Читать книгу Catarina's Ring - Lisa McGuinness - Страница 8

Chapter 3

CATARINA, MATEO, AND AN UNEXPECTED LETTER

Market days, especially when Mateo came along, gave Catarina a sense of freedom—at least for a short time.

“What does Signora Carlucci want today?” Mateo asked, snatching the list out of Catarina’s hand.

“Let’s see,” he read, “calamari—that sounds delizioso—asparagus, that will cost una fortuna at this time of year, and pugliese bread.

“How they eat!” he said. “Like kings, while we eat the same thing over and over again. Pasta…minestrone…prosciutto…pasta…minestrone…prosciutto. Maybe I could get invited over for dinner, huh?”

Catarina snickered, “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” as she shook her head.

Mateo’s attention was suddenly grabbed by a beautiful girl passing by.

“La Bella Bianca,” he said to the young woman by way of greeting and bowed deeply as she passed.

She smiled at him shyly and then turned to Catarina. “Buon giorno, Catarina,” Bianca said as she passed.

Catarina returned her greeting, then as soon as she was a distance away turned to her brother and laughed. “Don’t torture her, Mateo. I think she dreams about you.”

The girl was only fifteen, but she had been pestering Catarina about her older brother as long as Catarina could remember, although she never had the courage to even answer his greeting when he passed.

“Torture her? You’re not serious. One day I’ll marry her, you just wait. Then who will be laughing?” Mateo said.

“You truly want to marry her?” she raised her eyebrows, then paused to consider. “Not a bad idea, actually,” she conceded. “After all, her papa runs the dry goods stall; you’d never be hungry.”

“Always practical,” he said. “And who will you marry?”

Catarina snorted. “Maybe Old Signor Garvagio,” she snickered as a vision of their eighty-two-year-old neighbor came into her mind. Mateo laughed with her. “Not a bad idea, either. You’d be a widow by the time you were twenty. Then you’d have your own vineyard and your choice of young men willing to marry you for your land.”

The two couldn’t stop giggling at the thought until Mateo abruptly halted and smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“I almost forgot,” he told her. “A letter came today to Mama and Babbo about you. It’s from the Brunellis. Do you remember them? They moved to America when we were little but came to visit that time.”

“What do you mean a letter about me?”

“I don’t know. Mama asked Babbo what was in the letter, and he said ‘It’s about Catarina.’ And then I said, ‘What about Catarina?’ and then they both clamped their mouths shut and didn’t utter another word.”

“You’re such a buffone, Mateo. I’m sure they asked about us all,” she scoffed. “I do remember the Brunellis, though. They were nice. They brought us sweets and had two teenage boys. Do you remember? The younger’s name is Julian or something. I remember him being very serious.”

“Not Julian,” corrected Mateo. “Not even close. His name is Franco. I heard Babbo say it twice before I got kicked out of the room.”

When Catarina returned home that evening she found her mother silently scrubbing artichokes, tight-lipped and tense. Her father was nowhere in sight.

“Buona sera, Mama. Did you have a good day?”

“Ciao, mia cara. It was fine.”

Catarina wondered if her mother would bring up the letter. Mateo’s words had stuck with her all afternoon while she prepared the evening meal for the Carluccis. What did it mean? She had no idea. But, no, of course Mama wouldn’t bring it up. Leave it to Mama, Catarina thought, to never volunteer any information. It was come tirare i denti, like pulling teeth, when it came to getting information out of her mother.

“Anything interesting happen?” Catarina asked, deciding to bring it up herself. “Mateo said there was a letter from America.”

“That boy. Always snooping. Always pestering.” Catarina’s mother shook her head and wiped her hands on her apron, but she couldn’t help but smile a little bit, because she did adore Mateo—snooping and all.

“If you must know, yes, we did have a letter from America,” she said sighing. She stopped scrubbing and turned to face her daughter. Catarina noticed that she looked weary. Her eyes, which were usually sparkling with life, seemed dull and tired.

“From the Brunellis,” her mother told her. “Do you remember them? You haven’t seen them since you were a little girl.”

“I think I remember. Franco was the son, right?”

“Precisamente,” she said. “One of them, at least. He’s a grown man now. A good man, I’m sure, but a man who lives very far away.”

The thought of America always gave Catarina a thrill.

“The land of opportunity,” she muttered. She had always heard that, but couldn’t quite fathom what it meant exactly. She tried to picture it, but all she could imagine were people beautifully dressed and dances full of smiling, handsome men and lovely women. Always smiling with big white teeth. And the men in suits . . . not in work clothes out toiling in the fields like her babbo.

“Opportunity. Yes. That’s what they say. But too far away for my liking,” said her mother with uncharacteristic intensity. “Italy is our country. I don’t want my family spread across so much space like seeds flung to the wind.” Her mother was impassioned and threw her arm out as if she was in the act of it herself, then shook her head and crossed herself.

Catarina laughed and shook her head at her mother’s irritable response. “You don’t have to worry about that, Mama. No one’s going away. We love Italy, too. It’s our home.”

Catarina’s mama turned away and looked out the window.

“But what was in the letter? Was it something about me? Mateo said you and Babbo said it was about me.”

“No . . . no, cara. It was nothing.” She told her, waiving her hand dismissively, but Catarina noticed she didn’t meet her eye. “The Brunellis just asked after you is all. Now shoo upstairs to freshen up before dinner. You look tired out.”

“I am tired out. Signora Carlucci works me like a dog. She’s nice, but she loves to order me around.”

“And Signor Carlucci?” asked her mother. “Any more problems?”

“He scares me, Mama. I don’t like the way he looks at me. And…”

“Keep your eyes averted.”

“If only that worked. He doesn’t care if I’m looking or not when he touches my thigh under the table when I’m serving dinner or ‘accidentally’ rubs against me when I’m walking down the hall. It’s always when my arms are full of food from the market or laundry and I can’t sidestep him fast enough.”

It felt good to tell her mother the ugly secret. She hadn’t said a word to anyone about it since the one disheartening attempt she’d made with her mother months ago.

“What? Is this true? He touches you?” her mother asked, the alarm in her voice mixed with fury. “Oh, mio Dio! I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you tried to tell me before. I didn’t understand you when you told me earlier. But if what you say is true, it’s unacceptable. I’m going to have to talk to your father about this.” Her mother pursed her lips and started to pull on her apron strings and go talk to Catarina’s babbo.

“No, Mama! I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” Catarina grabbed her mother’s arm in alarm. “You know Babbo’s temper. You know how he can be!”

Her mama paused for a moment and stared out the window.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Mama. “Maybe this is best handled between us. We’ll think of something. We’ll put an end to this, I promise,” she wrapped her arms around her daughter and hugged her tightly.

“But for now, keep yourself clear of him as much as you can,” her mother said gravely, and then, with the sparkle suddenly back in her eyes, “and put some lye in his underwear next time you do the laundry. Then you can smile to yourself as you watch him squirm all day.”

“Mama!” Catarina laughed and gave her mother one last squeeze. It felt good to have her back on her side. She had felt alone when her mother hadn’t understood before.

“Now go.” She made a motion to push Catarina upstairs. “Rest before dinner.”

When the family was seated at the long, dark wooden dinner table, Catarina could feel her father’s eyes on her. She glanced through the window at the vine-covered hills in the twilight, then back at her father. Each time she looked up, his intent gaze was focused on her face. Had her mother said something about Signor Carlucci after all? Catarina hoped not.

Then she noticed her mother shooting her father secret looks as she passed the eggplant, and Catarina sensed a certain frisson. She gazed at a crack in the plaster on the wall while she tried to calm herself, then she gave her mama a look that said, “Why did you tell him?” but her mother had barely shaken her head when her father cleared his throat, effectively silencing the boisterous conversation going on among Mateo and Catarina’s sisters and their husbands who were trading good-natured barbs at the far end of the dining table.

“We’ve had a letter from America,” he said, puffed up and full of importance. Catarina felt her heart skip a beat. So, it was something after all. But she hardly knew the Brunellis. Why was her father acting like a simple letter was suddenly a family matter?

“And?” dared Mateo. The only one who would even think of pressing their father who usually took his sweet time to get a story out.

“As it turns out, Franco Brunelli is looking for a bride.”

“So are all the bachelors in the world,” snickered Lorena, one of Catarina’s safely married sisters. “But they don’t write letters about it. They go and pick whatever flower they like from the bouquet.”

“Lorena, don’t be sbocatta. Your smart mouth always got you into trouble,” said another sister.

“This is different,” Babbo continued, combing his fingers through his increasingly sparse hair. “The Brunellis live in America—in a place called San Francisco—but their son doesn’t want to marry una Americana, who will never know the Italian ways. He wants a woman who will remind him of his roots. Of his true home. Someone who understands Italian customs and speaks the language.”

“So, he should come to Italy. Stay a while and meet a nice Italian girl, marry her, and bring her back to San Francisco,” Catarina’s mother chimed in, a tone in her voice implying that something about Franco’s situation was ridicola. But Catarina didn’t see the problem. So, this Franco wanted to come meet an Italian woman to marry. It wasn’t uncommon. Lots of men came back to Italy to marry. What did that have to do with their family?

They all looked at Catarina’s father. A table full of questioning looks. His lined, weathered face seemed to be full of mischief.

“Is that what he wants? To stay here while he looks for a bride, Babbo?” Catarina asked.

“Well, no,” he said. “He can’t afford the time away from the family business,” her father answered. “They’re jewelers and work is busy. Signor Brunelli can’t let Franco leave the store for a few months. So they have written to us for help,” he spread his palms as if his friend was at the table with them.

“How are we supposed to help?” Mateo asked.

“Allora, they inquired after one of my beautiful and talented daughters,” explained Catarina’s father, as he looked at Catarina. Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth and looked around to see all eyes on her.

“He must be desperate!” laughed Mateo, trying to lighten the suddenly tense mood, but he shot Catarina a glance as if to say he was sorry even as the words came out of his mouth.

“Shut up, idioto!” Maddelana said, and cuffed her brother on the side of the head. “What are you talking about, Babbo?”

“Well, as you know, our family and the Brunellis go way back. Vittorio Brunelli was like a brother to me when we were young. His parents were like my second parents. We grew up together and when he moved away it almost killed me,” he added dramatically.

Catarina’s mother rolled her eyes good-naturedly at her husband’s melodrama. He felt everything so strongly.

“So now, his youngest, Franco, wants a wife. It only makes sense that he turn to me, his best friend since childhood, to find a respectable girl for him. We have five daughters. Four are married. One is not.”

At that statement all eyes again turned to Catarina. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

“Surely you don’t mean for me to go off and marry some boy I only met once as a child?”

“Of course not, Catarina,” said Babbo, as relief rushed over her, but then he followed with, “but, you know Franco. Don’t you remember him? And he’s not a boy anymore. He’s a grown man. He has a business. He makes a good living.”

Catarina looked at her father as if he were a stranger.

“I met him once when I was a little girl. Surely that doesn’t count as ‘knowing him.’ Not like I know the boys from our village. Are you going to make me marry him? Are you sending me away?” she asked, anger and terror simultaneously flashing in her eyes.

“Catarina, don’t listen to him!” interrupted her mother, who slapped her palm onto the table—a look of exasperation on her face. “I will not have my daughter moving to America and marrying someone we hardly know,” she turned to her husband, “even if you have known his father since you were toddlers running in diaper cloths through the orchards.”

“We would never force you, Catarina,” Babbo told her, “but it’s something to think about. Something for us to talk about,” his face showing her just how serious he was. “You don’t have a good opportunity here. We don’t have much to offer to you, mia cara. You live in a poor house with a small orchard and have to work as a maid. Whomever you marry here might get sent away to fight when the war breaks out—and war is coming. I wish it weren’t so,” he said, glancing around the table at his sons-in-law, “but it is. And even if it doesn’t happen, then what? You marry the son of another poor farmer and move to his house and take care of his mother while you get poorer and poorer?”

“Emiliano! Why are you saying this?” Catarina’s mother gave him a meaningful look with a nod at their other girls, sitting around the table with their husbands, who all worked on either their families’ land or their own. “These men are good, honest, hardworking men. If Catarina does so well, I, for one, will be proud.”

“Celestina,” Catarina’s father answered back. “You know I have all the respect for our sons-in-law, but in America Catarina wouldn’t have to work so hard. I’ve heard the roads there are all paved instead of made with stones, unlike most of the roads in our village. There are markets full of food, and she could go pick what she wanted off of the shelf.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Maddelana chimed in, agreeing with her father. She took her husband’s hand. “I love our life here,” she smiled at him, “but if we could go to America, we would go imediatamente.” She paused, as an idea popped into her mind. “In fact,” she looked at her youngest sister with hope in her eyes, “if Catarina goes, maybe she could sponsor us once she’s married.”

“I bet she could,” her babbo answered. “As I said, the Brunellis are jewelers,” he continued. “They live well in San Francisco. Franco makes a good living.”

“But this is my home” Catarina stammered. “I wouldn’t know anyone there. And what about Anna and Maria Nina?” Catarina thought of her two best friends. They knew everything about each other. They grew up together and always knew that they would marry boys from the village and raise their own children where they, themselves, grew up.

“If I left here, if I moved to America, I might not ever see you again,” she said. And then immediately regretted it when both her parents looked away from her, instead of denying that it might be the case.

“You’re going nowhere, Catarina,” her mother said, and then scraped her chair back from the table and started collecting the dishes. Catarina and her sisters dutifully followed her lead, and the conversation ceased for the moment. But Catarina knew it was something she would ponder during the long, sleepless night.

She told herself she would stay. She would refuse to leave her home to marry Franco—whom she could barely remember. She strained to pull together a vision of him. She thought she remembered brown hair and brown eyes. That could be anyone. She sighed, wishing she could picture him.

But if she wasn’t going to leave and marry Franco, she wondered whom she would marry. She hadn’t thought much about it. Anna and Maria Nina talked about the boys in the village incessantly, while the three waited in line at the pump to fill the water pitchers for their families, but there was no particular boy with whom she could picture spending her life.

Catarina visualized a few she knew. There was Dominico Pescatore—who had the most potential. He was handsome and kind, but he was the son of a fish monger, and she didn’t think she could stand to marry a man who was covered in fish blood all day.

There was Armondo Deluca, who was funny and made all the girls laugh when they were at town festivals, but his family was even poorer than Catarina’s, and his mother was difficult. She thought every girl was out to catch her perfect son, and that no one was good enough for him. She shuddered at the thought of living out her life stuck in that household under the dour eye of Signora Deluca.

Paolo Eliodoro could be a good man to marry, and Catarina liked him, but Anna had been planning to marry Paolo since they were both children, and she would never get in the way of that.

Besides the problem of marriage, she believed what Babbo had said about the war coming was true. At least that was what she kept hearing whispered in town. What if all the boys from home were sent away to fight? Who would she be left with then? That night she finally fell into a restless sleep, but when she woke up, in spite of her concerns she was resolved. She would stay. It would work out for her here. She would make it work out in order to be with her family. She didn’t care if she never married and worked as a maid her entire life. It would be better than being sent away.

Signor Carlucci’s face suddenly flashed in her mind, but she pushed that aside. She would figure that out, too.