CHAPTER 30
"Before I became a man's woman, I became the daughter of two mothers. And only one of the two was alive."
Valentina ROSSI
I woke up alone.
Luca's bed was wide and cold without him beside me. He'd slept in the study—Donna Beatrice had warned me the night before, in the voice of someone explaining tradition to a child: si non si vede la sposa il giorno, signora. The padrone doesn't see the bride on the day.
I looked at the ceiling and took a deep breath.
Madonna santa.
The door opened without a knock.
"Buongiorno, signora."
Donna Beatrice. Steel bun already done at six thirty in the morning, black apron, a tray of strong black coffee with bread and honey. She set it on the bed, beside me.
"Eat, signora. Today's going to be a long day."
"Grazie, Beatrice."
Outside the window, the whole house was awake. Lina's voice demanding a pin, a man's voice calling another man by name, footsteps on the marble of the floor below, the heavy smell of tuberose rising up the stairwell.
When I went down to the kitchen for water, I saw the soldiers at the service door.
Two of them. No suits today—black pants, black shirts, earpieces. Cazzo, I thought. Today too.
"Signora," the nearest one said, with a minimal nod of his head, "auguri."
"Grazie."
I went back upstairs.
Donna Beatrice was waiting in the room with the dress in her arms. The eleven kilos of ivory fabric, the old lace, Nonna Moretti's work. She helped me into it, settled it on my shoulders, and fastened the hooks down the back slowly, one by one.
"The nonna is waiting for you, signora."
"Now?"
"Yes. Alone in her room."
The nonna's room was my old room.
It was strange to walk in. The walls were the same, the tall window was the same, the painting of the Madonna and Child hung in the same place. But the nonna had changed the bed, hung heavy dark-green curtains, set a silver crucifix on top of the dresser, where I used to leave the dagger.
The dagger, today, I hadn't brought.
She was waiting in the green velvet armchair—the only one in the house. She'd had it brought from Capri along with her. Absolute black dress, white hair in a bun, a blood-red garnet brooch at her chest, and the cane resting against her knee.
"Vieni qui, signora. Sit down."
I sat in the other armchair. Donna Beatrice poured the coffee and left, closing the door behind her.
The nonna looked at me.
"Are you ready?"
"I am."
"No, you're beautiful. Ready is what you'll be in an hour."
"Nonna. You promised."
"I know what I promised." She took a sip of coffee. "I'll keep it. Sit up straight."
I did what she said.
"Your mother played Chopin for me in Capri for sixteen years," the nonna began, without preamble.
"From 1995 to 2011. Every summer. She'd spend July and August with me on the Via Tragara, with Matteo, and then with you once you were born.
Your father would show up on weekends; the other days were ours. "
I felt a knot in my throat, but I said nothing.
"I didn't know."
"You were five when you went to the convent. You wouldn't remember."
"Sì."
"In 2010, signora, I asked your mother to leave your father.
" The nonna was in no hurry; each word fell to the floor like a stone.
"I said to her: Lucia, that man will wear you to death before the cancer does.
Leave him, come live in Capri with me, bring the children.
She said no. Because of you. Because Salvatore had sworn to take you from her if she left. "
A stubborn tear slid down my face. The nonna didn't remark on it, just went on:
"In 2015, in August, I saw it with these eyes.
" She pointed to her own black eyes. "Your father came to Capri with four men.
Matteo was twenty-eight; he'd confronted his father days before in Palermo—he'd found out about the scheme with the Morettis, and he came to hide in my house.
Your father called me and said: Adelina, give me back my son, or Lucia pays.
Lucia was in Mondello, doing chemotherapy.
I put Matteo in the car and handed him over.
I watched your brother get into your father's car like that.
Knowing, but not crying, because of his mother. "
The breath went out of me as she spoke, trying to picture the scene.
"You saw it."
"I saw it."
"Does Luca know?"
"My grandson knows part of it." The nonna took up the cup again. "He knows Salvatore took Matteo from Capri. He doesn't know Matteo gave himself up to save Lucia. The one who knows that is you, now. And it'll be your decision whether to tell my grandson or not."
"Nonna," I murmured. "Why did you tell me this today?"
"Because a Moretti wife," she said, "doesn't marry in the dark."
I closed my eyes, feeling a second tear fall.
The nonna opened the drawer of the side table and took out a small black box, worn at the corners, and opened it.
Inside, a ring. Old gold, a square emerald, cut the old way.
"This was Marta's. My grandson's mother." The nonna took my right hand and put the ring on the ring finger. "You wear it today, with Lucia's earrings."
I looked at the emerald on my hand. My mother's emeralds hung cold at my ears.
"Two mothers," I said, low.
"Two mothers," the nonna confirmed. "You don't go to the altar alone, signora."
I cried. I cried openly, without hiding it, my hand over my mouth. The nonna didn't put her arms around me. She stayed there, in her armchair, the cane against her knee, and let me cry.
"Cry now, signora. Get to the church dry."
When I stopped, she stood and came to me with the cane. She kissed my forehead for a long time, and hard.
"Andiamo."
I went down the stairs with Marta's ring on my right hand and Lucia's earrings swaying.
Donna Beatrice was waiting in the hall. Black Sunday dress, a pearl brooch at her chest, and the cloth folded in three over her arm. When she saw me, she pressed her lips together.
"Signora."
I stopped in front of her. I remembered the envelope from lunch.
"Beatrice."
"Sì, signora."
"The envelope that came yesterday. What was it?"
"Don't think about that today."
"Va bene."
She squeezed my hand. Her hand trembled a little, but her voice didn't.
"Va bene, signora." And lower still: "Your mother would have loved to see you like this."
Tonio held the door of the black German car. White ribbons had been tied to the hood, level with the headlights. The nonna got in first with his help, and I got in after, gathering the eleven kilos of fabric in both hands.
The car pulled out down the Posillipo ramp.
I looked out the window, and across the bay, Vesuvius slept, dark against the morning sun.
The nonna, beside me, didn't speak. Neither did I.
The church appeared on the way down the street. White, low, old.
The guests' cars were already parked in a row along the sidewalk. Then Tonio stopped at the gate.
He got out first to come around and opened the nonna's door. She got out leaning on the cane and held her hand out to me over the seat.
"Vieni, signora."
I stepped onto the church stair.
Mamma, I thought, with Marta's ring tight on my right finger and my mother's emerald swaying at my left ear.
I'm not marrying in the dark. Thank you.