Linda Cardillo - Dancing On Sunday Afternoons (3 page)

After dinner a group of young women from the vil age had arrived at the door to take me for the evening passeggiata—a walk around the vil age. Letitia had shooed me away with them. Severia, the young woman who'd been my tour guide, was the schoolteacher in the vil age. I was stunned when she told me she was only twenty. Like Emma, and nearly every other woman in the vil age, she was dressed in a severe black dress that extended below her knees. She wore her hair in the style of my mother's generation.

The vil age was a grid of two or three streets clinging to the side of the mountain. Only the main road from Avel ino that continued farther up the mountain was paved. Few of the stone buildings had electricity, and al of them showed the ravages of centuries of wind and earthquake. Dust swirled at our feet as we crossed the meager piazza, shared with a goatherd leading his scraggly flock back to a lean-to for the evening. Severia had pointed out with pride the smal schoolroom where she taught from first through sixth grade. If parents wanted more schooling for their children, they had to send them down the mountain to Avel ino.

I had recognized that what I was seeing and the lives that were enclosed here were little different from what Giulia had experienced as a girl. In that instant, I had understood that it might have been my life as wel .

"Thank God," I had whispered to myself. "Thank God that my grandmother got out."

The next morning I left, as I had come, on a dusty bus that had stopped when Emma flagged it down. She'd packed me a cloth-wrapped sandwich of bread and pungent cheese, with some tomatoes and figs from the garden behind Letitia's stone house. She had clucked and worried about the long trip ahead of me to Milan and my flight home and had given me stern instructions to speak to no one on the way to Naples.

"Girls alone disappear," she had said.

As the bus pul ed away, I had looked out the window. Letitia stood waving from her balcony. She had changed from her morning housecoat to a green silk dress. In her hand was a lace- trimmed handkerchief that she dabbed at her eyes.

I stood now in the rotunda of the Naples Stazione Centrale, about to make the same journey. This time, instead of depending on SITA buses to get me up to the mountains, I had reserved a car. But before picking it up, I detoured to the flower shop, hoping to find something that would survive until I reached Avel ino. The saleswoman recommended a potted hydrangea and wrapped it extravagantly in layers of purple cel ophane and a massive bow, wishing my grandmother buona sante as she handed me the gift with a nod of approval.

Armed with a map and directions outlined for me by the clerk at Avis, I located my Fiat in the parking lot, took a deep breath and plunged into the late Sunday afternoon traffic, keeping an eye out for the Autostrada symbol and signs for the A16, the east-west highway that connected Naples with Bari on the Adriatic. About a quarter of the way across the ankle of Italy's boot, I knew I'd leave the highway and head south into the mountains and Avel ino.

I was tired and hungry. My jetlag was catching up with me. A part of me longed to stop at the Agip motel on the broad avenue leading toward the entrance ramp of the Autostrada. Its familiar sign, a black, six-legged, fire-breathing mythical creature on a yel ow background, beckoned like a McDonald's Golden Arch, promising a cheap, clean room. But Giulia was expecting me at the hospital Sunday evening, and even though there'd be little I could do for her at that time—no surgeon to confer with, only a night nurse on duty—I pushed myself past the fatigue to be at my grandmother's side.

The highway had not existed seventeen years ago, and I was astounded that I was able to cover the hundred kilometers to Avel ino in under an hour, compared to the nearly three hours it had taken the bus on my last trip. When I exited the highway, a sign welcomed me in four different languages.

When I drove onto the grounds of the hospital of San Giuseppe Moscati, the doctor saint of Naples, it was nearly sunset.

I grabbed the hydrangea and my tote bag from the back seat and headed into the hospital, moving from the bril iance and shimmer of light and heat that had surrounded me al day into shadowed dimness. Everything in the lobby was in shades of brown, like the sepia tones Renaissance artists used to create the sinopia, the preliminary sketch under a fresco. The highly polished linoleum, the wooden paneling that climbed three-quarters of the way up the whitewashed walls, the tattered seats in the waiting room, even the habit of the Franciscan nun sitting at the reception desk, created an aura of subdued and quiet sanctuary.

She looked up as I approached. When I asked for my grandmother, she jumped up.

"Oh, we've been expecting you! The signora was tel ing everyone that you were coming. Let me cal Reverend Mother. She can explain your grandmother's condition before you go up to see her."

Within minutes, Reverend Mother, an energetic and ageless woman and the director of the hospital, swooped into the lobby and kissed me on both cheeks.

"Can I get you some tea, my dear, while we talk about your grandmother? Come, let's go to my office."

I sank into the chair she offered and grateful y accepted the hot cup of tea that she produced within a minute.

On her desk was a file on which I could read my grandmother's name. I was beginning to feel—with some relief, given my fatigue—that Giulia had things under control here, if she had the hospital so well prepared for my arrival.

"Your grandmother is quite a formidable woman, as I'm sure you know. She was very busy the last two days keeping us al informed of your coming. I believe she feels a need to protect and watch out for you. But I must tel you, my dear, she needs you to watch over her, although she'd be the last to admit it. She's in a weakened state because of the night she spent alone after her fal —we've been replenishing her fluids with an IV, but at her age, even twelve hours of dehydration can be damaging. She was disoriented when she got here. She has recovered her faculties enough to issue edicts and lists, I understand, but I have to caution you that your grandmother has a long road ahead to recover from this fal . In many cases, with patients of this age, we would not even be considering a hip replacement."

I absorbed Reverend Mother's report in silence, gradual y comprehending the gravity of my grandmother's condition.

"I hadn't realized how serious this fal was," I murmured. "I naively believed I was asked to be here as a companion to her."

"I'm not trying to overwhelm you and burden you so soon after your arrival, but I felt it was important for you to understand the severity of her injury and to warn you before you see her. She's quite bruised and also very angry with herself for fal ing. We've also had to increase her morphine dosage because of the pain, so she may begin to drift.

"The surgeon wil be in tomorrow morning at eight o'clock and can give you the details about her operation.

More than likely he will operate on Tuesday morning."

I nodded, understanding that I would need to be an advocate for my grandmother.

"May I ask you if you've booked a place to stay? If not, I'd like to encourage you to stay here with your grandmother. We can have a cot set up in her room. In my opinion, it would be a blessing for her to have you so close."

I set down my teacup because my hand was shaking. With four children, I'd seen my share of emergency rooms, and my youngest had been hospitalized for four days with pneumonia, so I was no stranger to the emotional fragility caused by il ness and the need for a family member to be close at hand. But despite my confidence in Giulia's ability to control even this situation, Reverend Mother had quickly and authoritatively set me straight.

I leaned my elbows on her desk and put my head in my hands. I felt the adrenaline of the last two days seeping out of me and tears of exhaustion and doubt well up. Reverend Mother came around her desk with a handkerchief and put an arm around me.

"Everything Signora D'Orazio has said about you convinces me that your family has sent the right person.

Why don't I show you where you can wash your face and then let's go see your grandmother."

Once again, she whisked me down the hal , this time to the ladies' room. When I was ready, we took the elevator up to the orthopedic floor. As we passed open doors, I saw and heard clusters of people gathered around patients' beds, family members taking advantage of the Sunday-evening visiting hours, and was relieved that now Giulia would have someone at her bedside, too, even if what I could offer was simply a voice and a face from home.

Reverend Mother knocked at a partial y opened door.

"Signora D'Orazio, she's here! Your granddaughter is here!"

I willed a smile to my face and walked into the room.

"Nana," I said. "It's me, Cara."

She turned toward the door and reached out her hand. I was glad Reverend Mother had prepared me, but even so, her bruised and swol en face and the black-and-blue marks on her arm appal ed me. She looked as if someone had beaten her, and then I remembered the stone steps in Letitia's house.

I went to her, put the hydrangea on the floor and threw my arms around her, careful of the IV and reluctant to hold her too tightly for fear of hurting her sore body.

"How good you are to be here!" she whispered.

I sat on the side of her bed and she stroked my hair, by now flying out of its ponytail. She rubbed my bare arms, as if assuring herself that I was truly there.

Reverend Mother left us, letting me know that she was going to order the cot.

Shortly afterward, Giulia's supper tray arrived. When the nun bringing the food saw that I was there, she said she'd cal down to the kitchen and have them send something for me. In the meantime, I busied myself with cutting meat and buttering bread for Giulia. She waved me away when I lifted a spoonful of soup to her mouth.

"I didn't break my arm, for God's sake. Just help me sit up a little higher so I don't dribble al over myself."

This was the Giulia I knew, and it was a relief to have her scold me.

By the time we'd both eaten, an aide had delivered a cot, sheets and pil ows and made up a bed by Giulia's side. I went down to my car and retrieved my suitcase and then stole a few minutes to peel off the clothes I'd been wearing for two days and take a shower in a bathroom down the hal from Giulia's loom that the aide had pointed out to me.

When I rejoined Giulia, she'd had her evening medication, and some of the strain I'd seen in her face was eased. She beamed at me. I was now scrubbed, my hair neatly braided, and wearing fresh clothes.

"Sweetheart, did you bring the things I asked for?"

I patted the tote bag. "It's al in here, Nana. Do you want anything now?"

She wavered, but then threw up her hands as if surrendering to an irresistible need.

"The box. The cigar box. You found it, where I said to look?"

I nodded and dug it out of the bag. "Here it is, Nana."

She took the box and stroked the outside of it, tracing the colorful image of Francisco Fonseca. Then she held the box to her breast, cradling it with her eyes shut. At last, she lifted the cover and stared at the stacks of letters before slipping one out from its ribbon binding. She closed the box and brought the single letter to her lips before unfolding it.

For a few moments I watched as she scanned the lines. I thought she was reading, but then she turned to me in restless exasperation.

"My eyes are no good at night. I can't see the words. Sweetheart, you've done so much, just to come, but do this for me. Read to me. Read me the letter."

She handed me the blue sheet of paper.

I took it hesitantly.

"Are you sure you want me to read this, Nana?"

She looked at me and the letter in my hand, agitation rising in her as she struggled between the absolute sanctity of the message in the letter and the urgency she felt to hear it again.

"I need to hear it tonight, Cara. Go ahead. I trust you." And so I began to read the words on the page—an elegant, flowing Italian script. At first, my brain attempted to translate silently for myself as I read the Italian out loud, but after a few minutes, I stopped trying to decipher the meaning and simply pronounced the words. I felt as if I were singing a song whose soul and emotion were in the music, not the lyrics.

Dearest Giulia,

Don't forget what I asked you last night—to find five or ten minutes before noon. I have the most important things to communicate to you. If you only knew how much I suffered this morning, to go to work without even seeing you or tel ing you that I love you.

I am crazy with love. I have never loved with so much devotion. You are the star that shines brightly, a sparkling beam, and you adorn my poor heart with infinite madness. Now that I am writing to you, I believe I have you near me. It seems as if we are talking. How I long to embrace you!

I cover your face with my tears, and dry them with my kisses. Most faithful y, Paolo When I finished, I glanced up. Giulia's eyes were closed and the agitation that had disturbed her earlier was gone. I gently removed the cigar box from her lap and put it on her bedside table. As I reached to turn out the light; she stirred and touched my wrist. "Grazie, figlia mia."

I slipped into the cot, the words of my grandfather Paolo echoing in my head.

CHAPTER 3

The Beginning

The next morning I accustomed myself to the weekday pace of San Giuseppe Moscati. Breakfast trays, medication, bath, changes of bed linen. I could see the distress in my grandmother's face, the tension in her body, as the procession of nurses' aides and nuns moved in and out of her room. She scolded a cleaning woman who attempted to move the cigar box of letters that I had placed on the bedside table.

"I'll put it in a safe place, Nana," I reassured her as the bustle around her continued. "We can read more later, when it's not so busy."

The surgeon showed up around ten. He was in his late thirties, a trim, athletic-looking man, wearing a stylish blue shirt under his white coat. His eyes, also blue, conveyed intel igence and compassion. After he'd checked on my grandmother, I conferred with him in the hal , along with Reverend Mother and the sister in charge of the orthopedic ward.