Solitaria by Genni Gunn Page A

“Piera’s the one who keeps a running total of every imagined injustice against her.”
    â€œMaybe it’s a bit of a judgement day,” Mimí says, sneering. She pours herself half a cup of espresso, adds a generous portion of milk and sugar, and stirs it with one of the biscotti. “Weigh the good against the bad and see how Piera makes out.”
    â€œAldo, you’re our only hope,” Clarissa says. “Please go and see if you can get Piera to stop this nonsense. We all have busy lives. We can’t sit around waiting. It’s inhuman.”
    Aldo shrugs and goes in. Teresa and Mimí get up and begin clearing the table.
    The doorbell sounds; it’s the couple who live across the hall, shyly wondering if they can give their regards to La Clarissa .
    â€œIt won’t be long,” Oriana tells David, “before the entire town will show up on this doorstep, on some pretence or other, to get a look at your mother. She is legendary here.”
    David smiles. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy every minute of it.”
    â€œI would like to interview Zia Clarissa. Maybe intersperse her life story into the larger narrative of the family.”
    â€œI don’t know if Mom would like that. For a very public person, she’s very private.”
    â€œThat’s what makes her intriguing,” Oriana says. “The mystery.” Her eyes twinkle. “She can be the metaphor for the larger mystery of Zio Vito, of Zia Piera, for the mystery of all families.” She sets her camcorder down, takes out a notebook, and starts to write.
    â€œGood luck,” David says, watching her, trying not to be obvious, fascinated by his own fascination. He is like a schoolboy in the throes of his first crush. My Italian Cousin , he thinks, catapulting them into a movie. Marco and Fazio go out for a walk and to buy a newspaper. Clarissa flits around the garden with a watering can, ooing and ahhing over red bougainvilleas she wishes she could grow at home. Only David and Oriana remain at the table.
    â€œWhat kind of films do you make?” David asks her.
    She continues to write. “Docs mostly.”
    â€œLike what?”
    She stops writing and looks up. “The last thing I did was a TV series about the cataclysmic nature of Mother Earth,” she says. “The myriad ways she can destroy us — earthquakes, floods, cyclones, avalanches, spewing volcanoes, meteors, etc.” She smiles. “It’s a miracle we’re not walking around in a state of terror.”
    â€œYou make it sound worse than it is,” he says.
    â€œDo you know that at this very moment, while we sit here, the earth could suddenly open up and swallow us?” She widens her eyes in mock fear.
    â€œWe could be struck by a flying saucer too,” he says.
    â€œI’m serious. This is karst territory. Last year, a couple of blocks from here, someone’s house suddenly caved in.”
    â€œDid you film it?” he asks.
    â€œIt’s not something you can plan,” she says. “Nature doesn’t work like that.”
    He says nothing, and she returns to her notebook. He watches her for a moment longer, thinking how true it is, how what’s memorable is often unplanned. A tug of guilt. Bernette. He pushes back his chair. Oriana looks up.
    â€œAre you going in to Zia Piera?” she asks. “Can I come?”
    â€œYou’ll have to ask her,” he says. “I’m going for my run first.”
    When he returns forty minutes later, he finds Mimí, Aldo, and Teresa in the kitchen.
    â€œIs everything all right?” he asks. “Have you seen Zia Piera?”
    â€œI’m afraid she’s impervious even to me this time,” Aldo says. “She’s calling for you, though.”
    David nods. He goes to his room, hooks up the cable, and connects to the Internet. He finds an elaborate florist in Chicago and wires Bernette flowers, all