The Golden Hour (11 page)

Not a word was said until we were seated. “Mother, I don’t know what Father told you, but he does not know the whole
truth.” She sat still, back straight, her lips a thin line, her hands resting in her lap. Her reticence always had the same effect on me—eliciting a torrent of words like a flash flood rushing and swirling its way into the desert.

The story poured out, breathlessly, much as it had for Violetta, but I skipped over a few details. I lingered on the dinner scene. Even in my own mind it had taken on new, exquisite touches. A small vase of flowers had appeared. The silverware was carefully aligned; the cheese had been thinly sliced and artfully arranged.

Then, when I got to the closet, what? I must have told her—she was a woman too, after all. I know I mentioned the duffel bags. I think I said we were “sitting” on them with our backs to the closet opening. I told her he had kissed me several times, that I truly was attracted to him, but that I put a stop to things and told him Violetta was waiting for me.

“Enrico said Sister Graziella saw you lying on the floor.” Mother’s lips trembled and she looked away. “She said he wore no jacket and your skirt was up around your waist, Giovanna.”

“Oh, God,” I groaned. “I didn’t want to mention that, but that was all! You have to believe me.” I stood up and put my hands on her shoulders, shaking them gently. Tears were running down my cheeks. “I’m not lying to you, Mama.”

“But you lied to us about going to Violetta’s for dinner, so why should I believe you about this?”

“I know, Mother. I am sorry about that. I did go right there, but just a little later.” She shook her head and gave me a look that silenced me. I thought of all the pain and anxiety she had had to endure with Giorgio’s absence, not even knowing whether he was alive. My own actions—at least this story of Klaus—suddenly seemed so ridiculous and shallow.

M
other and Father were already seated at the table when I arrived for dinner that night. The room, formerly a servant’s bedroom, left just enough space for us to sit at the round wooden table and for Rosa to serve. As usual, the table was covered with a simple white cotton cloth and set for three, the place nearest the door left empty.

I noticed that Mother had changed from her gardening clothes into an immaculately pressed shirtwaist, every hair slicked back into a neat bun at the back of her neck. I could feel her cool eyes sizing me up: my hair crimped with humidity, loose tendrils glued to my forehead, and my old dusty pink blouse—a size too small, with a child’s puffed sleeves—clinging tightly to my breasts, its tails on one side not tucked into my skirt. Father glanced at me, then looked away as I took my place between them and whisked the napkin into my lap without unfolding it.

No one spoke. I fixed my gaze on the small terra-cotta pitcher in the middle of the table that Rosa had filled with a fistful of herbs: spiky rosemary, leafy sprigs of oregano, and three stiff swords of
lavender crowned with violet tufts. Then I slowly began running my finger down the curved handle of my fork, as if I were stroking the silky spine of Valentino, my favorite cat. The walls pressed in, squeezing the tension in the room, making the space seem more confining than it already was.

Rosa broke the ice by coming in with a steaming platter of
spaghetti con pollo e pomodori.
The pungent smell of garlic and tomato sauce filled the room and forced us all to breathe a little easier. Mama lifted a birdlike portion onto her plate. “Oh, Rosa, this smells delicious,” she said. I piled a generous helping onto mine, and Papa emptied the platter. When Rosa had gone, Mother cleared her throat. She never launched into a conversation without delicately announcing herself first.

“Now, Giovanna, I know this is difficult, but let’s talk about what’s next for you. Your father and I do not want you to continue at the School of Santa Maria.”

I stiffened but said nothing.

“I wonder, dear, if you’ve heard about the nursery school group that has been started at the Church of Santa Clara. I know they have a dozen or so children—just the very young ones.”

I took a quick swallow of water from the thick tumbler and set it down so heavily a little sloshed on the table. “Mother, please.” My jaw was tense and barely moved. “I
hate
working with children. I really do.” I shook my head. “Frankly, I’ve been thinking anyway of not continuing at the school. They drove me crazy, if you really want to know.”

Father laughed. “Well, now you tell us.” He looked at Mother and added sarcastically, “We thought you were enjoying your work all this time, but I guess it wasn’t the children that kept you interested, eh?”

Mother shifted in her chair and concentrated on winding spaghetti around her fork.

“So, now that you don’t like children,” he added, “I have just
the solution. Harvest is coming up in the next few weeks, the grapes ready for crush. There’s plenty to do around here. How about if I put you to work helping me? No children in sight—guaranteed.”

God help me. That was the last thing I wanted to do, to be tethered to Father all day long. In desperation, I piped up. “No, Papa.” I looked from him to Mother, then back again. “No. The harvest is one thing, but I really want to be part of the war in some way. If I can’t fight against the Nazis, I just want to be part of it. Violetta tells me they need help at her clinic. I thought that might be a good idea, and I could pick up some medical skills that I could use for the rest of my life—”

Father broke in. “Well, damn it, who says making wine and olive oil isn’t helping the cause—” But Mother cut him off, her mouth still full of food.

“Is that the one Marchesa Falconieri is operating on her property? They say there are more POWs and wounded partisans every day.” She looked across the table, almost pleading. “Enrico, she does have a point. And maybe Giovanna could pick up some news of—”

I knew whom she was about to mention. I focused on my now empty plate, bracing myself for a round of tears, but none came. Only silence. I saw Rosa come in to clear the plates, and then I looked at Mother. She was pale and staring straight ahead—wide-eyed—holding her hands to her throat. I froze.

Father stood up. “Jesus! She’s choking; we’ve got to hit her on the back.” He lunged in her direction, but Rosa stepped coolly in his path and put up her hands to stop him.

“No, no, signore, please don’t. I’ve seen this too many times—that just makes things worse.”

She walked behind Mother’s chair, leaned over, and grabbed her from behind, lifting her up and shaking her out like a rag doll. A piece of chicken flew out onto the tablecloth, followed by coughing
and the sound of sucking air. Then Mother put her head on her folded arms and collapsed in racking sobs. “Oh, thank you, Rosa, dear. I couldn’t get my breath. I just—”

But it wasn’t about the choking. The tears were about Giorgio, and the floodgates had just been reopened. I ran to her side, leaned over her, and stroked her back, hugging her to me. “It’s okay, Mother; really it is. Giorgio’s fine. I just know it.” I looked at Rosa, but her back was turned. “I’ll use my time at the clinic to find out everything I can. I’ll ask everyone I see. I think this will be the right thing for me to do.”

Father stood straight, observing the scene. Without a word, he went back to his chair and pushed it in slowly.

I stood tall myself, looking directly at him. “I will talk with Violetta about the possibility of volunteering at the clinic. I also plan to make a visit to Sister Graziella at the convent to apologize to her.”

The next morning after church, I sidled up to Violetta and linked arms with her. “Will you take a walk with me?” I hoped the pressure I was putting on her arm would convey the urgency of my need.

She broke away from her parents with a wave and led me out toward the road to town. “You’re pinching me. What’s going on?”

“Sister Graziella told my father.” I was breathing fast, leaning into her. “They want me to stop working at the school.”

“I’m not sorry, Giovanna. I want you to get away from that man too.”

“But what will I do with my time?” I hoped Violetta would think right away of the clinic, but I knew it wasn’t so simple. The two of us had been best friends for years, but we were competitive too. It seemed that we got along best when we kept our involvements separate.

When we were ten, there was a school festival that included footraces and other mock Olympic events. Violetta and I were both the fastest in the class, but she was taller than I was by at least a foot, giving her a natural edge. She beat me consistently in the trials and even suggested that I sign up for the long jump instead. I still cringe to think of it, but before the race, as we were changing clothes, I dropped a small pebble into the toe of her shoe. The gun went off, and Violetta shot ahead, but as we rounded the curve at the other end of the oval track, I watched her begin to limp a little and give her foot a quick shake. It was just enough of a pause to let me catch up and pass her in the home stretch.

“Nice going, Giovanna,” she said, refusing to meet my eye. “I had a darn stone in my shoe, and I just couldn’t run the way I usually do.” She won every race after that.

I never confessed my dirty trick—either to her or to the priest—but I think I had always expected God to even the score, particularly at moments like this.

I waited silently, feeling her inner debate. The clinic was clearly her territory, the perfect outlet for her particular interests. She had a nurturing, patient temperament, just right for working with the sick and wounded. As usual, her warmth and her inclusive nature won out, reminding me what a heel I’d been all those years before. “But how about the clinic?” she said. “We need help desperately.” She stopped and took me by the shoulders, beaming. “We could be together every day—it would be fun. Please say you’ll come and talk with them.”

I had kept my church clothes on, which made for rough going on the way to the gazebo. The path I’d been traveling was beginning to show evidence of use, and it occurred to me that I should vary my route from week to week to avoid giving our meeting place away. So I decided to take the long way around—partly to let the
path grow over and partly to save my skirt and good shoes by walking on well-traveled roads. As I walked, a horse-drawn wagon appeared far up ahead, then slowly grew larger as it moved in my direction. I could see that it was piled high with hay and that two people were sitting on the bench. Then I recognized Serafo and Esta, the farming couple who were overseers for the large estate adjoining ours. They were friends of Tonino and Catarina’s, and had known me since I was very small.

Esta was dark complexioned and grossly overweight, the navy cotton of her full skirt stretched tight over the flesh of spreading thighs. Her hair, mostly silver now with age, was parted in the middle and pulled back into a tight bun, making her round, weathered face appear all the more manly and severe. Serafo, Esta’s physical opposite, sat erect with the reins in his hands, his skeletal frame occupying a mere quarter of the space on the seat.

“Giovanna, is it really you, darling?” Esta called as they pulled to a stop next to me. Their horse leaned his neck down and began loudly pulling clumps of grass out of the dry, stony earth.

“Yes, Esta.” I smiled brightly. “How nice to see you both.”

“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” she asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out walking so far from home.” I looked past them, my eyes darting back and forth. I knew the turn to the convent was behind me, but I was desperate for an excuse. “I was, uh, just heading for Saint Agnes to see Sister Graziella.”

“Oh, well, dear, you’ve missed the turn altogether. It’s about a half mile behind you. Serafo, we must give Giovanna a lift. It’s not too far out of our way.”

“No, no—I’d really prefer to walk. It’s such a beautiful day.” I tried to look relaxed and in the mood for physical exercise.

“We won’t hear of it; will we, Serafo? Now, Giovanna, you climb up on this wagon right this instant. We’ll take you there, and we won’t take no for an answer.”