filled the awkward silence. “Herbs come from mountain. Monte Amiata. Woman there, how you say, healer. Better than doctor.”

  She drank the tea, felt it wash down inside her. After a couple of minutes she stood up. The cramps were gone.

  “Thank you, grazie, grazie,” she said. She took out her wallet and tried to hand the bakery owner some money, but the woman staunchly refused it.

  “Fa niente,” she said over and over. It’s nothing.

  The tribe ushered her back through the room behind the store, past flour sacks and mixing bowls. A light snow of flour was on every surface. There were glass French doors standing open with a beaded curtain drifting slightly in the breeze. Beyond was a courtyard where a large domed brick structure stood, a huge pile of slim pieces of wood next to it, a wooden paddle leaning nearby.

  “That’s where the bread is made?” Scottie asked.

  “Sì sì, forno a legna.” A wood-fired oven. Scottie thought of the field trip her fourth-grade class had made to the Helms Bread Factory on Venice Boulevard in Los Angeles. All gleaming stainless steel, huge industrial ovens, workers in white paper hats and hairnets, laboratories and conveyor belts. The latest in modern technology.

  They passed back through the store, and the woman unlocked the door and turned the sign from CHIUSO to APERTO, and Scottie was back on the street, a loaf of bread under her arm.

  A baby. It was no longer just an idea. It was real. It was coming, like a hurricane bearing down on her.

  If she had lost the baby, she could have left. Women did this, and sometimes it wasn’t the end of the world. Clare Boothe herself had been divorced, and Henry Luce had still married her.

  Would she leave Michael, if she could? He was a good man. Did a husband have to be more than that?

  INTERMEZZO

  The mayor of Siena was driving his new pale yellow Fiat 600 along Via Roma. In the narrow street he passed close to a tall blond woman in a pink sweater over a full-skirted white dress. The dress was embroidered all over with a pattern. What were those little red things? Cherries? Tomatoes? Roses? He recognized her. The American. These foreigners. They were full of smiles, their perfect white teeth gleaming. They were so open, so friendly, so young, so rich.

  And so dangerous.

  He believed in growth—things could not stay the same forever. But a cautious, careful growth that would preserve the best of Siena, while modernizing the less desirable aspects, like the filth running through the streets of some neighborhoods, the crime, the poverty.

  This put him in opposition to some who wanted to tear down everything that was old and make it new. He was an honest man, but he saw it would be hard to avoid being corrupted by this power he now had. He was already being courted by every wealthy and powerful man in the city. It made him a little giddy, these back-to-back conversations, meetings, conferences, lunches, dinners. He would never be hungry again, he realized, until he was out of office. He might end up with gout if he wasn’t careful. Or worse.

  He passed the zona industriale, saw the sign for the new Ford Tractors dealership. He had mixed feelings about these American businesses opening here. It was all well and good to be able to buy these American products, but that was Italian money leaving the country at a moment when they needed to hold on to every lira they could. No, he was not a fan of such moves—if foreigners wanted to invest in Italian business, that was one thing, but American-owned hotels and businesses would strip them of their … The car made a funny noise. He paused, wondering if he should pull over.

  But he was running late to meet his favorite prostitute. She didn’t like it when he was late. She berated him with every curse she knew. Porca miseria, quanto sei stronzo was her favorite. Pig’s misery, what a jerk.

  He rounded the curve and headed down the hill through Porta Romana. A donkey cart piled with yellow squash was ahead of him on the curving road. The stone walls on either side were close—and he couldn’t see who was coming from the other direction. He braked and went to downshift, but the stick moved loosely in his hands. He pumped the clutch, not understanding what was happening … Why was the car not responding? It was a brand-new car! Porca miseria.

  He made it around the donkey cart, practically on two wheels, yet taking the time to notice and compliment himself on how skillfully he was driving. Then he saw a Bee ahead—Piaggio’s tiny pickup—right in the middle of the road. He hit the brakes harder, but nothing happened. In a panic, he swerved to avoid the Bee and crashed head-on into a stone wall. His last thought was a clear picture of the pattern on the beautiful
American woman’s perfect white dress. Strawberries.

  PART TWO

  TERZO DI CITTÀ

  Italy has the largest Communist party outside the Iron Curtain. She is the only country in Europe where the Socialists are allied to the Communists. This is what explains the intense interest everywhere in the crisis through which Italian “social communism” is going.

  —“Italy’s Big Left Bloc Is Shaken,” The New York Times, July 1, 1956

  SEVEN

  L’ONDA, THE WAVE

  “THE COLOR OF THE SKY, THE STRENGTH OF THE SEA”

  1.

  Scottie had been too worried about concealing her pregnancy when she left America to bring any books on childbirth with her, and now she wouldn’t find any in English, and probably not in Italian, either. She couldn’t see Italian women turning to Dr. Spock for advice. Plus, she wasn’t the type to learn from books anyway. Almost any woman in Siena could tell her what she needed to know.

  The baby was real now, to her, in a way that it had not been before. She had never thought of it as something that would leave her body and take up its life in the world. It was just a Problem. She had a brief thought about what would happen if she had a girl, and together they went to look at Vassar … She pushed the memory out of her head—Michael was this child’s father. If she said it often enough, it would become true.

  She went home and made a nice dinner for the two of them—the three of them, really. Chicken marsala. It took her hours, and it came out perfectly.

  Except Michael did not come home by seven, or eight, or nine. She finally dumped the dinner in the trash and did the dishes and went to bed.

  It was after ten by the time she heard his key in the lock. He came in complaining about Palio drummers blocking his way.

  Instead of saying, “I’m pregnant,” she said, “I have a headache.”

  She pretended to be asleep while he went off to work the next morning, still furious with him, and the more furious for knowing he had no idea she was angry at all.

  At lunch she polished off a plate of the most exquisitely delightful tagliatelle ai funghi porcini at the restaurant downstairs, on the excuse she was following the orders of the local women. Signor Tommaso, obviously pleased by her appetite, explained that fresh porcini mushrooms would not come for another few months, and that when they did the woods would be full of eager hunters. This dish, made from the dried version, would be a “foreshadowing.” She skeptically sniffed the shriveled tan and brown mushroom that Signor Tommaso brought out on a plate to illustrate, but each bite when the actual dish arrived was a miracle—the hand-rolled noodles put up a slight resistance to her teeth, then surrendered in a cloud of velvety flavor so intense she felt she would swoon.

  After lunch she returned to the bakery, feeling a bit shy but wanting to thank the women who had been so kind. The owner had simply nodded and taken her money for the bread. The other women had once again given La Straniera a wide berth.

  * * *

  Scottie was ironing Michael’s shirt as he lifted pots on the stove. “Mmm, smells good,” he said.

  She would tell him now. Earlier that day she practiced in front of the mirror. “I’m having a baby,” she had said out loud, turning sideways, studying her body. She would tell him now. Now. Now.

  What if he figured it out? What if he realized the baby was not his? What if he threw her out onto the street, like she deserved?

  She felt her resolve weakening. She could tell him another time.

  Then a boxed ad on the back page of the newspaper on the table caught her eye. Cuccioli. Robertino had taught her that word. Puppies. A puppy would be good training for both of them. And an instant friend for her. It would warm Michael up to the idea of having a little one around.

  She opened a can of Del Monte peaches, topped them with whipped cream and popped a maraschino cherry on top like she had seen in the June issue of Life Michael had brought up from Rome. Michael ate the peaches in silence, reading the paper as she hung up the freshly ironed shirt.

  Next she served him a Salisbury steak with a side of mashed potatoes and a perfect pool of gravy, while deftly removing the plate that had held the peaches. The meat for the steak had required quite a bit of wrangling with the butcher, who found it upsetting to have to grind up perfectly good beef. She tried to say she was making a ragù alla bolognese, but this didn’t help—why was she not then buying veal, and a chicken liver? The butcher’s mother was from Bologna, and this was how it was to be made, he insisted.

  She sat down opposite Michael and spoke to the newspaper. “Do you like our home?”

  He gave her a quizzical look over the top of the paper. “Of course I do. It’s the best address in the city.”

  “But … does it feel like a home to you?”

  “Of course it does. You’ve done a beautiful job. Oh honey, don’t you know that?” His voice was warm, kind but also …

  “No,” she said.

  “Come here.” He pulled her onto his lap, brushed her hair back with his hand. “You know what I love about it? It’s a showplace of all that’s best about America.”

  “You don’t think it’s—cold?”

  “Not at all. I love it. And you’re a wonderful cook.”

  At this she laughed. “And you’re a great liar.”

  “I love that you cook American.”

  This was one of Michael’s odd quirks, that he wanted her to cook American food. “It’s not easy. I found those Del Monte canned peaches in the back of a dusty old dry goods store. They’re probably left over from World War II.”

  “They were delicious. And so was the burger.”

  She removed the plate with the crusty remains of the Salisbury steak and topped off Michael’s glass of milk. “Hey, what do you think about getting a dog?”

  “Would be nice, but we don’t have a yard for it.” He wiped his mouth with a chintz napkin she realized she’d have to wash and iron again tomorrow. She must find some paper napkins somewhere. The Italians were really behind the times on disposable products.

  “I’m out walking all day anyway,” she said, keeping her tone cheery. “And I’m lonely when you’re away, you know.” She smiled at him as she rearranged the flowers as she had been taught in homemaking class at Miss Porter’s. She hated the class, felt flowers looked prettiest in the fields where they grew wild, but she did remember some of it, taller flowers in the middle.

  “I know you’re lonely,” he said. “I mean, I can see it, and of course, you’re thousands of miles from your friends. You’re brave to have taken this on.”

  “So it’s okay if I get the dog?” she pressed, putting a fresh plate of brownies on the table. They were a little burned—she had made them in a tiny electric countertop mini-oven she’d bought at the hardware store, and all of the gauges were in Celsius.

  “Oh no,” he said. He was staring down at the “News of Siena” page.

  “What?”

  “The mayor’s been killed in a car crash.”

  “The mayor of Siena?”

  “Yes.” He was reading the story intently.

  “Ugo Rosini is dead?”

  “No,” said Michael. “You were so caught up in making the house pretty that you missed that there was an election.”

  “I—I guess I did,” she said. “So it’s not Rosini?”

  “It’s Manganelli who’s dead.” He sounded upset. “The guy who beat Rosini. He only took office a few days ago. He was pro-business, the Christian Democratic Party. Bad blow for us businessmen.”

  She hadn’t even bothered to try to understand the complexity of Italian politics. There were about forty political parties. It was like when a British boy had taken her on a date to a cricket match and then tried to explain the rules to her, both dull and complicated.

  Ugo was alive. She felt a sudden desire to run into him, to see him in the flesh. To feel desired.

  “Let’s go down and have an ice cream in the piazza,” Scottie said.

&nb
sp; Michael put down the paper and sighed. “I’m sorry. I have to go out. Work.” He stood up and put his napkin on the dirty plate, adding, “I just don’t think getting a dog is a good idea. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll ask Ford for a trip home at Christmas.”

  She blinked at him, a rage rising in her that she had not felt since her pony Shorty had dumped her in the water obstacle at a horse show. She followed him toward the door, twisting her apron in her hands.

  “I’m pregnant,” she said as he took his hat off the rack.

  He looked at her in surprise, then frowned. “We can’t start a family now.”

  “Well, we are. I’m having a baby.”

  “Here?” He was incredulous.

  “People have children in Italy.”

  “Yes, and they get diseases and worms and run over. It’s filthy and dangerous here. Run by Communists, for God’s sake. Who knows where Italy will be in five years? Six months, even. The whole place could be at war.”

  “At war?”

  “With us. You can’t raise a child under those conditions. It’s not safe.”

  She was so confused. What was he talking about? What was he actually afraid of?

  “Well. It’s too late. I—I’m having a baby,” she said. She was racked with guilt. Part of her wanted to tell him, to throw herself on his mercy, to live honestly.

  She said nothing.

  “I assumed you were … being careful,” he said. “Because we didn’t talk about starting a family.”

  “But … you’re Catholic.”

  “You’re not.” They stared at each other, realizing the things they had both taken for granted.

  “I just assumed you’d want children … It’s normal for a man to—”

  He flinched as if she had struck him. “This is terrible timing.” He turned away, and she went into the bedroom and shut the door. She heard the front door close.

  Who bought tractors after dinner, she wondered.

  2.

  The political situation in Siena had just been upended again. Michael read the article in the evening paper with growing dismay as Scottie served him a hideous piece of ground something. He noticed she didn’t eat it. She must think he was crazy for asking her to cook this stuff. The truth was he hated this kind of crappy American cooking, but the rules were very clear that agents were not supposed to “go native.” Their homes were supposed to be as American as possible. The Agency actually preferred if their people didn’t speak the language. This kind of immersion in the local culture can lead to ambiguous loyalties, one urgent notice had warned. Not all of the rules made sense to him, he had to admit. Most of them seemed to have been made by people who had never left America. But he was here to do a job, so he followed them. And that job had just gotten harder.