December 8, 1971

 The Feast of the Immaculate Conception

       How was she going to broach the subject with her parents? 
         Katia knew they would not be happy because she wasn’t married. But at thirty-five, homely and overweight, she was just glad to be expecting a baby. She had always wanted a family of her own and her own children, so now she would simply settle for one child. She knew she could never tolerate a husband, and certainly not another Romagnol. Katia had no intention whatsoever of rolling out noodles every day, washing and ironing his shirts, and waiting for him to come home from the bar where he had lost money playing cards. She hadn’t studied for nothing, and her position as a senior accountant gave her enough salary to have money left over to invest in her own apartment, where her parents tried to convince her not to live, in vain.
       “A single girl, all alone? It just doesn’t look right. What’ll you do for dinner, Katiuscia?
       “I can always come here and I do know how to cook, you know.”
       “Cook, you can barely boil water (which was true).”
       Katia turned and walked away. There was no use fighting her parents over small things. She moved out and lived on her own in the second month. She ate a good deal of dressed meats and cheeses and bread which kept her pretty hefty, but she really hadn’t ever been interested in her physical appeal, and her mother had carefully steered her away from makeup and provocative clothing as an adolescent. Katia was much more interested in going to the theater and talking about politics. Few men could hold a candle to her when she got started and though she was a card-carrying member of the Socialist party, no one ever asked her to do anything, except of course, go out and canvas on cold rainy days. Katia just wasn’t attractive.
       It all kept her mind sharp. Katia could clearly tell what was right and what was wrong, which lines were crooked and which were straight. She saw exactly where the money ended up to the last tiny lira, and who was sent to Parliament, rather arbitrarily. Arithmetic was not an opinion and the intrigues and alliances fascinated her even if she was not allowed to participate in any decision-making process at the party. Now, she had come to a major conclusion; she had learned another, much more important fact. Katia wanted a child and she would have one, one way or another.
       In her free time, she had been working with the Institute of Saint Jude’s for the blind and there she had met professor of Latin and History who had lost his sight in a car accident. He wasn’t wealthy or attractive; he was just extremely cultured and starved for intelligent conversation. They hit it off right away. He never bothered to ask her how she looked or complimented her dresses or bags, and she wasn’t the least bit interested in that any way. She wanted someone she could talk to and someone who would listen to her.
       Guido’s wife had died in the same car accident years ago and Guido’s son left Guido to his own devices after he got married to young Romagnol woman from Fusignano. Katia had no intention whatsoever of marrying Guido, and the one time they had sex in a taxi on December 8 was rather far from rapturous, but now, well now she was pregnant. She made up her own mind. Katia knew she would keep the baby. She knew her mother would want Katia to go away if she bore the baby, and she knew her father would want to know who the pig was who had gotten her pregnant and then abandoned her.
       Could she flee? Of course, she could, but even Katia knew it would be difficult to bear her baby without lots of help all around. Her parents would have been even more upset if she left, since Katia was their only daughter, and Katia’s offspring, would be their only grandchild. She could always go to Brazil, have the baby, get false adoption papers and pretend that she had adopted the child in Brazil, where adoption was easy. That would save her parents from the disgrace of a child born out of wedlock. Or so she could show everybody she had balls and have the baby at the maternity hospital in Lugo with or without a marriage license. She already had a place for the both of them to live.
       But her parents would insist on knowing who the father was. Guido did not know that Katia was pregnant and if she stayed in town, she would have to tell him. Katia hadn't thought out this part of the equation nor did she have any idea how Guido would react. He would find out she was pregnant at any rate, even if she escaped and never came back. She didn’t want to marry him; the only thing more domestically helpless and constantly needy than your average Romagnol man, would be an old blind one.  She wasn’t sure that she wanted his company any more for that matter. There was only one thing to do: break off their relationship abruptly, pretending there had been another man, a foreigner perhaps. Yes, that was it. Katia set about constructing her phantom lover.
       A German businessman would do. Someone she had met, where? At a Socialist Party Rally? That was hardly an option. No, it could be someone she had made contact with at work where everyone thought she lacked entirely for verve since she worked in accounting. What she needed now was a mysterious business call to the office on a Friday afternoon, a rather obvious evening appointment out somewhere that turned into a long weekend. This was going to be fun, and she could take off a couple of days and go, where would she go? Tuscany? Rome? Venice? She could always decide that at the last minute. She just needed to plant one or two seeds and gossip would take care of everything else.   

She called Valerio in Bologna.

“Oh Katia, how nice to hear from you! It’s been . . .

“Oh Valerio, it’s been at least five years.  But listen, I need a special favor. Can you find me a German businessman who speaks a little Italian?”

“Do you mean someone like my brother-in-law?”

“Yes, Dieter would do perfectly. I need him to call me up at home tonight and meet me in the office and take me out to dinner at the very best restaurant in town. This Friday afternoon. I’ll pay.”

 “Well, let me see what I can do.”

“Oh, and while we’re at it, is your uncle Oreste still shut away at the Linden Trees in Bologna?”

“Of course, he is Katia. He always asks about you when I go to see him. I know he’d love . . .”

“Oh Valerio, I know exactly what he would love. He might even get it!” 

“What are you up to, Katia?”

“Oh, I’m just going to make a clean break from my parents’ small-minded provincialism, forever. It’ll only take one carefully orchestrated weekend.”

Friday afternoon just after eleven, the receptionist at the office noticed the heavy accent of a man who had come to place a rather large order with their firm. Unfortunately, the entire sales force was out of the office, meeting new suppliers at a trade fair (although the whole office knew the men were out in the marshes hunting coots and snipe). Katia just happened to be walking by the entrance and offered to illustrate the catalogue to him, behind closed doors. As they came out of the meeting room in front of the receptionist, he suggested meeting Katia for dinner that night. Katia snapped up the opportunity and asked the receptionist to reserve a table at Da San Domenico, the best restaurant in town.

When the foreigner left, the receptionist asked Katia if she didn’t want to tell the boss about the mysterious new customer.

“No Gigliola, and don’t you breathe a word about this to anybody. I intend to get the commission off of this sale, that’s for sure and show a few people around here that I can do more than accounting. Just make that reservation. I know what I’m about. Now I need to get a new outfit, if I am going to be anywhere near convincing as a sales rep.”

“And how about a new haircut, too?”

“Why not? Make me an appointment, let’s see, how about Raimondi at two?” This was the society hairdresser and surely the most expensive in town.

“Katia, this is going to be fun.” The receptionist got busy on the line and in short shrift, Katia was steaming full force toward her big evening.

“And not a word to anybody here at the office. You hear, Gigliola? Not until I land this contract.”

When Katia got to the hairdresser’s she was dealt quite a fortuitous face card with pure luck of the draw: the very Queen of Spades herself was having her hair colored coal black. The boss’s wife was there and recognized her.

“Katia, I didn’t think you went to beauty parlors? Unless there is a new one run by Stakhanov.”

Katia distanced her with saccharine iciness: “Perhaps we should just mind our own business?”

“Yes, but you don’t seem to be minding your own business or my husband’s business for that matter. Shouldn’t you be in the office at this time of day?”

“Well, let’s just say there’s going to be some rather pleasant news for your husband and his business on Monday, if we can be a little discreet today. Now, let me devote myself entirely to my beautification.” She turned and looked at the receptionist in the beauty parlor. “Let’s have a complete overhaul. I need to be out by six. Can you do that?”

“Let’s see: hands, feet, and facial we could all do at the same time; that leaves shampoo, hair-color, hairdo, and your choice of applications of electrical current to your flanks for a firmer bottom or a make-up makeover. If you want to be out by six.”

“Let’s do the makeup. I cannot imagine electric butt shocks are going to make me any more alluring by dinnertime.”

Three hours later Katia could hardly believe her eyes as she stood in the salon’s silk wrapper looking at herself in the mirror. They had dyed her hair the brightest carrot orange imaginable: it looked as it they had melted crayons over her head. Then, the coiffeur had teased her hair to such a height that she was actually now six feet tall in her stocking feet, with great soft curls that looked like puff pastry ringing her ears. The make up had been applied with a steady heavy hand, rendering her eyes Egyptian and her mouth, Etruscan. She was somewhere between the Italian singer Mina and Elizabeth Taylor and almost, not quite, but almost, unrecognizable. Katia was actually glowing.

For the first time in her life, Katia felt beautiful.

For the first time in her life, people turned their heads to look at her, when she walked out of the beauty parlor.

For the first time in her life Katia had complete confidence in herself as a woman.

Dinner was a rollicking affair and both she and Dieter had a grand time after an aperitif of champagne. The other diners in the restaurant continued to whisper and throw glances their way for most of them recognized Gianni Guiccioli’s daughter, and no one knew who Dieter was. When Dieter attempted to pay the bill, Katia stopped him.

“Oh no, please charge this to our account at Damassa and Brothers. This is after all, business, now isn't it?” She winked hard and long at Dieter, who came around and pulled her chair back so she could rise majestically and walk to the door.

“And where are you staying?"
            “Oh, in Bologna. The hotel is really very nice. Would you like to see it?”

“What a good idea. I’d love to. I’ll follow in my car.”

“Oh no, I’ll drive you back here if you like, later. It’s only an hour away.”

When Katia finally made it into the German’s car, the entire restaurant was audibly clinking with scuttlebutt. The next morning four different versions, each juicer than the last, were all repeated to Katia’s mother. She had been trying to call her daughter all morning in vain and now understood why.

Katia did not return until Sunday afternoon in the First-Class carriage of the train from Bologna. She had a lot of clothing with her, a lot of new clothing. Her parents kept calling to ask her where she had been, and Katia changed the subject each time they inexorably returned to the issue of how she had spent her weekend. Everyone in town (including Guido at St. Jude’s) knew where she had been and what she had been doing: shacking up with the German client in Bologna.

Bright and early on Monday morning, the receptionist received a call from the German businessman, but Katia was not in the office. When she walked in, nobody could believe their eyes. She was covered head to toe in an iridescent persimmon silk pantsuit, which matched her hair. Her eyebrows were painted and arched, and her nails were as bright as a sunset.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God! What happened to you?”

“Oh, Raimiondi, Gigliola, Raimondi. You really should splurge and go there yourself. Have there been any calls for me?

“Yes, Herr Krause called, but he didn’t leave a telephone number. Can you call him back? You do have his number, don’t you Katia?”

“Oh yes, it’s in my purse, right here” and she pulled out the receipt from the restaurant. A number was scribbled on it, and Katia went to the phone and called.

‘You what! Really Dieter, I mean Herr Krause, after Friday night, I was certain that you were interested in my  . . . merchandise. What? You found a more advantageous offer? Well, then you should go ahead and work with your other company. Just remember we’re always here when you need us. Thanks for calling.” Katia hung up.

The most surprising part of Katia’s transformation was not her splashy outfit or wildly teased hair. It was her demeanor. She had become languid and gracious, unruffled and kind. There was no trace of disappointment in her conversation with Herr Krause, no, there was just . . . complete and serene acceptance.  No one realized that Katia had finally become the woman that she wanted to be: a poised, glamorous lady.

Gigliola later told the boss everything: the unknown client, the dinner at Da San Domenico, the telephone calls received and made. He had already known about Katia’s change in appearance since his wife had told him everything that his friends who had been dining at the restaurant Friday night, hadn’t. He called Katia into his office.

“Oh, do you want the receipt from the restaurant? Here it is.”

“No Katia. I want to know what is happening to you.”

“Nothing. I just decided to change my look. It makes me feel so much more attractive.”

“I am not talking about that, although I would have a few questions to ask, but . . .”

“Well, ask them.” Katia sat down with regal calm and placed the receipt on the desk.

“No, let’s get down to business. Who was that German?”

“Oh, Mr. Krause. He’s from Essen. There was no one in the office late Friday morning, so I just took it upon myself to illustrate our catalogue.’

“And take him out to dinner. No one authorized you to do that.”

“Oh, do forgive me, I just thought I was acting in the best interests of the company. I suppose this means you want me to pay for the dinner. Very well, I can do that,” and with a demure hand she reached into her bag and pulled out a roll of bills.

“Here. This should cover it.”

“Oh Katia, the company’ll pay for the dinner. What’s the upshot of your meeting?”

“Herr Krause said he found another supplier that offered him a thirty-five percent discount. I didn’t think we could offer that, so I let it go.”

“Well, could you write up a file on him for future contacts?”

“Oh, do you really want me to? He said he wasn't planning to come back to Italy again. I think it would just be a waste of time, but I’ll do it.”

With measured grace she rose and asked if there was anything else. She glided out of the room.

Her mother finally got a hold of Katia in person on Wednesday at Katia’s home. Katia had been dodging her and now Katia had acquired the maturity and phlegm to take her on.

“My God, Katia. You look like a hussy!” Katia’s mother could hardly believe what she saw in front of her. Her mousy, dumpy daughter was wearing an off the shoulder pink blouse over a long floral skirt with a big ruffle that ended just below her knees. Katia smiled.

“Oh Mamma, you noticed. I’m so sorry you don’t like my new look.”

“You’ll make us the laughingstock of the city.”

“Well, then, that might make things fun for everyone, mightn’t it? But tell me Mamma, what did you want with me?”

“First I want you to take all that gunk off of your face.”

“Oh Mamma, I don’t have any ‘gunk’ on my face. And that is not the reason you asked to come over.”

“No, what do you think you did this weekend? The whole town is whispering about your behavior on Friday night. And where have you been?”

“Oh my, did I offend someone on Friday? I certainly hope not. Just tell me who it is and I’ll apologize personally.”

“No, you didn't offend anyone. But what were you doing at Da San Domenico with an unknown man?”

Katia laughed. “Oh no, he wasn't unknown. He’s a new client. I was just taking him out to dinner. It was all business.”

“Well, why did you follow him to Bologna to his hotel?”

“I did no such thing. Who told you that?”

“It’s what everyone’s been gossiping about since Saturday morning. Your boss’s wife even called me to make sure . . .”

“Gossip? Mama, are you repeating gossip? That’s really a very bad idea. Now, you’ll simply have to take my word for my actions. I did not follow anyone to a hotel in Bologna.”

“Well, where were you the rest of the weekend?”

“Oh, shopping and visiting old friends. I have discovered shopping in particular, can be a lot of fun. Don’t you like my dress?”

“Of course I don’t. You look like a trollop.”

“Poor Mama, I think you’re a little overwrought. You walk into my home and you tell me that I am somehow making you and Babbo the laughingstock of Forli’. Then you accuse me of going about with strange men before you even hear my side of what happened. To end up, you generously say you don’t like my taste in clothing, without my asking your opinion on the matter. You’re certainly slinging quite a lot of unmerited, unfounded and unrequested criticism at me before you even ask me how I am doing. But I think I understand you; please don’t worry; you haven’t hurt my feelings. I know you will always have something negative to say about anything I say or do. I have however, learned to take it in stride and forgive, though thou askest not for forgiveness. Now, I really should go. I saw some new nail polish that I want to buy. Please close the door behind you when you leave. It will lock automatically.”

Katia gently rose and kissed her mother lightly on the brow, and patted her on the back before Katia exited the house without making a single noise.

No one ever got a word out of Katia about what happened with the German businessman. Nothing. But that was not the half of it. Katia had become a living spectacle in her tiny town. Her outfits grew more and more outlandish, her lipstick redder and farther afield from her lip lines and her hair grew until it looked like an explosion of tangerine flavored cotton candy. Most people just stopped talking to her. She didn't go the party anymore, though she was taking more and more day trips to Bologna on the weekends. She was spending her time reading the financial papers and investing and shopping.

Long about the fourth month when it became obvious that she was getting heavy, her parents asked her point blank if she was pregnant.

“I’m so glad you asked. I think so! Won’t you be delighted to have a little grandchild?”

Katia’s father looked at his daughter and silent tears rolled down his cheeks. How had he produced this, this walking talking embarrassment? How was he ever going to make things right?

“Katiuscia, you can’t have a baby.”

“Why Babbo?”

“Because you’re not married.”

“Oh yes I am. Now, is there another reason I cannot have a baby?”

“Who are you married to? That Geman?”

“Oh no, Babbo. My husband’s name is Oreste Emiliani.”

“Oreste Emiliani. Who is he?”

“My husband.”

“Where does he live?”

“In an old folks’ home in Bologna.”

“What?”

“He lives in an old folks’ home in Bologna.”

“Katia what are you doing?”

“I’m going to have a baby. My own child. I am going to have my own family, as I want it to be. I’m married, I’m pregnant. I’m due September 8th. Do you have any other questions?”

“Katia sweetie, have you thought about . . .”

“The bedroom? Oh yes. I’ve already bought the crib. And the curtains. Why, do you want to help me?”

“I wish I could, but I don’t know what to do.”

“You can paint the bedroom.”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant . . .”

“Babbo, don’t you think the person you want to help, knows best what kind of help she needs? Now, do you want to paint the bedroom, or not?”

“What are you going to tell them at the office?”

“Oh, I was waiting to talk to you first. I’ll tell them I’m going to take maternity leave.”

“But what are they going to say?”

“They are going to say yes. It’s my due as a mother.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Then perhaps you need to speak a little more clearly. What exactly do you mean?”

“I mean about the fact that you’re going to have a baby out of wedlock?”

“I’m not. I’m married.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“Why? Didn’t you want me to get married and have babies?”

“Yes, but not like this.”

“How then?”

“In the normal way. You get a boyfriend and . . .”

“Babbo, I’m thirty-five years old. I know what I want and the best way to go about it. Now, are you going to come and paint the bedroom for me?”

This of course, was the first of thirty or forty very similar conversations between Katia and her parents. Though a great deal of patience was lost, none of it was ever Katia’s. Her ideas were just as clear as her parents’ ideas were, but Katia’s ideas had irrefutable logic supporting them while her parents could only call upon admiration of a papier mâché status quo as a model for morality and behavior. That was easy enough to shoot holes into, riddled as the status quo was with falsehood and hypocrisy, not to mention a healthy dose of pure bigotry. At the office, they were simply astonished and as curious as bats in the peach trees, but nobody at the office got anything out of Katia about how all of this happened. They resigned themselves to their own invented legend that the father had been the German businessman.

And then one day, Gigliola was looking through the receipts and ran across the restaurant bill from San Domenico. When she turned it over, she saw the telephone number and assumed it was the hotel in Bologna. She picked up the phone and dialed.

“The Linden Trees Family Home.”

“Linden Trees, I thought this was a hotel.”

“Oh well not really. Who are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for a German businessman called Krause. I believe he spent the night there on January 8?”

“Oh, there are no German businessmen here. This is an old folks’ home. You must be confused.”

“Wait, wait, wait. I know, I’m looking for a certain Katia Guiccioli. She’s about 35, and well…”

“You mean the woman with the big red hair who married Oreste Emiliani last month? Oh, she doesn’t usually come here until Saturday. You might try again then, or I’ll give her a message if you like. Really, she’s one of the kindest ladies I know. So, your name is . . . “

Gigliola gently put the receiver back on the hook. This was too odd. With effortless intrigue, Gigliola managed to spread this little bit of information around the office and soon enough everyone was asking Katia what she was doing at the old folks’ home on Saturday afternoons and who Oreste Emiliani was.

“Oh, aren’t you kind to take an interest in me? I visit friends, people who talk to me and are glad to see me. What do you do on Saturday afternoons, Gigliola?”

(Katia knew Gigliola pretended to go for a long, solitary walk in the woods with her friend Silvana, but that Gigliola always ended up in a little fishing hut on the canal outside Cervia with the boss for an hour or two).

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot, you go for a walk in the pine forest, now don’t you? Well, isn’t it pleasant we can talk about things outside of work? Now, let me get back to these accounts.”

Every time someone tried to pry into Katia’s private affairs, she repulsed them with a delicate gaze and an oblique reference to something that profoundly flustered them. She never pursued the subject she brought up; it wasn’t necessary since the person in front of her had been shamed and changed the subject rather quickly.

Midway into her sixth month she took leave of the office and stayed at home. She was doing gymnastics, and learning to sew a little bit. She couldn’t always find clothing to suit her particular tastes and so she started whipping up great frothy floor length skirts in emerald silk and boleros of black velvet with turquoise frogs and lace cuffs for her blouses. She also read the papers and continued to invest.

There was a slight tragedy during her pregnancy: her husband, Oreste Emiliani died in the old folks’ home. She was sorry of course, but not really upset since he was ninety-four years old. She continued to go to the nursing home however where everyone was delighted to see her, until the end of her eighth month. In her ninth month, she pretty much stuck to her house. Her father painted the child’s bedroom and her mother was looking forward to having a grandchild. There were no more discussions about how Katia was going about this, since she never asked for anything. She would accept help, but only for the things that she wanted. She never mentioned money.

She didn’t need to. She was on maternity leave, her investments in the stock market had all doubled in the last six months, and in a year’s time when her maternity leave and pay ran out, she would get a family check as a widow, as well as her husband’s pension. She really wouldn’t have to work in an office full time. She would have to keep up with the papers and her investments, and more importantly, she would have to rear her child, both of which had greater returns than doing the accounts for an import/export firm. She would let everyone at the office figure it all out for themselves, and leave them in the lurch. They had never wanted to listen to her when she worked there anyway.

The only person she really talked to now was her stockbroker at the bank. When she entered the high marble hall, all heads turned towards her as she mounted the stairs and asked to speak to Mr. Patuelli. Patuelli was the only person who smiled when he saw her coming since everyone else was busy trying not to stare at her

“Signora, what pleasant breeze wafts you into my office?”

“Insurance!”

The doors closed behind them. Patuelli was one of the few discreet people in town, one of only a handful of employees in the bank who never discussed any business but his own. He was just learning the ropes in the stock market and whenever Katia Guiccioli came to visit him, he spent most of his time listening, being polite, and executing her orders. When she left, Signor Patuelli would make investments in exactly the same way, but at another bank, where he had an accomplice who then repeated the same investments at in his account at Patuelli’s bank. The three of them were making a pile of money and the three of them were the only ones who knew. They all trusted each other, and when it came to finance and opportunities on the stock, they all shared all the information they had with the other two, though Katia never met the accomplice.

“Which company are we going to look at today?”

“We’re not going to look at anything. We’re going to buy 3,000 shares 0f Generali which hit a nine-year low of 21,000 lire yesterday. Where do I sign?”

Patuelli wrote up the order and Katia signed it. In six months’ time the stock would be selling for 124,000 lire. Katia imagined it would get up to just over a hundred and gleefully watched it climb to the low 120’s, at which point she came back and sold it all off. She had sextupled her money and paid no taxes on it! Capital gains weren’t taxed! The best way to save money was to be rich. Now she could afford not to go back to work at all ever. Now she could really start to make money on the stock and bond market. Government bonds were paying an outrageously high return of 11 percent. She would purchase thirty-year notes and sell them after twenty years.

Katia had hired a woman from the country called Edda to help her with Bianca, her daughter whom she had borne without a hitch five months ago. When Edda’s son was caught dealing heroin, Katia put on a floor length leopard Chanel style pantsuit and cape and went to speak to the judge in his chambers. They knew each other from the Socialist party.

“Flavio, you are so kind to receive me. I want to discuss Gigetto Baroncelli.”

“He needs to be locked up in prison, Katia. We found two kilos of heroin in his apartment.”

“So, then why send him to prison, where he will learn how to purchase and hide fifty kilos when he gets out? No Flavio, I have a proposal I’m certain you’ll find more than acceptable. I am making a substantial donation to Bertozzi’s rehabilitation community in Rimini, on the condition that they attempt to clean him out. His mother has already spoken to Gigetto and he is amenable. So, could you help me? I have also spoken to Bertozzi who runs the place, and he is certain that you will attempt to help him, help other people. You seem to owe him a favor, from what I gather.”

Flavio winced. How much did Katia know? Discretion is the better part of valor.

“We’ll take care of this very quietly.”

“Oh, thank you. Now, I need to buy some cologne.”

Gigetto cleaned up so well, that he ended up running the upholstery business at the community, which he never left. Gigetto was too absorbed in his new community even to think of how he had gotten there and he never bothered to ask his mother for the details, much less call her on her birthday. Edda was the only person who ever demonstrated her gratitude to Katia for his rescue since Katia had also asked Edda not to say anything to Gigetto. It was easy enough for Edda to keep her promise. Edda stayed with Katia and Bianca for the rest of their lives, until Edda was too old even to make coffee, but by that time, Katia had found a Polish woman to run the household. Katia gave Edda her own private bedroom at the end of the hall, in Katia’s penthouse suite.

Everybody in Forli’ apart from her parents and Patuelli in the bank whispered as Katia arrived on the street, her flowing skirts trailing the cobblestones and travertine, her enormous glasses glinting in the sun, her bouffant hair lacquered to helmet hardness. Most people were afraid to speak to her; she was too dazzling. Almost no one ever knew the many good things that she did, except for the people she helped, whom she asked for utmost discretion. Blind Guido did not even suspect that Bianca was his daughter. Bianca went to finishing school in Switzerland and married a Belgian banker. Katia never explained herself to anyone again.

And Katia, Katia was happy. She felt beautiful. She was rich. She knew she was kind. She heard the occasional unpleasant remark about her appearance, but then again, she didn’t have to go canvassing in the rain anymore to see people. Katia’s confidence had become unassailable. She never gave a second thought to what the really little people were saying behind her back and how they pretended to ignore her when they saw her on the street.

Katia was bigger than life, and she knew it.