wound down the darkened staircase. Suffused light shafted through, in ornate patterns, from the decorative metal grate above the main double doors. Behind the wooden banister, the paint looked as if it had been dragged downward by a powerful force, streaking the wall where it had clawed to try to remain attached. Her footsteps echoed off the marble steps. They were wide enough to show off the dazzling ball gowns of the original owners, not the worn shoes of a seamstress.
The white sun beyond the heavy door blinded her.
“Congratulations, Carme’!” a woman called down to her from the fountain. “Just read about the soon-to-be-newlyweds in the piazza. Not every day you get your name posted on the wall, you know!”
“Thank you! I’m going to see it now!” Her voice bubbled like an overexcited adolescent.
“It’s next to Ignazia Cau’s death notice,” another chimed, hoisting a jug up onto her head. “God rest her soul. . . .”
The women muttered a blessing and set off in opposite directions. Carmela stood and listened to the water as if the sound itself might cool her down, but she knew that even the unforgiving ice of February would not have that effect on a special day like today.
The pitter-patter feet of her youngest sister, Vittoria, drew Carmela round.
“Aren’t we in a hurry?” Carmela called out to her.
“Nonna made me say the rosary twice!” Vittoria said without slowing her trot. “She’s angry because Zia Rosa is late home. And now I’m late for the sisters!” Her candlestick legs propelled her downhill. With a quick turn she disappeared into a narrow viccolo that led to the back entrance of the cathedral, where the summer session of the children’s church group was held. Vittoria had been in the Cherubs for several years. Last night, as Carmela had tucked her into the bed Vittoria shared with Gianetta, she had, with much exhilaration, relayed that the nuns had finally graduated her to the Angel’s class. Then, Vittoria had carried on, without pausing for breath or punctuation, that if her dream to become as good a seamstress as Carmela failed, she would follow her second calling to the convent.
Carmela watched Vittoria’s dress flap as she ran and made a mental note to add a trim from some of the off cuts back at Yolanda’s. A flamboyant woman from the next town had ordered an elaborate floral pattern for a light overcoat. Carmela could patch together the scraps and make her sister the happiest ten-year-old on the street.
Carmela continued on down to Piazza Cantareddu, passing a slew of tzilleri. The pungent smell of damp barrels and wine-stained stone floors wafted out from those darkened cantinas, while outside men stood around sniffing their ridotto glasses, arguing over everything and nothing. A voice called out to her.
“There’s my bride!” Franco swung in beside her.
“What are you doing here?”
“I can think of a nicer way to greet your fiancé—only we don’t want to shock these old men.”
“Sorry, I’ve only got a little while—”
“We made the wall, Carmela. You should walk around town like you own it. Which you will, in a few months.”
He took both her hands in his and turned her to face him, “Not so bad for a farm girl, no?”
Her mind flitted to the stack of embroidery to complete at the studio. His phrase grated. He used it often, and always as an expression of endearment; after all, their first tentative trysts were under the cover of her father’s vineyard. There was no shame in being a farm girl. That very earth had borne their love, in every sense. Carmela and Franco were grafted together there, twisting around each other like new vines. She looked into him. The sun shone into the darkness of his eyes, picking out the hidden chestnut flecks, invisible in all light but that of the blinding midmorning beams. He took her elbow and drew her over toward one of the upturned barrels, where several men she didn’t recognize stood, sipping wine.
“This is my fiancée, Carmela.”
She nodded. From the look of their shirts, Carmela hazarded a guess they were men of some influence.
“These signori are here from the council in Tula. I’m showing them our sights.”
Carmela flashed Franco a quizzical look. Why would men from a town thirty kilometers away be in Simius for sightseeing?
“You are welcome to use Carmela’s English however you see fit, gentlemen.” Franco’s face unfolded into one of his winning smiles, which few people could resist.
“Yes, Signorina,” the oldest of the three men said, his cheeks red with sun and wine, “your fiancé has promised us that you can be our interpreter in future meetings between us and the Americani.”
Carmela tried to rein in her confused frown before it creased her forehead, and failed. Franco never cared about her English. To him it seemed little more than a puzzling pastime. Now he was peddling her basic knowledge of it?
“We’ve heard they’re about to start looking for land,” a second man, shorter and rounder than his colleagues, piped in. “They’ve got some rockets they want to shoot up into the sky. My cousin’s son works at the base sometimes. People are talking. They’re going to fly planes and play war games. Plenty of dollars to give us landowners in return.”
Carmela opened her mouth, hoping something half intelligent might come out, but before she could speak, the last man, the silent of the three, wrapped his fingers around the plate loaded with cubed cheese and sliced smoked lard. He lifted it and offered it to her. A lazy fly heaved itself off the side of one of the rinds and landed on his knuckle, long enough for Carmela to note the black under his nail.
“Thank you, gentlemen, it all sounds very interesting, but if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been sent on an errand to Bar Svizzero for my godmother, and I really ought to get along.”
“Piacere,” the first man said, holding out his thick hand. Carmela shook it, out of courtesy, wishing she didn’t feel that it bound her to him in some way. Then she turned to Franco and kissed each cheek. His eyes drifted past her on the second kiss. She had disappointed him. These men must be more powerful than she had guessed. It would have been polite to partake in some food at least. A sweaty piece of cheese or a tiny nibble of greasy lard wouldn’t have been such a great sacrifice in order to place Franco in a favorable light.
Bar Svizzero became a welcome oasis on the other side of the piazza. Carmela headed straight for it—the poster would have to wait till after work. A couple of ladies eating dainty balls of gelato out of glass cups looked up and gave her a polite nod, then readjusted their hats. She smiled back, having the vague sense they had been into Yolanda’s several times for small alterations. What must it be like to have the biggest choices in your day be which hat to wear or whether to try the local honeyed nougat or toasted hazelnut gelato?
Franco was holding court at Bar Nazionale, where men played cards and smoked. He felt most comfortable doing his business there. Bar Svizzero, in contrast, prided itself on attracting the wealthier female clientele—wives of traveling merchants, landowners, or fallen aristocrats with Savoyard money left over from the days when Sardinia was its own kingdom. The owner, Antonio, had once spent a summer in Switzerland with a distant aunt. On his return he had changed his bar’s name, ordered an ornate counter from Turin, and doubled his profits. The valley wasn’t called Logudoro for nothing, after all.
“Buon
