Fairytales

by Cynthia Freeman

  “Neither does he, but after twenty minutes, it’s a little too early to tell.”

  “Keep appeasin’ him.”

  “Not in front of Dominic, I won’t.”

  “Well, God willin’, I’m comin’ out just as soon as can.

  “I probably won’t be here by that time … Andrew’s got to get back, but I know everyone will be thrilled to see you. Keep well, come and see us when we all simmer down … I’ll say good-bye. Now, here’s Catherine.”

  In the next few years there were many special reasons to keep Mama informed about activities that took place within the family. Tory no sooner graduated from Harvard, with his name added to the growing list on the door of the Rossi law firm, than he married a girl from Los Angeles. In spite of the fact that exotic, doe-eyed, raven-haired, olive-complexioned Joanna Razeni was Catholic and her Daddy very rich, Catherine found reason to vent her complaints. “Mama,” Catherine said, holding the receiver in her right hand, “I’m not at all happy about this marriage.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with the girl? From what I understood when Tory called and told me, she’s just beautiful… lovely girl, fine family. What’s your …”

  Catherine interrupted, quickly, “Beautiful! Fine family? They’re rich, but common … wait till you meet her … she’s coarse and common … usin’ all that eye makeup. You know as well as I that havin’ money doesn’t buy breedin’—and besides, she doesn’t have the kind of warmth the Posatas respond to. She’s not Tish, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Well, you weren’t too choked up about that in the beginnin’.”

  “What! Why, how can you say that? I was thrilled from the very beginnin’… I think you’re a little confused.”

  Mama Posata smiled as she lay stretched out in the large bed in New Orleans listening to Catherine ramble on.

  “My main objection was Tish’s not bein’ Catholic … now, you surely remember that?”

  Mama stifled a laugh. “My memory’s comin’ back. But what about this one … she’s Italian and Catholic?”

  “So … that doesn’t mean she’s the kinda girl I would have picked for a daughter-in-law.”

  “Maybe … but it wasn’t up to you, it was Tory’s privilege to make his own choice.”

  “Whoa … now, you hold on for just a cotton-pickin’ minute, Mama … remember? Remember?”

  Across two thousand miles of telephone wire a bewildered Violet Posata asked, “Remember what? What am I supposed to remember?”

  “How you influenced me into marryin’ Dominic,” Catherine answered, her anger mounting the more she thought about it.

  Putting her hand over the mouthpiece, Mama laughed so hard there were tears in her eyes. Then she choked as the laughter began to subside. “You all right, Mama?” Catherine called through the phone.

  Recovering her voice, Mama answered, “I’m fine … just a little coughin’ spell … now what was this about me influencin’ you?”

  “Well, you did … didn’t you?”

  “I surely did and do you remember why?”

  “You bet I do,” Catherine answered, with mild rancor, “you were afraid I was gonna be an old maid … and, Mama, much as I love you … there have been a good many times, as you well know, I haven’t thanked you for pushin’ me.”

  One thing Violet prided herself on was that she loved Catherine in spite of all her faults, but a mother’s not a husband. You bet I was afraid. Dominic might have had second thoughts findin’ out about how tempestuous you can really be, so I urged Cupid along a little…. “I’m sorry you feel I influenced you badly, Catherine … but let’s not forget you were pretty much in love with Dominic, as I recall. Even if it pleases you to think you were pressured into marriage … knowin’ you as I do, I don’t think a team of wild horses could have stopped you from marryin’ him …now, isn’t that the truth, Catherine?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment, then laughing as though she’d been caught stealing cookies out of the cookie jar, she said, “That’s the truth, Mama.”

  “Well, then, Catherine, you’ve gotta put things in their proper perspective … you can’t go around blamin’ me for somethin’ I thought was right.”

  “I know, Mama … it’s just when I get all steamed up, I sorta lose my straight thinkin’.”

  “Well, I suppose most of us are likely to do that. Somewhere, down deep, it makes us feel better if we think we’ve been victimized … now, tell me about the other children.”

  “Well, the twins are fine. Of course, Dominic still hasn’t recovered from the shock of the twins goin’ over to Berkeley instead of Harvard. I swear, Mama, sometimes the reality of life does get a little bit too much to handle … now, don’t be confusin’ me by a lot of logic about this. I don’t understand the rebellion that’s goin’ on with these young people … seems that parents have lost their influence.”

  “I know, Catherine, baby, you just said I was too influential with you and …”

  “This is somethin’ entirely different,” Catherine interrupted, “I just had to put my foot down on one thing.”

  “And what’s that, baby?”

  “No long hair … sandals or that dreadful thing … they call pot.”

  “That’s sensible … just hope those outside influences don’t creep into your good intentions.”

  “They better damn well not!”

  “And if they do, what then?”

  “Oh, I’ll think about somethin’ to do ’cause one thing I’m not gonna have is the effort I poured into those kids findin’ no reward.”

  “I know you will, Catherine, you’re a good mother … Roberto’s fine, I hope.”

  “Yes,” Catherine answered, slowly, “yes, but I’m concerned about him.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, he doesn’t come home as often as I’d like. Lives in that studio. I’m not sure that he eats right… or … oh well, the point is he’s an artist and you have to give in to people like that. They’re just different.”

  “Well, I’m sure Roberto’s gonna make you proud … how’s Dominic?”

  “How’s Dominic? Damned if I know … he’s been workin’ his tail off, tryin’ to get this Senator DeKaye from Sacramento re-elected. Why, I’ll never know, but one thing I’ll tell you, Mama, he better have all those meetin’s and conferences over by June because we’re gonna take Gina Maria to Europe on her birthday. Imagine, she’s gonna be seventeen.”

  “I just can’t believe it.”

  “That’s right … Good Lord, Mama, where’d all the years fly? Sometimes, I feel as though I just misplaced about half my life.”

  “Oh, come on, Catherine, you’re still a young woman with a long life ahead. I’m gonna be seventy and I never think about it … never felt younger or better.”

  “That sure makes me happy, Mama, seein’ as how we’re so far apart.”

  “No one would believe it… you know we’ve been on the phone close to two hours?”

  “Honest? My, oh my, how the time does fly when I talk to you … Oh, I almost forgot to ask. When you come out for the weddin’ in June, well be leavin’ right after for Europe … will you take Vincente back home with you?”

  “More than thrilled about that … but why isn’t he goin’ to Europe with you?”

  “’Cause he doesn’t want to go.”

  “Well, he will when he gets older. Now, Catherine, I’m just about runnin’ outta steam … I’ll be callin’ in a few days … oh, and Catherine?”

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “About Tory … I’m just as sure as I can be, she’s gonna turn out fine and you’re gonna like her. I just know you are, Catherine.”

  “I sure as hell hope so, Mama, because at this moment, I’m damned disappointed I didn’t have the influence over Tory that you had with me.”

  13

  TO SEE VENICE FOR the first time through eyes of innocent youth was to capture all the romantic fantasy of a sheltered, overly-protected, seventeen-year-old Gina Maria. All the
poetry of life with its extravagant sentimental imagery brought forth feelings that captured and untapped longings yet to be born. The first night of their arrival she stood on the balcony of her room and looked out to the Grand Canal, watching with breathless excitement the gondola passing below in the moonlight. She heard the rippling sounds of oars dip gently into the serene water and listened to the handsome gondolier singing songs that must have been sung for hundreds of years. The sights and the sounds conjured up images of Venetian ladies long since past being escorted by their dashing lovers to some rendezvous. Gina Maria could see them … almost hear them speaking … breathing … could almost reach out and touch the delicate silk gown … the soft velvet flowing cloak … the jeweled masks which hid the eyes in disguise from some jealous husband. Her pulse quickened as her mind moved back into time and glimpsed the ladies dancing at court … their ball gowns billowing out as the gallant gentlemen dressed in satin pantaloons, brocade waistcoats and powdered wigs, twirled them gently around the room to the sounds of violins. Perfume wafted through the air. The blackamoors, turbanned and plumed, stood at attention as the King and his Queen entered. There was a hush after the sound of trumpets blared announcing their arrival. The ladies curtsied and the gentlemen bowed gracefully, then with the wave of an imperial hand, once again the festivities began as the room reeled with twirling dancers and the violins played till dawn.

  “Gina Maria?” she heard, calling her back from the grandeur of a once glorious Venice.

  “Yes, Mama?” she answered, turning around.

  “Enjoying the view?” Catherine asked, smiling.

  “Oh yes, Mama … I’ve never been so happy or excited about anything in my life.”

  “That’s the way I felt when my Daddy and Mama brought me here for the first time, but, darlin’, you better get some sleep. We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “Alright, Mama, but first, I want to say good-night to Papa.”

  Dominic was sitting up in bed reading an Italian newspaper when Gina Maria bent over and kissed him. “Papa, it’s so beautiful. I wish we never had to go back.”

  He laughed at her excited, exquisite face with the large brown eyes. Her hair was thick like strands of silk skeins that hung loosely to her slim waist, and the most beautiful soft lips kissed her father. “Oh, Papa, thank you so much for taking the time out to bring me here … it wouldn’t have been the same without you.”

  “Did you think I would miss an occasion as important as seeing your face at this moment?” he asked, smiling.

  Catherine stood in the doorway and thought, you’re damned right you would have if I hadn’t put my foot down.

  But he continued, as though he were reading Catherine’s mind. “No, Gina Maria, I wouldn’t have missed this for anything or anybody.”

  Kissing him once more, she said, “Oh, thank you, Papa, again … I can hardly wait for tomorrow.”

  Climbing into the tall, oversized, draped four-poster Venetian bed, she turned off the bedside lamp and looked up at the starry blue night through the long French doors and thought that somewhere beyond those doors, her future waited. There was a world out there … How wonderful to be grown … finally … to be seventeen, in love with the love of life.

  Early next morning, Gina Maria went down to breakfast alone, knowing her parents still slept and would have breakfast served in their suite. There was no one in the dining room yet. Apparently, it was a little too early even for the maître d’. She hesitated, thinking perhaps she would wander around for awhile, then return at seven. But at that moment the maître d’ came out of the kitchen. Mildly startled at seeing a guest this time of the morning, he said, “Good morning. You’re a little early.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I …”

  “No … no … no, don’t be sorry for such a little thing, please let me show you to a table. My name is Luigi.”

  She sat at a table looking out to the lagoon where she observed in wonderment the motorboat tied up along the short pier, unloading fresh produce. It was a delivery truck, Gina Maria realized, laughingly. Not quite like Guido’s where Mama shops. His deliveries are made in a Ford pickup … poor Mr. Guido … with all due respect, Fords will never be as romantic delivering groceries as motorboats.

  “What will you have, my dear young lady?” the dapper maître d’ asked in his most elegant broken English.

  “What… ?”

  “What is your pleasure … for breakfast?”

  In Italian Gina Maria responded, “Coffee and a roll … please.”

  Astonished at her accent, he asked, “You are American and speak such Italian?”

  “Yes,” she said proudly, “because I am Italian … the same as you.”

  He answered with equal pride, “But I am not Italian.”

  She looked at him. “I thought you were.”

  He answered in tones of hushed reverence, raising one eyebrow, “No … I am Neapolitan.”

  “Well, that’s Italy … Napoli, that is.”

  “True, geographically … but I, my dear young lady, am Neapolitan.”

  “In that case, I am Sicilian.”

  He looked for a silent moment, then added, “Because of your beauty … you can be forgiven.” Smiling, with a twinkle in his eye, he adjusted the napkin with a great flourish across Gina Maria’s lap and asked, “Now, I will have the waiter bring your coffee, rolls and a little cheese.”

  “Thank you, but the coffee and rolls will be sufficient.”

  “A little cheese with the rolls is good.”

  “No, I really don’t care for the cheese.”

  “Yes, but a little cheese to start the morning with is good,” he winked, shaking his head yes.

  Waiting for her breakfast, she thought, we’re wonderful, aren’t we … Neapolitans … Sicilians … Romans … Venetians … all of us … how wonderful to be Italian …

  After her breakfast of rolls, coffee and cheese, Gina Maria walked for blocks just beyond the hotel. The streets were still deserted except for the street vendors getting ready for the tourist trade. Here and there shopkeepers were washing down the sidewalks in front of their stores. How gorgeous the morning is … “I love you Bella Venezia,” she said aloud, throwing her broad straw hat in the air, then ran to catch it. The cats, rummaging through the garbage cans, stopped and peered at her through slanted yellow eyes. They arched their feline backs and sneered.

  “Stop being so disagreeable,” she said, laughing. “I love you, too. Now, go back to your breakfast.” Walking rapidly, she returned to their suite.

  As she entered quietly, Dominic was coming out of the bathroom showered and shaved. Adjusting the sash around his dressing robe, he looked at Gina Maria. “Where have you been so early? I went to your room and you were gone. From now on, Gina Maria, when you go out, please leave a note, so I don’t worry.”

  She laughed, “Were you worried, Papa?”

  “Yes … a little … a foreign country, a young girl can’t …”

  Laughingly, she interrupted, “Papa, you’re being so Sicilian.”

  Feigning a scowl across his forehead, he said, “That’s right … I’m very Sicilian … very, when it comes to my favorite daughter … where were you?”

  “You sound like you’re going to lock me in my room and chain me to the bed for fear my lover may climb up and carry me off.”

  He laughed, “Maybe, that’s not such a bad idea … at least I’d know where you were.”

  “I was downstairs having breakfast.”

  “Downstairs, having breakfast so early? I just called room service.”

  “But when I woke up, I couldn’t wait to see Venice in the morning.”

  “Really?” He smiled at her radiant, fragile, fawnlike face, so full of wonder, not like so many unfortunate young girls Gina Maria’s age who had the look of oldness about them, all the freshness of youth gone, never to be returned. By God, Catherine was a good mother …

  “Papa, I have to tell you something funny.”<
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  “Yes …?” he answered, moving his mind away and back to her.

  She told him about Luigi, the maître d’, refusing to admit that he was anything but Neapolitan. She repeated almost verbatim the conversation … “And when I said I was Sicilian, he forgave me.” She laughed, “He simply wouldn’t budge.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No, unless he thought being Neapolitan was like being the aristocracy of Italy.”

  “Not exactly … you see, it’s a strange thing about us Italians … it wasn’t until a hundred years or so that that Italy became a united country by a general named Garibaldi. For centuries, Italy was overrun by every other nation so that even now, Italians never say I’m Italian. Instead, they think of themselves as still belonging to the province or the city from which they’ve come. If they were born in Rome … they’re Romano, or Genovese, or Tuscano.”

  “I didn’t know that … we’re fabulous people, aren’t we?”

  “You can’t argue that with me … why, when the whole world was making war, we were painting the Sistine Chapel and producing the greatest art and artisans the world had ever known.”

  “Oh, Papa, I feel like the whole world is Italian today.”

  “Just wait until I show you some of the museums here in Venice. You’ll feel even more so.”

  “Can we go right after you have breakfast?”

  “Yes …”

  “Terrific … Bella Venezia, here we come.”

  Catherine was just as excited as her daughter this morning, but for different reasons. She went off in a private launch to the Murano glass factory for a shopping spree. Catherine was never quite so happy as when she was shopping. After seeing her off, Dominic and Gina Maria walked the streets of Venice. By now, the city had become alive with activity.

  “Well, Gina Maria, what do you think?”

  “I think it’s super, Papa … I think the expression is, see Naples and die … but after seeing this, the quote should be … see Venice and live … live.” They both laughed.

  As they wandered through the crooked street, then up the narrow steps between the rows of shops, Gina Maria became aware of something that had not occurred to her until this very moment. “Papa?” she asked, “how do people raise their children here?”