“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