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 didnât 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. âItâs almost a year,â he said. Teresa looked up. Another woman, he thought, would have looked down. âSalvatore loves you,â he continued.
Teresa made a sound with her tongue. âIâm the only woman he knows.â
âAnd youâre the only woman I know,â Amadeo said. He was careful, tentative. She took the spoon from the coffee. He let go of her hand.
âIâm married,â she told him. âThereâs enough talk as there is.â
âYour husbandâs never here. Heâs like a ghost.â
âI have to think about my son and you have to do the same.â
âI always think about my son, and I think about you, and your son. Be honest, Teresa. Weâre a family, all of us. A family that fate put together.â
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. âItâs so hot out here, even under the grapevines.â
âLetâs go inside,â Amadeo said, âwhere itâs cool and dark.â
T he black armband was still around Amadeoâs sleeve when he wrote to Zio Carmelo that he was thinking of coming to Castelfondo for a visit.
I tâs months and months now that I donât sleep,â 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. âIt could be something terrible,â he said. âThis could be our end.â Zia Guinetta turned away to stir her pot of beans. She smiled but he couldnât 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.
âI told you. I knew it,â Zio Carmelo shouted at her back. âYou never listen. You worry for nothing.â
âWhat?â she said, never turning.
âLook at this. Amadeo is coming to Castelfondo at the end of the month.â 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. âThere are important things to do,â she said. âThe bride . . . Donât forget about the bride.â
âOf 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. Iâll do the rest. She has to be beautiful, young, clever, grateful, docile . .
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