Читать книгу Whispering Bones - Rita Vetere - Страница 9

Chapter 4

Venice, Italy

1927

Dr. Alberto Rossi adjusted his round spectacles and looked again at the slender, dark-haired woman sitting opposite his desk. Young and attractive, to be sure, but like all women, she required firm direction. When he spoke to her, his voice assumed the condescending tone he reserved for all of his female patients.

“Signora Marino, you are with child once again. Congratulations to you. However, you must keep in mind that, on the past two occasions, it is my opinion that your mental anxiety is what prevented you from carrying the child to full term. You must make a conscious effort to avoid negativity. Keep only pleasant thoughts in your mind—and I will prescribe a tonic, to be taken daily. Return to see me in a month.”

Rosaria Marino, twenty years old and married for the past two to Massimo Marino, a gondola-maker, addressed the doctor. “Dottore, it is true that I am anxious. I want nothing more than to bear my husband a child. But my mother recounted to me how she lost three children before giving birth to me. Perhaps I inherited some physical problem from her?”

Dr. Rossi looked over his spectacles and frowned at the young woman. “Are you questioning me? If so, you may leave this office and not return...signora.” He continued to stare disapprovingly at Rosaria until she lowered her eyes.

“Of, of course not, Dottore, I just thought...”

“Don’t think. Concentrate on the husband you claim to love and the child you will give birth to... If you follow my instructions.”

Rosaria nodded, her eyes still lowered. Dr. Rossi softened his tone as he sent her on her way. “Very well. I will see you next month.”

Rosaria uttered a nervous, “Thank you, Dottore,” and hurried from the office.

As she turned to leave, Rossi studied her slim legs and rounded buttocks through the drab grey outfit she wore. Probably her Sunday-best clothes. Although he found the girl extremely attractive, he mentally dismissed her. He had no use for foolish young women. If not for his wife’s acquaintance with Rosaria, he would never have taken the woman on as a patient. But Alberto Rossi, at thirty-nine and at the height of his medical career, had never denied his young bride Serafina anything over the course of their six-year marriage.

Serafina, only two years older than the patient who had just left his office, had already borne him two children, a girl, Julia, and a boy, Vittorio. And, unlike the patient who had just left, his wife possessed an astute intelligence, and used it. He hoped Serafina would bear him many more children. Julia and Vittorio were beautiful and well-behaved children—not unlike his wife.

All the young women in Venice wanted lots of children. Since Il Duce had taken power, more children brought better tax privileges. Dr. Rossi was a great fan of Mussolini. He took seriously Il Duce’s statement that he wanted peace and quiet, work and calm for Italy, and if those who chose to oppose their leader suffered at the hands of the black-shirts, what of it?

Mussolini had also taken a keen interest in the state’s education system. Alberto knew his son would not be forced to scratch and claw his way to the top, as he had. His own rise to prominence in the medical field had been anything but easy. The son of a poor gravedigger who had died following a strange mental illness when Rossi was a young boy, he had determined early on that he would devote himself to the betterment of those who struggled with mental disorders. He had worked at odd jobs since the age of eight, and read every book he could lay his hands on as a child. All through secondary school he had supported himself, living off the meager earnings of whatever night work he could find, while keeping up with his studies. After grueling years of living in poverty in the slums of the city, he’d earned his dream, a scholarship to medical school. He’d seized his only chance with both hands, and the rest was history. His tenacity and determination had paid off.

He looked around at his well-appointed office, satisfied in the knowledge that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

* * * *

Rosaria opened the wooden, centuries-old door of the home she shared with her husband, Massimo, and his family. After greeting her mother-in-law, she hurried upstairs to change out of her good clothes.

“I’ll be back in a minute to help with dinner,” she called over her shoulder to the woman as she headed back outside. Rosaria walked to the large workshop next door that backed onto the canal. Massimo, like his father and grandfather before him, was a squero, a gondola-maker. Her husband had been fortunate enough to grow up under the tutelage of his highly skilled father, a master craftsman. And, she thought with pride, Massimo’s abilities would soon rival those of her father-in-law.

She entered the workshop, breathing in the scent of wood—oak, cherry, walnut and mahogany—that permeated the place. Massimo and his father worked at the bow of a raised vessel, putting the finishing touches on their latest construction. The completion of a gondola marked a truly special occasion. The meticulous, demanding work performed by her husband and father-in-law produced only two boats a year.

They had not heard her enter, and Rosaria did not approach them right away, taking a moment to admire the sleek, almost sinister-looking vessel. To Rosaria, it resembled a black butterfly, its funereal beauty softened and made romantic by graceful, sweeping curves and the crimson-covered seats of the raised cabin. Only three embellishments were permitted to be affixed to a gondola—a curly tail, a pair of metal seahorses, and the pronged ferro, or prow. Massimo and his father were in the process of fastening the metal, six-pronged prow to the bow of the gondola. When they stopped to inspect their handiwork, Rosaria moved behind her husband, putting her arms around his waist and planting a kiss on his neck.

Massimo turned to face her, smiling. “How did it go?”

“You know,” she told him, after greeting her father-in-law, “I’m not sure. Dottore Rossi is so stern. I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“He’s a very respected doctor, Rosaria. You were lucky to have gotten to see him. We must send Serafina a token of thanks for putting a good word in for you.”

Rosaria did not respond right away. The thought of good-natured and lively Serafina, her childhood friend, married to the condescending Dr. Rossi, a man almost twice her age, made Rosaria more than a little sad. When she’d last seen Serafina, she couldn’t help but notice some of the light had gone out of her friend’s eyes.

“So? What did he say?”

Rosaria smiled at him, grateful to have such a handsome and caring husband. “He said I must think only good thoughts—and he prescribed a tonic which I’m to take daily.”

“Good.” Massimo placed a hand over the small curve of her stomach. “We will have our baby, Rosaria,” he whispered in her ear. “He will be strong and healthy, and he will look like you, God willing.”

Tears welled up in Rosaria’s eyes at his words. How she prayed they would come true. After two miscarriages in the past year, she was desperate to carry this child to term. But all she could think of was the look of disappointment on Massimo’s face when he’d learned of her previous failed pregnancies.

“Come,” he said, brushing her tears away, “only good thoughts, remember?”

She nodded and hugged him tight, both comforted and made anxious by his hopeful words.

* * * *

Dr. Rossi frowned at the nurse who knocked at the door, interrupting his lunch, which he’d been forced to take in his office today due to his heavy schedule. “Yes? What is it?”

The nurse walked timidly across the room and held out a cream-colored envelope, the flap of which was secured with the official red seal of the city. “This was just delivered for you, Dottore. I thought you would want to see it right away.”

He dismissed the woman with a nod and studied the return address before tearing open the envelope. After reading the contents of the letter, his face broke into a wide smile. The paper he had written last year on a new and experimental technique that had been introduced to treat the mentally ill and the apparent beneficial results of the procedure known as leucotomy had been noticed, and by the right people. The letter officially acknowledged his appointment as head surgeon at the newly constructed psychiatric facility on the nearby island of Poveglia.

He left, telling his patients in the adjoining waiting room he’d be back shortly, and hurried out of the building toward his house, wanting to share his good news with Serafina. He would tell her to prepare the children and be ready in her finest dress on his return home from the office this evening. They would be dining out tonight. News such as he had just received most definitely called for a celebration.