and striped, she looked, and in front of her Bora’s figure also stood dissected by those lines of alternating shine and darkness. “Donna Maria,” he said.
She drubbed her rubber-tipped cane hard on the tiles, before opening her arms in a demanding invitation. “What are you waiting for? Come!” Her embrace was long, strong; she pushed him back only enough to hold his face down and kiss him on both cheeks (her lips were cold, soft). She added in a choked voice, “Handsome, that’s what you are. Step back. Fammiti vedere, quanto sei bello. ”
Bora let her survey him unresistingly, though he knew how close her scrutiny had always been.
“How long have you been in Rome? Five weeks? And you haven’t visited me before? Bad man, bad man!” Her only mention of his injury was, “And to think I had the piano tuned for you, hoping you’d come.” That was all. “I don’t know why I hoped you would. I knew. You belong to this house, and must come back to it eventually.”
Bora let her talk, oppressed by grief, uselessly struggling against it. “You heard about Peter,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Your stepfather wrote me. Poor Peter, with a baby on the way. God tries us, Martin – God tries us hard.” Bora only nodded. “Sit down,” she urged. “Tell me everything. You’re well, are you? Are you well?”
“I’m well, Donna Maria.”
“There, sit down. It’s been five years, and the last time you were in a great hurry to go home and marry.” Smiling multiplied the wrinkles on her face. “Your wife? No babies yet?”
Bora sat down, feeling as if he were sand, and her kind words came to erode him piecemeal. “She’s in Rome,” he compelled himself to say next. “She went to the Sacra Rota.”
Donna Maria set her jaw firmly, with her hand palpating the handle of her cane. Her lids winked once or twice. “Why, what’s happened?” And at once, “I must ask Nino about this.”
“I doubt Cardinal Borromeo keeps tabs of annulments, Donna Maria.”
The cane’s tip drummed, irritably. When she spoke again, she had composed herself to placidity once more. “So. How are you taking it?”
Bora found the question merciless but necessary. He had been preparing for it. “Not well, I’m afraid.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a picture of her?”
How many times people had asked him. He took out and showed the photo he carried in his wallet. The old woman looked. “Hm,” she said to herself. “Hm. Does she love you?”
“Donna Maria, she’s leaving me.”
“Sometimes you leave people to set them free, as I did with your stepfather. Of course it was impossible, in our position, to stay married after Sarajevo started the Great War. It worked out for the best. He found your mother and married her happily, and I fell in love with D’Annunzio.” She complacently digressed. “ I was the woman he called Chiaroviso in his Faville. Not La Boulanger. But you – what are you going to do?”
Bora felt the words escape him, with great shame for pronouncing them.
The old woman reacted by one more imperious tap of the cane’s rubber. “ Che sciocchezze! What nonsense, Martin.”
“It’s true.”
“Look at me and tell me it’s true, in my face.”
“It’s true, Donna Maria.”
“Because of her? Because of five missing fingers? Nonsense. Look at yourself, you’re a strapping young man. I shouldn’t be hearing this nonsense from you, Martin! When the war is over – and you’re going to lose it, just as His Holiness lost Rome to Italy in 1870. You are, you are. It’s lost already, it doesn’t merit talking about it. Why, then you’ll find someone to make children with.” She watched him without blinking, without smiling. “You’ve got plenty of them tucked in, there where you men keep them. You’re young! When you wrote me from Russia, I saw pictures of you in that godforsaken place, snow up to your waist. If you didn’t want to die then, what’s this
She drubbed her rubber-tipped cane hard on the tiles, before opening her arms in a demanding invitation. “What are you waiting for? Come!” Her embrace was long, strong; she pushed him back only enough to hold his face down and kiss him on both cheeks (her lips were cold, soft). She added in a choked voice, “Handsome, that’s what you are. Step back. Fammiti vedere, quanto sei bello. ”
Bora let her survey him unresistingly, though he knew how close her scrutiny had always been.
“How long have you been in Rome? Five weeks? And you haven’t visited me before? Bad man, bad man!” Her only mention of his injury was, “And to think I had the piano tuned for you, hoping you’d come.” That was all. “I don’t know why I hoped you would. I knew. You belong to this house, and must come back to it eventually.”
Bora let her talk, oppressed by grief, uselessly struggling against it. “You heard about Peter,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Your stepfather wrote me. Poor Peter, with a baby on the way. God tries us, Martin – God tries us hard.” Bora only nodded. “Sit down,” she urged. “Tell me everything. You’re well, are you? Are you well?”
“I’m well, Donna Maria.”
“There, sit down. It’s been five years, and the last time you were in a great hurry to go home and marry.” Smiling multiplied the wrinkles on her face. “Your wife? No babies yet?”
Bora sat down, feeling as if he were sand, and her kind words came to erode him piecemeal. “She’s in Rome,” he compelled himself to say next. “She went to the Sacra Rota.”
Donna Maria set her jaw firmly, with her hand palpating the handle of her cane. Her lids winked once or twice. “Why, what’s happened?” And at once, “I must ask Nino about this.”
“I doubt Cardinal Borromeo keeps tabs of annulments, Donna Maria.”
The cane’s tip drummed, irritably. When she spoke again, she had composed herself to placidity once more. “So. How are you taking it?”
Bora found the question merciless but necessary. He had been preparing for it. “Not well, I’m afraid.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a picture of her?”
How many times people had asked him. He took out and showed the photo he carried in his wallet. The old woman looked. “Hm,” she said to herself. “Hm. Does she love you?”
“Donna Maria, she’s leaving me.”
“Sometimes you leave people to set them free, as I did with your stepfather. Of course it was impossible, in our position, to stay married after Sarajevo started the Great War. It worked out for the best. He found your mother and married her happily, and I fell in love with D’Annunzio.” She complacently digressed. “ I was the woman he called Chiaroviso in his Faville. Not La Boulanger. But you – what are you going to do?”
Bora felt the words escape him, with great shame for pronouncing them.
The old woman reacted by one more imperious tap of the cane’s rubber. “ Che sciocchezze! What nonsense, Martin.”
“It’s true.”
“Look at me and tell me it’s true, in my face.”
“It’s true, Donna Maria.”
“Because of her? Because of five missing fingers? Nonsense. Look at yourself, you’re a strapping young man. I shouldn’t be hearing this nonsense from you, Martin! When the war is over – and you’re going to lose it, just as His Holiness lost Rome to Italy in 1870. You are, you are. It’s lost already, it doesn’t merit talking about it. Why, then you’ll find someone to make children with.” She watched him without blinking, without smiling. “You’ve got plenty of them tucked in, there where you men keep them. You’re young! When you wrote me from Russia, I saw pictures of you in that godforsaken place, snow up to your waist. If you didn’t want to die then, what’s this
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