by Jan Moran
Caterina sat next to Marisa and hugged her. “I wish you could help me, sweetie.”
Where would Giovanna have hidden Ava’s letters? If she kept them at all. Caterina thought of asking Giovanna, but her host had been so resistant to sharing details about Luca or her cottage that she thought better of it.
Her eyes traveled up the tall armoire. It had four long, narrow doors painted with vines and a mirror in the center. Caterina kicked off her espadrilles and climbed onto a chair. She opened the doors and ran a hand over a high shelf inside.
Nothing.
She reached down, snagged a coat hanger, and swung it until she hit the rear of the armoire. Still nothing.
Caterina worked her way along the top shelf, pausing to drag the chair from one door to the next. She made it to the last door and had nearly given up when the wooden hanger thudded against something. Coaxing the item forth with the hanger, she guided it toward the ledge. As it came into view, she saw it was an inlaid cigar box. She lifted it out and sat on the bed.
When Caterina opened the wooden box, a faint scent of tobacco wafted to her nose. There lay several letters bound with a narrow lavender ribbon tied in a neat bow. The postmark on the top letter was dated 1929. She fanned the envelopes. The handwriting on a couple of them belonged to Ava.
A knock sounded on the door. Startled, Caterina shoved the box behind the pillows.
“Caterina, I’ve made your train reservation to Paris.” It was Giovanna.
Marisa toddled toward the door, and Caterina jumped from the bed to open it. “Thank you, Giovanna,” she said, catching her breath.
“I reserved a couchette, a sleeper berth, for you. It will be a full day and night of travel. It’s quite a beautiful journey.” Giovanna gathered the folds of her full floral skirt in one hand and leaned over to greet Marisa. “We’ll have so much fun together while your mother is away.”
“This means so much to me,” Caterina said. “Are you sure you can manage? Marisa can be a handful.”
“You are not to worry. My sister is coming to stay while you’re gone. We’ll be fine. And Marisa will be completely spoiled by the time you return.”
Marisa began chattering to Giovanna. “Fru” meant fruit juice, and “wa” was water.
Caterina stroked Marisa’s dark curls. “I think she’s thirsty.”
“Then let’s go downstairs.” Giovanna held out her hand to Marisa, who tentatively took it.
Marisa swiveled around, hesitant to let her mother out of her sight.
“She wants you to come with us,” Giovanna said, beckoning to her. “And I promised I’d show you more of Violetta’s artwork.”
“Sure,” Caterina said, taking Marisa’s other hand. She wished she could read the letters she’d found, but that would have to wait.
* * *
“You’ll be a good girl, won’t you?” Shifting the narrow skirt of her traveling suit, Caterina knelt to hug Marisa and kiss her cheek.
Although it was early in the morning, Marisa was bright-eyed and inquisitive. She’d tried to pull loose from her mother in the train station, but Caterina kept a firm grip on her hand.
Giovanna and her sister Alma—who looked so much like Giovanna—waited on the small train platform. All around them, people were boarding the railcars. Giovanna had insisted on driving Caterina to the station in nearby Siena.
After hugging the sisters and Marisa again, Caterina stepped onto the train. Excitement sparked through her. She would only be gone a couple of days, but it would be a whirlwind business trip.
She heard a commotion, and when she glanced behind her, she saw two stylishly dressed women who were about Giovanna’s and Alma’s ages greeting them. They wore felt hats trimmed with netting, belted jackets, and leather pumps.
Caterina watched as they exclaimed over Marisa, and she strained to listen, but others were climbing the train steps behind her.
Once aboard, Caterina waved good-bye from a window. Marisa mimicked her, swaying her little hand. Her huge blue eyes were round with wonder, taking in all the new sights. Fortunately, there were no tears of separation in Marisa’s eyes, only in Caterina’s.
Caterina turned from the window and spied the two women who had greeted Giovanna and Alma on the platform boarding her railcar. Caterina wondered who they were. Had they known Luca and Ava? She made a note to speak to them.
“Mi scusi.” Caterina jostled though the crowded aisle and found her seat.
Snippets of Italian and French and Spanish floated through the train car, and Caterina trained her ear on nearby conversations, appreciating the rhythmic melody of Romance languages so different from English.
Caterina had always longed to see Paris—this was another dream come true. She reminded herself that she had an important job to do there, but still, it was Paris. She thought about the paintings and photos she’d seen in San Francisco at the museums. The Eiffel Tower, the Seine, the museums, the boutiques. She could hardly wait.
Caterina settled into her seat and wedged her bag with its precious wine next to her for protection. The long train gained speed as it clattered across the rolling hills, its whistle blaring its right of way.
Giovanna had reserved a couchette so Caterina could sleep overnight as the train sped through Florence, Milan, Turin, and Lyon en route to Paris.
Outside Caterina’s window, vineyards rose and fell from sight as the express train hurtled through the wine country, whizzing by tiny country train platforms, grapevine-covered pergolas, and skyward-pointing cypress trees that swayed majestically at their passage.
She removed her short kid gloves and laid them on her lap. Instead of gazing from the window, she eagerly lifted the flap on her leather handbag. The old letters she’d found were nestled inside, and she’d been dying to read them.
Caterina brought out the first letter and lifted it to her nose. The scent of stale tobacco from its resting place permeated the yellowed paper. She settled back to read.
My darling Giovanna,
It is with great sadness that I write to you today. I have spent the last few days in the ship’s infirmary recovering from a miscarriage. Do you know that Luca refused to visit me? The doctor sent for him, but I was told that he was so upset that he could not visit. Upset? I think not. Inebriated was more likely his condition. Alas, I am only a wife. What can I say to my husband that I have not said before?
At least I can recover in peace and solitude. We are yet a few days from New York City. Perhaps the change will do us good. I pray that Luca and I can begin a new life in America. If not, what is my alternative? To divorce my husband, never to remarry or have children? To leave the church and live apart from my faith? No, I cannot imagine a life without the family I’ve always dreamed of.
I pray when we reach New York City the dark clouds will lift from our life. If not for his mother’s intervention, Luca would have spent the remainder of his days in prison, and yet, he refuses to be grateful. Indeed, his resentment seems to grow with each passing day.
How did Violetta manage it? I wonder. Did she call in every favor, pay off every official? It must have cost a fortune.
America is our second chance. Perhaps the man I thought I married will reemerge, and we can put this horrible period behind us. Pray for me, dear cousin, as I do for you.
I wish I could say that I’ll see you soon, but I fear we might never see one another again.
With kisses,
Ava
Stunned, Caterina rested the letter in her lap. She couldn’t imagine going through such turmoil in a marriage. Her heart swelled with sorrow for her mother. Even though she had forged her own way in America and now ran her own business—and in that regard was more modern than many of Caterina’s friends’ mothers—Ava was still a woman from the old country.
Now that Caterina was here, she understood her mother’s frame of reference far better than before. Giovanna’s warning about Marisa’s illegitimacy sprang to mind.
Caterina folded the le
tter and returned it to the envelope. She was beginning to understand Giovanna’s reticence in telling her about her father and Ava’s concealment of the truth.
Wasn’t she planning a similar course of lies for Marisa?
She opened another letter her mother had written to Giovanna from the Plaza Hotel in New York. Ava was on her way to Napa. As Caterina read through it, she was shocked at what her mother had endured and awed by the actions she’d taken of her own accord. She bit her lower lip, oblivious now to the beauty of the countryside hurtling past.
A uniformed male attendant interrupted her reverie to direct her to the dining car. While she was gone, he explained, they would prepare the sleeping berths.
Caterina returned the letters to the safety of her purse. She stood to make her way to the dining car, touching the seats for balance as she walked through the aisle of the rumbling train.
As she thought about her mother, she wondered, would their lies further divide them, or eventually reunite them?
20
PARIS, FRANCE
As light crept through the edges of the shaded train windows, Caterina stirred. The swaying motion had rocked her to sleep the night before. Opening her eyes, she stretched in her couchette and threw off her thin blanket. The two Italian women she’d seen speaking to Giovanna and Alma—Susana and Imelda—were already awake and whispering in the adjoining berths.
Caterina had sought out the pair not long after the train had left the Siena station. They’d dined together and then stayed up late watching the scenery, chatting, and sharing a bottle of wine. She wanted to learn as much as possible about the region she now called home. She thought about asking if they knew of Luca and Ava, but the conversation veered into another direction as the wine flowed.
Caterina rubbed her eyes and then checked on the precious wine. She’d slept with it to make sure it didn’t disappear during the night. With Luca threatening to take over the vineyard, she had hoped these two bottles could help lay a new foundation for the Mille Étoiles Wine label. She slid open the canvas drapery.
“Good morning,” Susana said. Her bright green eyes were friendly. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did, even in this hard bunk.” Caterina sat up and swept her hair from her face. “Where are we?”
“We’re in France. We crossed the frontier during the night.”
Caterina peered from a window. The mountains and vineyards had given way to farms with row crops and dairy cows. France. Her mother’s birthplace. Unlike Italy, Ava had told her many stories of France. “How much longer?”
“Two or three hours,” Imelda said. As she spoke, she wound her black hair shot with gray into a neat bun. “We’ll have breakfast first, and then we arrive in Paris.” The two women shared a conspiratorial look. “As soon as we arrive, we’re going shopping. Where did you say you were staying?”
“I’m booked into a small hotel in Le Marais.” Giovanna had made the reservation for her, saying she would enjoy this area of Paris.
“Why, we’re in Le Marais, too,” Susana said. “Would you like to join us?”
Caterina had several hours before the judging was scheduled to begin. The women seemed nice, so she agreed. She excused herself to freshen up.
Before long, the train pulled into the Gare de Lyon. A grand archway soared overhead, its metal rafters a lacy ode to industrialism. Light filtered through glass panes lining the top of the terminal walls. All around, chatter in her mother’s native tongue rose and fell like starlings at dawn. A smile spread across her face.
She was in Paris.
Inside the station, large schedule boards held destinations from Caterina’s books and dreams: Nice, Marseille, Avignon, Venice, Barcelona, Geneva, Lausanne. She was so excited, and she could hardly believe she was here.
She collected her purse and suitcase and took special care with the bag containing the wine. As she made her way through the station with the two women, she passed a sign that read Buffet de la Gare de Lyon. She’d read about the shimmering golden salons of this beautiful Belle Époque restaurant, where Coco Chanel, Salvador Dalí, and Jean Cocteau often dined.
As if reading her mind, Imelda said, “You should go there on your return visit. Save room for the rum baba; it’s to die for.”
Outside, arched palladium windows, an imposing clock tower, and a stone façade festooned with garlands, nudes, and cherubs soared above her. The bustling city of Paris stretched out before her.
“Let’s share a taxi,” Imelda said.
They joined the queue of travelers, and within minutes their luggage was loaded, and they were transported into another world of tree-lined boulevards flanked by rows of gabled Haussmann architectural gems.
Caterina was in awe.
They agreed to meet again after they checked into their hotels. Caterina stepped out of the taxi in front of a little twenty-room, ivy-covered hotel, which was tucked into a narrow, cobblestoned side street in an old section of Le Marais.
She walked in. The interior was a riot of faded floral patterns of voluptuous cabbage roses, curling jasmine tendrils, and elegant orchids. The sensual aroma of potpourri conjured antique roses, silky amber, and sweet spices of the ancient Orient trade routes. At once she was reminded of her mother’s boudoir.
A woman in a fuchsia silk jacket and enameled butterflies in her sleek gray coiffure sat at an ornate reception desk.
Caterina put down her traveling case. “Madame Robert?”
“Oui? How may I help you?”
“I am Mademoiselle Rosetta. Madame Rosetta made a reservation for me here.”
At the mention of Giovanna’s name, the woman sprang into action, greeting her like a long-lost relative. Caterina learned that Giovanna and Madame Robert had been referring travelers to one another for years, and when Madame Robert found out Caterina was Giovanna’s cousin—even by marriage—she couldn’t do enough for her.
Caterina thanked her, took the key to her room, and climbed the stairs. Once inside her room, it was as if she’d entered an Art Nouveau music box. The gilded walls bore paintings, the bed was covered in silk, and mirrored armoire doors reflected sunlight spilling in from the terrace. She couldn’t imagine a prettier room.
She unpacked and hung up her suit, hoping the wrinkles would fall out by the afternoon. When she returned downstairs, the Italian sisters were waiting for her.
“We’re only a block away,” Imelda said.
The three of them strolled along the cobblestoned streets of the Marais, stopping to go into interesting boutiques. Imelda and Susana bought a few things, but Caterina was saving her money for something special. When they passed a lingerie shop, Caterina paused in front of the window. Even in San Francisco, she’d never seen such exquisite silk robes. “I’d like to stop here.”
“You’ll love French lingerie, and you have a beautiful figure,” Imelda said. “When we were young, we bought it for our wedding nights, before we lost our figures to our children. You should put some aside.”
The proprietor showed her several sets of brassieres and panties trimmed in lace and a bustier and silk stockings. They were exquisitely feminine and arranged from sultry midnight black to a rainbow of colors.
“I’ll take these,” Caterina decided, making her selections. The sales clerk wrapped the silk pieces in tissue, and soon the trio was on their way to lunch.
They settled on a brasserie near their hotels. Caterina ordered a light plate of salad and bread. She was growing excited over the wine competition that afternoon and didn’t want to eat too much beforehand. She believed the wine they’d produced was among the best in the world. She could only hope the judges would agree.
While they waited for their food, Caterina asked, “Do you come to Paris often?”
“We take an annual trip,” Susana said. “Except during the war, it’s been our tradition. Sometimes our mother and aunts join us, too. Do you have relatives other than Giovanna here?”
Caterina had been waiting for the rig
ht moment to ask about Luca and Ava. She had wanted to gain their trust first. “My father is Luca Rosetta.”
At the mention of his name, smiles slipped from the women’s faces. “I haven’t heard that name in years,” Imelda said, attempting a recovery.
Susana spoke up. “He married a French woman, your mother, yes?”
“My mother’s name is Ava; she’s from Bordeaux.” When Caterina told them she’d never known her father, they seemed more at ease.
“I met Ava through Giovanna.” Susana threw a glance at her sister. “That was a long time ago. I’m glad she and Luca separated. She was lovely, and he was trouble. When we were girls, our father wouldn’t let him call on us.”
“He always had eyes for Natalie, anyway,” Imelda added. “But Franco married her.”
Both sisters fell silent. The tension between them was palpable.
Caterina recognized the names from her mother’s letter. Who was Natalie? Who was Franco? “I know so little about my family. I’d like to hear more.”
Imelda arched a brow. “You should ask your mother, really.”
Caterina had heard that before from Giovanna. This time, she was determined to learn more. “My mother won’t speak of her life in Italy, so I’d appreciate anything you can tell me. What was my father like?”
Susana nodded to her. “If her mother won’t tell her—”
“Should we?” Imelda looked worried.
“It happened so long ago.” Susana frowned. She touched Caterina’s hand. “You’re such a lovely young woman. Does it really matter now?”
Caterina felt her cheeks redden. “If people are whispering behind my back about my father, I’d like to know why. You would be doing me a great service.”
“She has a point,” Susana said. “If I were her, I’d want to know.”
Imelda seemed even more uncomfortable. “We shouldn’t repeat rumors.”
“They weren’t rumors. There was a trial.”