Chapter 39
For a long minute there is only silence and the ticking of the old clock on the wall. Nonna is staring at Violetta, and Violetta’s eyes are fixed on something far away and long ago. Nicolo is standing by Nonna Bruna’s chair, looking from one to the other. He seems stunned.
When Nonna speaks, her tone is almost wistful.
“For so long I envied you, Vi. I was eaten up with jealousy that you had everything and I had so little. You had money and power and the man I believed was rightfully mine. But now I see how foolish I was to waste so much time with such a deadly sin. Envy never leads to anything good. And it is true that I had a happy life with Carlo. He was a good man. We may not have had two lire to rub together, but we were content in our life, all the years until he passed.” She pauses.
“I am sorry that I wasted time in envying you, Violetta. And I am sorry for you, to be married to a cruel man. I had no idea Alberto was such a pezzo di merda. That is a heavy price to pay, no matter what you did. No woman should have to live with that.”
Violetta darts a glance at Bruna. Almost imperceptibly, her shoulders slump in relief. “Grazie,” she says stiffly, inclining her head slightly in acceptance.
Nonna looks at Violetta for a long moment, then nods decisively. “What’s done is done,” she says briskly, clapping her hands on her knees. “Let us not dwell on the past any longer.” She stands and clutches her purse. “I’m getting old,” she announces. “It is time for these bones to rest.”
Violetta stands too. Argo, who has been snoozing through the entire conversation, jumps up and sits at attention by Violetta. She hesitates behind her desk, then picks up the yellowed envelope and proffers it to Nonna.
“Don’t forget this,” she says. There is a gentleness in the set of her mouth that I’ve never seen before. It is no longer a thin, grim line. It looks softened by relief. She almost looks as though she might cry. I think I see her chin trembling, but it might just be a trick of the light.
Nonna takes the envelope. For a moment Violetta does not let go. “I wonder what we would have seen,” Violetta says quietly, “if we had eaten the cake together.”
Nonna pauses, and her expression softens too. “Maybe it’s not too late,” she says with a quirk of her lips. “Maybe it will still work at eighty like it was supposed to at eighteen.”
Violetta gives a small, sad smile and releases the envelope to Nonna. “I’m afraid that if I ate the cake now, I might see a vision of my own passing into heaven. Perhaps when we are this old, Bruna, that is all the joy that awaits us.”
Nonna scoffs and carefully slips the envelope into her stiff black purse. “Speak for yourself,” she says. “I intend to have many more good memories before I take my last breath. You should do the same. It’s not too late. It’s never too late to live a better life.”
Violeta inclines her head. “Perhaps you are right.” But she sounds doubtful.
Nonna looks her in the eye. “I still cannot believe it. All these years I envied what you had—such success, money, marriage to Alberto…”
“And all these years I envied you and Carlo your happiness,” Violetta admits.
“What good is a big house and a fat bank account if your heart and your home are filled with such bitterness and hatred?” She looks tired all of a sudden, and sad, worn thin by regret and years of silent suffering, keeping up appearances while her life was a hollow shell of pretense.
Nonna mimes spitting on the stone floor. “Good riddance to that arrogant stronzo,” she says vehemently.
“Wow,” Nicolo whispers, meeting my eyes. “I had no idea Bruna knew so many swear words.”
“Oh, she can curse like a sailor when she’s angry,” I reply. “Don’t get her started.”
Violetta spits too. “Good riddance. Alberto was a good for nothing pisellino.”
Nonna puts her hand to her chest, looking shocked and delighted. “Violetta,” she says, “no, is it true?”
Nicolo makes a little choking sound. He looks mortified. I’m confused. “Did Violetta just call your grandfather a little pea?” I whisper, struggling to translate the words in my head.
Nicolo is flushing a dull red beneath his golden olive tan. “It um…doesn’t mean little pea,” he murmurs, leaning close to my chair. “In Italian it is an insult for a man’s private parts, calling them very small, like little peas.”
My eyes widen in astonishment. At this point in the evening I’m not sure anything else could surprise me.
“It’s true.” Violetta sniffs and holds up her fingers several inches apart. “And his manhood, like a baby zucchina.”
Nonna looks immensely satisfied by this information. “Well,” she says. “Well, God bless Carlo. He was a good man and there were no baby zucchine in our house, I can tell you. Only grandi zucchine.”
Nicolo clears his throat. “Your grandchildren are standing right here!” he reminds them. There are two dull spots of color high on his cheekbones. He’s looking fixedly at the ceiling.
“Nicolo is right. Come, it is growing late. Argo and I are too old for such excitements,” Violetta says briskly, sweeping past us and gesturing for us to follow her. Argo dutifully pads along a pace behind her.
Together we file from Violetta’s office through the dark main entry hall and out the big wooden doors into the large gravel parking area.
Argo comes up beside me and sniffs my hand tentatively.
I scratch behind his ears and he wags his tail and leans against my leg with a happy whine.
I fill my lungs with the soft evening air, which smells of the lake and tiny green olives ripening on the trees, and a hint of lavender from the lush beds bordering the parking area.
When we are all outside, Violetta locks the doors and turns to us.
“No more late-night sneaking around from you two,” she says sternly, wagging her finger at Nicolo and me. “You are not children now. Behave.”
I nod, trying to suppress my sudden laughter at the absurdity of the evening. I feel blindsided by the revelations of the past few minutes yet also giddy with relief. Beside me Nicolo grins ruefully. “Yes, Nonna V. We’ll try our best.” He doesn’t sound very convincing.
Violetta looks from Nicolo to me, narrows her eyes, and makes a hmph of disbelief.
“Juliana, do you want to come home with me?” Nonna asks, pulling the keys to the Fiat Panda from her purse.
I hesitate. She is a terrifying driver. Usually, Lorenzo insists on driving her wherever she needs to go just to keep her and the other cars safe on the road.
I guess since it is just next door she can manage it.
But I’m reluctant to leave Nicolo just yet.
I’m not quite ready for the night to end.
I glance at Nicolo. “I need to get the glasses and the limoncello.”
“I’ll walk with you,” he says easily.
“I’ll be home soon,” I tell Nonna. She doesn’t protest, just hoists her purse onto her arm and nods. “Try to stay out of trouble for the rest of the night,” she tells us. “I’m too old for any more surprises.”
I can’t see well in the pale light of the rising full moon, but I think she’s smiling.