Chapter 160
ON OUR WAY UPSTAIRS, I insisted on stopping by Francesca’s to give her the good news.
She was beside herself with joy, and after she had hugged and kissed me a dozen times, she said, “You see? I don’t want all of the Americans to go!”
“Maybe we keep up the Italian lessons?” I said hopefully.
“Yes, sure. But now they are on the house.”
She turned to Teo and asked if we were hungry.
“We’ll eat something,” he said. “But not yet. We need sleep.”
“Of course, of course,” she said as she saw us out of the apartment. “I’ll see you soon.”
When it was just the two of us in the upstairs apartment, we sank into bed, so exhausted that it took effort to pull off our clothes.
The last few days—not to mention the weeks leading up to them—had left us ravaged and raw, and with our eyes already closing against the morning sun, we let our bodies feel their way back together.
Afterward, we fell into a deep sleep, made deeper by the fact that we were finally in each other’s arms for good.
We slept until one, and when I awoke, it was to the sound of Teo’s typewriter.
He was writing the story of the U.S.S. Seneca and the resulting protests, which he had confirmed that Bertini indeed helped orchestrate.
The group I’d seen down by the waterfront and then later run into on that narrow side street had left a trail of property damage from one end of the island to the other, and while the Carabinieri had made more than two dozen arrests, it ultimately would be Bertini who would have to answer for what had happened.
The following morning, Teo drove me to the house on the Via don Vico, and we packed up what little I owned.
It wasn’t much. Some clothes and books, my typewriter and camera, and a few kitchen items I cared about, including the pasta maker.
I told Teo we should put my mother’s Christmas china on the curb, and while he was tying my chest of drawers to the roof of the car, I went inside and wrote Paul a note, telling him where he could find me and that I’d take the cat if Giovanni was okay with it.
I left the note in the middle of our bed, where Paul would be sure to see it, and as I was about to leave the room, I noticed the corner of The Navy Wife poking out from under the bed, where I had tossed it months earlier. I considered retrieving it. But in the end, I left it where it was.
I walked through the house one final time, trying to memorize the rooms that had borne witness to my early marriage and, in many ways, my coming of age. Then I locked the door and left the key under the mat.
Teo was waiting for me at the car. “You ready to go?” he asked, and I almost said yes. But then I remembered the Mary Magdalene print hanging in the kitchen, and I ran inside for it.
Mary Magdalene wore the same serene smile as always, and when I pulled the picture off the wall, I spent a few moments really looking at her. Maybe she was a sinner, but what I saw was a woman who believed she could be redeemed.