The Glass Butterfly (5 page)
The silence of the house, as they got out of the car and approached the front door, added to the strangeness of the day. When Tory had been hereâand Tory had always been here when Jack came home, something that used to irritate him and now filled him with desperate sadnessâmusic had met him, pouring out through the front door, or through an open window in summer. If it was early in the day, it was baroque. Bach, Vivaldi, Handel. If it was afternoon, Tory would have progressed to classicalâHaydn, perhaps, or Mozart. Jack would always know the workday was over if the music that greeted him was opera. He had resented it, felt as if she was imposing her own tastes on him and anyone else that came into her sphere. He had often plunged up the stairs to his room to play opposing music, punk or metal or even country, cranking it up as loud as he dared.
Other times he would come upon her, curled up in the wide stuffed chair beside the Bose system, headphones on, tears streaming down her cheeks as she listened to some music she particularly loved. He hated finding her like that. It was embarrassing, as if he had caught her without her clothes on.
He had been, he thought now, the cliché of a teenager. He hadn't improved much as a young adult, either.
Now, opening the front door into the quiet house, the full impact of his mother's absence struck him like a gust of winter wind rolling out from the empty hallway. He froze on the doorstep, with Kate behind him.
“Are you okay, honey?” Kate murmured. She put one hand on his back, not insistently, but gently. Her hand wasn't slender, with firm, muscular fingers, like his mother's. It was plump, the palm soft and warm. “Do you want me to go in first?”
Jack shook his head. “No, I'm good,” he said, but he couldn't get his legs to move.
Kate said, “Right,” and stepped past him into the hallway. She turned on the porch light and the hall light and then stood, holding the door wide, giving him time.
The lights helped. Music would help. Kate left Jack to carry his suitcase up to his room, and she went to the kitchen to start putting a meal together. Jack trudged up the stairs, and stood uncertainly outside Tory's bedroom. The door was open. The bed was made, everything looking neat and tidy as always. A book lay facedown on the bedside table, open at the place Tory had stopped reading. Without going in, Jack could see that a bathrobe hung on the hook of the open bathroom door. A towel had been used and then spread to dry over the rack.
He turned away to his own room. He tossed his suitcase on the bed, and looked around at his things, carefully kept just the way he had left them. His Little League trophies lined the shelf above his desk, where his college thesaurus and dictionary still rested. His bookshelves were orderly, dusted, his old favorites waiting in neat rows. The same old band posters, curling now at the edges, studded the walls. His bathroom had towels on the rack and soap in the dish.
“Goddammit,” he muttered. It was all just as he had left it, although a good bit tidier. She had kept it ready, as if she expected him to return at any moment. Or hoped that he would.
A single, painful sob forced itself through his constricted throat. “Goddammit,” he said again. “MomâI'm sorry. I'm going to find you, somehow, so I can tell you that.”
6
Vedete? Io son fedele alla parola mia.
Â
You see? I am faithful to my word.
Â
âManon,
Manon Lescaut,
Act One
Manon Lescaut,
Act One
“I
don't know what else I can do,” Doria said. She cast her mother an exasperated look. “
Veramente,
Mamma, I work from before the
signora
is awake until she goes to bed at night. I've been there five years, and no one knows the house as well as I do! I clean, and I scrub laundry, and I iron the sheets and the curtains. I help Zita with the cooking, and I serve at table. I always wear my apron, and I never complain.”
don't know what else I can do,” Doria said. She cast her mother an exasperated look. “
Veramente,
Mamma, I work from before the
signora
is awake until she goes to bed at night. I've been there five years, and no one knows the house as well as I do! I clean, and I scrub laundry, and I iron the sheets and the curtains. I help Zita with the cooking, and I serve at table. I always wear my apron, and I never complain.”
“You must have done something to make her angry.” Emilia Manfredi dusted her floury hands over the sink, and gathered up the scraps of dough to roll another sheet for the ravioli.
“No one has to do anything to make her angry!” Doria pressed harder on the stone pestle, grinding the basil and garlic together. The pungent scent of pesto filled the room. “You can ask Old Zita, and she'll tell you, Mamma! The
signora
's angry all the time. That's why no one else will work there!”
signora
's angry all the time. That's why no one else will work there!”
“Lucky for you!” Emilia snapped.
Doria clacked the pestle angrily against the rim of the mortar. “You don't know what it's like! She's so mean the
signore
calls her his policeman, did you know that?”
signore
calls her his policeman, did you know that?”
Emilia clicked her tongue. “That's not a nice thing.”
“But she is like a policeman, Mamma, giving orders, shouting, always trying to catch someone in a mistake. The maestro stays away all day with his dogs and his friends, and Zita hides in the kitchen, but I have to go upstairs, downstairs, in and out all day, and be silent all the time besides.”
“You should always hold your tongue! You're only the housemaid.”
“I'm not the housemaid here, Mamma! Surely I can speak in your house?”
“Hmmph.” Her mother slapped the mound of dough with an angry hand. “You'd better not lose your job, Doria. You would have no place to go.”
Doria stopped, the pestle poised and dripping crushed basil. “No place to go?”
Signora Manfredi reached for the rolling pin, and began to spin it over the dough. “There is no room here, Doria, you know that. The house is overflowing as it is.”
“It has always overflowed!”
“Sì, sì, sì,”
her mother said. “It has always overflowed, and I'm tired of it.”
her mother said. “It has always overflowed, and I'm tired of it.”
“That's hardly my fault!” Doria said with asperity. “I'm not the one with six children!”
Emilia tossed her head. “We take what God sends us, Doria.”
Doria sighed, a little ashamed. “Yes, I know. I'm sorry, Mamma.”
“Well, never mind. In any case, you have a good job, in a good house.”
“You don't need to tell me that. I love it there. I like taking care of Signor Puccini.”
With deliberation, her mother laid down her rolling pin and folded her arms beneath her pendulous bosom. She fixed her black eyes on her daughter. “You are behaving yourself?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Behaving myself!” Doria clicked her tongue, and ground the pestle into the basil leaves once again, turning and turning it in the mortar until a green paste began to form.
“Answer me!” her mother snapped.
Doria let the pestle fall, its handle dropping into the sticky pesto. She turned, and matched her mother's posture, arms folded, chin thrust out. “You think I'm sleeping with Signor Puccini? Why not just say so?”
Her mother's eyes hardened. “Watch your tone with me, Doria Manfredi! It's a good question. Everyone knows about the
signore!
”
signore!
”
“You shouldn't listen to gossip, Mamma. Not about the maestro, and most certainly not about your daughter!”
“It wasn't about you,” Emilia admitted, dropping her gaze back to the sheet of ravioli dough. “They say there is someone, but no one said it was you.” She took the dough in her hands, but she looked up under her thick eyebrows at her daughter. “I would defend you. I know you're a good girl.”
“A good girl!” Doria gave the pestle an irritated twist. “I nursed him, Mamma. When he was so injured in the automobile crash, all those months he couldn't walk, I did everything for him. The
signora
wouldn't do it, I can tell you! She wouldn't touch a bedpan, or wash him, or do any of the hard things. I was the one to sit up with him when the pain kept him awake.”
signora
wouldn't do it, I can tell you! She wouldn't touch a bedpan, or wash him, or do any of the hard things. I was the one to sit up with him when the pain kept him awake.”
“
Sì, sì, sì
. Everyone knows that,
mia figlia
.”
Sì, sì, sì
. Everyone knows that,
mia figlia
.”
“She never thanked me, either.”
“She is the
signora,
Doria. It's her house. She doesn't have to thank you.”
signora,
Doria. It's her house. She doesn't have to thank you.”
Doria sighed, suddenly weary of it all. She wished, after all, she had simply held her tongue. One day, she prayed, she would learn to stay silent. “The maestro is kind to me.”
“That's as may be,” Emilia snapped, giving the dough on the floured table a sharp turn. “But he has a taste for young girls.” Her eyes glittered a warning. “You must take care. And keep your mouth closed! You always did talk too much.”
“It's a family tradition!” Doria responded. Emilia only grunted, but her lips twitched with something like humor.
Still, Doria felt impatient with her mother. She stood for a moment, staring at the rack of ancient cast-iron skillets on the wall, then pulled her apron over her head with both hands. It caught on her hairpins, stinging her scalp the way her mother's words had stung her spirit. She ripped it free, and threw it at the hook beside the kitchen door. She missed, and the apron fell in a heap of printed cotton on the plain wooden floor.
“Where are you going?” her mother asked. “What about the ravioli?”
Doria didn't turn back. She heard the thump of the rolling pin as it struck the floury board, stretching, thinning the dough. Her mother's ravioli were the best in Torre, but she couldn't bear the thought of them now. “Give my share to someone else,” she said. “I'm not hungry after all.” She slid out through the door, letting it bang behind her. Her mother didn't call her back. She was probably just as happy, Doria thought, to have one fewer mouth at the table.
Doria trod angrily through her mother's tiny garden, where fennel and parsley drooped in the sun. She stepped down the single stone step directly into the dirt lane. The heat was so thick she felt as if she couldn't breathe. It was her half day, and she had meant to spend the afternoon with her family, to return to Villa Puccini after the Puccinis had finished supper, when the
signora
had retired upstairs and the
signore
retreated to his studio. Now Doria didn't know where to pass the afternoon. It was too hot to sit in the
piazza.
She had no money for a café, because she had just handed over all her wages to her mother. Her room behind the kitchen at Villa Puccini would be nearly hot enough to boil Mamma's ravioli.
signora
had retired upstairs and the
signore
retreated to his studio. Now Doria didn't know where to pass the afternoon. It was too hot to sit in the
piazza.
She had no money for a café, because she had just handed over all her wages to her mother. Her room behind the kitchen at Villa Puccini would be nearly hot enough to boil Mamma's ravioli.
As she walked, picking the sweat-dampened fabric of her dress away from her skin, she thought longingly of the cool fragrance of the maestro's beloved garden. He had ordered it planted with sweet bay and privet, and the heart-shaped leaves of a Judas tree shaded a small wooden bench. Perhaps, if she were very quiet, she could sit there for an hour. She had a book in her pocket, one the maestro had given her. An hour's solitude, reading in the shade, would soothe her temper and cool her hot skin.
Hopeful, she turned toward the lake, where Villa Puccini rose in modest splendor above the lakeshore. She loved the house, she was sure, even more than the maestro did, and he loved it very well indeed.
She had been a young girl when the renovations of the old watchtower began. Everyone in Torre del Lago had been thrilled to have Italy's most famous composer come build his house in their village. Step by step, they had torn the old building apart and rebuilt it, painted it, plumbed it, even connected it to the marvels of electricity and the telephone. Doria was thrilled to be the one allowed to care for Puccini's “golden tower,” as he called it, with its yellow stucco and scrolled iron entryway, its neat shutters and clean, elegant lines. The artist Nomellini came to paint the walls of Puccini's studio, and everyone in Torre heard about how the dampness that pervaded everything around Lake Massaciuccoli crept into the new villa and ruined his work. He had to return to reconstruct his pictures on tapestries of canvas.
Villa Puccini made Doria's own home, where six children crowded into two bedrooms, seem little more than a noisome hut perched along a dirt lane.
When she reached the gate of the villa, there was no one about. The house was so quiet she could hear the lap of the water below the road. The
signora
's painted shutters above the little balcony were closed against the sun. No sound came from the kitchen, nor did Puccini's brown-and-white dogs come romping out to meet her as they always did if he was home. No doubt he had taken his big motorboat out to the little island where he went to fish or hunt or just find some peace. The dogs, the rough-coated
spinone,
loved going out in the boat, hanging over the bow with their long tongues dangling and their ears flattened by the wind.
signora
's painted shutters above the little balcony were closed against the sun. No sound came from the kitchen, nor did Puccini's brown-and-white dogs come romping out to meet her as they always did if he was home. No doubt he had taken his big motorboat out to the little island where he went to fish or hunt or just find some peace. The dogs, the rough-coated
spinone,
loved going out in the boat, hanging over the bow with their long tongues dangling and their ears flattened by the wind.
Doria kicked off her shoes and stripped off her black cotton stockings before she settled herself on the bench. It was blissfully cool in the shade, and she wriggled her toes in the patchy grass as she pulled the book from her pocket. She turned the pages carefully, silently, and read.
It was called
Il Fuoco
â
The Flame
. She didn't truly like it. It was the sort of thing Puccini read. He liked this writer because he also wrote plays, and the maestro was forever seeking out plays he could turn into operas. This one, though, would never work. Even Doria, with her paltry education, could see that. There was a great deal of sex in it, which made her squirm. Despite her mother's dour warnings, Doria knew nothing of sex beyond what she had read in novels. Still, she meant to read
Il Fuoco
all the way through so she could talk about it with Puccini, if he should ask.
Il Fuoco
â
The Flame
. She didn't truly like it. It was the sort of thing Puccini read. He liked this writer because he also wrote plays, and the maestro was forever seeking out plays he could turn into operas. This one, though, would never work. Even Doria, with her paltry education, could see that. There was a great deal of sex in it, which made her squirm. Despite her mother's dour warnings, Doria knew nothing of sex beyond what she had read in novels. Still, she meant to read
Il Fuoco
all the way through so she could talk about it with Puccini, if he should ask.
She was lucky to be able to read, to have learned so easily from Father Michelucci. Most of the girls in Torre, and the boys, too, for that matter, could barely write their names. Despite this bright new century and nearly new country, many Italians had no schooling at all.
For a happy hour she relaxed beneath the Judas tree. In this relentless heat, she doubted anyone beside Puccini would be out of doors. If he wasn't in his boat, he might have tramped up into the hills in search of a breeze. He often did that, his gun slung over his arm and the dogs panting happily at his heels. She hoped he had remembered his hat.
She sighed beneath a gentle wave of drowsiness. Bees buzzed in the roses twining through the wrought-iron fence, and an occasional lazy bird twitter punctuated the sweet silence of the afternoon. Doria's eyes drooped, and the book sagged in her hands. She gave in to the moment, and lay back on the bench, her knees up, her skirts arranged so they covered her modestly but allowed a bit of air to caress her hot calves. With a feeling of pure self-indulgence, she drowsed through the warm afternoon as if she were a lady of privilege.
Â
She woke to the damp scrape of a pink tongue against her cheek and a blast of hot dog breath. With a start, she sat up, crying, “Buoso, stop!” Her protests did nothing to prevent the dog from slathering her with affection. She tried to push him away at the same time that she struggled to pull her skirts down to her ankles. Bica, the bitch, galloped up the path behind Buoso, and the two dogs quarreled, forcing their heads into Doria's lap as she groped beneath the bench for her shoes and stockings. She dropped one shoe, and Bica grabbed it in her teeth and shook it fiercely, as she might an unlucky mole that crawled into her path.
“Buoso, Bica, down!” Puccini called as he paused to latch the gate.
Doria leaped to her feet, laughing. She had stockings in one hand, a shoe in the other. The hounds had knocked her book to the ground, and she bent hastily to pick it up and brush bits of grass and dirt from its cover. Clutching her possessions in front of her, she tried to regain her dignity by bobbing a swift curtsy.
“That's a good way to stay cool,” the maestro said, nodding toward her bare feet.
Doria tried to twitch her skirt so it would cover her toes, but her dress was too short for that. Her feet embarrassed her. They were like bird feet, with long, narrow toes and high arches. Worse, they were dirty now, smudged with dust and grass stains. She sidled away, hoping to escape to her room to set herself to rights.
“You're reading
Il Fuoco
!” the maestro said cheerfully. He was wearing his broad-brimmed hat, but he was in shirtsleeves, and he had dropped his braces so he could wear his shirt loose outside his trousers. Now he took off the hat, and slapped dust from it against his knee. He had a bag with a couple of fat birds in it, and he looked happy, dark hair falling across his sunburned brow, a rime of dust on his thick mustache. Why, she wondered, had such a man married Elvira? The
signora
was old and sour in comparison with her husband's boyish charm. Even at the great age of fifty, Giacomo Puccini was a handsome man.
Il Fuoco
!” the maestro said cheerfully. He was wearing his broad-brimmed hat, but he was in shirtsleeves, and he had dropped his braces so he could wear his shirt loose outside his trousers. Now he took off the hat, and slapped dust from it against his knee. He had a bag with a couple of fat birds in it, and he looked happy, dark hair falling across his sunburned brow, a rime of dust on his thick mustache. Why, she wondered, had such a man married Elvira? The
signora
was old and sour in comparison with her husband's boyish charm. Even at the great age of fifty, Giacomo Puccini was a handsome man.
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