“We got married today…and now we’re very happy.” Grazia patted her stomach.
“Sei incinta?” Are you pregnant?
“Yes. I…we, I mean…came to tell papà.”
“He works, this young man?”
“Un pianista.” A pianist. “But first he’s going to be a soldier.”
Grazia’s looked surprised. “Where will you live, then?”
“With my other father in Milano.”
Grazia crossed herself again and then went to the old clock where she kept her cards. She cocked her head toward Joey. “He’s the baby’s father, your husband?”
“No.”
“He loves you so much?” I nodded. Grazia put her cards away. “Then, the beginning is molto fortunato.”
Papà entered the kitchen. “At last my daughter has come home to me. I heard her voice in my dreams like music.” I got up and kissed him. He looked at Joey. “Where’s Bruno? He said he would meet you.”
“Papà, this is Joey Dunne. We’ve come to ask you for—”
He held up his hand. “Before you say anything, I want you and Bruno to plan whatever kind of wedding you want. What is in my pocket is yours.”
“—your blessing, papà.”
“You have it already. Grazia!” he called, his voice hoarse with sorrow and joy. “Open the new wine. Fina has returned. Prepare a feast.”
“Wait until after you hear what we’ve come to tell you. Papà, I fell in love.”
“Is that so unusual when one is about to be married? When I married Willa….”
“No, Joey and I have come to ask for your blessing.”
“Blessing?” Papà waved his arm as if to banish the sight of Joey. “My blessing for you to forsake your father and be married to this…this Joey Dunne? Dunne sounds like an American name!”
“Yes.”
“You come home only to destroy me again!”
“Papà, I’m going to have a baby.”
Papà advanced toward Joey. “You dishonored my daughter? My family? Now you dare to enter my house to ask for my blessing?”
Joey turned to me. “What did he say?”
“Is this false husband of yours such a coward that he doesn’t come himself to ask for your hand first?” Papà looked at me. “Maybe you’re not really married. He may have tricked you. Americans will do that if you aren’t careful.”
“Show papà our marriage certificate.” Joey pulled the certificate out of his pocket.
Papà grabbed it from him, held it in his hands, raised it to the light, read it and re-read it, traced his finger over our names.
“See? Joey is my real husband.”
Papà rested his hand on the rough table and gasped.
“Come, sit down.” I put my hand on his shoulder.
Papà’s body sagged. “I thought you would be different,” he said. “Willa didn’t stay with me, either…didn’t love me the way a wife should love a husband. She wanted…I don’t know…excitement, maybe. Someone new. Always searching for something else, something just out of her reach. Restless. So restless. Probably, she came with me in the beginning because I was different from her people. Then, after Orvieto became her home, she wanted another place, another life.” He looked at me, shook his head. He braced his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. “He tried to take her away from me. I refused. I kept her here… with me…after her heart had already left. It didn’t matter what I did. She was like a wild bird beating its wings on the sides of its cage until they broke.” Papà covered his face with his hands. “Now, this Joey takes you from me, too. It’s punishment for my sins.”
“Papà, Joey isn’t Michel Losine.”
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“That criminal tried to steal Willa from me, but I saved her. I have always protected you from knowledge of this. Even now, Bruno knows nothing of this. Nothing.” He raised his finger to his lips. “No one knows. Our family’s honor is secure.”
“Papà, Bruno abandoned me, and Michel Losine and Joey Dunne took care of me.”
“Did you tell Michel Losine that Willa lived long after he ruined her life? Destroyed us?”
“No, it was you who took our lives away from all of us.” Papà looked up at me.
“So you know everything.” Then, he surrendered. “I was too proud, Fina. I twisted our lives over it. I knew what I was doing. I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted my vengeance.” He looked at me. “At the end, I saw that I should have forgiven her, should have mended my own heart, should have let her go and you with her. Instead, I made her stay with me, but never truly let her come back to me, never shared my heart with her again. The truth is, I was too proud to let anyone be happy.” His eyes glistened with old tears. “I’ve loved you, Fina, as my own child, but God help me, I was so bitter. It’s too late.”
“It’s not too late for us to be reconciled, papà.” I held his hands and kissed his callused knuckles. “Don’t keep your blessing from us because of what we can’t change.”
He opened his fists and looked at my hands pale against his tanned ones. He shrugged. “If the marriage is already made, what does my blessing matter?”
“It matters for happiness.”
He pulled his hand away and glared at me. “So you can be happy, you mean. So you don’t feel ashamed for dishonoring me!”
“No. So that we can be happy, you and I. So that we can be consoled for what we’ve lost and what we must accept. Bless us, papà, so that we can love one another again.”
“You ask me to bless what I cannot bear.”
“Yes.”
In the silence, we heard the sound of the rain, the whistle of a train, and in the far distance the rolling of thunder. In the kitchen the clock ticked out the seconds, one by one.
IV. MILANO
1
THE PRESENT
Mamma, papà, Grazia, Silvana, Raffaele, Losine, Joey are gone now. All of them. Leaves scattered by the winds. The things in this box are for you. Remnants of our history, shards of our inconsequence, relics of what might once have been true. Here are the earrings Losine made for mamma and these others for my nozze. And the brooch still bent from papà’s fury. There’s my corno. I gave it to Joey when he went to war. Mamma’s rosary. Papà’s war medal. Nonna’s pearl necklace and earrings. Losine’s cuff links with Greta’s initials. Here’s my postcard of Botticelli’s “Primavera.” This wrinkled paper is the drawing mamma made of papà the day they met on the train. And here’s the picture from our visit to America. These are mamma’s paintings of the garden outside. In this envelope you’ll find the documents for the fresco on the wall above the mantel. Keep them in a safe place. There’s a copy of the fresco in the museum in Orvieto that belonged to papà, but ours is the real one. Take good care of it because it’s very valuable. This envelope contains Joey’s discharge papers and that one our guardianship papers for Silvana’s children. Losine’s photographs are in the basement; I think the cameras are down there, too. You’ll find the deed to this building in the safe with my will so you can transfer the title.
You already know that Vino Marcheschi & Orsini closed after papà died. That’s when we sold the palazzo on the Via Cavallotti to the American couple who turned it into a bed and breakfast. Silvana and Raffaele sold their shares of our land to Bruno. I kept mine for you. The deed is in the safe with the other documents. Bruno will probably leave everything to his other children. I’m sorry he has never acknowledged you. He still may. I hope so. He made a mistake, but I believe he’s a good person.
I think this is everything you’ll need to know. Of course, my memory isn’t what it used to be. I warned you at the beginning that what I’ve told you isn’t the truth. No matter. You wouldn’t remember it, anyway. No one does.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel would not have been written without the love and support of my husband, Bill Broesamle. Jim Krusoe held the light as the book took shape and offered invaluable suggestion
s. Special thanks to Chuck Rosenberg, Jim Jones, Sharon Cumberland, Charlotte Herscher, Cecilia Strettoi, Alice Acheson, Alisa M. Walker, Deirdre Gainor, Bronwen Sennish, Brenda Anderson, Reynold Dakin, and Jonathan Silverman, for their assistance, and, not least, to Jerry Gold, my fearless publisher.
Rebecca J. Novelli’s varied career has included freelance writing and posts as communications director, events manager, publicist, publications manager, textbook writer, magazine editor, advance person, high school English teacher, and language teacher for recent refugees. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys painting and is currently at work on a series of paintings about women, among other subjects. In 2016, her painting, “In the Gallery,” won first place in the Gage Academy’s 24th Annual Best of Gage competition in Seattle. She holds a BA in English from Pomona College, an MA in Education from Claremont Graduate University, and an MFA in Fiction from Antioch University, Los Angeles. A native Californian, she and her family currently live in Seattle.
The Train to Orvieto Page 40