The Black Madonna by Louisa Ermelino Page A

bad to look at, tall and slim, strong, the way he liked women, and her skin . . . it was beautiful, smooth and clear. He was sure that if he could touch it, it would feel soft and velvety, like the skin of his baby son, whose neck he nuzzled when Teresa put him in his arms.
    He found himself watching her. Every Sunday he was aware of something else about her. When she caressed Salvatore, he noticed her hands. When she took off her coat, he saw the straightness of her shoulders. He began to hope she would reveal herself, but Teresa was stoic. She listened when he talked about his business, his son, about what he hoped for the future. She was smart, he decided. She didn’t gossip. She was clean. She was good to his son.
    They were in the garden, after lunch, the Sunday before Easter. Teresa was stirring sugar into his coffee and he stopped her hand. “It’s almost a year,” he said. Teresa looked up. Another woman, he thought, would have looked down. “Salvatore loves you,” he continued.
    Teresa made a sound with her tongue. “I’m the only woman he knows.”
    â€œAnd you’re the only woman I know,” Amadeo said. He was careful, tentative. She took the spoon from the coffee. He let go of her hand.
    â€œI’m married,” she told him. “There’s enough talk as there is.”
    â€œYour husband’s never here. He’s like a ghost.”
    â€œI have to think about my son and you have to do the same.”
    â€œI always think about my son, and I think about you, and your son. Be honest, Teresa. We’re a family, all of us. A family that fate put together.”
    It was hot in the garden, unusually hot for the Sunday before Easter. Teresa had put the babies down to nap after their lunch. She had taken off her hat. Amadeo could see that the heavy knot of hair at the nape of her neck was coming loose, about to unwind. He could see the rounded ends of her hairpins. Her hair was close to falling, he knew, past her shoulders, down her back.
    Teresa opened the top button of the dark wool dress she had sewn to wear on Sundays. She fanned herself with her linen napkin. “It’s so hot out here, even under the grapevines.”
    â€œLet’s go inside,” Amadeo said, “where it’s cool and dark.”
    T he black armband was still around Amadeo’s sleeve when he wrote to Zio Carmelo that he was thinking of coming to Castelfondo for a visit.
    I t’s months and months now that I don’t sleep,” Zio Carmelo said to his wife that day the telegram arrived. Zia Guinetta poured coffee into his bowl. She had put the telegram under his spoon.
    Zio Carmelo crossed himself before he touched the yellow envelope. “It could be something terrible,” he said. “This could be our end.” Zia Guinetta turned away to stir her pot of beans. She smiled but he couldn’t see.
    Zio Carmelo wiped his face with his handkerchief. He gathered up the crumbs on the table and threw them on the floor for the rooster. He got up and walked outside to pee against the tree. When he came back in, he opened the telegram. Zia Guinetta had not moved.
    â€œI told you. I knew it,” Zio Carmelo shouted at her back. “You never listen. You worry for nothing.”
    â€œWhat?” she said, never turning.
    â€œLook at this. Amadeo is coming to Castelfondo at the end of the month.” Zio Carmelo kissed the yellow paper. He went over to Zia Guinetta and kissed away the drops of sweat that had formed on her upper lip as she bent over the steaming pot.
    Zia Guinetta wiped her hands on her apron. “There are important things to do,” she said. “The bride . . . Don’t forget about the bride.”
    â€œOf course not. What am I? Stupid? But you have to tell me, who? Which girl? Who would make the best wife for Amadeo? Think hard. I’ll do the rest. She has to be beautiful, young, clever, grateful, docile . .