Grazia set bowls of minestrone in front of the two men. Willa imagined painting them hunched over the brown table, the candles reflected in their wineglasses; the vaguely green, perhaps grey, walls behind them, all in shadow save the still life of bright vegetables floating in their soup bowls and the fruit piled at the center of the table on the chipped white platter. Their spoons clicked against their bowls. They didn’t see her, couldn’t value her separately from their own needs and plans. She understood now what her father meant. Grazia set a bowl of soup in front of her.
“Your check will cover the new tractor,” Signor Marcheschi said to Gabriele.
“No!” Willa said. “That check is for our house.” Signora Marcheschi frowned, but said nothing. After dinner, Willa went upstairs alone. The envelope was gone. She looked in the drawers. Her stomach roiled. It’s their filthy food, she thought. She lay down on the lumpy bed and fell asleep. When Gabriele came in later, she awakened, heard him undress. He sat on the side of the bed next to her and put his hand on her hip. She turned toward him. “Where is my father’s check?” Gabriele remained silent, examined his fingernails. “Gabriele, where is our check?”
He looked up at her. “It was an emergency. I had to use it for the new tractor.”
“And you didn’t ask me?”
“A husband makes these decisions.”
“It’s my check, too.”
“A husband makes the decisions.”
“I thought we made the decisions,” she said, angry now. “Gabriele, I refuse to live like this.”
“I’m sorry, Willa. I planned to make it up so I wouldn’t have to tell you.”
She took a deep breath. “No, Gabriele, I’m the one who is truly sorry. Our marriage has been a terrible mistake. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I imagined something was true that wasn’t.” In the quiet room, her voice sounded very loud to her. “Gabriele, I’m going to leave.” She saw Gabriele’s shoulders slump as if he had received a blow.
“Please stay,” he whispered. “I love you. We love each other. That’s all that matters.”
“I imagined that was true, but if I stay, both of us will lose our dreams. Surely, you can see that as well as I can.”
“I’ll tell my mother again that you should paint whenever you want.” “She and your father are concerned about my dowry and how much I eat because they need a way to make a living.”
Gabriele shook his head. “It’s not true.”
“You don’t hear her. You don’t see that we can’t do this.”
“My mother doesn’t mean it that way.”
“Yes, she does. She dislikes me so much. Why? Because I didn’t wear her wedding dress? Because I don’t know how to cook soup? Because I want to paint? Because I came without a chaperone? Because I’m not Catholic? Because her friends talk about me? Or, is it because I’m not Maria Cristina? You tell me. Which is it?”
“Our customs are different from yours. That’s all. It just takes some time.” Gabriele held out his arms to her. “I’m sorry.” Willa went to the window. Under the full moon the landscape appeared silver-plated. Gabriele came to her. “Don’t think about leaving, not now when you’re so angry and upset.” Although they continued to stand at the window, looking out at the moon, Willa knew then that they no longer saw the same moon. Perhaps they never had.
15
The next morning Willa still felt queasy. That dirty soup! At least I won’t have to eat it again. She intended to pack her bag that very day and go to the station where she would buy her ticket to Firenze and leave Orvieto forever. A wave of nausea forced her to lie down. I’ll go to Signora Farnese. A hotel. She sat up and counted the money in her purse. There was perhaps enough to stay for a few days at a pensione until her parents could wire her the money to come home. She felt better and went to find some paper and an envelope, then remembered that she could send a cable from the telegraph office in town. A cable would be so much faster. She washed, dressed and went out.
As she walked toward the lane that passed in front of the Marcheschi home, she rehearsed her plan: First, she would cable her parents to send the money to American Express in Firenze. As soon as the money arrived, she would buy a ticket either to Genoa or Naples. From one of those ports, she would take a ship to New York. It wasn’t until she neared the telegraph office that she remembered that the operator was a close friend of Signor Marcheschi. The contents of her message would be known in Orvieto within an hour. No, a letter was the only choice, though it would take much longer than she wished. She returned to the house. In the bright sunlight, it looked unkempt. Had it always looked that way?
“I’m not feeling well today,” Willa told Gabriel the following morning. She stayed in their room until she felt well enough to sit up and write the letter to her parents: I must come home right away. Please send money for my ticket to the American Consulate in Firenze right away. Very, very urgent. She put the letter in her purse and lay down again. Soon, she fell asleep. Gabriele brought her some soup for lunch, but she couldn’t eat it. The next day and the day after that, she remained ill and unable to eat.
On the afternoon of the fourth day Dr. Lucarelli arrived carrying a black leather bag the size of a cat. He chatted with Signor and Signora Marcheschi, shared a joke with Gabriele, and drank coffee with Grazia before Signora Marcheschi led him to Willa and Gabriele’s room.
“He brings his herbs in his bag,” Gabriele explained to Willa. Signora Marcheschi told Gabriele to leave and close the door. She put a small, caned chair next to the sagging bed so Dr. Lucarelli could sit down. He studied Willa without saying anything. Finally, he spoke to her.
“Buongiorno. Come state?” She waited for her mother-in-law to leave, but Signora Marcheschi remained.
“You understand me?” he said.
“Yes. I’m a little ill,” Willa said. “From the dirt in my soup. I’ll be fine.” Signora Marcheschi grunted, but said nothing. Willa heard Gabriele, Grazia, and Signor Marcheschi outside in the hall. She knew they were listening at the door. Just as soon as I feel better I’ll be going home, she thought. She stared at the waterstained and yellowed ceiling and imagined that she was in Firenze. New York. Erhart.
Dr. Lucarelli tapped his finger on her lips. She opened her mouth. He leaned forward and smelled her breath. He stuck his tongue out and pointed to it. Willa stuck hers out. He glanced at it, apparently satisfied. He pulled her eyelids down and up. He pressed on her stomach, her belly. Another grunt. He asked, per favore, to examine her female parts.
“No,” Willa said, but Signora Marcheschi told Dr. Lucarelli to continue. Willa threw up on the floor near Dr. Lucarelli’s feet.
“Ayyy!” Signora Marcheschi said. She took Willa’s washcloth from the washstand and wiped the floor with it. When Dr. Lucarelli completed his examination, he gave Signora Marcheschi a small envelope filled with a powder that smelled like soil.
“Make a tea and have her drink it three times a day,” he told Signora Marcheschi. “You’ll feel better very soon,” he told Willa. Then he closed his bag, stood up, and bowed slightly. Good, Willa thought. Now, he’ll leave and so will Signora Marcheschi.
“Arrivederci, Signora,” Dr. Lucarelli said to Willa. Outside in the hallway, Willa overheard him announce his findings: “È incinta.” Pregnant. “Felicitazioni!” many good wishes.
“No! You’re wrong! I’m not pregnant,” Willa called to them.
“Di quanto?” How long? Signora Marcheschi asked.
“About four to six weeks,” Dr. Lucarelli said. “Perhaps five to seven.” Signora Marcheschi and Grazia smiled and exchanged knowing looks.
“No. You’re wrong. I took precautions,” Willa said again. “It’s just their dirty food.” Dr. Lucarelli and the family glanced at one another.
Gabriele came to Willa’s side and put his finger to his lips. “What would Father Enrico think if he knew?” he whispered to her.
“I don’t care what Father Enrico thinks!” Willa said once again, her vo
ice loud enough for everyone to hear. Signora Marcheschi gasped. Grazia crossed herself.
“Don’t you see? It’s good to begin our family right away?” Gabriele told Willa later that day. They were alone together. “You are fertile, and we have time for many children.” He looked pleased, she thought, proud. Did he forget that I’m leaving?
“I’m not going to become your prisoner because of this.” She handed Gabriele the letter that she had written to her parents and asked him to take it to the post office.
Gabriele chuckled. “So, my little bird, you’ve decided to tell your parents our good news right away.”
16
The pale blue envelope postmarked Erhart, Ohio arrived several weeks later. Willa recognized her mother’s stationery. She took the letter to their bedroom where she would be alone and opened it, taking care not to tear it in case a money order or a check was inside. She removed the note and unfolded it. Nothing. She searched the floor. Nothing. Of course. They would have sent the money to Firenze as she had asked. Or perhaps the ticket. She read the note:
Dearest Willa,
It sounds as if you have become a little homesick. It’s something that often happens to new brides, especially those who have decided to live far from their families. I felt quite lonely as a newlywed. So much changes when a woman gets married, doesn’t it? We’re sure that you will feel much better after this period of adjustment. Meanwhile, if you and Gabriele would like to visit here, we’ll plan a reception for you at The Pavilion.
All our love, Mother.
Willa tore the letter into unreadable pieces and let them fall to the floor. Then she threw herself face down on the unmade bed, too exhausted to cry. I must leave before Orvieto swallows me up. Tomorrow! I’ll go tomorrow. Her thoughts whirled. At least in Firenze people understood my ambitions. But would they if I had a baby? Could I hide it? Give it to Gabriele or someone else? People do that, don’t they? Isn’t there a way to stop a baby? Signora Farnese would know.
Willa put some clean underwear, a nightgown, robe, and two of her loosest dresses in her suitcase. She put an extra pair of shoes in her carpetbag and some jewelry, but left the wedding necklace on the bureau. I’ll need work. She recalled the American businessman at Signora Farnese’s luncheon who had offered her a job. She scrambled through her drawers and suitcase. At last she found his business card inside her address book. She tore a small opening in the lining of her purse where she concealed what little money she could find, her Italian identity card, her American passport, and the business card. Then, despite the warm day, she put on her coat, picked up her carpetbag with one hand and her suitcase with the other, and made her way down the front stairs, wary in the silent house. Once outside, she closed the front door softly behind her, walked to the lane, and followed the main road in the direction of the station. The sounds of insects and birds played against the otherwise silent countryside. She inhaled the scents of grasses and herbs mixed with earth. I’ll miss the smell of Orvieto, she thought.
Ahead, a car approached. It was a large black Packard with chrome hubcaps like the one Eddie Ingersoll’s father had. She glimpsed the driver and the three passengers. They were laughing. The car passed on, stirring a cloud of dust that settled over her. She watched the car as it moved away from her. She had seen such cars in Orvieto before; they always belonged to day visitors, usually wealthy tourists from Firenze or Roma, occasionally more distant places. In the summer, the women wore dresses made of white lawn and fashionable shoes despite the difficulty of walking on cobblestoned streets. The men wore searsucker or linen suits, and some carried walking sticks with silver heads. Willa often tried to imagine what it might be like to participate in their glamorous, carefree lives and lively conversations, to be someone who traveled, who enjoyed what people called the finer things. The car came to a sudden halt, backed up, and stopped. A man in a pale suit and straw hat got out.
“I’ll be right back, Greta,” she overheard him say. He walked back to where Willa was standing.
“Buongiorno, signorina. We’ve come to see the Duomo and buy wine.” She couldn’t place his accent. “We need someone to guide us. Please, will you help us? We could pay you.” She hesitated, thinking of the other opportunities she had missed and how much she needed the money.
“Thank you, no. I’m on my way somewhere.” He nodded at her suitcase.
“I see you are traveling. We can drive you later.” Her stomach roiled. What if I threw up in their car? Unlike her, they were free to visit for a day, buy wine, dine out, and then return to lives far from this backward province where all the decisions were already made and where it was picturesque only if you lived someplace else.
“Thank you, but not today. You’ll find someone in town who can help you.” She continued on to the train station. Squinting in the bright sun, she returned to her thoughts of finding a job. She recalled Signora Farnese’s luncheon. If only I could go back to that day and start my life over again. Anyway, it hasn’t been so very long. Just a few months. It shouldn’t be too late. Keep a positive outlook and be confident, she told herself.
Donato, the clerk, looked up at her. He had lost his left eye in the Great War and wore a black eye patch. His hands trembled, though he was still young. “Battle fatigue,” people called it. Still, his infirmities did not hinder his knowing exactly who came and left each day, their starting points and their destinations, and the reasons for their trips. “Signora Marcheschi! Let me see. I’ll bet you’re going to Corfu today.” He chuckled.
Willa was thinking about what she might say to Signora Farnese. “I’m sorry for my behavior and I ask your forgiveness and your help,” she murmured.
Donato laughed. “Excuse me, Signora Marcheschi, the place for a confession is in the confessional. Here we sell only tickets.”
“Firenze,” Willa said quickly. “Today.” Donato took out the tickets and stamped each one carefully, slowly, in several places as if he were stamping them for the first time and wanted to do it perfectly. Then, he noted the transaction in his ledger in several places with equal care. I hope he doesn’t tell Gabriele where I’m going. She thought about Signora Farnese again, rehearsed a plan in her mind. Apologize. Chat pleasantly. Later, ask for “guidance” or “a suggestion,” “a recommendation” or maybe “a referral to someone who handles difficult situations.” Yes, that was how to put it. At that moment, Willa wanted to lie down on one of the worn benches in the dim waiting room. What would Donato think?
“Firenze is interesting, but you won’t enjoy it as much now that you’re going to be a mother,” Donato said. If he knows, then everyone does.
“No, I suppose not,” Willa said.
“Signora Marcheschi, I see that you’re going to Firenze today, too.”
Willa turned and looked into the round face of Sister Maria Cristina. She forced a smile. “Sister, how nice to see you.”
Sister Maria Cristina smiled back through crooked teeth. “We’ll sit together. You’ll tell me all about your happy news.” In that moment Willa understood that even in a city as large as Firenze neither her intentions nor her actions nor her condition could be concealed for long. She would have to go much farther away, to a place she didn’t know, couldn’t imagine. Her head ached.
“Your train arrives in fifteen minutes, and the trip takes two hours.” Donato handed her the tickets. “That will be four hundred lire, signora.”
“Is that for a round trip?”
“Yes, of course, unless you’re not planning to come back.” He shook with laughter at his own joke and winked at her with his good eye. If only I could say, “No, I’m only going one way and I’m never coming back,” Willa thought. What if I said that I’m not sure when I’ll be coming back? No. Even that would create questions.
Willa hesitated at the ticket window until Donato looked at her closely and spoke. “Are you all right, Signora Marcheschi? You don’t seem well today.” Willa gave Donato the money for the round-trip ticket and put the ticket in h
er purse.
“It’s your condition,” Sister Maria Cristina said. “Women who come from Orvieto are never sick during their pregnancies.” Willa nodded in agreement, knowing that her status as la straniera marked her as an unhealthy exception. “Tell me, how do you like your new life here?” Maria Cristina leaned forward slightly. A silver cross dangled from the thin silver chain around her neck.
“It’s very nice,” Willa said. She watched the cross swing back and forth.
“And what do you like best about our city of Orvieto?”
“The weather..,” Willa said.
Maria Cristina moved, and her cross continuted to swing back and forth. She waited like a cat waits for a bird.
“…and the Duomo is interesting,” Willa added, thinking this observation might make a favorable impression on Maria Cristina. The cross moved as if Maria Cristina controlled it by her will alone.
Willa looked away. “And what do you like best about Orvieto, Sister?”
“It’s been my family’s home for many generations.”
“I cannot say the same.”
Maria Cristina looked genuinely surprised. “Why not? The Marcheschi’s have been in Orvieto even longer than the Orsinis.”
“Excuse me,” Willa said. She hurried to the bathroom at the end of the platform, leaving her suitcase and coat outside the door. Inside, the smell of the open toilet overwhelmed her. She braced her hands on the wooden seat and vomited into the round opening. Her skin felt cold and hot at the same time. She wanted some water. Never mind. I’ll get some on the train. She opened the rough, wooden door, saw that her train was about to leave. She stumbled over the rocky path and boarded the second-class coach just as the conductor blew his whistle. He closed the door after her. She entered the first vacant compartment and sank down onto the faded red plush seat, pressing her cheek against the cool window. If no one came, she could lie down and sleep. The train began to move. She glanced out the window and saw her coat and suitcase next to the door to the toilet where she had left them. She clutched her carpetbag and her purse close to her chest. Maria Cristina opened the door and entered the compartment.
The Train to Orvieto Page 11