small cylindrical object on the wedding shot and peered through it. “Yes,” she said. Then the other. “Yes. Yes!” she repeated. She gazed across at Maddalena and shook her head as if in disbelief. “She has better ones, she says. And here I am asking myself, ‘Lorraine Stetson, is it possible you can be this lucky?’”
“Really?” said Maddalena.
Antonio was beaming. “I tried to tell her, but you know a woman never believes her husband.”
“Most shouldn’t,” Lorraine said. “But in this case! You photograph very well, Mrs. Grasso. Very well.” She looked again, with that same amazement, at the pictures. “And these aren’t even quality shots. Not taken by a professional, I’m assuming.”
Simultaneously Maddalena and Antonio shook their heads.
“I have this Russian,” Lorraine said. “Came from Siberia. Siberia! Lived in an igloo or something. Didn’t see a green vegetable her entire life. Anyway, during the war an Italian soldier falls for her and steals her away from that God-forsaken country. The soldier gets killed, but she makes it to a boat and winds up here in the Promised Land. We found her on the street like a hundred-dollar bill in a sewer grate. Spiffed her up, took some pictures, and now you want to know what she earns? Fifty dollars an hour, almostas much as Dorian Leigh. Lives in Society Hill, Philadelphia, in a penthouse, with a balcony!” Here Lorraine leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. “And I tell you: she’s not half as pretty as you.”
Maddalena blushed.
“She didn’t know Bianca before she got here?” Antonio asked. “On the phone, you said she came especially for her.”
“That’s a different Russian girl,” Lorraine said. “You’ll find we work with many internationals. It’s what distinguishes us. The exotic look is always in fashion. Ava Gardner, Gina Lollobrigida, always la moda. And they’re not even blonde! Italian women are world-renowned for their beauty—especially the sort of rustic beauty that comes through here.” She pointed again to the pictures. “Your husband told me you once lived in one of those charming villages?”
“Yes,” said Maddalena, confidently, and smiled. That was an easy question. But Lorraine raised her eyebrows as if expecting her to elaborate. She stammered a bit, then came up with: “It was very small. We had three streets, that’s it, and no cars or trains. Only an olive grove and a church and a small café. I didn’t know any different, so to me it was beautiful. It was the center of the world.” She paused. The sparkle in Lorraine’s blue eyes encouraged her. “Every morning it was my job to carry the milk in two big buckets back and forth from the farm to my house. Our family owned the one grocery store, so we weren’t poor, but still we had to have milk like everybody else. I was always the last one to pick it up, though, because I slept too late, and sometimes the cow ran out before I got there. My mother used to get so angry at me!”
Lorraine looked at Antonio. “It’s not Siberia,” she said. “But that’s exactly what I’m talking about. Rustic beauty. You can’t buy it for a million and a dime.”
Antonio was proud of her. Maddalena could see it in his puffed-up chest, his confident slouch, his right foot dangling over his leftknee. He, too, might have had model looks: a strong jaw, hair velvet black. He was tall and usually had good posture. “So, where do we go from here?” he asked.
Lorraine stood. “We see her walk.”
She led them both into the hall and asked Maddalena not to think about the fact that they were watching her. “Pretend you’re at the market,” she said. “You’re going up and down the aisle like a normal person. No one’s bothering you.”
Maddalena strolled slowly between the rows of photographs, stopping every few steps to reach out and touch one as if it were a box of detergent.
“No!” Lorraine said, not unkindly. “You’re not really in the
“Really?” said Maddalena.
Antonio was beaming. “I tried to tell her, but you know a woman never believes her husband.”
“Most shouldn’t,” Lorraine said. “But in this case! You photograph very well, Mrs. Grasso. Very well.” She looked again, with that same amazement, at the pictures. “And these aren’t even quality shots. Not taken by a professional, I’m assuming.”
Simultaneously Maddalena and Antonio shook their heads.
“I have this Russian,” Lorraine said. “Came from Siberia. Siberia! Lived in an igloo or something. Didn’t see a green vegetable her entire life. Anyway, during the war an Italian soldier falls for her and steals her away from that God-forsaken country. The soldier gets killed, but she makes it to a boat and winds up here in the Promised Land. We found her on the street like a hundred-dollar bill in a sewer grate. Spiffed her up, took some pictures, and now you want to know what she earns? Fifty dollars an hour, almostas much as Dorian Leigh. Lives in Society Hill, Philadelphia, in a penthouse, with a balcony!” Here Lorraine leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. “And I tell you: she’s not half as pretty as you.”
Maddalena blushed.
“She didn’t know Bianca before she got here?” Antonio asked. “On the phone, you said she came especially for her.”
“That’s a different Russian girl,” Lorraine said. “You’ll find we work with many internationals. It’s what distinguishes us. The exotic look is always in fashion. Ava Gardner, Gina Lollobrigida, always la moda. And they’re not even blonde! Italian women are world-renowned for their beauty—especially the sort of rustic beauty that comes through here.” She pointed again to the pictures. “Your husband told me you once lived in one of those charming villages?”
“Yes,” said Maddalena, confidently, and smiled. That was an easy question. But Lorraine raised her eyebrows as if expecting her to elaborate. She stammered a bit, then came up with: “It was very small. We had three streets, that’s it, and no cars or trains. Only an olive grove and a church and a small café. I didn’t know any different, so to me it was beautiful. It was the center of the world.” She paused. The sparkle in Lorraine’s blue eyes encouraged her. “Every morning it was my job to carry the milk in two big buckets back and forth from the farm to my house. Our family owned the one grocery store, so we weren’t poor, but still we had to have milk like everybody else. I was always the last one to pick it up, though, because I slept too late, and sometimes the cow ran out before I got there. My mother used to get so angry at me!”
Lorraine looked at Antonio. “It’s not Siberia,” she said. “But that’s exactly what I’m talking about. Rustic beauty. You can’t buy it for a million and a dime.”
Antonio was proud of her. Maddalena could see it in his puffed-up chest, his confident slouch, his right foot dangling over his leftknee. He, too, might have had model looks: a strong jaw, hair velvet black. He was tall and usually had good posture. “So, where do we go from here?” he asked.
Lorraine stood. “We see her walk.”
She led them both into the hall and asked Maddalena not to think about the fact that they were watching her. “Pretend you’re at the market,” she said. “You’re going up and down the aisle like a normal person. No one’s bothering you.”
Maddalena strolled slowly between the rows of photographs, stopping every few steps to reach out and touch one as if it were a box of detergent.
“No!” Lorraine said, not unkindly. “You’re not really in the
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