around the room. I was accustomed to feeling people’s eyes on me, and could tell whether their gaze was moved by curiosity, disgust, compassion or – sometimes – benevolence. In this case, it was interest. This was not the wan stare of a weak-minded elderly lady: she knew me, knew who I was, or at least I reminded her of something definite, a remembrance whose fragments she did not have to struggle after as they drifted around, unmoored in her memory.
I could hear nothing wrong with the piano. It was an extraordinary Steinway, perfectly tuned – and I did not have to try and find any possible fault with it: when, as suggested by Maestro DeLellis, I moved closer to examine its mechanism, his mother leant forward slightly, as if looking for inspiration, and whispered in my ear, without any lilting or singing vowels:
“Ring the bell tomorrow. I’ll be waiting.”
Eighteen
I was alone in Contrà Riale. I no longer had any news of Lucilla.
One morning, in the summer months between primary and secondary school, I had found Maddalena in the kitchen, slumped at the breakfast table and sobbing breathlessly.
“You’re not going to see Lucilla for a while,” she says, her nose plunged in the large, pink polka dot handkerchief she keeps for the occasions that require many tears.
I did not know what to think: I had seen Lucilla only the day before. My startled movements had the tea rocking in my cup as I replaced it on the table and sat down.
“What do you mean? We’re all going to the Arena this evening. You’re coming too …”
“She went away. Miss Albertina called at six o’clock this morning.”
“Went away? At six o’clock in the morning?”
“She did. May the good Virgin of Monte Berico protect her. Her Mamma was arrested.”
Maddalena sits up, props her elbows on the table and takes her head into her hands.
“Arrested.”
“Miss Albertina said that her husband, Lucilla’s father, the one who’d been making love to a lass who wasn’t yet of age, came back last night, and she killed him.”
“Killed him! But how?”
“Threw him from the balcony. He fell into the river.”
“The river!”
“The other river,” Maddalena says, hearing the words I have not spoken. “The Bacchiglione. It was in self-defence, Miss Albertina says. He was drunk. But even so they’ve arrested her, of course. It’s always a woman’s fault over here.”
“Over here?”
“Yes, over here, in our saintly-Catholic-apostolic-gossip-holic town of priests and nuns. Did you know that in proportion we have more of them here than there are in Rome? One day the Holy Virgin will look down and turn us all to ashes, just like Sodom and Gomorrah. For all its shop windows and great houses gleaming like crocodile scales, this town has a soul black as the waters of the Retrone that swallowed up your Mamma, the poor young Signora, so young and so unhappy.”
“What happened to Lucilla?”
“Miss Albertina sent her away to take her out of the storm. Much too much talk.”
“Away where?”
“
Mah
!” Maddalena says by way of an answer.
“How long for?”
“Who knows?”
“What about school? Is she not coming to secondary school with me?”
“I’m afraid the waters will hardly be any calmer by September.”
“What about me?”
Nineteen
“To the house of Maestro De Lellis? Why on earth? He does after all share his art with you during your lessons, twice a week …”
My father was displeased with that first visit to the Maestro’s house. Over the last few months, he had been paying more attention to my life than usual. I could sense that he too was frightened of secondary school. He was trying to understand what missing Lucilla might mean to me, and perhaps to himself as well. Lucilla had been for him a guarantee that he would come to know everything, absolutely everything, that might happen to me. Whenever she stayed with us for supper, she would talk with the same ardent gusto that she showed for food.
I could hear nothing wrong with the piano. It was an extraordinary Steinway, perfectly tuned – and I did not have to try and find any possible fault with it: when, as suggested by Maestro DeLellis, I moved closer to examine its mechanism, his mother leant forward slightly, as if looking for inspiration, and whispered in my ear, without any lilting or singing vowels:
“Ring the bell tomorrow. I’ll be waiting.”
Eighteen
I was alone in Contrà Riale. I no longer had any news of Lucilla.
One morning, in the summer months between primary and secondary school, I had found Maddalena in the kitchen, slumped at the breakfast table and sobbing breathlessly.
“You’re not going to see Lucilla for a while,” she says, her nose plunged in the large, pink polka dot handkerchief she keeps for the occasions that require many tears.
I did not know what to think: I had seen Lucilla only the day before. My startled movements had the tea rocking in my cup as I replaced it on the table and sat down.
“What do you mean? We’re all going to the Arena this evening. You’re coming too …”
“She went away. Miss Albertina called at six o’clock this morning.”
“Went away? At six o’clock in the morning?”
“She did. May the good Virgin of Monte Berico protect her. Her Mamma was arrested.”
Maddalena sits up, props her elbows on the table and takes her head into her hands.
“Arrested.”
“Miss Albertina said that her husband, Lucilla’s father, the one who’d been making love to a lass who wasn’t yet of age, came back last night, and she killed him.”
“Killed him! But how?”
“Threw him from the balcony. He fell into the river.”
“The river!”
“The other river,” Maddalena says, hearing the words I have not spoken. “The Bacchiglione. It was in self-defence, Miss Albertina says. He was drunk. But even so they’ve arrested her, of course. It’s always a woman’s fault over here.”
“Over here?”
“Yes, over here, in our saintly-Catholic-apostolic-gossip-holic town of priests and nuns. Did you know that in proportion we have more of them here than there are in Rome? One day the Holy Virgin will look down and turn us all to ashes, just like Sodom and Gomorrah. For all its shop windows and great houses gleaming like crocodile scales, this town has a soul black as the waters of the Retrone that swallowed up your Mamma, the poor young Signora, so young and so unhappy.”
“What happened to Lucilla?”
“Miss Albertina sent her away to take her out of the storm. Much too much talk.”
“Away where?”
“
Mah
!” Maddalena says by way of an answer.
“How long for?”
“Who knows?”
“What about school? Is she not coming to secondary school with me?”
“I’m afraid the waters will hardly be any calmer by September.”
“What about me?”
Nineteen
“To the house of Maestro De Lellis? Why on earth? He does after all share his art with you during your lessons, twice a week …”
My father was displeased with that first visit to the Maestro’s house. Over the last few months, he had been paying more attention to my life than usual. I could sense that he too was frightened of secondary school. He was trying to understand what missing Lucilla might mean to me, and perhaps to himself as well. Lucilla had been for him a guarantee that he would come to know everything, absolutely everything, that might happen to me. Whenever she stayed with us for supper, she would talk with the same ardent gusto that she showed for food.
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