Chapter 51
WHILE LAURA AND A FEW of the other wives buzzed around the dining room, complimenting the centerpiece and trying to help Mary Lou decide if she’d cut enough bread for the fondue, the men moved out onto the veranda, which had a commanding view of downtown La Maddalena, Santo Stefano, and beyond that, the coast of northern Sardinia.
“This is what sold us on the house,” I overheard Jenkins say.
For a while, I wandered around the living room, admiring the Jenkinses’ books and art and knickknacks.
There were some nice antiques, a couple of attractive tapestries, and a striking Folon print of a cruise ship.
I appreciated the way everything in the room felt like it had been collected over time.
It gave the impression that the Jenkinses were well traveled, which was probably the case.
From the veranda, I heard Angela say, “It’s all just marketing,” which made me realize, with a bit of a start, that she had not felt the obligation to remain inside with the women, talking about the ideal dimensions of cubed ham.
I doubled back to the set of doors that led to the veranda and hovered on the threshold, where I could better hear the conversation.
Angela sat at the foot of a lounger in the middle of a dozen men.
“You can’t sell revolution in a Western nation as prosperous as this one, so you’ve got to go more bourgeois.
Put on your best suit and try to act like a legitimate political party. ”
“Well, it seems to be working,” said Jenkins, and no one argued with him.
“Amendola doesn’t believe the PCI can win the next general election,” said Joe. “And it’s his party.”
Jenkins didn’t disagree, just called to Mary Lou and asked if she’d make him another drink. To everyone else, he said, “Anyone need anything?”
They demurred.
Jenkins lit a cigarette. “Amendola doesn’t know what he believes.”
“So you think it could happen?” asked Paul.
“I think the PCI is not to be underestimated.”
“Why are they doing so well?” I asked, and every head, including Paul’s, swiveled to look at me. “The PCI, I mean.”
“It’s the damn divorce referendum,” Jenkins said. “The DC refuses to acknowledge that it’s 1974 and Italians want to be able to get divorced.”
“They can’t?” I asked.
Angela chuckled, but Jenkins didn’t seem to mind that I’d asked what must have been a rudimentary question. “Until four years ago, they couldn’t. But then there was a big referendum, and now they can.”
“So what’s the problem?” I said.
“The Catholic Church doesn’t like divorce,” said Angela. “And the Christian Democrats are the political arm of the Catholic Church. They’ve gone to great lengths to campaign for the law’s repeal.”
“It’s taken them four years,” said Jenkins, “but they’ve finally got it back on the ballot.”
I had seen the phrase Referendum sul divorzio splashed across the front pages of the local papers for weeks but hadn’t stopped to consider what it meant. “Everyone’s got to vote again?”
“Technically, they’re voting on whether to repeal the referendum. But that’s semantics,” said Angela.
“What does this have to do with the PCI?” I asked, and Jenkins turned to Paul and told him he’d married a smart cookie.
“They’re campaigning to keep divorce legal, which is an intelligent position to take because it’s the only sane one,” he said. “It’s going to give them a huge leg up in the regional elections next month.”
I wanted to know more, but Mary Lou had arrived with her husband’s drink.
She handed it to him, and in exchange, he offered her his cigarette.
She gave him a private smile, took a long drag, handed the cigarette back to him, then looked directly at me.
“There you are, Eileen. Care to help me with the fondue?”
In fact, I did not want to help her with the fondue.
But I understood that I was being told, in so many words, that I did not belong on the veranda with Angela and the men, talking politics.
I looked at Paul, hoping he’d save me, but I should have known better.
He was studying the bottom of his glass intently and didn’t so much as look up when I stood to follow Mary Lou into the house.