“Are you all right?” she said. “You left quite abruptly.” At that moment Willa felt grateful even for Maria Cristina’s false concern.
“A little ill.”
Maria Cristina took out her breviary and placed it in her lap. She glanced around the compartment and then smiled, raptor-like. “I don’t see your things,” she said.
“What will you enjoy most when you go to Firenze?” Willa said, thinking it a safe change of subject.
“I suppose you have time for enjoyment, but pleasure isn’t part of my calling. I’m going to Firenze on behalf of my convent.” Maria Cristina folded her hands in a steeple and placed them on the breviary. “And you?”
“I’m visiting a friend.” Willa took the blue sketchbook out of the carpetbag. Perhaps she could capture Maria Cristina’s ominous bulk. She opened the sketchbook to a blank page.
“Does Gabriele know?”
“What do you mean?” Willa asked.
“The Marcheschis never leave Orvieto. All of their friends and relatives are here.” It had only been a social question, Willa thought, relieved.
“I have a friend in Firenze, just the same.” Willa tried to smile, but her upper lip felt tight, as if it had been stretched and tacked down. She drew a sweeping curve across the page.
“Another artist-type like you?” Maria Cristina leaned forward to examine the line. The conductor came for their tickets.
“What?” Willa said absently. She handed the conductor her ticket. Sister Maria Cristina pounced.
“Your friend. Is he an artist-type?”
“No. Not really.”
“A lover then.” Stunned, Willa felt her cheeks redden with embarrassment and anger. Maria Cristina watched her discomfort. The conductor raised his eyebrows. He punched Maria Christina’s ticket and returned it to her.
“Why would you say that?” Willa asked so that the conductor would hear. “My friend is a woman.”
“My vocation doesn’t preclude knowledge of more worldly things.” Maria Cristina handed the conductor her ticket.
“But why would you say that to me?”
“It’s what everyone says,” Sister Maria Cristina replied. Willa recoiled at Maria Cristina’s revelation.
“Bless you, sister,” the conductor said, returning Maria Cristina’s ticket.
“And you think this, too?” Willa said.
Maria Cristina nodded. “Yes. Everyone thinks that you’re a woman of ill repute.”
The conductor stared at Willa.
“If I were what you said, then why would Gabriele have married me?” she asked Maria Cristina.
“You tricked him. One day, he’ll see his mistake.”
“And this is what you think, too?”
Maria Cristina nodded.
Willa realized how swiftly and fully she had been judged. It was worse than she had imagined. Worse than she could have imagined. Angry, she put her sketchbook away and stood up. “Then everyone is as ignorant as you are.”
“The truth is what it is,” Maria Cristina said, smiling. “You can’t walk away from it.”
In another car, Willa found a seat in an empty compartment. Trembling, she leaned into the corner and turned her face toward the wall, checking the scream that welled up inside her, allowing silent tears to course down her cheeks. It doesn’t matter what they think because I’m never going back. Ever. Still, why would strangers think such a thing? Was Maria Cristina telling the truth? Could that be why people had been so unpleasant? What about Signora Marcheschi? Doesn’t she know me as a daughter-in-law, a wife, and soon a mother?
Outside the window Willa looked at the village where the train had stopped. Here, too, are people who don’t know me. What if I get off and stay? What would these strangers imagine about me? That I’m an artist? A peasant? A loose woman? Una straniera? Am I responsible for what people see in me? A whistle sounded, and the train churned ahead. She imagined that it left behind a hole in the village into which everyone’s ideas about everyone else tumbled together in a stew of truths and falsehoods.
17
FIRENZE, ITALY 1935
Condensation on the windows obscured her view. The train entered the station and stopped. Willa left hastily, stumbled on the steps getting off, regained her balance, and hurried toward the entrance to the station. Just ahead she saw a group of nuns. Was Maria Cristina among them? She turned away and went out by a side door where she found a bus ready to depart for Fiesole. She got on and took a seat near the driver. Her thoughts tumbled. I’ll find work this afternoon. Somewhere to stay. How long does it take to get paid? She looked out the window at the rain, wishing that she had remembered her coat and suitcase. Perhaps I can borrow some clothes until I can get mine back.
The bus rattled up the hillside through low-hanging fog and stopped in Fiesole’s cobbled piazza. Could Maria Cristina have made up the whole story because she was jealous? Maybe it was just a lie. The driver opened the door for her. Fog blanketed the piazza; the chill and dampness cut through her light sweater. Which way was Signora Farnese’s house? Hunger and the smell of food drew her to a trattoria where the waiter was preparing tables for lunch. She recognized him. Surely, he would remember her, their friendly conversations. She smiled at him and said hello.
“We don’t open until noon,” he said, continuing with his work.
She looked at her watch. Five minutes to twelve. “Shall I wait?” The waiter looked puzzled.
“Signorina, we’re closed.”
Willa turned and walked away. Well, no matter. Signora Farnese will serve lunch. She remembered the lunches that Assuntina had prepared: pasta e fagioli, fresh bread, cold roasted pork. Her stomach growled. As she drew closer, she recognized the pink walls of the villa, its tiled roof, and the orderly garden of herbs and flowers set out in a pattern that dated from the Middle Ages. Roses too. These seemed to her part of something she had done long ago. She followed the path to the front door. Assuntina could be preparing lunch right now. She lifted the brass knocker, heard the echo inside when she let it drop. Assuntina opened the door.
“Hello, Assuntina.”
“Wait here, please,” the maid said, alarmed. “I’ll find the Signora.” Willa shivered on the doorstep.
Signora Farnese appeared at the door. “Willa, what’s happened? Why have you come?” She took Willa’s red, chapped hands in hers and looked down at them. Signora Farnese’s hands felt warm and smooth. On her right hand, Signora Farnese wore a large ring of pink tourmalines surrounded by pearls and diamonds that sparkled even in the pale light of the foggy day. Willa wished that she had remembered to clean the dirt from under her fingernails. “Good heavens, what’s happened to you?” Signora Farnese said.
Willa hid her hands behind her back. “I’ve been working.”
“You look frozen, my dear. Such a nasty day. Assuntina shouldn’t have left you standing outside. Do come in.” Signora Farnese stepped back to let Willa enter. “Sometimes, I think Assuntina just doesn’t know what to do.” The warmth of the house surrounded Willa.
“I was just reading…,” Signora Farnese took her reading glasses off the top of her head and set them on a nearby table. Willa admired the Signora’s smooth skin, her eyes the color of tiger’s eye, her stylishness. Her dark brown hair was flecked with white and wound in a chignon, secured with tortoiseshell combs, their edges worked with gold filigree. Willa ran her fingers through her own unkempt hair. She couldn’t remember the last time it had been cut.
“I was in Firenze and I stopped by,” Willa said quickly. She gazed at Signora Farnese’s pale blouse the color of apricots, the heavy silk stitching running up the front, her earrings of coral of varied hues. The colors of heaven, Willa thought.
Signora Farnese looked anxious. “You’re still shivering. Are you all right?” Willa nodded. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t receive your letter, so I’m not prepared to welcome you properly.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t write,” Willa said.
“Unfort
unately,” Signora Farnese looked toward the door, “yes… that is…unfortunately, I must be going out. Quite soon, in fact.” Signora Farnese glanced at Willa’s wrinkled clothes, her purse, the carpetbag, and then toward the door. “Is your husband with you?” Willa shook her head. Signora Farnese seemed to relax slightly. She studied Willa more carefully. “You look pale. Are you well?” Willa nodded. “Come, then, let’s sit down for a moment.”
She led Willa into her study. Willa looked down at her own scuffed shoes and at the herringbone-planked floor. How long had it had taken for the floor to attain its golden patina? She thought of the raw plank floors in Orvieto. Signora Farnese indicated that Willa should sit in the armchair next to the stone fireplace where a fire already burned. The light of the flames danced in the polished brass of the andirons and reflected off the shiny surfaces around the room. Willa inhaled the fragrance of the roses in a vase on the side table and the smell of burning pinewood. Signora Farnese sat opposite her on a small, greenish brocade couch. Its high curving back of wood had been skillfully carved into garlands of leaves and flowers. Signora Farnese’s brocade chairs and couches and the windows hung with damask seemed like a silken cocoon. At that moment, Willa desired nothing more than to be spun into it and held fast within its comforting boundaries. She allowed the warmth of the room and the safety of the armchair to embrace her, delaying the reason for her call.
“It seems you’re a long way from home today,” Signora Farnese began.
“I’ve left Orvieto,” Willa blurted out. It was not what she had planned to say, but she plunged on. “I mean, I came to apologize…if I embarrassed you…I’m sorry.”
“It was your reputation that was compromised, my dear, though not fatally so, apparently. You and that soldier married recently, I believe?” Willa nodded. “I’m sorry that I was away and couldn’t attend your wedding.”
Willa remembered the antique silver chalice that Signora Farnese had given them as a wedding gift. Had she sent a proper thank-you note? She wasn’t sure. Embarrassed, she looked away. Watercolors of Tuscan landscapes hung on the walls. Were they there before? Did I not notice how beautiful they are?
Signora Farnese followed Willa’s gaze. “They’re Corots,” she said. “My late husband bought them many years ago from Corot’s dealer in Paris.” Willa realized that there were other things in the room she hadn’t noticed either: the large quartz ball on its stand on the mantel with a lightening-shaped crack at its center point. Could I still return to L’Accademia d’Arte? she wondered. Assuntina carried in the tea service on a lacquered tray and set it on the low table. The teapot was formed in the shape of pale, pink petals suggesting sweet peas, its handle a twining stem. The cups repeated the flower-and-vine motif, while the saucers and plates mimicked leaves.
Signora Farnese poured the hot water into the teapot, replaced the lid and let the tea steep. Willa watched her careful fingers, gazed at her heavy gold bracelets studded with stones in colors of dawn that echoed the flecks of color in her tweed skirt. Around Signora Farnese’s neck an ancient pendant of rough-hewn gold hung on a heavy chain. In its center was a single, smooth stone of shiny, mottled black that reminded Willa of something underwater, perhaps the eye of a sea creature. Signora Farnese offered her a plate of cookies arranged in concentric circles. Willa remembered them, their fragrances of clove and lemon. She placed only one on her own smaller plate hoping to conceal her insistent hunger and, more urgently, the degree to which her own life defied the aesthetic of Signora Farnese’s existence.
“So, now you are married,” Signora Farnese said. For a moment, Willa couldn’t think of how to tell Signora Farnese that her marriage had failed. Isn’t this when most young brides tell of their indescribable happiness? “Tea?” Signora Farnese lifted a cup and saucer and poured jasmine tea into the cup. Light passed through the thin porcelain petals it imitated. Willa balanced the cup and saucer on her palm. They felt nearly weightless. Signora Farnese handed her a small, monogrammed napkin of pink linen edged with green stitching. Willa opened it on her lap with her other hand. “Forgive me,” Signora Farnese continued, “but you look…I don’t know…as if Cinderella had torn her gown at the ball.”
Willa took the handle of the teacup between her fingers and sipped her tea. “Signora Farnese, there’s so much that I didn’t expect.” Tears rolled down her cheeks against her will. “They don’t allow me to paint, and people say that I’m a…a loose woman.” The tea leaves eddied at the bottom of her cup. She dabbed her eyes and cheeks with her napkin, leaving it streaked with tears.
“But you went out without a chaperone,” Signora Farnese said. Willa caught her breath and tried to control her growing fear. Does Signora Farnese feel as Maria Cristina does? Willa realized that she had created her reputation herself. She had done as she wished, imagining that what she did had no consequences, affected no one, least of all herself.
“Yes, I did.” She took another sip of her tea. “I was very much mistaken.” The outlines of the leaves in the bottom of her cup were more visible. She drank them with the rest of her tea, tasted their bitterness. Swallowed. “There’s something more. I thought…I was hoping…you could advise me…I need…that is, I wonder if…could you…perhaps you would recommend someone who could help me?”
Signora Farnese refilled her cup. “Help you with what?
Willa realized that she hadn’t yet asked her question. She took a deep breath. “Signora Farnese, I don’t want to…to have a baby.” Willa bit the inside of her cheek so that she wouldn’t cry again. She tasted the saltiness of her own blood and sipped her tea, saw the remaining liquid in the cup stained pink with surging trails of minute red filaments.
“You were thinking of an abortion?” Signora Farnese sounded incredulous. Willa nodded. “Does Gabriele know how you feel?”
Willa put the cup down abruptly. A porcelain chip pinged in her saucer. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Willa picked the chip out of the saucer and held it out to Signora Farnese who put it on the tea tray.
“It can be repaired,” Signora Farnese said. “It will be good as new.
” “Signora Farnese, I don’t know what to do,” Willa whispered.
The older woman spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. “You must understand that abortions are obtainable, but only by those with highly confidential and powerful connections or, if you’re willing to risk death, with a midwife-butcher out in the country. I know of no one who could help you with such a thing.” She looked at Willa, this time with what Willa interpreted as concern. “No wonder you’re so distraught.” Signora Farnese held out the plate of cookies.
Willa devoured another. “I can’t go back.”
“How do you plan to live otherwise?”
Willa opened her purse, took out the American businessman’s card, and showed it to Signora Farnese. “Mr. Bradshaw gave me his card and asked me to be his assistant.” She took another cookie. Signora Farnese looked at the card and returned it.
“I’m afraid your situation is quite different now. Before, you were an attractive, available young woman. Perhaps he saw you as a possibility for himself—or at least as an attractive accessory to his business. It’s a sad fact, my dear, that no man wants another man’s used merchandise… or another man’s baby.”
“But I could still work, whether I have a baby or not.” Willa lifted the saucer and took another sip of tea.
“Here, women who are married and pregnant stay at home with their husbands and their babies. That is, unless they’re disgraziate, foreigners, who scrub floors because they have what we call un frutto della colpa, an unwanted pregnancy. I’m afraid this is what will happen to you if you don’t return to your husband immediately.”
“I won’t go back,” Willa said with an angry gesture that knocked her teacup from her saucer. The hot tea spilled and the cup shattered into an opalescent corona around her feet. Willa gasped. “Oh, no. Oh, I’m so sorry.” She dabbed at the wet stain on the carpet with her napkin.
“Perhaps I could stay with you for a short time…just until I get settled, of course?” It’s presumptuous but what choice do I have? Willa thought.
Signora Farnese shook her head. “You’re young. You don’t realize yet that a woman creates her own fate. Then she must accept it. Marriage is never an idyll. It’s a business. Its goal is to support you and your children. Just because you have an unhappy marriage doesn’t mean you must harm your livelihood. Many people make bad choices just as you have done and have unhappy marriages just as you do right now. Sometimes, they find lovers. If they’re discreet, then there is no need for divorce or abandonment. More importantly, there’s no loss of support for the children, and fewer economic hardships for the wife, in particular. It’s a practical and quite accepted way to manage an unfortunate situation. I can assure you that some of the most respectable people do it.”
“But, signora, I don’t love my husband.”
Signora Farnese laughed. “My dear, we’re not talking about love. What you have is a situation. In time, you could find that you like—better yet, love—your husband again, and then you’ll be glad you didn’t make the too-hasty decision you’re contemplating, which will only lead you into further trouble.”
The Train to Orvieto Page 12