CHAPTER 29
"There are women who walk into a house and the house lowers its voice. I saw mine lower it."
Valentina ROSSI
Donna Beatrice cleaned the same doorknob three times.
I know, because I counted. I was standing in the second-floor hallway with a cup of coffee in my hand, watching her run the white cloth over the brass of my old room.
When she saw me, she let out a breath as if she'd been caught.
"Buongiorno, signora."
"Buongiorno, Beatrice."
"The nonna arrives at noon."
"I know."
She tightened her grip on the cloth.
Madonna, I thought. The woman who carries a Beretta under her apron is afraid of an old lady from Capri.
"Beatrice. Why are you nervous?"
She looked at me over her glasses.
"Because the nonna is the only one, signora."
"The only one."
"The only one who puts the padrone in his place." She went back to the brass. "The only one."
I swallowed hard and went down the stairs.
Luca was in the hall, charcoal-gray suit, dark tie, his posture straighter than I'd ever seen it.
A welcome, not a funeral, I thought. He looked at me when I reached the bottom step and held out his hand.
"Bella mia."
"Sì."
"Today you're going to see something I've never shown you." He kissed my temple. "Don't think it strange."
"What?"
"You'll see."
Tonio drove off to pick up the nonna at the port of Mergellina.
The car pulled up at twelve-oh-four.
Tonio opened the back door slowly, with the care of a man who knew the thing inside was fragile and dangerous at the same time. I saw the cane first—a solid silver handle, old, gleaming in the noon sun.
Nonna Adelina got out.
Five foot one at the most. Black dress, black scarf on her head, black stockings, black low-heeled shoes. White hair pinned in a bun, just two strands escaping behind her ear.
The eyes were Luca's. Black, only much older. Much older.
Luca walked over to her, and I saw it.
I saw the padrone of the Villa Moretti, the Don of the Naples Camorra, the man who'd killed two of my father's soldiers with his own hands three weeks ago—lower himself onto one knee in front of that old woman from Capri, take her hand in both of his, and kiss it.
The breath went out of me.
The nonna held his head with her free hand and kissed his forehead, but said nothing. He stood, offered his arm, and she took it.
The two of them came toward me slowly, at the short pace the cane set.
"Nonna," Luca said, "this is Valentina."
The nonna stopped in front of me, a meter away. She lifted her chin a little—I was much taller—and looked at me.
And looked.
And looked.
I'd already learned to hold Luca's gaze. But Nonna Adelina's was a different thing. It went deep.
"Tu sei lei," she said, quietly.
You're the one.
I didn't know who the one was. I didn't ask.
The nonna touched my chin with the tip of her index finger, tilting it up.
"Brava. Let's eat."
Lunch was for three, in the small dining room.
The nonna ate little. Fresh pasta with tomato from the garden, homemade bread, a glass of red wine.
She talked little too—asked about Luca's trip to Rome last month, the weather in Posillipo, whether Donna Beatrice still made the limoncello that particular way.
She told me the blue dress I was wearing was one of Lina's, that she'd known Lina's stitch for twenty years.
I answered in short. Sì. No. Grazie, nonna. I couldn't bring myself to call her anything else. She seemed to expect me to call her that.
Halfway through lunch, Donna Beatrice came in silently and held out a plain white envelope, no stamp, nothing written on the outside, to Luca.
He opened it, read it, and closed it. Then he folded it in four and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Cazzo, I thought. Something else from my father. But if the nonna doesn't ask in front of her, I don't ask in front of her.
"Valentina."
"Sì, nonna."
"After lunch, you'll sit with me in the music room." She wasn't asking. "Have coffee brought in. Just coffee."
"Va bene, nonna."
Luca, at the head of the table, lowered his eyes to his plate and said not a word.
The music room had been opened by Donna Beatrice before lunch.
The curtains were drawn back, the afternoon sun coming in yellow over the piano keys. The nonna sat down in the green velvet armchair—the only one with a high back, near the window. She rested her cane against the arm of the chair and took the cup of black coffee Donna Beatrice brought.
"Signora," she said, and it was the first time all day she'd called me that. "Do you play?"
"I play."
"Play for me."
I sat down on the piano bench. I lifted the lid. I rested my fingers on the keys—C, D, E—like someone testing, someone buying time.
"What, nonna?"
"Play whatever came into your head on its own when I asked."
I swallowed hard.
Chopin, Op. 9 No. 2.
Mamma's nocturne.
I started to play. Left hand first, then the right coming in slowly. It was going well, the sound filled the room, I closed my eyes.
I got to the middle, and stopped.
I couldn't finish. My hands locked over the keys, and I felt a knot in my throat.
"Signora."
"Scusi, nonna. I can't."
"Look at me."
I looked.
The nonna had the cup at her lips, her black eyes above the rim. She swallowed and set the cup down on the saucer without a sound.
"That same nocturne," she said, "your mother played for me in Capri."
I went still.
"August of 1995." The nonna was in no hurry. "In this very armchair I'm sitting in now, only at my house, on the Via Tragara. Lucia was thirty-something, with Matteo still little, running around the garden. Your father was a terrible man, but she didn't yet know exactly how much."
I felt my blood heat. Not with anger—with something else, something I didn't have a name for yet.
"Nonna," I murmured.
"I'm going to tell you, signora. Things my grandson doesn't know." She rested both hands on the head of the cane. "But not today. Today I'm going to rest. I'm old."
"Va bene, nonna."
She looked at me for a long moment, then set the cup on the side table.
"Signora."
"Sì."
"Before the altar, I want you alone with me in a room. For an hour."
"Sì."
"There are things a mother says. Since yours is already gone, I'll say them."
I felt a stubborn tear slide from the corner of my eye. I didn't wipe it away, just let it go.
The nonna took up the cane and braced both hands on it. She pushed herself slowly to her feet.
"Three weeks," she said, more to herself than to me. "Three weeks and this house has a real signora again."
And she left, slowly, the short step of the cane tapping on the marble.
I stayed alone in the room. My fingers still on the keys of Luca's mother's piano. My mother's Chopin stopped in the middle of the bar. The smell of black coffee from the cup the nonna had left.
Mamma, I thought. You played for her. In Capri. In 1995.
You were in this family before me.
I closed the piano lid.