The family being in collective mourning the arrival of the New Year hardly created a stir. Jane wondered who had danced on the icy pond, had Ebbely returned as promised—tripped his light fantastic with his favorite Tall Lady, had Hannah resurrected the gingerbread house for Zoltan and Agnes’s little Natasha, who had placed the three kings into their correct procession now that Michael was gone? Then, she sat down to write her sad news to those she missed so far away.
Michael’s ashes often drew Jane’s thoughts to speculating on where he was. As God did not exist as benign harvester of souls—where was Michael’s? what had become of his? She did not believe the grit of incinerated bone that had once been her child contained still his essence—yet something made her keep them by her as though afraid if she forsook them, he would be lost even more than the death that had erased him. She didn’t like this unintentioned returning—this interruptive revisiting of death that she seemed to have no control over.
For John, the little urn represented a son—no longer earthbound for loving and he had come to terms with it. But then he was not the one who had heard the sound of that last strangled effort to survive—that would haunt Jane for the remainder of her life—perhaps even beyond that insidious threshold.
Grieving her way—no one was aware that she was. The inhabitants of the villa were quick to accord her courage—yet reserved their communal opinion as to Jane’s capacity for motherhood. As their concept of this most revered state of womanhood equated with that of the Virgin Mary, Jane came up lacking. She knew it—sensed their polite disapproval and ignoring it, allowed them their opinion.
Having found a small sewing room set up for household repairs, as she had done often, Jane took refuge in her skill. An old but serviceable sewing machine offered her its sanctuary and she took it like a drowning man a buoyant life ring. In her new world at the top of the house—repairing the villa’s linens, sewing for its inhabitants, Jane became herself again and healed, at least sufficient for existence. As her hair grew and she allowed it—so did her assimilation. The daily rhythm of structured routine created function and with it a casual contentment she did not wholly understand.
After Gina mentioned that Camilla now lived in Turin, Jane wrote her suggesting a teatime rendezvous.
They met in one of those high-class British-type tearooms that Italians seem to have such affection for—that suited this city. Once the capital of Italy, Turin exuded that pompous nobility often found in displaced monarchs who wear their crown convinced it still belongs to them.
Camilla’s welcoming smile struggled to emerge from behind rouged lips in a fleshy face framed by pin curls and a baby blue felt adorned with an overly large cabbage rose. Although the thickness of her body cried for concealment—she wore what flat-chested fashion decreed and looked ridiculous thinking herself beautiful. Her life had become a parody—and her looks suited it. Jane in her perfectly tailored navy blue linen, feeling a little as though she was about to interview a new cook, sipped her coffee—and wondered what to say. Poking the straw in her lemonade as though it were a plunger—Camilla lifted eyes ringed by sad shadows surveyed her childhood friend as though she were a stranger.
“Two sons—you say?”
“Yes, and you?” Jane wondered why she had wanted so to meet Camilla again.
“Five—all girls—of course Mario is very disappointed. So important for a man to have a son. Especially if he owns a successful business.” Sighing, Camilla poked the lemon slice in her glass.
“And your parents—your brothers and sisters—all well, I hope?” Jane asked remembering.
“Mama died—a growth they said in her female parts—Papa remarried soon after. A widow who had her eyes on him. Remember my eldest sister? The one who wanted to be a nun like poor Teresa? Well, she was made pregnant at a fiesta—so she had to be married off Papa said. But the rest of us, we all got married correctly in a church—some are happy—some are not. Some died from the influenza. Of the boys, Stephano, the eldest, ran away to sea. We don’t know what happened to him. Franco, the youngest became a Dominican—goes around preaching poverty—Mama before she died was very upset. She kept saying, ‘If God had wanted only poverty he would not have sanctioned the lifestyle of the Holy Father and the riches of the Vatican.’ It shocked me to hear this—but when I brought this up in the confessional I was absolved of ‘censure’—so I said my beads and then I felt relieved. Yet, I often wonder if Mama’s affliction wasn’t visited upon her as punishment.” Jane swallowed her coffee to drown the smile lurking to emerge. “Like Papa, my husband has a woman. He goes there twice a week—sometimes more. It is expected—and I don’t mind—I have enough to do—I have a big house to run—one has to watch the maids like a fox!” Snatching a cream puff off a passing tray Camilla stuffed it into her mouth.
“What exactly is your husband’s business?” Jane asked, trying to be polite.
“He deals in the latest bathroom fixtures.” The tip of her tongue recapturing a dollup of errant cream, Camilla continued, “Of course nothing shoddy, only the latest designs. We own two stores and by the first of next year we will have another in the most prominent section of the city. Last summer we had our very own seaside apartment in Viareggio, where only the best people go. And Giovanni? … Still a happy mechanic?”
“He builds and establishes new factories for the Henry Ford Motor Company,” retorted Jane.
“Oh—” Camilla’s pout hadn’t changed from how Jane remembered it from when she was seventeen and in a snit. “Well, I really should be going. Julietta and Faustina have a piano lesson.”
“Wait—please—I can’t find Teresa—do you know where she is?”
“Oh, I heard she was somewhere in France—no … maybe it was Belgium, I really haven’t the slightest idea. I know that Antonia—she is still in Milano with some man—but Teresa—who knows?” This last was said with such an intonation of and who cares? that Jane wanted to slap her. “I must go—it was really a delight to see you again Giovanna, after all these years. Maybe the next time you are in Torino—we must all get together—perhaps you can join us for one of our dinners—we entertain a great deal—it is so important in business you know. Mario is considering going into politics. He thinks his friend Benito Mussolini, only he can bring our country back to the glory of the Caesars.”
Jane paid the check, while Camilla objected in that exaggerated, effusive denial that usually denotes a serious lack of sufficient funds to do so, then quickly capitulated with the time-honored “Well, if you insist! And now, I must run. Give Giovanni a little kiss from me—just for old time’s sake—nothing serious!” She giggled, “Ciao!”
And Camilla heaved her spreading body off the café chair and waddled off in the direction of the tram stop.
Letters from Ebbely—one for Jane, the other for John forwarded from Rumania arrived in Italy in late July. As they had been written before receiving the news of Michael’s death—they were filled with snippets of news not condolences.