The Train to Orvieto

by Novelli, Rebecca J. ;

  I began to cry. Losine reached inside his jacket and took out a cream-colored handkerchief of soft, translucent linen. I blew my nose and wiped my eyes. He leaned over to look at my temple.

  “Did these thugs beat you up, too?” He smelled like fine soap.

  “No, but the one with the mustache did this.” I showed him the finger-shaped bruises on my arm.

  “Hey! That’s a heck of a bruise,” Joey said.

  “He should pick on someone his own size if he wants to fight,” Losine said. “Don’t you agree, Capitano?

  “Assolutamente, signore.” Fiorelli bowed slightly. From another pocket in his jacket, Losine took out a small, leather-bound notebook and a silver fountain pen. He wrote something in the notebook, tore the page out, and gave it to Fiorelli.

  “Immediatamente, signore,” Fiorelli said. “Everything will be taken care of. I’ll see to it personally.”

  “This is Joey Dunne,” I said to Losine. “Someone stole my luggage, and he brought it back.”

  “Very kind of you,” Losine said to Joey.

  “Happy to help.”

  “Still, I would like to thank you for helping Signorina Marcheschi.” Losine took out his wallet and offered Joey several large bills. I wasn’t sure how much, but more than I was accustomed to seeing in anyone’s wallet.

  “That’s very generous, but I couldn’t take your money, sir. Not for something like that,” Joey said.

  Losine put the money away. “In that case, perhaps I can be of help to you in some other way.” He turned to Fiorelli. “Would you prefer to discuss the shipment now or at another time?” Fiorelli gave no sign of his preference. Losine took a thick envelope out of the pocket of his jacket. “I believe this is the information you requested.”

  When Fiorelli opened the envelope, I saw that it, too, was full of money. “Sissignore. This information will be very helpful with the shipment.”

  Losine turned to me with a smile and leaned on his cane. “May I look at your ankle?” He bent down. “Show me where it hurts.” I pointed to where the swelling obscured my anklebone and had turned black and blue. “Together, I believe that you and I have a total of two good legs,” Losine said smiling. “May I take you to my home so we can have a doctor look at your ankle? His home? They won’t know where to look for me because papà burned all the letters.

  “But I don’t know you. Just some ice would be fine.”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t know you either.” Losine looked at Joey. “Do you know her, Signor Dunne?”

  Joey shook his head. “Might like to get acquainted, though.”

  Losine removed two cream-colored business cards from his breast pocket and gave one to me and one to Joey. I read the charcoal grey script on the card:

  Michel Losine

  Via Violetta 10

  Milano

  Italy

  The address on mamma’s letters. “Now that we’ve met officially, shall I ask Signor Dunne to come with us?

  “Yes.” I touched the corno.

  “It seems we need your help again, Signor Dunne.” Losine gestured toward me. “Could you carry her, please?” Joey lifted me up. As we went out of the office, Losine said to Fiorelli, “Have Signorina Marcheschi’s luggage brought to my address immediately.”

  Outside the station we followed Losine to a large, black sedan parked next to a sign that said parking was prohibited. Two poliziotti whom I hadn’t seen before stood next to the car, laughing. As soon as they saw Losine, they nodded and moved away. Losine opened the back door. Papà would never approve of my getting into a car with strange men, especially not mamma’s amante. He would say, “They may not seem dangerous, but they could be.” But I’m in danger already, I thought, especially without any help. Besides, mamma must have trusted Losine or she wouldn’t have asked me to take the letters. Joey set me down gently on the back seat. I sank back onto the soft leather and put my foot up. Joey got in the passenger seat.

  “I’m going to university,” I said immediately. “Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore.” I meant that I was expected, that my absence would be noticed.

  “Excellent,” Losine said. “Cattolica is a fine school.”

  “Congratulations,” Joey said. “That’s an honor.”

  “I received highest honors on my exams.”

  “I’m certain your family is very proud of you,” Losine said.

  “My fiance’s name is Bruno…Bruno Orsini,” I continued. “We’re going to be married. He’s knows that I’m here…where I am, I mean.” I meant that just because I had come to Milano by myself, I wasn’t a troublemaker, no matter what the poliziotti said about me, and someone had already asked permission to marry me.

  “My wife’s name was Greta,” Losine said. “She died some time before you were born. I buy and sell rare gems. I can see that you would look best in emeralds or sapphires.” What an odd thing to say. Is it a trick? I touched the corno. My ankle throbbed. “I think a doctor should see your ankle immediately.”

  Joey turned around toward me. “I used to work at a hospital. I’ve seen broken ankles that looked like yours.”

  “Do you practice in Milano?” Losine asked.

  Joey ran his fingers through his cowlicky red hair, which hung down over the back of his shirt collar. “No. I’m a pianist.” He laughed. “A pianist without a piano. I can’t practice much of anything.” He grew sober. “I just graduated. Music school. Not an essential skill. Got my draft notice.” He cracked his knuckles, and spread his fingers apart and then together in different combinations as if he were warming up to play. “I thought about going to divinity school, but I’m not sure I believe in God.”

  “Always a question,” Losine said. I looked out. The street sign said Via Violetta. It’s the right street.

  “My mom’s best friend is on my draft board,” Joey said. “She fixed it so I could take this trip. If I go to Vietnam, I want to have beautiful memories.” Losine stopped the car in front of an older building of grey stone. “I can go back to school later, if I live that long,” Joey continued. “If I get killed…well, like Bugs Bunny says, ‘That’s all, folks!’ No more worries about anything.”

  “Oh, I hope not,” I said.

  Wide steps led up to two large wooden doors with polished brass fittings. Above the doors, a large number ten had been chiseled into the stone façade. At least the address is right. Joey opened the door for me. I put my arm around his neck and he carried me up the steps. In the dim light, I could see the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose. His collarbone, which showed at the opening of his shirt, stuck out so his lean flesh formed a valley around it.

  “No, it’s true. I could die. Lotta guys do,” Joey said. “Can’t predict. I try to keep that in mind. ‘Army’s no tea party, son.’ That’s what my dad says all the time. The other thing he says is ‘Army makes a man of you.’ He should know. He was in for a long time. Maybe that’s why he thinks filing for C. O. means I’m not a man.”

  “I’m sure he’s mistaken,” I said.

  Losine opened the front door. “If you’ll take Signorina Marcheschi inside, I’ll call a doctor.” I looked at my watch. It was almost ten. He’s able to arrange a lot of things. We passed through a foyer and then through another set of doors, these of glass etched with flowers, into a hallway. “Apartment number one to the right.” Losine let us in. Joey carried me into the salotto and put me down on the pale grey sofa. I inhaled the odor of the leather and the sweet fragrance of the roses in the clear glass vase on the table in front of us.

  The lights from the faceted sconces made scattered reflections on the walls and ceiling. To my left, a door framed in dark wood led into another room. To my right a wide archway opened to a dining room. On the wall beyond the dining table hung a painting of an immense fish with iridescent scales laid out on a black slab, its red and yellow mouth open as though it had just been caught. It looked alive, able to swim away if it were returned to the water. I remembered reading somet
hing about the painting of a fish in one of mamma’s letters. It was beautiful. On the polished wooden floors, rugs of intricately woven colors appeared to shimmer like the scales of the fish. A piece of a fresco mounted above the fireplace in front of us depicted a procession led by a goddess scattering flowers before her. I recognized it immediately: it was exactly like the one in the salotto at home.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she?” Losine said. “An ancient goddess of spring. She reminds me of a time of great happiness in my life.” He coughed, then went to open the doors that led to a terrace. Above, a full moon hovered in the indigo sky.

  Joey saw the piano. “Hey, this is a Bösendorfer, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Losine said. “My wife’s.”

  “Mind if I try it?”

  “It may be out of tune.”

  “If it is, I’ll tune it for you. I used to tune for the symphony at home. Musicians have to do something to make a living.” He sat down at the piano and began to play. The notes merged into an enveloping sound that began with a fugue, passed through a turbulent sonata and concluded in a riff on “Santa Lucia.” Joey came over and sat down next to me. “I’d love to have a piano like that some day.”

  A bell sounded, and Losine went to the door. “She’s in here, Marcello.”

  A man in a dark suit entered the room and greeted us perfunctorily. He bent over my leg and gently moved my foot back and forth. When he felt my ankle, I pulled my foot away involuntarily. “That hurts?”

  “Yes.”

  He finished his examination and turned to Losine as if my ankle belonged to him. “It’s a bad sprain, but I don’t think it’s broken. Rest and elevation for seven days.”

  Joey stood up. “I’ll come back tomorrow and see how you are.”

  Losine’s eyes twinkled in the subdued light. “I think you’ll be very

  comfortable here,” he said to me as if the matter of my lodgings were settled. He looked silvery, almost supernatural. I blinked to dispel the image. “Consider it a favor to a solitary man who longs for company.”

  “Tomorrow is the day I enroll at university. I’m afraid I’ll be too busy to keep you company.”

  Propriety belongs to those who can choose what they do; others have to make do with what is available. Papà would have been enraged if he had known that I stayed with Losine. I decided that if he asked, I would tell him that I had gone to a small pensione where they served meals. I’ve scarcely left home and already I’ve become a liar, I thought. It’s true that I’ve changed, but for the worse, my character repeatedly compromised. Is that what leaving home really means?

  19

  Sunlight poured through the tall windows onto the carved armadio and the vanity table. My dress lay on the small wooden chair where I had left it the night before, next to a vanity set with an array of crystal vials. On the wall there was mirror in an ornate silver frame. Did mamma use that mirror? I sat on the edge of the bed and examined my ankle. During the night, the swelling had increased. Using the furniture to balance myself, I hopped to the windows. Outside on the terrace a table had been set for three. Beyond it in a garden surrounded by high, stacked walls a man in a straw hat weeded a bed of herbs. Nearby, a winding path lined with white flowers led to a sheltered bench that faced a black obelisk. Did mamma sit on that bench? I reminded myself that the sky above was the same sky as the one outside my window in Orvieto, though the dark, damp weather in Milano that day suggested otherwise.

  The door of the armadio creaked when I opened it. Inside, women’s clothing—mostly dresses—hung in a neat row. What sort of man keeps dresses? Had mamma ever seen them? Did Losine’s guests often lose their luggage and need something to wear? I hobbled to the chair and put my tattered and stained dress in the wastebasket. Then, I sat down and looked at myself in the mirror. The bruise on the side of my face was quite large. It hurt to brush my hair. I hopped toward the bathroom, balancing with my hand on the wall. Next to the bathroom door were two small oil paintings of the garden outside seen through the windows in my room. Both evoked a similar tension: though the windows appeared open, the viewer felt imprisoned inside the room. The knock on the door startled me.

  “Are you awake?” Losine asked. “It’s almost eleven.” It annoyed papà when I slept late.

  “I’m just getting dressed,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry. I overslept.”

  “You’re welcome to use the clothes in the armoire.” It sounded like a wish.

  “My foot doesn’t fit in my shoe.”

  “I’ve sent Signor Dunne for a wheelchair.” Signor Dunne? When did he come back?

  When Joey pushed me outside onto the terrace, Losine put his newspaper on the table next to his plate and looked at me. “You slept well?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not usually so lazy.”

  “It’s good to rest.” Did he and mamma sleep late?

  “I’ll be going to university today. My ankle is much better.” Losine and Joey glanced at each another.

  “Your registration is complete,” Losine said pleasantly, “and it seems everything is in order.” How is it that he can arrange so many things? He seems to anticipate everything and control what happens. I touched the corno. Did he have some power over mamma, too? I decided to leave right away. I would need Joey’s help.

  “Would you like to have some breakfast now?” Losine set out bowls of immense, ripe strawberries, the largest I had ever seen, and a pitcher of thick cream. I was seized by an uncanny memory. Did he and mamma eat strawberries for breakfast on this terrace, too? I spooned some of the berries into my bowl and drowned them in cream. Losine filled our cups with coffee from a silver pot and poured tea for himself from a silver teapot.

  “We never had strawberries like these in Orvieto,” I said.

  “Or in America either,” Joey said.

  “You may find Milanese customs are quite different from those in Orvieto,” Losine said casually as if he were remarking on the weather. He sipped his tea. I felt uneasy. “Milano is an international city and quite different from other places in Italy.”

  “Places like Orvieto?”

  “Or America?” Joey said.

  Losine nodded. “You shouldn’t feel there’s something wrong if people here act in ways that seem unfamiliar or strange to you.” The dresses? The money he gave Capitano Fiorelli? The way he arranges everything? He offered me a plate of toast, sipped his tea, and then took up his newspaper. We ate quietly. After a time Losine spoke from behind his newspaper. “I wonder if I might ask you a favor since you are going to be resting your ankle for a few days.” I waited. He put the paper down. “I have a daughter. She’s about your size, I believe. She lives in another city. I would like to send her some clothes for…,” he hesitated, “her birthday. Perhaps you would try on some things and help me choose what to give her. You must know what young women like these days.”

  I thought his request peculiar. “Don’t the clothes in the armadio belong to her?” He didn’t answer. I felt uneasy. “I’m sorry. I would like to help you, but I really must leave right after breakfast.”

  “Naturally,” he said, “that’s entirely up to you.” I touched the corno. My life had certainly changed. I still had to give Losine the letter and explain that papà had burned the others. What could be more disloyal than talking to mamma’s amante about papà? Perhaps papà had been right when he said that I was the worst of all of his children. As soon as I leave, I’ll try to become a better daughter so papà will want me to come home again.

  20

  That same afternoon Joey Dunne pushed me in the wheelchair as we followed Losine from shop to shop. At each store, I tried on the clothes Losine selected, balancing on one foot while he examined seams, evaluated designs. He adjusted each garment, commenting on its cut and on the quality of the workmanship. Often, he wanted to see the same garment in several colors before making a decision. He gave detailed directions for the alterations and tailoring, some of which I thought his daughter wouldn’t notice, su
ch as an eighth-inch adjustment at the back of an underarm seam of a jacket. I didn’t see why these things mattered to him, but they did. Eccentric maybe, but not dangerous.

  “He likes to shop as much as my mom does,” Joey whispered to me while Losine showed a seamstress the kind of stitch he wanted her to use to put in a hem by hand.

  “Shopping must be an important Milanese custom,” I said to Joey.

  “Yes, they dress like every day is Sunday.”

  “Deliver these to my address by six o’clock,” Losine told each clerk. Extra charges for rush orders didn’t matter to him. Lire denominated in large numbers flowed from his wallet like scarves from a magician’s hat. Among the clothes were a dress of blue-green satin that hung like a waterfall; an emerald green suit; several hats, one with feathers; and a dozen pairs of shoes. Though the salespeople could fit only one shoe on my foot, Losine didn’t seem to care. “All of them,” he said again and again before I could tell him which ones his daughter would like best. At one shop, he purchased more lingerie for his daughter’s birthday than Maria’s mother, grandmother, and aunts together had embroidered for Maria’s entire trousseau.

  “If he asks me to try on those gifts, I won’t do it, no matter what the Milanese customs are,” I whispered to Joey.

  “His daughter must not have any clothes at all,” Joey said.

  “Maybe she’s lost everything she had.” I was just about to ask Joey to help me leave when Losine announced that we were finished shopping. By then, so many shopping bags hung from my wheelchair that I was embarrassed to meet the gazes of people on the street. When we reached Losine’s apartment, Joey helped me inside and then said that he had to leave. I didn’t have a chance to ask him if he would help me escape. Losine collected his packages from the concierge and examined their contents to make sure his instructions had been followed.