November 2, 2001

All the Dead

Not everyone can go to a cemetery.

Becky winced every time she saw the bright chrysanthemums that vendors were selling from their tiny little trucks throughout the city. The only place she could put chrysanthemums was inside her house, in front of her parents’ picture. There were no bodies that could have been neatly embalmed, beautifully dressed, and quietly buried away under a clean white stone you could visit when you wanted to.

Becky pulled back the curtains and turned to look at her living room. Everything was perfect, just as she liked it. When Becky met Giangiacomo’s wife Emilia last year, Becky immediately took note of Emilia’s unerring good taste in the comfort and elegance this very living room. Becky enjoyed the vestiges of that good taste now that she had taken over not only Emilia’s living room, but the rest of her home as well.

After Emilia left Giangiacomo, he had not been willing to do forgo two things: his Nanny Gepa, nor this apartment which his father had bought for him after Giangiacomo graduated from the university. Over the years, Giangi had expanded it, buying the apartments next door and downstairs so that he could walk down through his own apartment into the basement and inspect his wines without using the building’s common stairs. When Emilia and Giangi separated, Emilia had not put up much of a fight about the house; she was mainly interested in getting custody of the children and a very large monthly payment that would keep the kids and her handsomely in style. Giangiacomo gladly sent Emilia the money in lieu of alimony, child support, court and legal costs, and a costly settlement that Giangiacomo could have easily afforded.

Another man, another house, another life. Becky was a sexual gypsy and though to many it might seem little enough to be a tramp, she did it with particularly alluring finesse. She never dressed provocatively or in a manner that anyone could call cheap. She never showed any cleavage and all of her skirts ended below the knee as a rule that she would break for the very occasional miniskirt. Her gorgeous auburn hair was rarely in perfect order and she wore almost no make-up on her amazingly angelskin coral complexion. All the same, her forms fairly exploded inside the long dresses she wrapped around the mandorla of her hips, eternally elevated to luscious elegance by the high-heeled shoes she always wore when she left the house. When Becky menstruated, her breasts swelled to luscious fullness; she seldom failed to remark with disarming candor on what was happening to her body “down there” and “up above,” lest either change go unnoticed.

Becky’s real tools of seduction though, were her eyes and her laughter. Nothing was ever too much of a problem, she was always willing to do things for almost nothing and perform any task given her cheerfully. Whenever she landed in a new city, country or continent, everyone fell hard for her, for she was also generous, kind, cultured, and discreet.

Becky had reared herself a Cosmo girl, acquiring most of her wiles while growing up in Chicago. Her mother was a progressive Episcopalian married to a Portuguese Jew, and Mummy’s monthly subscription to Cosmopolitan endlessly fascinated Becky as a child. Becky easily learned that men were there for the taking, she was there for the getting, and there was no reason she should not use all of her charms to get ahead. Or get money. Or get away when the time came. Becky did not exactly realize how to do all of this without looking like a total slut until she saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s her senior year in high school. Holly Golightly illuminated her.

While Becky was studying at Northwestern, older men (in their late twenties) would take her out to dinner. Like Holly Golightly without Hubert Givenchy, Becky quickly figured out how to get a ten-spot when she went to the little girl’s room (she would have liked Holly’s fifty, but her sugar daddies were younger and not as well off). When the evening was over at the restaurant, Becky never went home with them, so they insisted on paying her cab fare. That meant another 20 spot, which she gleefully accepted, got into the cab, rounded the corner, and got out. She gave the cabbie five, kept fifteen, and took the bus back to her student apartment. Becky was living proof that “bad girls go everywhere.” Her string of men paid for all her transportation, theater tickets and restaurant tabs.

Unlike Holly however, Becky was a bona fide tramp as opposed to a professional one. She had wrecked six or seven healthy relationships and broken one home in Evanston and one in Sao Paolo. Her legal husband in Switzerland never bothered to contact her any more, and Becky never expected to get alimony from anyone (his Helvetian pension at death would surely be more than enough reward when that day came). Indeed, Becky didn’t care to get married again. She just wanted to live comfortably and enjoy life. That would be easy enough to achieve as long as her looks held up.

Her parents’ dramatic demise had been the trump card that won Giangiacomo’s hand. She could tell he was ripening, making overtures to her, and conveniently bumping into her when Emilia wasn’t with him. No one else ever thought twice about a liaison between them, because Becky still lived with her “boyfriend” at that point, an unassuming and unattractive intellectual of the left and leading gerontologist at a hospital in the country near Godo. She definitely liked men to be smart, hardworking, and high earning; looks were not even a tertiary consideration. She got what she wanted in the end, and what she didn’t need or want was anyone’s approval. All she needed to get was to create a “reaction” as she coyly put it, and she didn’t even need that for her own pleasure. She delighted in her tactics because when she “wielded” the reaction, she knew had complete control of the situation. When things got too bad in a relationship, she simply moved on: to another country, another land, another time zone, all bursting with new zippers waiting to be opened, and fortunes to be plundered.
           She hit the candy store when she crossed Lake Maggiore to Italy. Italian men were the easiest to work of all; they were little boys who loved looking at the counters of pastries even if they couldn’t afford what they saw. Becky wore a dark red crushed velvet suit to her interviews and was treated like an expensive box of truffles and pralines. One of her interviewers introduced her to the CEO of a forklift concern and she began giving wildly popular English lessons at Giangiacomo’s office. It wasn‘t long before the office manager offered her a part-time job in the secretarial pool. 
         Becky felt like she had opened a branch of Godiva Chocolates right there at the offices outside Godo. The men all but drooled when she walked into a room and when she walked out, she occasionally heard the subtle wolf howls and soft whistles. If the testosterone in their veins had turned to glucose, she would have left them all lying on the floors in diabetic shock. This was exactly the situation she thrived on.

Becky was not however, really interested in men. She liked them well enough to put up with them and let them flirt with her. Nothing was quite as satisfying as a little attention. She didn’t want jewelry or a fur thrown in here or there, or even really good handbags. She just wanted luxurious ease and someone to look after her and take care of all the financial details of survival. She could do the rest. What really interested Becky romantically was her friend Fabiana who had suggested they both move from Lugano to Godo.

Fabiana was not much inclined to the idea of being a lesbian; indeed, that was the last thing on her mind, but Fabiana adored Becky all the same and the two best girlfriends had a grand time together. Becky never made a second pass at Fabiana. Becky was just happy to have Fabiana around and sleep over at her house when Giangiacomo was away on business. Fabiana thoroughly enjoyed being around Becky but Becky was just a fun best girlfriend for her; they laughed and ate too many American brownies and had a ripping good time together. Fabiana and Becky were truly bosom buddies.

Becky settled for this. She knew that her “arrangement” with Fabiana was going to be the sexless, sentimental love affair that had been common in the 19^th century and way into the 20^th century. Sex was all right, but Becky’s main interest in sex was employing it as a social tool rather than a romantic expression. She just wanted to have Fabiana around to gaze upon and spoil. Becky knew exactly how to attain this and make everyone around her as happy as possible.

Becky looked out the living room window. The baker’s window across the street glowed with the “Beans of the Dead:” brightly colored, misshapen lumps of egg white tinted in pastel hues of pink and green and azure, beige and white. They tasted of anise, and Becky really wasn’t quite wild about them, but they were the typical food for “The Dead.” This was what the Romagnols brutally called “All Soul’s Day” in the Episcopalian calendar, the Second of November. Old women would take a big bag of the Beans of the Dead to the cemetery, sit on their husbands’ tombs and munch on their festive cookies. They offered their open white paper bags to passersby, while they spent the day outdoors among the bright clean blooms of “The Dead.”

Becky couldn’t do that for her parents. They had disappeared. She was supposed to meet them in Paris, but the flight they were on burst into flame and disintegrated right off the coast of Brazil right as it was gaining altitude after it took off on that stormy February day last winter. Nothing was ever found of Mummy and Papa, not a suitcase, not a watch, not a shoelace, not a femur. They simply vaporized. If they hadn’t been coming to visit Becky, they wouldn’t have died. Everyone thought this, but no one of course said it. Becky pondered it deep in her heart and wept big ploshy tears which drizzled down her lovely cheeks, her eyes brimming with water, deepening the gleam of her emerald green irises, and making her look other-worldly. 
          There was no consoling her. Her parents were just gone, and they would not be back. Becky would never know where her mother hid her pin money, she would never know if her father had had an affair. She would never be able to ask them questions about their courtship, because that tale no longer existed; it had exploded with them. Mummy and Papa took it with them as the fuselage swelled bright red, the oxygen inside the cabin exploded, and a hundred tourists, old women and little children, college students and businessmen in first class screamed and lost their earthly existence, taking their bank account numbers with them, forgoing their next fattening little treat, missing their history homework, never again to see their mothers come to pick them up after school. In the twinkling of any eye, everything was gone.

Everything vanished except for the living who can only live for themselves and their dead.

These Italians and their rites of death! They were stubbornly tradition-bound even in their behavior at death. The Neapolitan woman named Carmen who came to iron Giangiacomo’s shirts (and the rest of his clothing for that matter), repulsed and fascinated Becky. Carmen explained to Becky one day as she was ironing Giangi’s gym socks, that every year she returned to a small town near Pozzuoli to take care of her mother. The oddity was that Carmen’s mother hadn’t been alive for the last fifteen years. Each year all the same, Carmen took the last week of October and the first week of November off and traveled by train so she could open her Mother’s tomb and get her ready for the Feast of the Dead as she called it. She would brush her mother’s hair and sponge bathe her body, change her underwear and sweep out the coffin, before she fluffed the pillow and laid her mother back to rest. The cemetery guardian would come and push the coffin back into the wall, and remount the tombstone with a little grout, just enough to make it easy to pry the tombstone off again the next year.

Becky sincerely thought the woman was trying to scare her, until Giangiacomo told her that this sort of “Fall Cleaning” was not at all unheard of in the south of Italy. In the north, the women busied themselves with scrubbing the tombstones and putting out fresh flowers. Then they would go to the hairdresser’s themselves, put on a nice fresh dress, and go take a walk in the cemetery for The Dead, noticing whose tomb was gleaming and whose wasn’t. At this point, The Dead had become social event that reflected none of the hideous anguish and histrionic pain that poured out at Italian funerals. This had been a year for funerals: Becky had really had enough of them.

Giangiacomo’s mother had been the first to pass away in the dead of winter, amidst the cold and sleet and snow and rain. It came as no surprise to anyone; Mamma Zaira’s husband had “found relief” two years before and Zaira quickly went downhill without someone to reprimand morning, noon, and night. A couple of weeks after Christmas Zaira landed in the hospital with uterine cancer for a mercifully short two weeks; every day she got weaker and weaker. Becky did her best to go and help which was very much appreciated, since Giangiacomo’s wife had never gotten along with her mother-in-law. Giangiacomo’s sister Marilena was the real caretaker in the family, and she was always at home cooking and cleaning and in the hospital tending to Mamma Zaira. Though Becky would gladly have spent hours in the hospital looking after Zaira (it really wasn’t hard work and would definitely get her major brownie points with the family), she usually only relieved Marilena so she could go get a quick bite of something to eat at the hospital cafe. The old lady generally slept the entire time Becky was there, so Becky read her magazines and smiled at the nurses as they padded by.

Until the day before she died. Marilena had been gone no more than ten minutes, when Mamma Zaira sat bolt upright in bed as if she had sprung from a jack-in-the-box. Her head rolled from side to side, her eyes wildly flashed and she violently waved her scrawny chicken wing arms as she shouted: “Anacleto! I’m coming! Anacleto, I’m coming! Anacleto! I’m coming!” Becky tried to calm her down, but to no effect and she rang for the nurses who were having lunch too, and in no hurry to help with the old woman.

“This means she’ll last maybe one day more,” said the nurse as he tightened the restraints around the old woman’s ankles. “When they start talking about seeing their dead husbands, that means they’re ready to pass. It always happens just before a full moon. It pulls them away from the Earth.”

The next day was indeed spent at the mortuary chamber. Becky was working but she managed to go as soon as she had her lunch break, just in time for the dramatic entrance of Nonna Egle, Mamma Zaira’s mother, who was over ninety, still ambulatory, and lucid. The room was cold, the coffin was closed, and everyone was standing around scuffling their feet among the gelid banks of flowers.
           Zaira’s mother Nonna Egle hobbled in, her white hair starkly framed by a black astrakhan hat that rose dramatically up from her forehead, like a Renaissance beret that Jane Jetson might wear. Nonna Egle opened her mouth as she walked towards the coffin but no sound issued. She knelt before the coffin on its marble bier and pounded the lid with one fist, while she buried her face in her other hand. She did not cry, she did not speak, she did not make a sound except for her feeble hand thudding against the varnished wood. This high theater left no doubt as to the depth of Nonna Egle’s pain and loss. Seeing your daughter pass away before you did was a perverse tragedy. Becky was however glad that Giangiacomo had not been there to see it. It would have ripped him in two.

The funeral the following day was far easier to deal with. Mamma Zaira had been a fierce priest eater and wanted very little to do with the church, so the family could not even get the parish priest to come and perform the service for old acquaintance or considerable donation. Giangiacomo was having dinner at home the night before the service with his children, and Becky was walking out the door lest she be there when they all arrived. The maid Gepa came up to Becky, grabbed her roughly by the arm, shook her, and looked into her eye sternly inveighing: “The mortuary chamber. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Be there!” Then Gepa marched off to lay the table.

Becky made it to the mortuary chamber in the bleak fog of an early February day. The room was empty except for the casket; they had moved all the flowers into the mortuary chapel, since Mamma Zaira specifically stated that she did not want her body going in and out of the portals of a church. Becky had not slept well; she was particularly concerned about how Emilia would behave at the funeral. Becky did however know she needed to be there for Giangiacomo and discreetly ingratiate herself with Marilena and perhaps Marilena’s daughter and Giangiacomo’s children. Becky would stay in the background as invisibly as possible. She was quite surprised that Gepa had insisted on Becky’s being at the mortuary chamber this morning, but Becky knew Gepa was on her side. Giangiacomo’s wife had not been an easy person to get along with in general and Gepa wasn’t going to miss taking orders from her former mistress who had moved out with the children just the week before.

Becky sat and stared at the coffin in the glum light of the concrete and glass brick room. Everything was cold and grey and she wrapped her black overcoat tighter around her. Mamma Zaira meant nothing to her. Becky had no feeling for the woman, she was not sorry she had died; she was not going to miss her at all. But funerals were not for the dead, or at least that was what her mother had always taught her. Funerals were for the living.

Gepa waddled in, her head was wrapped in a black silk headscarf, framing her white face and glasses. Gepa too was bundled up in a maroon overcoat and she sat down next to Becky on the cold grey plastic chair with her best pocketbook on her lap and her feet dangling six inches above the ground. Gepa was quite short, and shaped like a champagne cork.

“Poor thing, thanks for coming. I know it wasn’t easy and today isn’t going to be easy for you, but il Signorino is going to need you nearby at a certain point. La Signora won’t be much fun today, and the children are too young to care a whole lot about what happens. They won’t understand grief for a while. Marilena will be glad to see you in the background, and I’ll make sure nothing happens. You don’t need to worry. You’re in. You don’t need to lord it over anybody today and it’s not worth your time to rub anyone’s nose in it.”

Becky had won another person over to her side, one of the strategic presences in Giangi’s life. Italian men could get along without their girlfriends, they could get along without their wives or their mistresses, but they were completely lost without their mothers and their nannies. Becky just recently seen an advertisement that ran: “You can change your car or you can change your girlfriend, but your soccer team and Mamma are forever.”

Still it was cold and grey and bleak. They both sat there staring at the coffin. Gepa finally broke the silence again.

“It’s kind of nice though that Mamma Zaira decided to be cremated, doncha think?”

“Nice? Why do you think it’s nice?”

“Well, because this way, there won’t be all those worms crawling in and out of her body.”

“I suppose you have a point there, Gepa.”

Such sheer lack of any sensitivity actually made the funeral easier to deal with. Becky left the mortuary chamber just as she saw Emilia drive up with the kids and went to stand in the chapel. This room was a little warmer, and they had put out about twenty chairs for a crowd that ended up being around eighty. When the mourners assembled, Emilia took over the seating arrangements, refusing to let Mamma Zaira’s elderly country cousins have a place to sit, arguing that her children needed to have Emilia near them, as did Giangiacomo and Marilena, and they would all be standing too long. It was appalling behavior.

They wheeled the coffin in, a large spray of daffodils on the lid, with glittering ribbons announcing tributes from Zaira’s son and daughter and the grandchildren. Giangiacomo and Marilena followed the “rented” priest in behind the casket and sat down and took their places as the priest started to read from his breviary. After the first prayers were over, he started to speak about the dearly departed and advancing towards the coffin, moved one of the ribbons to see what her name was so he could repeat it. It gave new meaning to the phrase “being prepared.” This shocked everyone. Then he launched in a dreadfully tedious sermon about the sanctity of marriage and the crime of abortion that was obviously aimed at Giangiacomo and his niece; the priest had prepared this part of his service with pitiless aim. The temporary congregation had forgotten their grief by the end of the ceremony.

As the casket was being wheeled out, people started chatting before getting in their cars to go to the crematorium, and Becky stayed in the back. Several people came up to speak to her, but she didn’t budge. She was not going to put herself in the way of any trouble whatsoever which was rather likely. She waited until everyone was gone and then wandered out the back door to the Mortuary Hall’s service rooms.

Giangiacomo was standing there, bent over a bouquet of roses, trying to smell them. Tears were running down his cheeks. He turned to Becky and said: “I just, I just, I just need to find one beautiful thing and then I can go to the crematorium.” Becky threw her arms around him, held him tight, and walked him out to the parking lot. His brother-in-law Lauro was waiting for him in the car, with Lauro’s spinster sister, Tonina. Lauro flashed a broad smile at Becky.

“Becky, you come with us.”

“Oh, I really shouldn’t. I’m …”

“Going to be my new sister-in-law at least in practice, so you might as well come. Everybody’s left and no one’s going to see you arrive with Giangi, now will they? If his children had been less interested in how the seating arrangements broadcast their social standing and more interested in their father’s well-being, they certainly wouldn’t have left without him. Now, come on, get in.”

Becky and Giangiacomo piled into the back seat. She very chastely held his hand on the car seat between them, despite the disapproving glance of Tonina who immediately started and never stopped speaking the entire time they were in the car.

“Well, I must say your mother looked very well just before we screwed the lid down. Her lips were just starting to curl away from her teeth. She hadn’t even wet her clothing the way that happens in the summer, you know when it gets so hot and all that liquid in their skin starts to leak just everywhere. Dying in February, now that’s the way a lady goes, I’ll tell you that! There’s nothing worse than seeing a dampened blouse on a corpse, now is there?”

Becky would have liked to say: “Oh yes, there is. The worms!” but knew better. Tonina’s monologue indeed was so atrocious that Giangiacomo forgot his agony, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling of the car, and clenching Becky’s hand a little tighter. Becky’s undemanding attendance had cemented their future.

Becky abandoned them at the crematorium. She waited until Lauro and Tonina had gotten out of the car and turned to Giangiacomo. “Giangiacomo,” she said, “you need to go and be with your sister and your children now and you might want to have everybody back to the house. I’ll be having dinner at Fabiana’s tonight if you need to give me a call and want me with you; if you don’t I’ll understand.”

Becky walked back by herself as the lovely fog slowly lifted off the fields and the warm yellow ball of the sun dried up the air. She had moved in with Giangiacomo three weeks later at the nadir of her grief. The only thing she had changed in the house was the curtains. Giangiacomo’s wife adored the rich and the expensive, and the heavy brocade drapes she had installed years ago were immediately removed upon Becky’s triumphal entry: she and Gepa replaced them singlehandedly, with simple floor to ceiling white silk sheers. In just one day, it looked like Becky had let the sun into the whole house, only because she had. Giangiacomo loved the new look with his mother’s old family furniture, his wife’s comfortable overstuffed modern sofas and armchairs, and his father’s collection of antique pharmacy jars. Becky was going to work out just fine; she would make Giangi quite happy.

Becky moved one of the sheers to the side to see the street and saw Fabiana get out of her car and ring the doorbell. Becky flew downstairs, threw open the door and gave her bosom buddy a big hug.

“Come in, come in, come in, come in! I’m so glad to see you!”

“Oh, I can’t stay. I have to take Mamma to the cemetery, don’t you know? I was wondering if you wanted to come along. I can . . ..”

“Oh, thanks Fabi, I’m waiting for Giangiacomo any moment now. But give me a call tomorrow. He’ll be out of town until next week, and you can come over. We’ll have a sleepover! I found you the footy pajamas we used to wear when we were kids! And we’ll have hot chocolate and sweet clementines.”

“You are a nut! But I like the idea. Talk to you tomorrow! Bye!”

Fabiana gave Becky a big kiss and walked back to the car. Fabiana really was just as cute as cute could be and Becky gushed every time she saw her. She shouted

“Tell your mother hello from me!”

“Will do. Bye!”

Fabiana’s mother was a real piece of work. You would never imagine that Fabiana had come from such a backward country family. Her mother had worked in a fruit-canning factory and continually entertained them with stories of how they used the oldest, moldiest, rottenest, stinkiest fruit to make marmalade. Fabiana and her mother fought continuously. They were always screaming at one another, slamming doors, throwing kitchen tools and painted figurines at the walls and floors. Yesterday, her mother had threatened to dye all of Fabiana’s clothing black; Fabiana had to mourn for the death of her father! She couldn’t go out for at least a year! Everyone had to see it! Fabiana simply responded: “If you dye my clothes black, then I’ll buy new clothes. And they won’t be black! Do you understand? NOOOOOOO!”

Fabiana had worshipped her father but Becky had never gotten much of a chance to see Alvise; he was always working when Becky and Fabiana first met and Fabiana did not often invite people to her home in Santerno. Then he started to feel poorly, and Alvise was quickly diagnosed with cancer of the kidneys. It was horrible. Becky only remembered meeting him once, one warm evening last June. Alvise was sitting outside their home with a quilted comforter wrapped around his shoulders despite the sweet, balmy air. He didn’t say much, nor did Fabiana’s mother but mainly because everyone was being regaled by running commentary of the little girl from across the street.
          She had just started to notice that women went topless at the beach, and their breasts, high and firm, or saggy and swaying, endlessly fascinated little Lucia. She talked about how the women used shells to protect their nipples, but the Adriatic hardly had shells big enough to cover the nipples of some of the older women, so they resorted to making a rosette of smaller shells on each nipple. Some women, Lucia noticed, would not go bare breasted on the beach, but you just wait until they got out in the water! When no one was looking, PLIF! They’d pull off their tops and their mottled bosoms would roll down their chests to their stomachs, just like squirrels running down a tree! No, they dropped even faster than that!

Everyone laughed. It was more akin to behavioral sociology and journalistic description with a nine-year-old’s enthusiasm for discovering something completely new, rather than prurient interest in sex.

The next time Becky saw Fabiana’s mother, was at her father’s funeral on a golden September afternoon. Mother and daughter had been fighting fiercely since husband and father had died two days earlier. Fabiana refused to go the mortuary chamber. She refused to watch them take the electric drill and screw the lid down on her father’s coffin. She even refused to go into the small octagonal chapel where the funeral mass was to be held. Fabiana waited outside, dry-eyed and gracious.

“Don’t you want to go in? I’ll sit with you. It’ll make your mother happy.”

“I don’t care what makes her happy. She doesn’t care what makes me happy. We both have to put up with each other at home, at least we can get some time away from each other here.”

“Whatever you say.”

Becky entered the church, a handsomely proportioned baroque construction that had remained intact for the last two hundred years, lost as it was in the countryside. Its yellow and white stucco, Stations of the Cross in old engravings, and an altar made of red Veronese marble with white inlay were gently illuminated by eight windows piercing the small octagonal cupola. White lilies lay on the coffin and white lilies stood on the altar. Fabiana’s mother was already seated on the front row, a black scarf over her head despite the warm day, holding her pocketbook in one hand, and wiping her eyes with a handkerchief in her other hand. There were very few men; Becky walked up to say hello and give her condolences.

“Thank you. But my life is over! It’s finished. It’s the end for me!”

Becky tried briefly to console her but quickly realized from the glances of the women sitting around her that perhaps she should go back to her pew. The priest finally came and said mass. Becky was glad when it came time to give the sign of peace to your neighbor. This was the only part of the Catholic Mass she enjoyed, because you actually got to smile and interact with another human being.

No one in the congregation moved. Except Becky. The people around her took her hand without looking at her and averted their gaze to the floor. It was mortifying.

When the mass was over, four pallbearers came forward and inserted poles underneath the wooden casket. They raised it, and walked down the aisle out into the sunlight. Fabiana’s mother walked out as the entire whole congregation followed her, one after another. Becky was among the last out of the church, since she had been sitting towards the back. The little procession slowly ambled through the gentle sun shining on the countryside on a fabulously dappled early autumn day. Grapes were hanging heavy from the vines in the countryside and small white flowers still bloomed on the side of the dirt road that led from the church to the cemetery. Becky was struck by the extraordinary beauty of the moment, the perfect day to leave the Earth; it reminded her of a painting by Corot and something Goethe once wrote. Becky saw Fabiana up ahead walking with her mother, trying to hold her hand or put her arm on her shoulder.

After no more than ten minutes, they arrived at the cemetery. The priest shook the asperser onto the coffin, waved his censer once or twice, and made the sign of the cross. Then he walked over and shook the hands of Fabiana’s mother, Fabiana, and a few of her relatives, before leaving. The pallbearers had rested the coffin on a small accordion-like pedestal, in front of a high mausoleum wall of white cement and glass brick. An open hole at hip level had been recently whitewashed inside and glowed in the afternoon sun. The pallbearers now picked up the coffin by the handles on its sides and slid the casket into the waiting cavity: Alvise’s tomb. They went over and shook Fabiana’s mother’s hand and Fabiana’s and the hands of the relatives and then they walked off. A man in white speckled overalls, sunburnt under a newspaper hat, came from behind the mausoleum carrying a trowel and a bucket full of mortar. 
         He smiled and pulled the tarp off a pile of bricks to one side, and he closed up the tomb methodically, rough red brick after rough red brick, consigning the casket to the dark for eternity. Fabiana’s mother now lost all control, weeping and screaming, her body shaking violently, swooning, and coming to. The brick mason was quick at his work and after he put the last brick in place, he edged up the mortar with his coarse fingers, and placed a marble tablet over it. Then he lined that with mortar too, cleaned it with gritty water, and left. Fabiana’s mother now stumbled over to the tomb, and pounded on the tablet with her fists, screaming and weeping “Alvise! Alvise! Alvise!”

The women around her looked at each other sadly and clucked their tongues. Fabiana had already disappeared, and after five more minutes of this wrenching scene of grief and pain, Becky walked back through the countryside to her car. Did she ever hate funerals! Death! Did we really have to dwell on it? Couldn’t we think about something else? Couldn’t the Italians restrain their emotions and do something positive at funerals?

She hoped she had been to her last funeral of the year and then Tonina and Lauro’s father died. He was old and losing his mind, and the time had pretty much come for him to go, so there was no pounding of fists or dramatic black clothing or histrionic weeping. This time you could feel that a life had gone full cycle, and with Tonina’s offhand, completely tasteless running commentary about her father, people were too embarrassed to even be especially mournful, focused as they were on keeping their mouths shut and getting away from her. Gepa had been at the mortuary chamber all morning, since Marilena had asked her if Gepa could help them out and spend a few nights a week at her father-in-law’s home while he slowly passed in the previous weeks. Gepa also seemed resigned and not unduly upset. Indeed, if you get could away from Tonina (and that was not easy to do), the mortuary chamber was actually a pleasant chance to catch up with old acquaintances. 
          Becky wandered back when they pulled the coffin off the bier. Just before the lid was screwed down, the women huddled around the corpse, straightened its hair, checked the clothing for signs of moisture, and left something in the coffin: a flower, a scarf, a model car, a copy of the day’s paper with the obituary in it. As Becky turned the corner, she saw a man with an electric drill preparing to screw the nails into the coffin with a piercingly invasive metallic whine. Tonina was looking tearfully on, but the noise was so shrill and repetitive (there were at least thirty screws to go in; this was one stiff that wouldn’t be walking) that Becky had to leave.

She walked back into the mortuary chamber and saw Emilia on the right, so Becky tacked left and sat down beside Gepa. Becky knew this was the safest place in the room for her. Giangiacomo’s wife wouldn’t come anywhere near Gepa. Gepa was blinking behind her thick eyeglasses, her legs dangling off the chair as she was surveying all the people in the room, people she had known her entire life. Becky tried to initiate some conversation.

“Funerals aren’t much fun, but this one’s not as bad as they other two I’ve been to this year. You know what I hate the most? The people standing around the casket while they take the electric drill and screw the nails into the coffin with that high-pitched wail, one after another. Jhhhinngggg! Jhhhinngggg! Jhhhinngggg! Jhhhinngggg! It’s the last thing I want to hear, especially when at last I’ve started thinking that the dearly departed has achieved some sort of peace.”

“I know just what you mean, Signorina. You know what I hate?”

“No, Gepa. What do you hate?”

“The stench!”

Becky paled as this brought to mind the fact that Italians did not usually embalm bodies. It was likely there would be quite a stench but Becky gratefully had never smelt it. This time Gepa’s comment made Becky wince and then smirk a little bit. Gepa’s comment was one of those things that are in such bad taste they’re wickedly funny.

* * * * *

The front door opened and shook Becky from her thoughts. Giangiacomo walked into the foyer of their home and without taking his coat off, waited for Gepa and Becky to join him. He wasn't impatient, but he was ready to leave. So were they.

“Signorino, do you want me to get some flowers from . . .

“No, no, don’t worry I’ve already got the flowers in the car. Are you two ready?”

Gepa was wrapping her scarf around her head and Becky slipped on a long vintage black astrakhan coat she had bought at the flea market. They rode to the cemetery in silence.

The fog was lifting. To the left, the fields of Romagna stretched flat and broad up towards Venice, turning into marshes and thence to lagoon, having protected the population for centuries and now isolating them for the last dozen decades. An avenue of umbrella pines appeared on the right and then on the left, darkening the road that ran along the edge of the channel to the port. The pine trees arranged themselves into circles and then rows as they arrived at the terracotta wall of the cemetery where hundreds and hundreds of cars had parked on a thick carpet of pine needles. Giangiacomo and Becky and Gepa got out of the car, retrieved their bouquets of daisies and gladioli and mums out of the trunk, and walked through the neogothic gates of the cemetery, headed for the tomb of Giangiacomo’s mother.

There in freshly carved letters was the date of her death; Mamma Zaira lay alongside her husband. Giangiacomo and Marilena had decided to remove the photograph of their father. Mamma Zaira, had taken a Polaroid of him in his casket two years ago and insisted on having it photographically transferred to the ceramic oval she placed on his tomb. Giangi and Marilena had also decided not to use the photograph of Mamma Zaira which she had insisted on preparing last summer, expressly for the purpose of placing it on her tomb to match the picture of her husband. The substitute photograph had been an easy choice: their parents’ engagement double portrait.

In her twenties, Mamma Zaira had a lovely smile, good hair, and a delicate hand poised on her fiancé’s shoulder. Her future husband’s body was solid and unusually elegant in short-sleeved shirt and high waisted trousers as he looked darkly at the camera. The picture had been taken in the hills above Faenza and you could make out a medieval tower in the background.

Becky placed her hand on Giangiacomo’s shoulder, gave Gepa a look, and realized she needed to leave him alone. Gepa nodded yes to her, so Becky bent over and said: “I’ll meet you here in fifteen minutes. Bye.”

Becky turned onto the gravel path and took in the whole cemetery for the first time. The graves were all sparkling clean, and as far as the eye could see, pleasing clumps of color indicated the presence of fresh flowers, some fresh botanically, some fresh plastically, but all fresh. The individual graves were petite masterpieces in eclectic architecture that alternated between Flintstone-like rustication and Art Deco flamboyance to space age streamlining and Palladian harmony or Romanesque stateliness. Large mausoleums in the arches of the cemetery’s central brick arms even held Byzantine style sarcophagi sculpted in the nineteenth century for graves in the grand style, with mosaics of stags drinking the waters of life, copied from the mausoleum of Galla Placidia. The tombs were not really quite as grandiose as they were idiosyncratic, reflecting the personality of the deceased or their survivors, whom no one remembered at this point.

Becky turned the corner, and perched on an expansive square of a white tomb rising majestically like a marble sheet cake, sat Tonina. She was wearing a perfectly smart black Versace suit with gold braid, she had just had her hair styled and colored, and her hand was wandering over a new Fendi pocketbook. She beckoned for Becky to come over and Tonina put her hand out to help Becky up so she could also sit on top of the tomb for a better vantage of the graveyard. Tonina even smelled good.

“It’s so nice to see you, Becky. How are things going?”

“Oh, very well, very well.”

“You left Giangiacomo at Zaira’s grave I imagine.”

“Yes, he …”

“He needs a little time alone with his mother. I’ve been here with my Babbo and Mamma a couple of hours. I’ve seen so many old faces, so many new ones. And the cemetery is looking especially nice this year, don’t you think?”

Becky swiveled her head full circle and took in the whole cemetery, people in their Sunday clothes, children playing in the gravel, flowers adorning almost every grave, and the brick walls delimiting the cemetery, ringed on the exterior perimeter by dark green umbrella pines. Above the pine trees, the immense Romagnol sky spread in all directions: east to the sea and Yugoslavia, north to the Alps, west to the fertile plain, and south to Africa.

“It is.”

“Here, want a cookie?”

Tonina opened her new pocketbook to reveal a white paper sack that contained the pastel Beans of the Dead. Becky reached in a pulled out a turquoise one and bit into it. It was sweet, laced with anisette scenting the egg white and sugar. Tonina picked up a feldspar green cookie and closed her pocketbook. She crossed her legs, sheathed in new Christian Dior hose which Becky immediately coveted, and turned her torso towards Becky, cocking her head.

“Is it like this in Chicago? When do you go and visit your grandparents’ graves? Is there a special day?” (Tonina was a boorish woman, but she knew well enough not to mention Becky’s parents).

“Oh no. I’ve never been to their graves.”

Tonina was visibly taken aback.

“Never?”

“No, never. But my mother never went to visit their graves either and they were her parents. ‘My father isn’t there,’ is what she used to tell me.”

Tonina’s teeth had clenched at the thought of Becky not visiting her grandparents’ graves; all of a sudden however, face relaxed.

“I guess it’s just a different way of seeing things.”

Tonina was not terribly clever or worldly, but for the first time Becky realized that Tonina had an understanding nature.

“That’s one way of looking at it, Tonina. But today I do wish I had the graves of my parents to visit.” A lump rose in Rebecca’s throat, she raised her head high looking in the direction of the sea, and her eyes filled with tears. She choked silently, swallowed, and felt Tonina’s hand sliding between hers, grasping them.

“Well Becky, you should just remember; today they’re here all the same, as long as you’re thinking about them. I’m sure that’s what your mother would have told you. Today is the Day of All the Dead, as the calendar says. Romagna is a good place to die, as you can clearly see if you look around you. After the nastiness and horrors of funerals, we all make a considerable effort so that death is as pretty and dignified as it can possibly be.”

Tonina then kept silent until she could feel Becky’s moment of anguish had passed and she relinquished her grip on Becky’s hand.

“Well Becky, I don’t know about you, but my fanny is frozen solid from sitting on this damn tomb for the last two hours. Let’s go find Giangiacomo and Lauro see if they won’t buy us a pastry and a cup of chocolate before lunch. We’ve eaten our Beans of the Dead. We deserve some whipped cream to go on top of them.”

Tonina smiled, stood up, and sauntered away toward Zaira’s grave, leaving Becky still sitting on the spacious white tomb. Becky surveyed the graveyard. This was a good place to die. But to die here, she would have to live here too. Her day was coming: her looks, her body would soon not be quite as desirable as she they needed to be for her to keep up her game. Gravity was inexorably pulling every part of her towards the ground and thence to the graveyard: her face, her bosoms, her thighs. She knew she couldn’t sleep her way any higher to the top. She could resign herself to settling down. She had all the furniture she needed. She could put on a little weight, get a cat, give it a name, and buy a Tiffany choker for it to wear. And maybe one for herself.

All Saint’s Day

November 1, 1993

“Well, where can I buy some fresh milk?”

Karen looked down at the special mix of granola, oat fiber, and Special K she had lugged all the way from America to eat at breakfast since she had been told she would not find breakfast cereals anywhere in Italy. She had asked for a small pitcher of milk and the waitress serving in the quiet blue velvet and brass breakfast room at the hotel had brought her a stainless steel jug bubbling with hot, frothy milk. This would have been fine for her cappuccino, but Karen was not about to ruin her breakfast cereal with it. She had driven by herself from Rome (getting out of the city was a nightmare in her tiny rental vehicle) and then to Assisi and Perugia, and after that to Florence. Now she was on her way, to Venice, finally. She had learned that if she wanted fresh milk, she had to go out and buy it herself. None of the hotels kept it on hand

“Geeb no meelk Freesch.”

 “I know, I would like to buy some. Where can I get some?”

“Geeb No Meelkh Frisch.”

 “You don’t need to give it to me. I Want to Buy Some, Please!”

“GIB NO MILCH FRISCH.”

No matter what Karen said, the waitress repeated the same phrase, each time a little louder.

“Thank you. I’ll just have a cappuccino, please.”

“Capuccino, ja. Orangensaft?”

“No thank you, no soft oranges, thank you. Just a cappuccino, please.”

She got up from the table in desperation and went to speak to the front desk clerk. She remembered he spoke English when he checked her in.

“I am so sorry Madam, today is holiday national. All is closed. I don’t think you find fresh milk nowhere. We have only milk of long conservation, and I think this milk you will not like very much if it is cold. It feels like, how you say . . .”

“You mean it smells like formaldehyde? Yeah, I guess you’re right about that. Isn’t there any fresh milk anywhere? Oh well, and while we’re at it, what’s this story about soft oranges?”

“Soft oranges?” I have no idea. Who did to you speak of soft oranges?”

“The waitress. She asked if I wanted my oranges soft.”

“Oranges soft? Ach, she was meaning oranjoos.”

“Orange juice? Well, I suppose they are softer when they’re squeezed.”

“Oh madam, no no no no no. The waitress speaks little English. Almost all clients here is German and so she speaks German with you. But now all is fine. I get you milk fresh for tomorrow. You not to worry. But for today, milk fresh is impossible.”

Karen trudged back up the five steps to the little dining room with her bowl of select cereals and nibbled on them like a horse munching its oats and sipped on her cappuccino from time to time. She opened her guidebook to see what there was to see in this tiny town off the beaten track. Her friends had told her that something here was an absolute must, but she really didn’t remember what “Undoubtedly the world’s finest Byzantine mosaics are to be found in Ravenna’s jewel in the most glittering of crowns, San Vitale.”

Karen read and looked at the pictures long enough to whip up some enthusiasm. The day was cold and ashen and she could actually see light wisps of dove gray fog floating past the window of the warm breakfast room that gave onto a narrow cobble-paved street. She got out her map and plotted her itinerary on the breakfast table before going up to her room to dress for the magical misty tour.

When she finally got to San Vitale, the doors were closed. In fact, the whole town looked like it was still in the throes of midnight. Nothing was open, not a bar, not a pharmacy, not a shoe store. This was Tuesday morning! How did things ever get done in this country? Every town she went to had different shop opening and closing times. It was absolutely maddening.

“Well, at least I can look at the architecture.”

She wandered around to the side of the church and saw great jagged flying buttresses of broken bricks ascending the side of a squat brick church with rounded arches for windows. She couldn't even peek inside these windows because they had used opaque panes instead of glass. The cobblestones were cold on her feet so she sat down on one of those great marble cylinders that the Italians were always scattering about their cities. It looked like a giantess’s tampax from the Stone Age.

There was absolutely no one, anywhere. Karen dutifully followed the little itinerary she had made out for herself and she wandered from baptistery to cathedral to Aryan temple, but she only met closed doors and old women dressed in black pedaling on bicycles, carrying flowers and buckets and mops. The fog was not lifting and it was actually getting colder. The sun hardly shone and when it did it, it only illuminated the bleakness of the whole day. This unquestionably, was the worst day of her vacation. She started to think about her daughter in the hospital.

She turned the corner and went past a closed department store as she walked towards a “new church.” Yeah, this one was new! It was from the fifth century according to her guidebook. She was turning the page to find out who was murdered to take it over and she set her foot on the cobbled stones to cross the street when a dark red Alfa Romeo suddenly appeared above the page number on her guidebook, right in front of her.

She was so startled she didn’t hear the brakes screech as the car stopped literally five inches from her hip. She wouldn’t have heard it anyway, over the excruciating pain she was feeling right then. The heel on her left shoe did not hit the cobblestone where she thought it would; there was a depression of about a fourth of an inch. As her leg descended, her foot angled ever so slightly outwards. The rubber heel on the rough edge of her walking shoes caught on the stone and her foot turned completely towards the instep. Karen basically stepped on her ankle bone instead of the sole of her foot. The blood drained from her face and she lurched forward onto the hood of the car, gasping. Her bag and guidebook fell to the ground as the driver threw the car into park and jumped out of the car.

          “Si é fatta male?”

Karen could hardly think, much less speak. And certainly not Italian.

“Si é fatta male?”

She lifted her bowed head and tried to catch her breath. The driver took one look at her ashen face and realized she had been hurt and was in awful pain.

“Venga qui.”

The driver grabbed her by her right elbow and helped her hobble around the car to the passenger’s side. He opened the door and helped her sit down in the back seat. It was a nice car, warm and plush. But Karen did not feel at ease.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand and I don’t speak any Italian.”

“Sprechen sie Deustch?”

“Why does everyone think I’m German?” Karen wondered. “No, not German, or French either for that matter. I’m just a dumb American.”

“Americana! Che Fortuna!”

“No, my name’s not Kay, it’s Karen.” Karen had caught her breath but she was not starting to feel a bit better.

An old man drove up on a bicycle and spoke to the driver who had almost hit Karen. They rapidly exchanged some information and then the driver got out a piece of paper and wrote something on it and gave the man some change. He cycled off.

“What’s going on?” She was starting to feel the pain in her ankle again. “I think I need to go to the emergency room.”

“No, non c'e' nessun emergenza. Warten sie, warten sie.”

“Oh now,  what am I supposed to do with warts in the sea?” Karen was getting nervous. Here she was in a strange town, hurt, almost killed in an automobile accident, sitting in a stranger’s car. Things were not looking good. She straightened up and turned to stand. “I think I need to leave.”

“No, no, aspetta!”

“I don’t want a pet. I really need to leave.” Karen tried to stand up but as soon as she put weight on her left foot, the excruciating pain returned and the blood drained from her face again. She sat back in the seat. She was starting to sweat in the cold and that made her clammy and feel even worse.

          The driver looked at her carefully. He was giving her the creeps. A police car rolled by.

“Help! Help me! Please, take me to the police station.”

The driver looked at Karen helplessly and opened the door wide so the police could see who was screaming. The police car pulled to an abrupt stop and the policemen tumbled out of the car and rushed toward the Alfa Romeo where she was sitting. “Oh, at last.” Karen started to feel better.

But they didn’t even bother to look at her. They stood there and talked to the driver for about five minutes. There was a great deal of gesturing and scratching of foreheads and one of the policeman went back to the squad car and said something on the radio.

“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” the situation was only getting worse.

          An elderly lady was walking by; neither the policeman nor the driver had seen her .

“Help me! Please help me!”

The lady turned right around and looked at her in the eye. She was wearing a burnt toast tweed turban over a cinnamon oatmeal tweed overcoat with mink collar and cuffs. There were so many liver spots and moles on the woman’s beige skin that Karen could not tell where her clothing stopped and her face began.

“Oh dear! Are you in trouble? Let me see if I kahn help you.”

The old lady spoke with a strong British accent. The driver took one look at her, lifted his eyes to the heavens, and threw his hands up in the air.

“Signorina Parra! Grazie al Signore che é venuta!”

There was a quick exchange between the lady and the driver. The policemen took one look at the situation and got back in the squad car and drove away. The lady came back to Karen.

“My dear, are you hurt?”

“I think I sprained my ankle very badly.” For the first time Karen reached down and tried to pull up her trouser leg to look at her ankle.

“Oh my dear, here, let me help you. You must be American, mustn’t you?”

 “Why yes, I am.”

The lady took one look at Karen’s ankle and grimaced. “We need to let this kind man look at your leg, dearie.”

“This kind man almost ran over my leg! Can’t you get the police . . .”

“My dear lady, if this kind man almost ran over you, I’m sure it was not because he was driving recklessly. He’s a magistrate, and unquestionably the best tennis player in town. He knows a thing or two about sprained ankles.  I have known him since he was eight years old. Now, are you going to cooperate, or shall we simply send you to the emergency room where no one speaks anything but German and the local dialect, and perhaps some Italian?”

The lady crossed her arms over her thin chest, rattling her heavy silver bracelets as she did so. Even her lips were dark brown. Karen knew she was between a rock and a hard place, so she pulled up her trouser leg and looked at the man.

The driver bent over and very gently took Karen’s ankle in his hand. The old lady started talking.

“So, you should of course know that this man who almost ran you over is one of our most respected judges in town.”

“Ouch! Oh, that hurts!”

          The judge and Signorina Parra conversed rapidly in Italian. He winced once or twice, which Karen did not take as a good sign. There was some gesturing, and the old lady threw up her hands, smiling and shaking her head but saying no no no no no. When they finished, the lady came over to the car and took Karen’s hand.

“You have nothing worse than a very badly sprained ankle. There really is no need for you to go to the emergency room. But you do need to get your foot elevated and have some ice packs put on it. Now, the Judge here wants to make up for almost murdering you, so he would like to invite you to his home for midday dinner; a doctor friend of his is also coming so he can take a look at your foot and prescribe treatment or medication if necessary. There, they will make you comfortable and put ice packs on your ankle, and you should be all right tomorrow. Or, we can take you to the emergency room, but I highly recommend against that, or we can take you back to your hotel. You’re staying at the Byron, aren’t you?”

“Why yes, but how did you know?”

“My dear, it’s the only place that a lady traveling alone would stay in town. I would however highly recommend taking Counselor Amadesi ’s kind invitation. I very seriously doubt they have more than eight ice cubes at the hotel. And there’s no place else to get ice today, unless we take you to the emergency room, which is really far more than your ankle requires.”

         Karen was starting to warm up to the old lady and her veddy veddy British accent. It seemed Karen really had no choice. “Well, you’re pretty convincing, but how am I supposed to communicate? Will you be coming too?”

“Oh no my dear. I had to refuse quite firmly, because I must visit my mother and tidy things up for tomorrow. It is quite a shame, too. Counselor Amadesi sets a handsome table and has quite a cook.”

(Her mother! Her mother must be a hundred years old!) “But what about the language? I’ve been scared out of my wits. Everyone keeps trying to speak German to me.”

“Poor darling. We haven’t many American tourists at all but the Germans have been coming down in hordes for centuries. That’s why everyone speaks German. But fear not. Counselor Amadesi will arrange for a friend of his, who is an interpreter, to come for lunch and help you back to your hotel, if necessary.”

“I don’t know I’m so crazy about being around all these men I’ve never met.”

“Don’t be silly. First of all, the interpreter is a lady from Tuscany who’s known Counselor Amadesi and his wife for years. And there is his Tata who will not countenance anything untoward - of that you can rest assured.”

Counselor Amadesi was standing there with his hands on his hips, waiting to hear what would happen. He was an attractive man in his early sixties, tall and slender, with the weary demeanor and smooth woolens of the upper middle class. He cocked his well groomed head and looked at Signorina Parra. They rapidly exchanged as many words as they did gestures and in the end, he opened the back door for Signorina Parra and she sat next to Karen.

“Thank you for coming with me. This will make things easier for me.”

“Well I can’t stay for lunch, the doctor will drive me out to Mummy’s as soon as we get you settled. What’s your name, dearie? I'm afraid we haven’t properly introduced ourselves. My name’s Bice Parra, but you can just call me Signorina. That’s what everyone calls me, that or Signorina Parra.

“My name’s Karen, Karen Meadows. You do speak perfect English. Where did you learn it? In England it sounds like.”

“Oh, Cambridge. You see, I studied there before the war when Chamberlain was prime minister. We thought we were all going to be friends back then, the Germans and the English and the Italians, but as history has shown us, this was not to be the case for a brief but cruel interval. But tell me about your trip to Italy. You’re very brave doing this alone.”

The car was warm and plush; this was the most comfortable Karen had been since she had left the hotel that morning. Counselor Amadesi focused on his driving as the car trundled down a wide street with an enormous baroque church and what looked like a monastery on the left. A strange doorway rose before them, no walls, just a doorway with a marble coat of arms propped on top of it and he drove the car right through it and kept on straight. The doctor drove through streets with lower houses and he finally turned the corner and pulled up to a two-story brick building with an enormous magnolia tree invading its balconies.

          When Signorina Parra got out of the car, she rang the doorbell and mounted the travertine steps on her old fashioned, but perfectly up at heel Ferragamo shoes (just the sort of detail that Karen would not miss, and somehow, this reassured her). Counselor Amadesi came around the car and opened the door for her, giving her his arm. She pulled up on it and hobbled out of the car. Just then the front doors to the house were flung open, and a tall thin woman in black with bright red hair and pink glasses, wearing a dark blue apron, literally burst forth. Her hands and arms were waving in the air and she was muttering and screaming, wiping her hands on her apron, and adjusting her glasses. She plunged down the steps and all but pushed the judge out of the way. She looked Karen straight in the eye, grimaced, and smiled, put her hands out sighed and slipped her arm under Karen’s armpit and lifted her to full standing height, talking the whole time in Italian. Despite all the bluster, the woman was remarkably delicate, forceful but gentle. She all but carried Karen up the steps through the hall and into the house.

Still talking non stop, she plopped Karen down on a large, cushy dark blue velveteen sofa, bent down and swiftly took off Karen’s shoes and then swung her feet onto the couch. She pulled a blanket over her, put a pillow behind Karen’s head, and pushed Karen down so that she was prone, completely prone. Next, and talking the whole time in a language that sounded like German, she got another pillow and elevated Karen’s feet. She squeezed Karen’s shoulder and took her face into her hands, looking directly into her eyes. She continued to talk and gave a big smile, then she strode off.

Karen had not understood a single word the woman had said, but Karen knew she had done exactly what the woman wanted her to do, and that this woman was going to take care of her. She felt completely safe for the first time that day. Signorina Parra, still in her tweed overcoat and turban came over and sat down on the easy chair in front of her. She crossed her skinny legs at the ankle and put her braceleted hand on her hip. She leaned toward Karen with holding her arms as if she were a model from the 1950’s, draping her overcoat behind her skirt.

          “Now, I think you are going to be fine. You’ve met the Counselor Amadesi ’s Tata, or what is it you call them in America?”

“His mammy, except they’re usually black where I come from. Is she German? It doesn’t even sound like she’s speaking Italian.”

“You’re most observant. Indeed, she’s not speaking any Italian, and her language of choice is not German, but the local dialect. It sounds rather harsh but it has no relation to German. Look at the time! I really must fly. I shall call the hotel and tell them everything for you; the front desk clerk studied with me and I will give a call later to see if everything is all right. But now I must flee.”

“You’ve been so kind. I wish I could tell you how much I appreciate all of your help.” Karen put out her hands and Signorina Parra took both of them in her motley spotted but warm hands and shook them so hard her bracelets jingled and jangled. She gave Karen a warm smile, released her grip, and left the room.

          The Mammy came back with a big silver tray, loaded with ice, bags, a tea pot, sugar bowl, a cup, and saucer. Speaking in a loud voice the whole time, she sat at the end of the sofa, placed Karen’s foot in her lap, rolled up the trousers, and swathed her ankle in ice, then bound it with a white linen towel. She smiled and adjusted her glasses and chatted quite amiably. Karen could only watch in amazement and nod her head as she observed everything the maid was doing. In the end, the maid stood up and placed a large pillow under Karen’s foot, and then plumped up another one, and moved Karen’s torso forward to place the pillow behind her back so she would be comfortable.

“Thé?” the maid kindly said in a lower tone to her.

“Sí, Sí; gracias! I would love a cuppa tay!”

This was the extent of Karen’s Italian linguistic capacities to speak and understand, but somehow in the warmth of this house, she felt quite in command of the language. The maid poured her a cup of tea, stirred it for her, handed it to her, and then offered her a plate of pink, green, and blue cookies, which she put on the coffee table beside the sofa. Then she threw her hands at both sides of her head, jumped up, and ran off to the kitchen, speaking in a loud voice the whole time.

Karen started to look around the room. The furnishings were all luxurious and traditional, beautiful oriental rugs on the floor and modern chrome and glass and brass coffee tables. What struck her was the collection of modern art: big bright pictures with colors that stood out against the white walls. Huge long paintings in grays and greens and then portraits in blue and pink and abstract circles in red and yellow. Diagrams and high impasto oil paintings that rippled toward the ceiling. Karen sipped her tea. She thought she did not much care for tea, but this was just perfectly warming. Really soothing, like she hadn't been soothed in a thousand years. Karen felt so cozy and warm. She put her tea cup down on the coffee table beside her, shifted her leg. She couldn’t feel the pain in her ankle any more, and so she picked up a magazine. She could at least look at the pictures.

         
         (Sweetness. Dark,  smoky sweetness.) She felt someone tugging at her sleeve. She opened her eyes, and there sat a pleasingly pump woman in her mid-fifties smoking a long white cigarette. She was carefully dressed in nonchalantly draped dark knits, and wearing lots of gold rings and chains. Karen’s quick eye noticed her perfectly colored hair, and a suntan that was not just makeup. She puffed her cigarette and said: “Well, if you want to eat, perhaps you’d better wake up!”

Karen was a little startled. “Uh, Oh, did I fall asleep?”

“Yes, just enough so you’ll feel refreshed. Now, my name is Lorenza: what’s yours?”

“Karen, Karen Meadows. Are you the Counselor’s wife?”

Lorenza laughed and Karen could hear the full throated timbre of an inveterate smoker.

“Oh no, no no no no no. I don’t care for men as old as he is. We’re just good friends. How are you feeling?”

“Much better, much much better thank you.”

“Do you need to take a trip to the powder room? Tata has given me my marching orders and the first one is to make sure you wash your hands before lunch. So, whether you need to go or not, discretion is the better part of valor, and I will accompany you to the loo.”

Karen imagined this meant the john, so she pulled aside her blanket, and saw that the ice pack had been replaced while she was sleeping with a fresh bag. Lorenza put Karen’s arm around her shoulder and helped her stand up.

“It’s just a hop, skip, and a jump away.”

When they got to the bathroom, Karen immediately saw from the double sinks that it was a family bathroom and she felt even more relief at where she had ended up.

“Do you need a tampax?”

This slightly shocked Karen even though she immediately realized it was offered in a genuine spirit of kindness and easy intimacy.

“I think I’ll be all right.”

“I’ll be right here if you need me. Just whistle!”

          Although her ankle was not hurting her anymore Karen was ginger in her treatment of it and though it took a great deal of time careful hopping, she managed to emerge from the bathroom and wash her hands with ease. She noticed a bottle of YSL Opium, which was all the rage in the States, and she gave herself a very light whiff. It was the same sweet smell she had awakened to earlier on the sofa. Lorenza was standing at the door, smoking her cigarette and watching her.

“That’s Alvaro’s favorite! I wouldn’t use too much, if I were you!”

“Who’s Al Varow?”

“Counsellor Amadesi, I mean, that’s his first name.”

“Is he married?”

“Of course he is, but like most men his age, his wife has left him, as have his children. The only person who has hung around is Tata. And believe it or not, she was his wife’s mammy, not his. So you can imagine how much  devotion he inspires.”

“That old lady said about the same thing.”

“Signorina Parra. Yes, she would, but she doesn’t know him as well as I do. She taught him English, which he doesn’t remember of course, and she taught English to everyone in Ravenna who went to high school. ‘The bracelets rattling at the black board,’ as her ex students all remember her.”

“Didn’t you study with her?”

“Oh honey, I’m not from here. I’m from Arezzo and my husband dragged me here after we met in Bologna.”

“Is he coming to lunch, too?”

“I certainly hope not. My boyfriend will be here and it wouldn’t look good.”

Karen was slightly scandalized. Lorenza noticed.

“I’ve shocked you just a little, haven’t I? You Anglo-Saxons live in such a different world. You just get divorced when you get tired of your partner, I suppose.”

“Well , it’s a little more than just tired of course.”

“Well honey, you see in Italy it didn’t used to be very easy to get a divorce until very recently – 1975. So everyone stayed married and had affairs. Even now getting a divorce is expensive and scary, and unless you want to marry someone again, there’s no good reason to go to all the expense and tribulations of a divorce. It still takes five years.”

“Five years! You could start a new family in that period of time.”

“Some people do. Anyway, if you’ve reared kids it’s only fair that the wife get her husband’s pension when he passes away. If you’re still married, you can do that as his wife. If you’re not, you lose it, and the home wrecker gets it all, in addition to the house and any other assets. So, most women are in no big hurry to divorce their husband, unless of course, they meet a richer prospect and they want to be the homewrecker.”

It all sounded perfectly logical to Karen; she thought of her ex-husband, but not for long, because the mammy had come back and was herding them towards the table.

          A long white tablecloth had been laid over a spacious oblong table with four place settings: two on each side of the table. A bowl with grated cheese and a basket with bread, a suet set, a plate of salami and sliced cheeses, fruit in a bowl and a plain lettuce salad were also on the table. But the prize was a large aluminum pot that was filled with noodles. Beside it, on a little tiny plate with what looked like a cocktail strainer, sat a lump of something brownish that frankly resembled an old dried up Chihuahua turd.

Lorenza got Karen to sit down and propped her leg up on a chair while the maid put a fresh bag of ice on it to keep it cold. It really didn't hurt at all any more, and just then the Counselor and a young man came into the room: Lorenza’s boyfriend, Marco. He could have been no older than 34 but he was hardly a catch. Balding and chubby, he spoke slowly in English but he smiled a great deal. The Counselor came over and put his hand on Karen’s arm, spoke to her in Italian poured her a big glass of white wine, then looking at Lorenza who interpreted for him.

“He hopes you’ve been resting and keeping your foot propped up. That will cure you quicker than anything else, he says. And now, it’s time to eat.”

The maid came first to Karen and dredged up a big wad of thick noodles, which she proceeded to place on Karen’s plate and then dipped back in again for more.

“Oh no! Please, I’m a little woman, I don’t think I can eat that much!”

The maid looked at her askance, holding the ladle on her hip, Lorenza said something to her in Italian, and she laughed heartily. She put the ladle back in the pot, and picked up the little dog turd and the tiny cocktail strainer off the plate and started shaving the turd, dropping brown slices onto her noodles. Karen looked dismayed.

“Lorenza, what is this?”

“Truffles. Haven’t you ever had any?”

“I thought truffles were made of chocolate.”

“Well, this is not going to be anything like chocolate but you’re right, they also do make chocolate truffles. One of Amadesi ’s cousins sent this as a gift. If you don’t want to try it, I will gladly take your plate from you and Tata here will dish you up another plate without them. But why don’t you try some? It’s quite a delicacy.”

Karen looked down at the slivers sitting on top of her pasta, and gulped.

“I suppose I shall have to try them!” She bent over her plate and sniffed. It smelled like the white gasoline they put in Coleman camping lantern. She waited for everyone else to be served and then watched Lorenza eat and tried to follow her gestures exactly. Everyone else at the table was so busy chattering and masticating that really no one was paying any attention to her. Karen was not used to such big thick noodles. They were rough on her tongue, and the truffle still smelled like some sort of gaseous chemical. But then she bit down. It was, was what could you call it? It was bland, that was certain but that did not mean it had no taste. It was simply wholesome. One big piece of flavor and the rich butter tasted grassy, as if she were eating a freshly mown lawn, but it was delicious. Then, the truffle, subtle, crunchy, with a dark robust smell that now became so earthily sublime she could hardly believe she had not even wanted to try it before. She put her fork down, delicately wiped her mouth with her napkin, and said: “This is really good!”

Everyone at the table knew this much English. Marco laughed, and Lorenza and the Counselor smiled and they both winked at her! If someone had winked at her in America, she would have been uncomfortable but she suddenly realized that they were all accomplices in this secret about what the noodles and truffles tasted like. This was real food.

“Well, you’ll need to tell Mattea  – the maid. She’s quite proud of her noodles, and makes them with goose eggs.”

“She makes the noodles? I mean, don’t you buy these at the supermarket?”

“I wouldn’t suggest you mention that to Mattea . She has never served her family or the judge’s family for that matter, store-bought pasta. She’ll be pleased you like them.”

Karen shuddered but out of amazement and stupor. Italy had been a different world to her, foreign and strange and she never felt quite at home with all the novelty since she arrived. Now, she was part of the novelty, and really quite comfortable. She finished off her plate of noodles, and when the maid came in to clear the plates, Karen touched Mattea’s  wrist, looked her straight in the eye, and said: “Those noodles were really good. The best I’ve ever had!”

Mattea  put the plate down on the table, and took Karen’s face between her two big rough hands and shook it slightly. Mattea cackled and smiled and said something that made the whole table roar with laughter. Although she almost threw Karen’s face back at her, Karen knew it was all pure affection, and what was the word: wholesome. This was fun!

          The other people at the table did not really pay very much attention to her, chattering away in Italian and eating and drinking wine in the middle of the day, on a Tuesday to boot. The maid came back with a large oval tray that looked like it had breaded chicken breasts on it drowning in a tomato sauce.

“Wait till you try these, this is my favorite dish that Mattea  cooks.”

“What is it? Chicken?

“Oh no, veal cutlets. You’ll see. And by the way, take a hint from me: only take two to begin with. They’re very small and you’ll cut a far more impressive figure if you ask for seconds. That will really make everyone happy.”

Karen was not sure she liked veal. She had had it, once or twice at the Venice restaurant back home with a tart, thick tomato sauce, but it was always tough and dry and stringy. Lorenza passed her a large oval plate, brimming with beige oval pieces of meat that looked like small flaccid chicken breasts, drowning in a runny red sauce. Oh well, she could always follow Lorenza’s advice and just take one, which she did.

She picked up her knife to cut it and Lorenza shot Karen a look of daggers, arching her eyebrows and picking up her fork ostentatiously as she said something in Italian to Marco. Karen quickly perceived she was not supposed to use her knife on the meat. Well, what the hell, this was Italy and they did things differently here. She put her knife down and tried to cut the meat with the side of her fork.

She could have used a breadstick to cut her meat into portions, the flesh was so tender. When she finally put the meat in her mouth, it was a like biting into a little slice of Paradise. Goosebumps ran up and down the backs of her arms and the tops of her thighs. Good God! This was delicious. Her eyes must have been popping out of her head because Lorenza flashed her a big smile and winked. It didn’t even register with Karen this time. She was lost in her world of tomato and butter and veal.

“Oh my God. This is so good!”

“Would you like some more? Here.”

Lorenza passed her the large oval plate where the tenderly breaded cutlets were lounging in their tomato bath. Karen took a couple more, as did everyone else at the table. There was a moment of silence as each diner focused on his or her cutlets. The maid came through the door again with a big plate of bread. When she saw there were two cutlets left on the plate, she said something in Italian and all the diners looked Karen’s way. She had proven her membership in the clean plate club, as she was sopping up the last bit of that perfectly divine sauce with a piece of bread.

“Well, of course, as the guest, Mattea wants you to have the last veal cutlets.”

“Oh my God. I don’t think I can eat a whole lot more. What else is coming?”

Lorenza translated Karen’s considerations and everyone broke out in warm smiles again. The maid trundled over to Karen and scraped the remaining two cutlets onto Karen’s plate and strode back to the kitchen.

“Don’t you worry honey. All we’re going to have now is salad and fruit and dessert and coffee. You should be able to get it all down.”

But Karen had already finished her first cutlet. She had never eaten so much in her entire life, not even at Thanksgiving. The judge and his friends were silently chomping away at their salad and Lorenza asked Karen if she would like some.

          “Oh no. I think I’ll hold back on that. I can get salad anytime I want any at home. But I can’t eat food like this at home. It’s just amazing.”

“I have to agree with you on that. Now tell me, are you married?”

“Yes – and separated. My daughter is staying at the hospital while I take this little trip. My first time in Europe and I’m by myself. “

“Well, do you have a boyfriend or two?”

”Nope. No romantic involvements at the moment. I’m just trying to enjoy myself and keep my head above water. How long have you and Marco been together?”

“About two years. That woman was right about twenty going into forty a hell of a lot more often than forty goes into twenty!”

Karen blushed and the maid came back in bearing a large yellow bowl. Inside, miniscule shards of chocolate had been scattered over a golden cross of little ladies fingers resting on a bed of creamy off-white something.

“What’s this? Is it ice cream?”

“No, no, it’s something like Tiramisù.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a typical Italian dessert. The word means: ‘Pick me up.’”

“Is it alcoholic? A pick-me-up in English is a little nip of liquor.”

“Well they may put something in it, but not enough to keep it away from children. It’s not ice cream, but a kind of cheese.”

“Cheese? In a pudding? That sounds weird.” Karen wasn’t sure she was going to like this at all.

The maid started scooping the mixture out into small glass bowls, and when she moved towards Karen, Karen indicated with her hands that she just wanted a little tiny bit. The maid laughed and gave a great big gob of this yellowish pudding, kind of like runny old cream cheese with bits of chocolate and cookie wading through it. It did not appear very appetizing.

When she got a spoonful into her mouth, it was a different story altogether. To begin with, it was cool and fresh, and then it was sweet and rich. Next came a whiff of coffee and a touch of brown liquor, not whisky, not rum or bourbon but sweet with that dryness of hard liquor. Then the little chunks of chocolate exploded against her taste buds while the cookie melted around her teeth. Good Lord in His Heaven, this was the best dessert she had ever tasted!

“My goodness gracious! What do you call this? It’s just the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“We called it Mascarpone della Tata, or Tata’s mascarpone. You won’t find it anywhere; she has a secret recipe.” Lorenza was spooning a large quantity into her mouth as she spoke.

The maid appeared at the door and Karen threw up her arms and smiled. “Can you tell her I would run over and hug her if I hadn’t sprained my ankle! This is the best dessert I have ever had!

As soon as Lorenza had translated for Karen, everyone at the table laughed long and loud. The maid, rubbing her calloused red hands on her apron strode over to Karen, took her head between her dry hands, shook her face, and gave her a big audible kiss, talking the whole time. The general hilarity at the table was punctuated by silences as the other diners wolfed down great gobs of the yellow and beige mascarpone. Everyone was very happy.

Lorenza turned to Karen: “Well, it seems you have received quite an honor. Mattea  wants to know if you would like to have the recipe! If I were you, I’d take it in a heartbeat. I’ve been after her to give to me for years but she always changes the subject when it’s time to list the ingredients.”

“Would I? I’d love it.”

“Good, well then we’ll scoot you into the kitchen and she will explain everything to you.”

“You’re all so kind. This way you can get the recipe when you translate it for me.”

“Oh, no I won’t! She insists on giving it to you - alone!”

“But how . . . “

“Honey, don’t worry. Mattea  could get a crocodile to put a brassiere on if she put her mind to it. Marco, can you bring Karen’s dessert into the kitchen?”

          Mattea  and Lorenza grabbed Karen under the armpits (she hadn’t been touched this much by strangers since she had given birth!) and got her settled in the kitchen . Marco brought the dessert in and propped Karen’s foot on a kitchen chair. Lorenza put a notepad and pen at her elbow. They exited and Mattea  closed the door. She spoke the entire time in what Karen thought was Italian, and Karen understood every part of the recipe.

First, Mattea  held up two red fingers. She went into the refrigerator and pulled out a tub of what looked like lard. “Mask her pony” was the only word that Karen pick out. Talking the whole time, Mattea waved her two fingers and pointed to the tub and then to the bowl;

“Okay, two cups of lard!”

“No No No No No. Non lardo. Mascarpone!” the maid thrust a spoon into Karen’s hand and gestured for her to taste the white stuff. It was creamy and soft and it even smelled sweet as she got it to her nose. It sure wasn’t lard. It was more like cream cheese someone had stirred butter into. Karen thought she could figure this one out when she got home.

“Okay, two cups of Mask her pony!”

“Brava!” The maid got out a big bowl and made as if she was pouring the cheese into it. Then she went to the cupboard and pulled out a canister of sugar. She waved one finger in the air, pointed to the tub, then the sugar, and then the bowl.

“Okay, one cup of sugar.

“Zocar! Sí sí sí sí sí.” She moved her hands as if she were mixing. Then she held up three stubby fingers and got an egg.

“Okay, three eggs!”

“No, no, no, no, no.” She pulled a cup out of the refrigerator that had a viscous transparent liquid in it and pointed to the eggs. It must have been the whites.

“Okay, three whites of eggs!”

“No, no, no, no, no no!  No white. Giallo!” The maid cast her eyes about the room and she grabbed a yellow tea towel. She held up three fingers and pointed to the towel.

“Three towels?” said Karen pointing to the towel.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Tre tovaglie no!” She pointed to the towel and then pointed to the egg. She made a big cross with her hands over the cup with the whites in it. The whites obviously were not supposed to go into the mixture. Karen’s face showed no sign of comprehension.

The maid got out a new egg from the fridge, broke it in half, and poured the white into the cup from the fridge and the yolk into the bowl. She put the yolk in another cup and put the white back in the fridge. Then she made a big cross over the fridge and walked back toward Karen. She put the cup with the yolk in it on the table in front Karen and stuck out her thumb, forefinger and middle finger, and said: “Tre gialli!:

Karen got it: “Okay, thray yalli!”

The maid smiled and went to the cupboard and pulled out a great big block of baker's chocolate, placed it on a cutting board and starting chopping the blocks into shards. She gave one considerably sized piece to Karen. She bit it into it. Whew was it bitter! Strong too, and it really tasted like chocolate. Karen had never appreciated even bittersweet chocolate but now she understood that the bitter chocolate floating around in that swamp of cheese and eggs and sugar would taste differently. “How much chocolate?” she asked.

The maid’s stubby fingers held out two small blocks, and then she added a third one and shrugged her shoulders.

“Okay, two or three blocks of bitter chocolate, chopped into large chunks. Now what?”

The maid took the mixing bowl and a wooden spoon and pretended to mix everything together. Then she reached up into a cupboard and pulled down a yellow box with cookies wrapped in plastic in it and a generous casserole dish. She reached into another cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Stock and opened it for Karen to smell.

“What is it? Is it whisky?”

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Non whisky! Cognac!”

“You mean brandy?”

“Sí, sí, sí, sí, sí, sí, sí. Brendy.” She got a soup bowl off the drying rack, and placed it on the table. Next, she pretended to pour one of the Italian espresso coffeepots and brandy into the bowl and mix them together. Then she unwrapped the cookies and placed them in the bowl, picked them up as if they were dripping wet, and lined the bottom of the casserole dish with them. She picked out four or five packets and pointed to the casserole and the bowl.

“All right, so I take ladies fingers and dunk them in a brandy and coffee mixture, and line the casserole dish with them. Then I imagine,” and she picked up the mixing bowl as she said this and making all the appropriate gestures with her hands, “that I dump the mask her pony mixture on top!”

“Brava! Brava! Brava! Brava! Brava!” Mattea  took the bowl and placed it in the fridge, closed the door and pointed to her watch. She signaled two or three with her fingers.

“Okay, so I cool it for two or three hours and then serve. And I don’t cook anything?” Karen pointed to the stove and to the oven.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no cuoco. Solo frigo!

“I got it. The fridge does a solo. That makes sense. Thank you!”

Lorenza knocked at the door. “Have you gotten the secret recipe?”

“Oh I think so.” The maid said something to Lorenza, threw her arms in the air and started to furiously beat something inside a very large teacup with a spoon.

“Come on honey, we need to get out of the kitchen so Mattea can make us some coffee.” Marco and Lorenza conveyed Karen once again from the kitchen to the table where a small bowl of fruit cocktail awaited Karen.

“Do you eat like this all the time? Good heavens!”

“Only at midday.”

“My God, why aren’t you all as big as houses? I’d look like the Goodyear Blimp if I ate like this for a week.”

“Well, there are lots of reasons, but the main one is that this is a very balanced diet and the food is all genuine and unprocessed. That does make a big difference.”

Karen hardly realized that she had finished her fruit cocktail, which was actually exactly what she could eat after that dessert. There were bits and pieces of pear and apple and grapes and banana and it was light and fresh and delicious. She could also taste it was good for her.

The maid came through the door again, bearing a large oval tray with tiny demitasse cups, a sugar bowl, and a small plate with pink and green and blue cookies on it. She walked past Karen and set it down on the large chrome and glass coffee table behind Karen and announced: “Caffe’!”

Marco and Lorenza helped arrange Karen on the couch and handed her a coffee. The minute cup was precious and light. When she looked inside, she saw that there was a sort of beige scum floating on top of the coffee. It was a little repulsive, but she guessed that was how they did things here in Italy. If she could put some sugar in it, it would probably be all right.

“Can I have some sugar, please?”

Lorenza looked at Karen again, as she stirred her coffee. “It’s already been sugared. Try stirring it with your spoon and taking a sip. If you want more sugar, there’s plenty.”

Karen followed her suggestions and sure enough, the coffee was perfectly sweetened. More sugar would have been overkill. She smiled at Lorenza and settled back against her cushions. “This is amazing. I want to take Mattea and wrap her in a mink coat and put her in my suitcase and take her back to Richmond with me! Do you think they’ll let me?”

Lorenza laughed and translated what Karen had said for the two men, who both shook their heads and chuckled. “If it were up to Mattea , I’m sure she would let you, since she served you on the silver tray. When Alvaro invites someone she doesn’t like, she gives them stainless steel or silver plate. So it’s obvious she likes you. But I doubt our Counsellor would let you take her.”

The maid came back with the enormous teacup she had been beating and the Italian coffee pot. Karen immediately held her cup out, because she understood that there was going to be a round of seconds on the coffee. The maid scooped a dollop of light brown gloop out of the teacup and dropped it in Karen’s cup, and then poured coffee in. The beige slime formed on the top of the coffee again.

“Is that the sugar?”

 “Well, kind of. Mattea  puts sugar in the bowl and when the first droplets of coffee perk, she pours them on top of the sugar and whips it into what she calls ‘foam.’ Chemically speaking, it’s a hypo solution of sugar and coffee that she uses to sweeten the coffee. I don’t like sugar in my coffee, I’ll tell you that, but when she makes her foam, I always drink it. It’s the best. Now, let’s get Marco to take a look at your foot.”

          The pudgy young doctor walked over and sat down next to Karen on the sofa, and very gently unwrapped her ankle from the blankets and towel and ice pack swathing it. He took it in his hand, rotated the foot to the left, to the right, up and down, and then pulled on it a little bit.

“Does it hurt? He wants to know if it hurts at all.”

“Good God, how could anything hurt after all this food and wine? It feels terrific.” Lorenza translated for Karen and there were knowing glances all around and some chatter. Marco got up and left the room.

“Well, it looks like you’re healed. The whole trick to this kind of injury is taking care of it immediately and staying off it. Alvaro knew that; he’s probably sprained his ankle fifteen times on the tennis court. We were lucky to convince you to come so quickly, because it really has saved the rest of your vacation. Unfortunately, we all have to run off this afternoon. So, Alvaro will be taking you back to your hotel. Marco is on call, and I will accompany you with Alvaro.” Just then the phone rang and the maid went to answer it. Alvaro left and came back putting his coat on and carrying a large pink plastic bag. He 
exchanged some words with Lorenza who told Karen she was going to put her coat on. The maid came back into the room with Karen’s coat and scarf and helped her get them on while she was still seated on the sofa. Then Lorenza and the maid grabbed Karen under her armpits and slowly accompanied her outside down the steps to the warm car where Alvaro was waiting. They laid Karen out in the back seat and the maid came around and grabbed Karen’s face between her warm hands. Karen just gushed: “Oh thank you so much! You’ve just made me the best meal I’ve had in Italy, no the best meal I’ve had in the last ten years. It was all just wonderful. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The maid walked over to the steps and stood there, rolling her hands dry in her apron and then waving good bye until the car disappeared around the corner. Karen looked out at the bleak sunlight; there were a very few people out, and most of them once again, were old women on bicycles with buckets and brooms and flowers. Lorenza and Alvaro were chattering away in the front seat and Karen noticed that the houses got larger and larger as they headed downtown to her hotel.

          When they arrived, the front desk clerk came out and helped Karen get into the hotel. He obviously knew Alvaro because they bantered back and forth like old friends. Lorenza lit up a cigarette in the lobby and took the pink bag from Alvaro who came over to Karen. He grabbed her hands in his and very very gently, just barely grazed his cheek against her right cheek, then her left cheek. He said several things in Italian she did not understand, and then waved good-bye as he walked out the door into the square. Lorenza and the front desk clerk grabbed Karen by the armpits again and helped her into the elevator, up to her room. At this point the front desk clerk relinquished his hold on her and Lorenza helped Karen get situated in her room.

“Now, I think that should suit you. Marco said you are not to get up unless you need to go to the bathroom and you must keep your foot iced. Lorenza pulled a little cooler out of the pink bag. “Here’s all the ice you‘ll need. Now, do you have an ache or pain anywhere?”

“No. I really do feel fine.”

“Good then I won’t leave you any painkillers. Alvaro has already ordered a very nice, light dinner for you, which room service will bring up. And he’s already paid for it. So I think everything will be fine.”

I really can’t thank you ; . . .” the phone rang and Lorenza picked it up. After a few words in Italian she handed it to Karen.

“Who is it?” Karen whispered.

“Signorina Parra. She wants to make sure you’re all right.”

           “Dearie, this is Bice Parra. How are you doing?”

“Oh, very well, very very well. You gave me all the right advice today. I cannot thank you enough. I only wish you had been there, too. It was quite a meal.”

“Oh, I can imagine that. Now, you listen to whatever Lorenza tells you to do. And if you need something, just tell the front desk clerk to call me. He knows my number.”

“I cannot thank you enough. Do give my regards to your mother when you see her.”

“My mother, but she’s . . . Oh yes, I did tell you I would be visiting her today, didn’t I? Thanks for asking after her. Now, you have a nice, quiet evening. Ta-ta!”

Signorina Parra hung up the phone and Lorenza lit another cigarette.

           “That was so nice of that old lady to call me up!”

“It wasn’t the first time, sister. She also called at the house.”

“She didn’t! You people are all so kind. And she was supposed to be busy with her mother this afternoon. I just cannot believe you are all so thoughtful.”

“Her mother? Kind? I suppose you could see it that way. What you don’t know is that even though Signorina Parra spent the day afternoon at the cemetery, she was actually watching over your purity.”

“Purity? What are you talking about?”

“Chastity. That’s probably a better word. Alvaro is one of the most notorious playboys of the Romagnol Riviera and Signorina Parra wanted to be sure that your virtue remained intact.”

“Virtue? Intact? I lost that a long time ago. At any rate, she was kind to call all the same.”

“Why do you think I’m here with you? To make sure Alvaro doesn’t put the moves on you.”

“He wouldn’t!

“Oh yes, he would! But not now. You’re safe and he won’t get past the front desk clerk. Unless of course you want him, to come?”

Karen stopped for a moment. What had she gotten herself into? Alvaro was certainly a nice man, but hardly her type and about twenty years too old. He had been so kind. Was there a hidden purpose to all of this? She decided she would just avoid the issue all together, like any Southern Belle worth her sterling and pearls.

“Oh I think I just need to rest tonight. But you’ll give me his address so I can write him a note, won’t you? The lunch and the afternoon have been perfectly delightful.”

“That’s what I thought. Well, unless you need anything else, I will let you be.”

“Wait a minute. Why was Signorina at the cemetery when she was supposed to be with her mother?”

“Because her mother was at the cemetery.”

“Does she work there?”

“No, she’s buried there. Don’t you know what tomorrow is? It’s the Day of the Dead.”`

“The Day of the Dead?” A shiver ran down Karen’s spine and her nice warm bed suddenly felt a little cold and damp. “What’s the Day of the Dead?”

“Oh, it’s the day that all the old ladies go to the cemetery and wash the graves of their husbands or and parents and put flowers on them. Except they don’t really go tomorrow. Most of them are going out today and scrubbing the tombs and putting fresh flowers out so they can get all dressed up tomorrow and go sit on the tomb and eat cookies so they see who is really a good widow or orphan and who isn’t. Even Mattea is going this afternoon to clean up her husband’s grave.”

“How morbid!”

“Oh, it’s just another custom, another culture. Anyway, on that light note, I’ll leave you alone. Now, if there is anything you need, just call down to the front desk.” Lorenza stubbed out her cigarette and leaned over to kiss Karen on both cheeks.

“Thank you again so much for everything. This has been just the nicest afternoon, and quite an education for me. You’ve been so kind to help me.”

“Honey, it was fun. I love to chat in English.”

Lorenza pulled on her fur and wrapped a brown and gold silk scarf around her neck. “Ciao ciao!”

“Ciao Ciao.”

           When the door closed behind Lorenza, Karen slumped back in bed. She looked at the clock. It was after four o’clock. This was the longest lunch she had ever been to. She closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them, the room was dark. She glanced at the alarm clock and it said half past six! She reached down to feel her ankle, which seemed perfectly fine. No, it was not bigger than the other one. She was going to be all right. She flicked on the light picked up her guidebook and map and started looking at the drive she had before her tomorrow and where her hotel was located in Venice. Alvaro’s address slipped off the top of her guidebook and fell to the floor.

           The maid vacuumed the address up the next day without even noticing it.