“Signora Marcheschi.”
“Signorina.” The nurse glanced up at me and then crossed something out on the chart and wrote something else.
“Signorina, sì. Usually, women who want pregnancy tests are married.” The room smelled of iodine. She drew my blood. “Come back in two days.” She paused and looked at me. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but you should ignore what the Pope says and protect yourself.”
“Like those femministe in Roma?”
“Like women who have any sense.”
23
It was after three o’clock when I left the health service. I hurried to Cattolicà to find Marco and Francesca. Hundreds of students milled in the streets. Sirens shrilled constantly. Poliziotti had blocked traffic around Cattolicà and the entrance to the campus, but I found a way in through an unattended side door and emerged in one of the central courtyards where poliziotti were forming a human ring around the dimostranti, moving toward them, confining them in a narrowing circle like fish in a net. The students continued marching with signs and songs and shouts, but the territory they occupied became increasingly constricted until the poliziotti succeeded in confining them to one corner of the courtyard. The dimonstranti shouted and made obscene gestures, but they couldn’t escape. I searched for Marco and Francesca in the crowd. Someone threw a rock at the poliziotti. I saw Andreas. “Where are Marco and Francesca? They’re going to be arrested.”
“They went to Torino this morning before the police came,” Andreas shouted. “Where have you been? We needed you.” Near us, another rock struck a poliziotto. And then another. An explosion nearby left us surrounded in a kind of fog. Instantly, my throat burned and my eyes filled with scalding tears. The more I coughed and tried to breathe and to see, the more difficult it became. People shouted and cried out. They pushed against me, trying to escape, but they were caught fast in the net of poliziotti.
At that moment, someone—I couldn’t see who—took my arm and pressed a handkerchief into my hand. “Cover your face, signorina.
This way.” He guided me along. “I’m taking her through,” I heard him say to someone. I wiped my eyes, coughed. Gradually, it became easier to breathe. We kept walking. We crossed the street and stopped where a police car waited. “Get in, signorina. It’s time to go home.” I wiped my eyes and looked up. It was Capitano Fiorelli.
That evening Joey came to Losine’s apartment as usual. “How about we go out and find some espresso?” He noticed my silence. “If you want to, I mean.” He smiled. “Somethin’ wrong? You look like you ate a tennis ball.”
“No. I’m fine. Nothing.”
“Right. My mistake.”
Outside, I buttoned my coat against the cold evening. My eyes still burned adn my throat felt raw. At a crowded pasticceria, we ordered an espresso and a dolce. I hoped it would be like one of Grazia’s. It wasn’t.
“My mom’s friend on my draft board says they won’t accept an appeal from me,” Joey said. “‘Insufficient grounds,’ so I’m going back to the States.”
“I read about the traditori in the newspaper,” I said.
“Listen, the truth is I’d rather die in some godforsaken jungle than be a fugitive and maybe end up in prison. Some guys have the kind of courage it takes for that. I don’t.” We finished our espressos and went outside again. “I want to introduce you to some so-called traditori,” he said.
We walked for nearly half an hour before we came to a run-down bar in a seedy neighborhood. The sign out front said The American. Inside, the bar was full of young men. “Most of the guys here are expats,” Joey said. He motioned toward a group standing around a pool table. “The one in the blue shirt…that’s Rex. Used to be a competitive runner. He stepped on a land mine his first day in-country.” I looked down. Rex had only one foot; where the other foot had been, there was a stump wrapped in a pod made of leather and canvas. “Most of these guys have already served and been discharged. When they got home, nobody wanted them around to remind them of our national disgrace. So they left. They come to The American when they get to thinking about the lives they won’t be able to live.”
They seemed beyond consolation.
24
Naked, I stood sideways in front of the mirror, pressed on my belly, felt its firmness. Was there a bulge? Maybe a small one. Losine liked to cook. My stomach is bound to stick out because I’ve been eating so much. Since I had fainted three days earlier, I had been very hungry. I tried on a skirt. Too tight. I put on a loose dress and looked in the mirror again, pressed the fabric against my body, squinted at my reflection. No, I look the same. The test will be negative. Nothing to worry about. I got dressed.
When I returned to the Health Service late that afternoon, a different nurse was preparing to close for the day. She locked the door after me and pulled the shades. The patients in the waiting room—a mother with a child on her lap, an old man, and an elderly woman wearing a black dress—took little notice of me. My turn came last. As I went into the examination room, the nurse gave me a knowing look. “It’s positive.”
“There must be a mistake. I go to Cattolicà.”
The nurse laughed. “University students often become pregnant, especially if they aren’t careful.”
“But it was the first time.”
She laughed again. “God doesn’t care about which time it is. He sees an opportunity for new life and blesses it.” Suppressing my panic, I waited while she filled out papers and gave me instructions. “It’s much better to have your babies while you’re young,” she said. “That’s what I did.” She glanced at my left hand. I was still wearing Bruno’s ring. “Go home and tell your husband. I’m sure he’ll be very happy. You do have a husband, don’t you? It says here in your history that you aren’t married. I’ll correct that.”
“Thank you.” Why do I always say “thank you” when someone gives me something I don’t want? She let me out the back door that opened into a dusky corridor. I walked toward the corona of daylight at the end and into an atrium garden where the lush tropical plants seemed larger than normal, possibly carnivorous, ready to enclose me in their nauseating embrace and prevent my escape.
I found Joey at The America.
“Hey, what’s up?” he said when he saw me. I willed myself not to cry. “What’s wrong?” He smiled. “Someone steal your luggage again?”
“No, Joey. I’m pregnant.”
“No kidding?” He took my hand. “Maybe you should sit down.” “I’m going to have a baby.”
“I love babies. My sister has four. Two of each.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“So it’s that guy Bruno’s baby, right?” I nodded. “You two gonna get married?” I shrugged. “You’re gonna tell him, right?” I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure. The bartender came over and wiped our table with a towel. “Don’t you think he’d want to know?” Joey said.
“Know what?” The bartender shook the towel.
“If you were going to be a father, you’d want to know, right?” Joey said.
The bartender laughed. “I sure would, ‘cause I’m sterile.” He looked at me. “Somebody pregnant?”
“Nah,” Joey said.
The bartender nodded toward the bar. “Lotta other guys here. Want me to take a vote on who wants to know?”
“It’s just a hypothetical question,” Joey said, “but I think every guy would want to know if he was going to have a family.”
“We’re the human family here,” the bartender said.
“Even a guy who doesn’t want to be a father,” Joey said.
“Most of these people here in this bar don’t know what they want,” the bartender said. “Anyway, want doesn’t necessarily matter. Take Rex. No matter how much he wants to walk on two feet, he ain’t never gonna have another foot. He’s gotta accept it. Like I said, I’m sterile. No matter how much I want to, I ain’t never gonna be nobody’s real father. Gotta accept it.” He wiped our table once more. “Anyway, people us
ually want the opposite of what they tell you.”
What if Bruno didn’t want to get married even though he said he did?
“Not me. I just want one thing: love,” Joey said.
The bartender laughed. “What’s that mean? Shit, you tell a girl you love her so she’ll sleep with you. You mean it—or think you do—but the next day you don’t feel it anymore.”
Was that what happened to Bruno?
“You’re a pessimist,” Joey said.
“That won’t happen to me,” I said. I felt for the corno. It wasn’t there. I looked in my purse.
“How come?” Joey said.
“I know what I want.” The corno wasn’t there. Where did I put it? “
Give it a while and you won’t want it any more,” the bartender said.
“Just because you want something and then it happens, you can still want it,” I said. I’m going to write to Bruno tonight and tell him. As soon as he gets my letter, he’ll come for me. We’ll get married. It’s just a small misunderstanding. “Life can turn out happily, too.”
Joey smiled and raised his glass. “To happiness…and getting what we want.”
25
“I’m sure Bruno will be a good father,” I told Joey. The sun dropped below the horizon, leaving the clouds rimmed in gold. “It’s been almost two weeks since I wrote to him. As soon as he writes back, I’ll know when I’m going home.”
“That’s great,” Joey said. He put his arm around me.
It was easy to lean into the curve of Joey’s arm. It was easy with Bruno, too. Too easy. I have to be careful. “Bruno and I will get married at the Duomo and live with papà. Grazia will help us with the baby.”
“Good idea,” Joey said. “My sister doesn’t have anyone to help her and she never has time to sleep even.”
Did I tell Bruno that Grazia would help us? “I’d better write to Bruno about Grazia,” I said. “He probably has a lot on his mind.”
“Pregnant ladies need someone to take care of them, too,” Joey said. I turned away.
“I can take care of myself.” I thought of the femministe, the women no one respected. “Women today have to take care of themselves.”
“Right. I didn’t mean that you needed any help. Nope. Not at all.”
“I want to finish the semester before I go home,” I said, “but they won’t let me if they know I’m pregnant. Do you think I can manage two more months without being discovered?”
Joey put his arm around me again. “You can do whatever you want. Would you like some dinner?”
“Yes.”
It was almost midnight when Joey brought me home. Losine was waiting for me. “Come, sit down. I was just making some tea. You got a letter today.” He handed me a pale grey envelope. The return address was printed in dark red ink: Vino Marcheschi & Orsini, Piazza del Duomo, Orvieto, Italia. I looked for Bruno’s name on the front of the envelope and then on the back.
“It must be from papà. Bruno must have told him about our baby.” I sat down at the table. “Papà is like a volcano. He explodes and then he grows quiet and still, as if he had never been angry in the first place.” I tore open the envelope and slid the letter out. It had been typed on Vino Marcheschi & Orsini stationery like a business letter.
Dear Fina,
I’m sorry for your sake to get your letter. Naturally, I shall say nothing to your father. This information would only add to his disappointments. I am certain, however, that I’m not the father of your baby because it was the first time for both of us—or so you told me—and everyone knows it’s impossible to become pregnant the first time. Of course, it was your choice to leave Orvieto. Still, on a matter of such importance, I don’t understand why you didn’t come to discuss this with me in person.
Bruno
Stunned, I wadded the letter up and threw it on the floor. Bruno didn’t want to know that he could be a father. Was my pregnancy his revenge for leaving him and Orvieto? “I don’t need him.”
Losine retrieved the letter, smoothed it out and read it. “Bruno is ignorant and proud, that’s all.” He put the letter on the table next to me. “You’ll have to tell Gabriele. He’ll insist that Bruno marry you immediately.” He paused. “Your other choices are much less attractive.”
“What could be less attractive than marrying someone papà has to coerce? Anyway, what kind of husband and father would Bruno be then?” Losine set out a plate of biscotti and poured tea for us. “That’s what Bruno and papà tried to do to me. I won’t be like them no matter what happens.” I took off the ring that had belonged to Bruno’s mother, held it in my palm, felt its infinitesimal weight, and dropped it on the table. Certainty. So trivial. “I’ll take care of my baby myself. Whatever happens, I won’t let Bruno take away my dreams. It would be sfortunato to make Bruno marry me.”
“Le ragazze madri usually don’t keep their babies,” Losine said, “because it ruins their lives and their babies’ lives, too. You’ll be ostracized and so will your child.” He lit a cigarette.
I dipped the biscotto in my tea and took a bite. “Silvana kept her babies, all three of them, and I would be a better mother than she is.”
“Think carefully about Silvana.” He exhaled smoke with his words. “Is a life like hers what you want for yourself and your child?” I remembered what Signora Lucarelli had said about Silvana and the ugly faces people made when her name was mentioned. Why are people so concerned about the difference between women with no husbands and widows? Is having a husband a measure of one’s goodness? Why would children, who have no role in creating their circumstances, be accountable for what their parents had done? But I knew Losine was right: bastardi and their mothers had no real place in the world.
I poured some more tea and ate another biscotto. “Silvana doesn’t complain. I won’t either.” I tried to sound certain. I picked up the ring and gave it to Losine. “I can sell Bruno’s ring and use the money for the baby.” I blew on my tea and took another sip.
Losine looked at the ring and handed it back to me. “A tourist’s trinket. The only value is sentimental.” The tea burned my tongue. I still had the money mamma left me, but even without counting it, I knew it wasn’t enough. “Don’t be too proud to do what’s in your child’s best interests,” Losine was saying. “Your other choices are to stay here with me or go to a convent until the baby is born and give the baby up for adoption.” He paused. “An abortion might still be possible, but it’s illegal and it would be quite dangerous for both of us.”
“You’ve only yourself to blame,” papà would say. I felt benumbed, alone, outside the human family. Is that how Silvana feels, too?
In my dream, I wrapped my newborn baby in a white blanket and carried it to the Duomo in my arms on the day of my marriage. At the altar, Bruno trembled with fury when he saw us. The veins in his temples swelled and pulsed. “You’ve betrayed me,” he shouted. Monsignor Enrico nodded in agreement. I looked around at the wedding guests. Signora Lucarelli stood up and said, “Just like her mother and her sister.” Then, papà came toward me, his hand on his chest. “You’ve broken my heart. You’re lost to me forever.”
I awoke certain of what I would do. “I’m going to stay with you and keep the baby,” I told Losine. He went to his desk, took the corno out of a drawer, and fastened it around my neck.
“I believe this is yours,” he said.
“I don’t need it anymore.”
26
It was snowing. As usual, Joey and I stopped at a trattoria near the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele for espressos. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,” he said. He took my hands in his. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.” I didn’t want to think about what he was saying. “But whatever happens to me, I want you to know that I care about you.” He caressed my fingers. “Going to war has made me think about what really matters. This probably seems abrupt, but I want you. Us. To be together.”
“Us?”
“I want to know t
hat you’ll be waiting for me if I make it back.”
“I’ll be here taking care of my baby.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. I want us to get married before I go.” I didn’t think I had heard Joey correctly. No man in Orvieto would ever marry a woman who was pregnant with another man’s baby. Or in Milano either, whatever the differences in their customs. “See, I’d get a family allowance in the military” Joey was saying. “It would help you support the baby, and you’d get more if anything happened to me. If I live or die, you could still take care of your baby.”
“Bruno is the baby’s father.”
“Yes, but he says he isn’t, right?” I nodded. “And you and he aren’t going to get married, right?” I nodded. “So you could marry me. I mean if you wanted to. Then, legally, I would be the baby’s father.”
Papà was right: Americans are pazzi. “What about my mother and my sister?”
“You said your mother died.”
“My mother and my sister and my brother have dishonored our family. I have a reputation, too. You and your family would be dishonored.”
“Listen, I could be dead! If you marry me, no one would be dishonored. Isn’t that true?” He was right. Honor mattered less than the appearance of honor. If I married Joey, I would either be a married woman or a widow. If I didn’t marry him, I would be una ragazza madre like Silvana.
“People will laugh at you behind your back,” I said. “They’ll say your wife made you wear the horns.”
“Where I’m going, people will try to shoot me in the back.” Joey paused. “Besides, if we get married, I’ll be the baby’s legal father and Bruno will just be some guy.” He waited. “Just like Gabriele is your legal father.”
“But I haven’t thought about whether I love you.”
The Train to Orvieto Page 38