“No. Why?” She set the apple down on the bench next to her, then reached into the picnic basket for two sweets and handed one to Gabriele.
“My parents noticed that you didn’t take communion when we went to church with them,” he said.
Willa nodded. She bit into the sweet, chewed it, and swallowed. “We’re Methodists,” she said. “We don’t have communion.” A bird hopped onto the grass near them. She tossed a piece of bread to it and leaned over to kiss Gabriele, thinking of the time very soon when they would always be together. After they were married, he could kiss her whenever he liked, wherever he liked.
He took her hand in his again. “For us to be married in the Duomo, you must be a Catholic,” he said. “Otherwise Father Enrico won’t say the wedding mass.” He traced his finger around the stones in the ring he had given her.
“Maybe we could get married someplace else, then.” She reached for another sweet.
Gabriele let go of her hand. “What would people think?” He seemed genuinely surprised by her suggestion, which she had thought a very simple and practical one.
Willa tore the crust from one of their sandwiches. “Does it matter where we get married when the important thing is that we’re married? We would love each other just as much if we got married right here in this garden.” She stood up and threw the crusts to an audience of pigeons that had assembled around them. “Look, all the birds want some.” She reached for another crust and tore it up. “Besides, it’s our wedding.” She tore the bread and tossed it piece by piece to the birds. “So, it’s up to us.”
Gabriele looked at her and frowned. “My parents would never understand. They would disown us.”
“If we don’t get married in the Catholic Church?”
Gabriele nodded. “That’s why I made an appointment for us to see Father Enrico.”
It was Willa’s turn to be surprised. “Without telling me first?” She saw his guilty look. “So now you’ve decided when and where we will get married, who will marry us, and what religion I must be!” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” He shook his head. “I’d just like to know what I’m allowed to decide about my own wedding.”
“Willa, everyone talks to the priest about their wedding.”
“I don’t,” she said. “Not without being asked first.” Willa told Gabriele she wouldn’t come to the appointment with him unless Gabriele agreed that if they got married in the Duomo, she would never have to attend mass again.
Father Enrico’s office and living space was located in a building adjacent to the Duomo that was originally part of a monastery.
“Don’t say anything to Father Enrico about our agreement,” Gabriele whispered to her as he knocked on Father Enrico’s door. They heard the sound of footsteps on stone and then the door opened.
“Buongiorno,” Father Enrico boomed. “Come in, come in.”
“Father, this is my fidanzata, Willa Carver.”
Father Enrico took Willa’s hands in his. “It is a great pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I’m sorry to have missed you the day you came to mass. I was away, but still I’ve heard a great deal about you from others.” He stepped back and gestured for them to enter. What a small room to spend one’s life in, Willa thought. The priest indicated two straight-backed chairs in front of a scarred wooden desk. “I hope you won’t be disappointed by my simple surroundings.”
She looked directly at Father Enrico, smiled, and held out her hand to him. “Not at all,” she said.
“She’s not shy, is she?” Father Enrico said to Gabriele with a chuckle. What does he mean? Willa thought. She had intended to be polite.
“She’s an American,” Gabriele said. What does that mean? Willa wondered.
In addition to the desk and chairs, the room contained a bed with a brown blanket neatly drawn up under a white pillow. Above the pillow a large crucifix hung on a sturdy peg that stuck out from the stone wall. Next to the bed was a nightstand and on it a lamp and a breviary. In the corner next to the fireplace was another table with a hotplate, its element glowing red-orange under a steaming teakettle. Against the opposite wall was a small bureau with two candles on top and above them a mirror only large enough for shaving. On the floor next to the bureau Willa noticed a ceramic washbasin. Is this what priests use for bathing or do they have real bathrooms, too? The teakettle whistled.
“Please sit down,” Father Enrico said. “Tea?”
“Yes, thank you.” Willa took the chair nearest the bureau. Her father’s desk had always been stacked with papers and notes, but the top of the priest’s desk was empty. Gabriele sat down in the chair next to hers.
“I have pastries, too,” Father Enrico said in a conspiratorial tone as he put out the tea and plates. He sat down behind his desk facing them, and served the sweets. His wooden chair creaked under his bulk. At last, he fixed Willa with a sober gaze. “You are not a member of the Church.” Willa nodded. “Still, you wish to be married here in our Duomo…” he paused, clearing his throat, “…in just a few weeks?”
“Yes, Father,” Gabriele said. Father Enrico continued to gaze at Willa.
“I am leaving you out of our conversation for now, Gabriele. I need to explain to your fidanzata that it is somewhat more complicated to become a member of the Church than simply showing up for the wedding.”
“Oh, that was Gabriele’s idea,” Willa said. “It’s all right with me if we don’t get married in the Church if it’s too much trouble.” Father Enrico sat back and coughed. Gabriele leaned forward.
“What she means to say, Father, is that she is willing to come for instruction and do what is needed so that we can be married in the Church. She wants very much to have the wedding mass here on the date we’ve planned, just as I do. Her parents are coming, too.” He paused. Father Enrico didn’t say anything. “We hope you can advise us on what we must do.”
“Quite simply,” said Father Enrico, looking at Willa, “you must become a member of the Church. That process takes time—more time than you have between now and your wedding date. You must begin your instruction immediately.” Willa nodded. Father Enrico offered her a beatific smile. “And, of course, once you have children, you will make sure that they are baptized and raised in the Church. That is understood.” They had not discussed children. Willa glanced at Gabriele. He looked away. “If you come for your instruction regularly and sign an agreement that your children will be raised in the Church, I will bend the rules so that you can go forward with your plans,” Father Enrico continued. “Such is my great respect for the Marcheschi family that I am prepared to hold the ceremony under these conditions.” He paused. “But, of course, it cannot be the full wedding mass, you understand?”
“Yes, Father,” Gabriele said. “We both understand.”
“You agree, then, signorina?” Willa nodded. “Do you have any further questions?”
“No,” Willa said.
“Very well, then. I’ll make you a promise.” He leaned toward her, smiling through uneven teeth. “If you come regularly for your instruction from now until the time of your wedding, I will wear my gold robes for the ceremony.” He chuckled and stood up. “All of the brides like that, but I don’t do it for just anyone.”
“Thank you, Father,” Gabriele said. “That’s very kind of you. We both appreciate it.”
After their meeting with Father Enrico, Gabriele and Willa returned to the Marcheschi family home. Gabriele’s mother took Willa aside and asked her to come upstairs, suggesting there was something important she wanted to share. Willa followed her up a little-used, back stairway. At the top of the stairs, Signora Marcheschi opened the door to a dusty room and allowed Willa to precede her. Inside, on a lumpy bed lay a wedding dress of heavy white satin, and next to it a floor-length veil attached to a white satin crown. The ensemble had yellowed with the years and bore various stains, including rings under the armpits.
“Il mio abito da sposa.”<
br />
“Your wedding dress?” Willa said.
Signora Marcheschi nodded and gestured that she wanted Willa to put the dress on. Willa shook her head no, but Signora Marcheschi didn’t seem to notice. At last, Willa began to understand: Signora Marcheschi didn’t have a daughter, but if her daughter-in-law wore the wedding dress, it would be almost the same. “Qualcosa vecchia, qualcosa nuova?” Signora Marcheschi added. “Something old, something new…”
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” Willa replied in Italian, “but my mother is bringing my dress with her. From Chicago…in America.”
Signora Marcheschi gestured again. Willa wanted to please her future mother-in-law, especially since she wouldn’t be wearing her dress for the wedding. She took off her dress and Signora Marcheschi lifted the heavy gown over Willa’s head. The dress had long sleeves, a high neck, and a bodice that extended down to the hips like a corset. Signora Marcheschi buttoned the tiny buttons all the way up the back to just below Willa’s skull. Then she buttoned the tiny buttons from the forearms to the wrists. The sleeves covered Willa’s hands. Willa fanned herself. “I’m too hot,” she said. “Please unbutton it now.”
Signora Marcheschi did not seem to hear. She smiled as she placed the headpiece on Willa’s head, arranged the long veil around her feet. Then she pointed to the cracked mirror on the wall and clasped her hands. “You like?” she said with tears running down her cheeks. “Please, you wear for my Gabriele’s wedding?”
13
ORVIETO, ITALY 1935
Willa awakened briefly when Gabriele kissed her goodbye at dawn and dozed until the drone of a mosquito brought her to full consciousness. Heat and insects had made their sleep elusive the night before, and already the intense summer sun had turned their upstairs quarters into something resembling a terra cotta oven. She sat up on the edge of the bed and counted the bites on her arms and legs. Ten, plus two that she was uncertain about. This morning, she decided, she would have her breakfast in the shady place outside the dining room and spend the day under the plane trees studying the villa from various perspectives and doing preparatory drawings for the next painting in her Orvieto series. Later, she would have a salad and an icy drink for lunch and then a long nap during the heat of the afternoon, just as she and Gabriele had done on their honeymoon.
She opened the armadio where her wedding dress and Signora Marcheschi’s still hung together. She needed something cool and clean to wear, but had not yet had a chance to do laundry since she and Gabriele returned from their honeymoon the day before. Gabriele had told her Grazia would take care of it. She touched the wedding dresses. It had been very hot on their wedding day, but she and Gabriele had laughed and danced for hours anyway. She saw the large, red stain on the chiffon skirt of her dress where Gabriele had spilled his wine during one of the toasts. She touched the tear in Signora Marcheschi’s dress and winced. Other things had happened that day, too. Better not to think about them. Better to concentrate now on her new life, her work, and finding a place to show her paintings. She found the sleeveless white linen dress and her sandals and put them on the bed and then poured some water into the washbasin. It will be an adventure to live without indoor plumbing.
That Willa and Gabriele’s wedding day had been more cursed than blessed was already part of Orvieto lore, a memory that grew with each retelling. Few would forget that the bride’s family didn’t arrive until minutes before the ceremony. Some said that such tardiness showed there was already a dispute between the Marcheschis and the Carvers. No doubt it was about the paltry amount of Willa’s dowry.
“We can’t wait any longer,” Signora Marcheschi had said. “Everyone is seated and Father Enrico is waiting for you.” Indeed, nearly everyone in Orvieto who mattered, except the Orsini family, awaited them in the Duomo that day. Signora Marcheschi had lifted her wedding dress over Willa’s head, and told Willa to put her arms into the fitted sleeves. Grazia helped to button the tiny buttons.
“This dress is too hot,” Willa said. “I’m going to suffocate.”
“It’s only a short time,” Signora Marcheschi replied with a distant smile. Around Willa’s neck she placed a gold chain festooned with crystals and gemstones in the form of bunches of grapes and grape leaves, a family heirloom the Marcheschis had given Willa as a wedding gift. Signora Marcheschi held the veil that had been hers. “Just like me,” she said, her eyes full of tears.
“Why do you cry when you think of your wedding day?” Willa asked.
“Because I was so happy.”
Grazia handed Willa a bouquet of lavender and wildflowers that she had gathered from around the Temple Belvedere near the Piazza Cahen. Willa sneezed, and the button at the back of her waist popped off. Grazia found it and put it in her pocket. Without a needle and thread, the gap at the back of the dress could not be repaired.
“My veil will cover it,” Signora Marcheschi said.
“I know my parents will be here in time,” Willa said.
“Go now.” Signora Marcheschi lifted her veil over Willa’s head.
At that moment, a black car pulled up in front of the Duomo, and Mr. and Mrs. Carver got out. A bureaucratic tangle of uncertain origin had made it impossible for the Carvers to disembark from their ship until bribes were paid, something Mr. Carver had refused to do on principle until Ruth Carver, distraught and in tears, threatened to jump overboard.
“Thank goodness! Get me out of this dress!” Willa said when she saw her mother. She pulled at Signora Marcheschi’s wedding dress trying to free herself. Unfortunately, the aging fabric gave way, and a tear opened up near the shoulder. Signora Marcheschi gasped and then sobbed, picked up her wedding dress and held it to her bosom.
“I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry,” Willa said. “I’m still going to wear your veil.” Willa put on the new dress, adjusted her hair. Signora Marcheschi sniffled noisily as Grazia helped adjust the veil over Willa’s face. When they had finished, the voluminous tulle hung around Willa’s feet, making it difficult to walk. “I’m ready to get married now,” Willa said. As she made her way slowly to the altar on her father’s arm, her borrowed veil once again collected the dust of centuries past.
“Father Enrico is wearing his gold robes,” Gabriele whispered to her as they stood together. “That’s porta fortuna.” It brings good luck.
Later, Signora Santori told Signora Farnese that Willa had looked disheveled on her wedding day. She said that Signora Marcheschi was distraught about her wedding dress, which Willa had ruined. Imagine! Not only that, but the wedding mass was short because Willa had not yet completed her instruction, and the couple had to remain outside of the altar rail for their ceremony. Santo cielo! Gabriele’s wife isn’t even Catholic! Who knew if she would finish her instruction? She hasn’t even come to mass. Che disgrazia! So many problems.
The Marcheschi’s were embarrassed by their daughter-in-law’s behavior, of course, especially Signora Marcheschi, who could not explain the many irregularities of the wedding to the satisfaction of her friends. And when people learned that Willa’s parents had come to the wedding by taxi all the way from Naples, they shook their heads and told one another that Willa’s family was ricca sfondata by which they meant that the Carvers were rolling in money. Think of it! They came late and did not host the wedding celebration as was customary. Such insults, especially when Signor and Signora Marcheschi always showed such great cortesia and generosità and are so well respected. It must be, they said, that the Americans are miserly. And what about the wedding chest? No one had seen it. Was it possible that la straniera didn’t even have one? Well, an unfortunate beginning always leads to an unfortunate end. Che peccato! What a shame.
Still, it was clear to all who were present that no matter what their opinion was concerning the suitability of Gabriele’s bride, Willa and Gabriele loved one another. As the couple left the Duomo together, Gabriele’s shout of joy echoed in the Piazza. He picked Willa up and whirled her around and around with everyone clapping un
til they were both so dizzy they had to sit down.
After the wedding, however, there followed Willa’s permanent exclusion from the friendships and small courtesies that were part of daily life in Orvieto. Gabriele, it was tacitly agreed, was blameless, the guileless victim of an unscrupulous woman. Though nothing was ever said to Gabriele directly, he, too, by degrees came to see himself in this same light and to behave accordingly. Many years later, some people thought that perhaps Willa’s exclusion was a mistake, but what difference would it make to admit it then? It was almost always better to keep things the way they are.
Willa finished washing and got dressed. She picked up the envelope on the dresser. Inside was the check that her parents had given to the couple on their wedding day. The amount of the check, Gabriele had told her with pride, was far more than any dowry seen in Orvieto in perhaps a century. In addition, the Carvers had also left a large sum to pay for the expenses of the wedding celebration, an amount that seemed to surprise and please Gabriele’s parents because it far exceeded the costs of the wedding, though they didn’t tell anyone lest it seem that they were in need of money.
“Consider me your partner!” Mr. Carver had told Gabriele with a broad smile during the toasts at the wedding meal that followed the wedding mass. “Always have enjoyed a fine glass of vino.” As soon as the toasts were over, he set his glass down and asked Ruth Carver to pass him the water.
Willa put the check back in the envelope and left it on the dresser. Now that she and Gabriele were married, her obligations to the Church were concluded, at least until children were born, and she had made certain that would not occur anytime soon, no matter what Father Enrico said. Anyway, how would he know? She would be too busy painting to think about having children. And she and Gabriele would have to buy a house first. Her parents’ check would surely be enough for a down payment. She would ask Gabriele or perhaps Signora Marcheschi. She pulled the linen shift on over her head and buckled her sandals, then went out into the hallway where she could smell newly baked bread. She went down two flights of stairs and along a musty passage at the back of the house.
The Train to Orvieto Page 9