The American Lady (24 page)

“But how can that be? The Heimer workshop was always famous for its wares, wasn’t it? Marie told me that you’re one of the best in the whole village.” Wanda saw Thomas Heimer’s eyes light up briefly. Maybe she had improved his day a little with her visit after all.

A moment later, though, Heimer’s eyes clouded over with sadness again. “What’s the use now that nobody wants glass anymore? There are porcelain works springing up everywhere like mushrooms after rain—and they make vases and bowls and knickknacks so cheaply there’s no way we can compete.”

Other glassblowers seem to be able to
, Wanda found herself thinking. She said aloud, “That’s mass-production, though—handmade goods are always worth more, aren’t they?”

Heimer shrugged. “You tell that to the buyers from the big department stores in Hamburg or Berlin. Customers there just want things cheap—they don’t care what it looks like or if it’s well-made.”

“But you coul
d . . .
educate the customers’ tastes.” Wanda remembered when she had worked at Dittmer’s. None of the customers there had ever complained about the high prices, but they certainly kicked up a fuss if they thought that the quality wasn’t up to snuff!

“High-quality glass will always find a buyer. Maybe not in the department stores but in a gallery instead.” Wanda wondered whether she should mention the exhibition of Venetian glass in New York. When she had visited again on the last day of the show, there had been a “sold” sticker on almost every piece.

Heimer shook his head. “I used to think so too. But you can’t hold back time. Perhap
s . . .
if it had all happened differentl
y . . .
Three of us together might have been able to tackle the new fashion
s . . .
” He weighed every word as he spoke, as though he had thought it all over a thousand times but never dared speak it aloud until now.

“Oh, so now everything’s my fault, is it? Even though I’ve spent my whole life cooking and cleaning for you men?” Eva said. “Don’t you think that I wanted something else out of life too?” She slapped the damp dishcloth down into the sink and then ran out of the room without looking back.

Wanda found she had been holding her breath. Now she let it out again. Were the two of them always like this?

Thomas Heimer stared into the hallway.

“We Heimers just don’t have any luck keeping our women happy,” he said. “We don’t have any luck. Not with anything.”

Wanda was sorry for him, but she was horribly embarrassed as well. She stood up and pushed her chair back. “Now I really do have to go.”

“Yes,” he said.

As she went down the stairs, Eva blocked her way. “You don’t want to leave without seeing your uncle and your grandfather, do you now!” She grabbed Wanda’s hand and opened the door to a dim room with a bed standing in the middle.

“There’s your Uncle Michel! He’s asleep now, but he was up half the night whimpering like a child. Just like he does every night. We can hear it all through the house.”

Wanda stared at the thin bedcovers, aghast, and could make out the human form beneath them. What a terrible way to live! She felt Eva looking at her scornfully and turned away. Before she could do or say anything, Eva had opened the next door.

“And here’s your grandfather! Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite. Actually, he’s in a good mood today. Not like usual.”

“
I . . .
Wait a moment, Eva. I don’t think that
I . . .
” Wanda struggled in vain against the hand pushing her into the room. What did this woman think she was doing, shoving her about like this?

“Eva? Who are you talking to there? I need my medicine! Eva! Come here!” It was a man’s voice, but high and reedy with age.

“Visitor for you, Wilhelm!” And Eva gave Wanda one last push into the room. “You two make yourselves comfortable! I won’t intrude.”

As Eva shut the door, she laughed as though at a particularly good joke.

Wanda stared at the closed door, furious.

“Ruth?” Wilhelm Heimer was sitting up in bed, blinking incredulously. “Have yo
u . . .
come back?”

“I’m Wanda.” She went hesitantly toward the bed.

So this was the fearsome Wilhelm Heimer. A shrunken old man, barely more than skin and bones, wrinkled and hunched.

“Wanda?” His rheumy eyes blinked quickly over and over as though this would help him see her. “I don’t know anyone calle
d . . .
” The rest was lost in a fit of coughing. “Who are you? Get away from me! Why is Eva sending a strange woman in to see me? Eva! E-e-e-va!”

“You can’t have forgotten about me, surely! I’m Ruth’s daughter!” Wanda snapped at him. “And don’t worry, I’m leaving anyway!” She turned abruptly for the door. Perhaps her grandfather no longer had all his wits about him, but he had to know that much, didn’t he? Now she was really getting fed up. Her mother had warned her in no uncertain terms but nothing could have prepared her for the truth of what a ghastly family the Heimers were. A pack of ill-mannered louts. No wonder her mother had run away from them!

As she took hold of the doorknob, she heard the old man croak, “Ruth’s daughte
r . . .
Now that would b
e . . .
a surprise. You’re not lying to me, are you? Not you as well? Come over here, girl!”

Wanda pursed her lips and turned around again.
Be patient with him,
she told herself sternly,
he’s an old man on his deathbed.

“Ruth!” A secretive smile spread across Wilhelm’s face.

Wanda didn’t bother to repeat that she wasn’t Ruth. She approached reluctantly as he beckoned her toward the bed.

On closer inspection the old fellow didn’t look quite so deathly ill after all. For a moment she even thought she could see the stubborn lines of earlier days in his face; in the jutting chin and sharp cheekbones, she could see the fearsome old bully everyone had told her about. To her own amazement she even felt something like relief.

“Ruth’s daughter, now who would have thought! Your mothe
r . . .
” He sat up straight. “Shall I tell you something about your mother?”

Wanda nodded—and was immediately angry at herself.

The old man’s eyes lit up.

“Don’t go telling anyone else, mind!”

He began to chuckle like a bleating goat, then relapsed into another coughing fit.

Wanda waited for him to recover.

“Rut
h . . .
back then, she had more moxie than all three of my sons put together.” He shook his head sadly. “It was a long time ago. And nothing ever got better after that.”

Wilhelm Heimer closed his eyes.

As she took hold of the doorknob again, Wanda fought against the lump in her throat. She knew that she had just heard the old man give the greatest compliment he was capable of.

“It’s good that you came.” The whisper from the bed was faint, but loud enough to hear even as she left.

12

The meal was everything that the occasion demanded: pâté with truffles, grilled red mullet that filled half the palazzo with the scent of rosemary, squab stuffed with porcini and saffron risotto. The table in the dining room was decorated as befitted the feast. The linen tablecloths were embroidered with the family coat of arms, the best china was brought out, and the silver was polished to a high shine. A bouquet of white lilies and yellow roses stood in the middle of the table, with two more at each end of the long main window. Despite the magnificence of the blooms, however, the overall effect was sterile, an impression that was only heightened by the fact that the flowers gave off no scent. Perhaps they were silk? Marie took a petal between her fingers when no one was looking: the flowers were real. She wondered if perhaps Patrizia had forbidden the flowers to spread any scent so that nothing could compete with her own strong perfume.

Marie waited impatiently for even a glimmer of holiday spirit. How long did she have to sit in this high-ceilinged room where every word echoed back from the walls, looking at the sour expression on her mother-in-law’s face, while Franco and his father talked on and on about some winegrower and his sons? Marie tried to catch Franco’s eye, but he was so absorbed in conversation that he didn’t notice.

By the time the third course was served, Marie was full, but she began working her way through everything on the plate because it was unladylike enough to annoy Patrizia. And indeed the countess raised her eyebrows disapprovingly as she cut her own serving of pigeon breast into tiny little bites. A moment later she put her cutlery down.

“It will be eleven o’clock soon. I will go and make sure that Carla has cooled the champagne.” Patrizia dabbed delicately at an imaginary drop of wine on her lips and then moved her chair back silently and stood up.

She was hardly out of the room before Marie surreptitiously unbuttoned the waistband of her skirt. She was sorry now that she had eaten so much.

For Franco’s sake she wasn’t wearing pants while she was pregnant. “It doesn’t do the
bambino
any good to be buttoned up so tight,” he had argued. Marie was fairly sure, though, that he was more worried about Patrizia’s old-fashioned views. The countess had already declared that she was deeply shocked Marie did not wear a corset. Well, her dear mother-in-law would have to get used to the idea that Marie was not going to tie herself into a prickly wire cage, not even after she had given birth!

Marie tugged at Franco’s sleeve. “Why don’t we skip dessert and go for a walk?”

“A walk? It’ll be time to go out onto the terrace soon,” Franco said. “You’ve been looking forward to the fireworks for days, haven’t you?”

He winked at her, and Marie felt a flush of resentment. Why was he treating her like a child just because she had never seen a fireworks display? Suddenly, she wasn’t looking forward quite as much to the show.

“We can watch the fireworks from down in the harbor, can’t we? Can’t you hear how lively the crowds are out in the street?” She pointed toward the window and the distant sound of shouting and laughter. Sometimes the wind carried a snatch of music into the palazzo as well. “They seem to be really enjoying the festival out there!”

“They’re drunk!” The count made a face.

“Father’s right. Many people drink more than is good for them on a night like this. You wouldn’t enjoy being shoved and elbowed in the crowd.”

“Whether Marie would enjoy it or not is irrelevant. It is beneath the dignity of a de Lucca to go out into the streets with the mob,” the count interrupted. “Listen to them shouting and roaring!” He shook his head, disgusted.

“What’s the problem if the men have a little drink? It’s the last night of the year! At least the folks down there have a bit of life in them!” Marie retorted.
Unlike you
, she wanted to add, but instead she clamped her lips together to suppress a groan. As always when she got herself worked up, there was a painful twinge in her womb, and it scared her. It was as though a hungry wolf were growling and snapping after the child. She reached over to Franco and gripped his arm tight.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you well,
mia cara
? Perhaps you should lie down a little?” He drew back her chair without waiting for an answer and helped her to her feet, shooting an apologetic look at his father. Marie knew perfectly well what the look meant—
women and their moods
. All the same she let Franco take her up to their room.

She stopped in the hallway and put a hand to the side of her belly.
Breathe deeply now, it will be better soo
n . . .

She could hear Patrizia’s harsh voice from the dining room. Doubtless she was complaining about Marie’s behavior again.

“What was all that about? Why do you always argue with Father?” Franco looked at Marie accusingly. “On New Year’s Eve of all evenings.”

“On New Year’s Eve
especially
! The first one we’ve ever celebrated together! And we’re sitting there with your parents as though we were old and gray ourselves!” she shot back without bothering to lower her voice. Let them all hear how angry she was! “And all this ridiculous self-importance! As though the de Luccas were the lords of the earth and everybody else just scum. Things are not what they seem, though I realized that long ago! You all think I don’t see what’s going on!”

“What do you mean?” There was a dangerous gleam in Franco’s eyes now, but Marie didn’t care.

“Oh, I see how stiff and anxious the visitors are when they come here,” she told him bitterly. “They’re happy to get out of the palazzo as quick as they can. I can’t imagine you have many friends among ‘the mob.’ In fact I think your family is very unpopular! You should see how people behave when Peter or Johanna take a stroll through Lauscha! They can hardly go ten steps without stopping to shake someone’s hand or share a few words!”

Instead of being angry as Marie had expected, Franco seemed almost relieved. He laughed. “If that’s the worst of your worries! My father isn’t the man of the people your brother-in-law seems to be, that’s true. We do business on a much larger scale, you know, so we can hardly stay friends with everybody. But you must have gotten used to him and his ways by now. Surely you see he doesn’t mean any harm.”

Marie wasn’t quite so sure about that, but she held her tongue. Her temper had vanished as quickly as it had flared up.

Franco put a hand to her chin and lifted her face fondly. “What’s really wrong,
mia cara
? Aren’t you looking forward to the year to come? To our child?”

Tears came to Marie’s eyes. How could she tell him that she missed her family so much it hurt? Instead she sobbed, “Of course I’m looking forward to our child! And to 1911. But I thought that New Year’s Eve would be different somehow—more Italian, more lively, more joyful—like the festival we went to in New York, on Mulberry Street!”

“Marie, please don’t cry.” Franco held her close.

“I can’t help it,” she sniffled. “I feel so alone.” She missed Pandora and Sherlain and the other women from Monte Verità. She missed the conversations as they sunbathed. The childish pranks. Marie couldn’t remember the last time she had enjoyed a good laugh.

Franco stroked her hair. “You still have me,” he said hoarsely. When she didn’t answer, he said, “I think everyone feels a little alone on the last night of the year.”

Marie looked up, her eyes full of tears. There was something unfamiliar in his voice. Despair? Loneliness? Whatever it was, it didn’t make her feel any safer, any less vulnerable.

“Just hold me tight,” she said.

After Marie had recovered from her fit of weeping, she enjoyed the fireworks after all. She even admitted that the uppermost terrace of the palazzo really did offer the best view of the harbor. She gasped in wonder at every whirl and burst of light. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Franco felt as though he were watching the show for the first time. Even his father declared that the pyrotechnicians had done a particularly good job this year. When his mother raised her glass and proposed a toast to the next de Lucca heir, Franco felt light at heart. Everything was all right.

No sooner had the fireworks finished, though, than Marie whispered to him that she was tired, so they went to their room. They were in bed a little after one o’clock.

While Marie sighed gently in her dreams, Franco was filled with nagging doubts that kept sleep at bay.

“You all think I don’t see what’s going on!”—his heart had almost stopped beating at those words! For a moment he had believed that she knew all about the special shipments. Thank God she didn’t! But her remark had shown him vividly, once again, how quickly the house of cards could collapse. The castle in the air he had built for himself and Marie. And if it did—what then?

Marie must never find out what all his bookkeeping and paperwork for the crossings was really about. Those records were so dangerous that he was the only one who could even look at them.

“Everything will be all right,
mia cara
. The new year belongs to us,” he had whispered into his wife’s ear shortly after midnight. How trustingly she had looked at him! It was up to him to make sure that her trust was not misplaced. And that meant no more people smuggling in the new year.

Marie spent too much time on her own and was lonely, he knew that. But how could he attend to his wife when he always had to listen to other people’s tales of woe? Farmers’ sons and poverty-stricken tradesmen came to him with their laments, all of them hoping to find their fortune across the sea in the promised land—and they ended up in a kitchen in Little Italy, enslaved by the same poverty they had fled in the old country. Meanwhile their parents back home lived on dry bread and rice because they had spent every last lira buying passage for their sons.

He knew too that Marie was disappointed that he still hadn’t made a start on his plans to replant and reinvigorate the vineyards.

He would go to his father this very week. Perhaps he should ask for an appointment, so that the old man knew he meant business. Yes, that would be good. The tension in his body eased a little.

He grew vines and he sold wines—that was who he was. And that meant that the next time he went to New York, he would sell wine. Not sour rotgut that the restaurants only bought because they got cheap labor with every shipment of wine they took off him. De Lucca wines had once enjoyed a good reputation; their bouquet had taken homesick immigrants back to the Italian sunshine, if only for an hour or two. And it could happen again! If only he could make his father see things his way, their wine would be a force to reckon with once more.

Marie turned in her sleep and lifted her knees to her belly. Their child was growing in her womb. Inside her, in the dark, a tiny human being was waiting to see the light of day. Gently, so as not to wake her, Franco ran his hand over the bedcovers.

There was still plenty of time. By the time the child was born, he would be the man he wanted to be. Then the future could begin.

He liked the idea. He wanted to become a father without having to worry that a wine barrel might slip its moorings somewhere in the belly of a ship and crush a stowaway beneath its weight. He didn’t want to live in fear because someone might block the airholes by loading the next piece of cargo an
d . . .
enough of such thoughts!

Franco pressed both hands to his temples as though to chase the thoughts from his head.

Another ship had left Genoa two days earlier. In a week the
Firenze
would arrive in New York. If it were up to him, those twelve stowaways would be the last he ever smuggled out of the country.

If only it were over already.