The Train to Orvieto

by Novelli, Rebecca J. ;

  “Monsignor Enrico will ask the blessing now,” papà said. Grazia crossed herself.

  The priest cleared his throat. “Our Father, in the name of your Son, Jesus Christ, we ask that you extend the protection of the Blessed Virgin Mary to our dear departed Willa and that you bring the peace of our faith and your devotion to us, your children, especially your children here today, now and forevermore. Amen.”

  7

  Papà held the platter while Monsignor Enrico lifted a large serving of pasta onto his plate.

  “Happiness is an elusive thing,” the priest said. He inhaled the aromas of garlic, olive oil, and basil with obvious pleasure

  Bruno poured chilled white wine into the priest’s glass. “This is our new Marcheschi Orvieto. The originale.”

  Monsignor Enrico lifted his glass and looked around the table, nodding at each of us. “To your happiness,” he said. He took a noisy sip and signed his approval. We lifted our glasses and drank, too. I was thankful that Monsignor Enrico was with us because I knew papà wouldn’t quarrel with Silvana in his presence. “Some, I believe, are born with the gift of happiness, while others seem to have no knack for it,” Monsignor Enrico continued. He drank more wine and then began to eat. “I once thought happiness was a matter of faith: If we keep our faith with God, God keeps His faith with us. We are content.” He made an exclamation point with his fork and nodded in agreement with what he had just said. “Truthfully,” he added, looking around the table, “I have seen many people of deep faith who were profoundly unhappy.” As he ate the pasta, his entire body appeared to relax in pleasure. “Happiness is a great mystery.”

  “True happiness comes from doing what we should,” papà said. “I believe duty is as essential to happiness as faith.” I took the platter from papà. What is a daughter’s duty? A wife’s? Is there a duty to myself? Did fulfilling one duty lead to happiness, but fulfilling others not? And what about mamma? Had fulfilling her duty led to happiness?

  Next, papà served Monsignor Enrico the bolliti misti. The priest heaped his plate with the boiled meats. The sauce dripped onto the embroidered tablecloth. Then, Monsignor Enrico took several slices of warm bread, piling them next to his plate. From another platter, he took a large, marinated artichoke and slices of fresh tomato and mozzarella di bufala.

  “There is happiness in work well done, too,” Bruno said. He poured some wine into his glass and lifted it to papà. “For example, your brilliant plan for the new vintage.”

  Papà smiled and returned Bruno’s toast. Papà should make a toast to mamma because it was her ideas and her work that had made Vino Marcheschi so successful, I thought.

  “Being happy isn’t all that matters,” I said, “Happiness is the result when we do what is right for us.” It was a self-serving idea, of course. I was thinking about university. Had mamma done what was right for her? I passed the platter of marinated vegetables to Bruno. It’s easy to make a mistake.

  “That’s true,” said Raffaele, “but some people don’t experience happiness as a result of action, faith or duty. Some find happiness in accepting who they really are.” He poured more wine into his glass. I knew Raffaele was referring to the fact that he was unmarried and that papà had refused to receive his good friend and business associate Paolo in our home. Mamma had just wanted all of us to be happy. She had told papà that Raffaele was especially sensitive and took his disapproval too much to heart. Still, papà and Raffaele repeated their same argument whenever they were together. Our funeral meal was no exception.

  “We have choices about who we are,” papà said with a meaningful look at Raffaele. “You aren’t interested in the natural choice like I was.”

  “That’s right. I don’t want to carry on Vino Marcheschi,” Raffaele said. “I don’t want to live in Orvieto.”

  “This so-called happiness of yours is unnatural,” papà said. “You have no wife, no family. Not even a fidanzata. You don’t continue our family business. When do you intend to become a man?”

  Raffaele answered carefully. “When you state your wishes so forcefully, papà, we don’t have the opportunity to accept the fact that you and I are different.”

  “My wishes make no difference to you.”

  Raffaele tapped his fingers on the table and laughed uneasily. “Your wishes are an added burden.” He passed the platter to Silvana. “When will you accept that my life makes me happy the way it is?”

  Silvana glared at papà. “Just do what you want, and we’ll all be happy. Right, papà?” She set the platter down on the table with such force that I thought it might crack. “Anyway, Fina is right: happiness isn’t the point. Not in our family.”

  Papà turned to Monsignor Enrico. “I don’t try to choose my children’s happiness for them, whatever they say.” He held the arms of his chair and looked around the table at each of us. “Fulfilling one’s duty, as I have, has brought me great happiness. It still does, even though I can’t do as much as I wish anymore.” He stabbed a piece of meat, put it on his plate.

  “You do a great deal, sir,” said Bruno, “and the introduction of the new wine is a very happy moment for all of us at this sad time.”

  “Che boiate!” Silvana said.

  Bruno refilled Monsignor Enrico’s glass. “This vintage is only our first attempt.”

  “An excellent beginning!” the priest said.

  Bruno smiled. “If you like our new wine, then it will be a great success.”

  Silvana drained her glass and held it out to Bruno for more. I hoped she wouldn’t get drunk again.

  “Each kind of happiness has its own season,” Monsignor Enrico said. “Fortunately, in my own case, action, duty and faith have coincided in a single happiness.” He wiped his full lips with the white napkin.

  Silvana pointed her fork at Monsignor Enrico. “Why is it that God has answered your questions, but not my mother’s or mine?” I knew her remark would make papà furious. Their inevitable quarrels had always paralyzed us. Only Mamma could divert them.

  Monsignor Enrico helped himself to another portion of bolliti misti. “Where there is faith, my child, we need not question the answers God gives us.”

  “God gives us no answers. He accepts the answers we give Him,” Silvana said.

  Monsignor Enrico looked at Silvana and frowned. “Your view is inconsistent with our faith, my dear.” He took up his glass and held it in his plump hand.

  “She doesn’t really mean that,” papà said. “She means to say, ‘May God forgive me for my willful disobedience.’” A hush fell over the table. We all knew that papà had always disapproved of Silvana, even when she was a child.

  “I can speak to God myself,” Silvana said, “without your help.”

  “Ask God to forgive you then,” papà said, “because I do not.”

  Mamma had once told me that she had to love Silvana twice as much to make up for papà’s coldness toward her.

  Raffaele rose from his seat and raised his glass, his eyes moist. We all stood up.

  “To mamma, who loved us all in the only way she could…and has left each of us to find our happiness alone.” He took a sip of the wine mixed with his tears.

  “As we choose,” Silvana added. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of mascara on her cheek.

  8

  Grazia stopped sweeping and watched as I took out the bundle of letters from the armadio. When I removed the purple cloth, she made the sign of the cross. “Be careful. The things of the dead bring la sfortuna.”

  I examined the return address printed on the envelope: Via Violetta 10, Milano, Italia. Then, the address on the front: Signora Isabella Farnese in care of the post office in Arezzo. The address was the same on all of the letters. “These letters aren’t even addressed to mamma.” I studied the postmarks: the letters were in chronological order. The first was written before I was born, the most recent one the previous year. Almost twenty years.

  “Only Death should keep our secrets.” Gr
azia resumed her sweeping.

  I gathered the letters and wrapped them up again. “Is papà still out?” Grazia nodded. “If you hide these for me, papà won’t find them.” Eyeing the bundle, Grazia crossed herself again and shook her head. “The dead trick the living into keeping their secrets.” She lit a candle and put it above the fireplace. “Never put those letters near your bed. They will get into your dreams and make la sfortuna while you sleep.”

  I put the bundle down on mamma’s bed. “I’ll hide them myself, then, but first I want to find something of mamma’s to give Silvana.” I opened mamma’s jewelry box and picked out several pieces. “Which of these do you think Silvana would like?” Grazia paused in her sweeping to look at the fan-shaped brooch: reddish gold and enamel made in the form of a peacock with a tail of opals, lapis lazuli, and tiger’s eye. “I’ve never seen this one before.” I held the brooch in the shaft of light from the window. Fire danced in the stones. “Look! Such pretty colors.”

  Grazia crossed herself again. “Opals. Molto sfortunati.” I turned the brooch over. The back was engraved.

  Just then, the door opened. “Papà, I thought you and Bruno were working in the new vineyard.”

  “Bruno is coming this evening. He has something he wants to discuss with me.” Papà winked at me. “Can you guess what it is?”

  “Santo cielo, a guest for dinner!” Grazia said. “I have to get ready.” She gathered up a pile of laundry and with it the bundle of letters and went out, closing the door behind her.

  “What was that Grazia took with her?” papà asked.

  “Just some old papers. I’m looking for something for Silvana. Would you like to help me?”

  “I don’t want her to have any of Willa’s….”

  I held the brooch out to him. “What about this for Silvana?”

  He waved his hand. “We have more important things to discuss. I want to talk to you about your future. Bruno....” His voice trailed off. He took the brooch from me. “I don’t remember this.” He turned it over in his hand.

  “It looks old,” I said. “Did it belong to Nonna Marcheschi or Grandma Carver?” I put the wooden box beside the door.

  “What’s that?”

  “An old box. I’m going to throw it away. Do you think Silvana would want any of mamma’s clothes?” Papà put the brooch down and went to get the box. He touched its dusty surfaces, studied the residue on his fingertips, lifted the hinged lid and felt inside, knocked on the sides, shook it. Unsatisfied, he turned it over and tried to remove the bottom. “Papà, it’s just an old box.”

  “Willa hid things from me. Tell Grazia to bring me that bundle. I want to see everything you find.”

  I pretended I hadn’t heard him. “We need to decide what to do with mamma’s jewelry.”

  He picked up a pair of gold earrings, flat like buttons with an elaborate incised design, and turned them over in his palm. “I’ve never seen these before, either.” He seemed to forget about the letters. He took up the brooch again, turned it over and over, moved it until the light caught the mark on the back. “There!”

  I leaned closer. “An M and a W intertwined. Mamma’s initials.”

  Papà gasped, his jaw tightened. He clenched the brooch in his fist and then threw it as hard as he could against the wall. “Damn them! God damn them!”

  “Papà no! Don’t!” I knelt down to gather the fragments. The metal was bent and some of the stones had scattered. “Why?” I gathered up the pieces.

  “Who does he think he is?” papà shouted. His face dissolved. “Willa was my wife.” He covered his face with his hands.

  I put my arms around him. “Papà. What is it? What’s happened?”

  At last, he took a deep breath and looked up at me. “Your mother made a mistake, Fina. A long time ago. Before you were born. Some people, people like Willa, become involved in things they don’t understand. Sometimes they do things or say things they don’t intend. They agree to do something because they aren’t sure how to refuse or because they want to show courtesy. Your mother made that kind of mistake. Americans are like that. Always too friendly. This person thought that she meant something else, something more, and so he gave her things that she didn’t want.”

  “What things?”

  “Things people should only give each other when they are very close.” I looked down at the stones and the bent gold in my hand. “Willa made a mistake, Fina.” He scanned the room. “Did you find anything else?” I shook my head. “Tell me if you find any letters. Capisci?” Do you understand? I nodded. “Where’s Grazia? I want to see what was in that bundle.”

  “I put those letters in the potato bin,” Grazia told me later that afternoon when papà had gone out again.

  “If papà asks you, tell him you burned some moldy papers.”

  Grazia crossed herself. “Porterà sfortuna.” It will be bad luck.

  I took the bundle to my room, set it on the bed, and opened the first letter. “Carissima,” it began. It didn’t even say Willa. If papà sees them, he’ll see that he’s mistaken about mamma’s letters, I thought. I looked at the signature. “Con tutto il mio amore, ora e per sempre, il tuo M.” All my love now and always. I picked up another letter, read it, read another, and then another. One spoke of a painting of a fish, another of “our garden.” There were meetings, trips, then later, mamma’s illness. I opened the most recent one.

  My darling,

  I cannot bear that you are ill and knowing that you will be unable to write to me or receive my words of comfort and love. It is an unjust world that keeps us apart when we most need one another. I will not come to you now only because you say you don’t want me to see you as you are. Know how much I love you and long to be with you. Until we are together in heaven.

  Grazia always said that secrets have their own lives and that their fate is to betray themselves, like footprints in soft soil, seeds in fruit, acorns of truth from a winter of need. I looked at the signature on the letter: Your M now and forever. I didn’t want to know this secret about mamma and her amante and their letters. Had mamma always had another life with someone she loved very much? An amante named Michel Losine in Milano who wanted these letters? I decided to burn them and put an end to mamma’s double life before any misfortune occured. Just then, papà called to me, and I heard his footsteps on the stairway. I looked at the clock. Five-thirty. I had lost track of the time while I was reading. Worse, I had neglected to lock the door. I scooped up the letters. Where to put them? I stuffed them into an open bureau drawer and closed it. Papà looked in.

  “Did you and Bruno finish?”

  “Yes, cara.” Papà saw the purple cloth on the bed. He stopped like a bird frozen in midflight. “Where are they?”

  “There was just a bunch of moldy letters, papà. Grazia has already burned them. I saved the cloth for you.” His jaw bulged.

  “Before, you said papers. Now, you say letters.” He looked around. “Where are they?” He sniffed the air like an animal. “Give them to me.” I held out the cloth to him. He snatched it. “They must be here.” Did he know about mamma’s amante, too?

  I took his arm. “We’re not finished with mamma’s room yet. If there are any papers, letters…anything…we’ll find them for you.” He pulled his arm away from me and walked out. I knew he didn’t believe me. The letters were more important than I had thought. I decided not to burn them. Instead, I wrapped them inside an embroidered pillowcase and put them in the bottom of my wedding chest under my quilts.

  9

  Shortly after I read mamma’s letters, I dreamed of an unknown man. We feasted together on enormous red strawberries that were from the planet Jupiter. The voluptuous sweetness of the berries lingered on my tongue as I awoke. I kept my eyes closed and tried to summon the man back. He retreated as I drew near him and then disappeared. With a sense of regret I opened my eyes to the ringing of the bells at the Duomo. It was my birthday. I smelled bread baking in the oven and I knew Grazia was preparing her s
weet almond torta for me. I soon forgot about the dream.

  My room was already warm. The shutters cast shadowy ladders at odd angles on the wall opposite my bed where a crucifix hung. I counted the shadow steps up to it, blinked, lost my place, started over. Fourteen. Though the crucifix had hung there for as long as I could remember, the profound suffering it depicted always made me wonder at the cost of redemption. I believed that living a Christian life meant thinking of others before oneself. Although I still had mamma’s letters, I didn’t want to hurt papà by keeping my promise to her. What would a true Christian do? If I must choose between the living and the dead, I would choose papà.

  When I came down to breakfast, papà came over and kissed me on both cheeks.

  “Buongiorno, tesoro. Tanti auguri. Nineteen years today! I wish your mother could see how beautiful you are on your birthday.” He sat down and smiled. “I’ve invited Bruno to celebrate with us this evening.”

  “That’s nice, papà.”

  “Nice? I thought you were in love.”

  “I’m thinking about….”

  “What could be more important to think about than your fidanzato? Papà chuckled. “Unless it’s your old father.” He returned to his breakfast and his paperwork. He was in a good mood.

  “I’m thinking about going to university.” I waited for his response. “Papà, I’m supposed to enroll at Cattolicà next month.”

  “Hmmm. What did you say, tesoro?”

  “I’ve decided to go to university, and I enroll—”

  “Nonsense. Your mother would never have approved. She and I agreed on that.” He leaned toward me. “Willa didn’t have much of a mind for business, but she would have told me you were planning to ruin your life and our livelihood.” He stood up. “Bruno is meeting with those Americans this morning, the ones who don’t know how to make wine.” I knew them. Papà smiled. “Bruno thinks we can do business with them. He needs you to translate.” The Americans came into our shop frequently. Although they had told me that they planned to export local wines, among themselves they talked mostly about “tax shelters.”