Willa awakened briefly when Gabriele kissed her goodbye at dawn and dozed until the drone of a mosquito brought her to full consciousness. Heat and insects had made their sleep elusive the night before, and already the intense summer sun had turned their upstairs quarters into something resembling a terra cotta oven. She sat up on the edge of the bed and counted the bites on her arms and legs. Ten, plus two that she was uncertain about. This morning, she decided, she would have her breakfast in the shady place outside the dining room and spend the day under the plane trees studying the villa from various perspectives and doing preparatory drawings for the next painting in her Orvieto series. Later, she would have a salad and an icy drink for lunch and then a long nap during the heat of the afternoon, just as she and Gabriele had done on their honeymoon.
She opened the armadio where her wedding dress and Signora Marcheschi’s still hung together. She needed something cool and clean to wear, but had not yet had a chance to do laundry since she and Gabriele returned from their honeymoon the day before. Gabriele had told her Grazia would take care of it. She touched the wedding dresses. It had been very hot on their wedding day, but she and Gabriele had laughed and danced for hours anyway. She saw the large, red stain on the chiffon skirt of her dress where Gabriele had spilled his wine during one of the toasts. She touched the tear in Signora Marcheschi’s dress and winced. Other things had happened that day, too. Better not to think about them. Better to concentrate now on her new life, her work, and finding a place to show her paintings. She found the sleeveless white linen dress and her sandals and put them on the bed and then poured some water into the washbasin. It will be an adventure to live without indoor plumbing.
That Willa and Gabriele’s wedding day had been more cursed than blessed was already part of Orvieto lore, a memory that grew with each retelling. Few would forget that the bride’s family didn’t arrive until minutes before the ceremony. Some said that such tardiness showed there was already a dispute between the Marcheschis and the Carvers. No doubt it was about the paltry amount of Willa’s dowry.
“We can’t wait any longer,” Signora Marcheschi had said. “Everyone is seated and Father Enrico is waiting for you.” Indeed, nearly everyone in Orvieto who mattered, except the Orsini family, awaited them in the Duomo that day. Signora Marcheschi had lifted her wedding dress over Willa’s head, and told Willa to put her arms into the fitted sleeves. Grazia helped to button the tiny buttons.
“This dress is too hot,” Willa said. “I’m going to suffocate.”
“It’s only a short time,” Signora Marcheschi replied with a distant smile. Around Willa’s neck she placed a gold chain festooned with crystals and gemstones in the form of bunches of grapes and grape leaves, a family heirloom the Marcheschis had given Willa as a wedding gift. Signora Marcheschi held the veil that had been hers. “Just like me,” she said, her eyes full of tears.
“Why do you cry when you think of your wedding day?” Willa asked.
“Because I was so happy.”
Grazia handed Willa a bouquet of lavender and wildflowers that she had gathered from around the Temple Belvedere near the Piazza Cahen. Willa sneezed, and the button at the back of her waist popped off. Grazia found it and put it in her pocket. Without a needle and thread, the gap at the back of the dress could not be repaired.
“My veil will cover it,” Signora Marcheschi said.
“I know my parents will be here in time,” Willa said.
“Go now.” Signora Marcheschi lifted her veil over Willa’s head.
At that moment, a black car pulled up in front of the Duomo, and Mr. and Mrs. Carver got out. A bureaucratic tangle of uncertain origin had made it impossible for the Carvers to disembark from their ship until bribes were paid, something Mr. Carver had refused to do on principle until Ruth Carver, distraught and in tears, threatened to jump overboard.
“Thank goodness! Get me out of this dress!” Willa said when she saw her mother. She pulled at Signora Marcheschi’s wedding dress trying to free herself. Unfortunately, the aging fabric gave way, and a tear opened up near the shoulder. Signora Marcheschi gasped and then sobbed, picked up her wedding dress and held it to her bosom.
“I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry,” Willa said. “I’m still going to wear your veil.” Willa put on the new dress, adjusted her hair. Signora Marcheschi sniffled noisily as Grazia helped adjust the veil over Willa’s face. When they had finished, the voluminous tulle hung around Willa’s feet, making it difficult to walk. “I’m ready to get married now,” Willa said. As she made her way slowly to the altar on her father’s arm, her borrowed veil once again collected the dust of centuries past.
“Father Enrico is wearing his gold robes,” Gabriele whispered to her as they stood together. “That’s porta fortuna.” It brings good luck.
Later, Signora Santori told Signora Farnese that Willa had looked disheveled on her wedding day. She said that Signora Marcheschi was distraught about her wedding dress, which Willa had ruined. Imagine! Not only that, but the wedding mass was short because Willa had not yet completed her instruction, and the couple had to remain outside of the altar rail for their ceremony. Santo cielo! Gabriele’s wife isn’t even Catholic! Who knew if she would finish her instruction? She hasn’t even come to mass. Che disgrazia! So many problems.
The Marcheschi’s were embarrassed by their daughter-in-law’s behavior, of course, especially Signora Marcheschi, who could not explain the many irregularities of the wedding to the satisfaction of her friends. And when people learned that Willa’s parents had come to the wedding by taxi all the way from Naples, they shook their heads and told one another that Willa’s family was ricca sfondata by which they meant that the Carvers were rolling in money. Think of it! They came late and did not host the wedding celebration as was customary. Such insults, especially when Signor and Signora Marcheschi always showed such great cortesia and generosità and are so well respected. It must be, they said, that the Americans are miserly. And what about the wedding chest? No one had seen it. Was it possible that la straniera didn’t even have one? Well, an unfortunate beginning always leads to an unfortunate end. Che peccato! What a shame.
Still, it was clear to all who were present that no matter what their opinion was concerning the suitability of Gabriele’s bride, Willa and Gabriele loved one another. As the couple left the Duomo together, Gabriele’s shout of joy echoed in the Piazza. He picked Willa up and whirled her around and around with everyone clapping until they were both so dizzy they had to sit down.
After the wedding, however, there followed Willa’s permanent exclusion from the friendships and small courtesies that were part of daily life in Orvieto. Gabriele, it was tacitly agreed, was blameless, the guileless victim of an unscrupulous woman. Though nothing was ever said to Gabriele directly, he, too, by degrees came to see himself in this same light and to behave accordingly. Many years later, some people thought that perhaps Willa’s exclusion was a mistake, but what difference would it make to admit it then? It was almost always better to keep things the way they are.
Willa finished washing and got dressed. She picked up the envelope on the dresser. Inside was the check that her parents had given to the couple on their wedding day. The amount of the check, Gabriele had told her with pride, was far more than any dowry seen in Orvieto in perhaps a century. In addition, the Carvers had also left a large sum to pay for the expenses of the wedding celebration, an amount that seemed to surprise and please Gabriele’s parents because it far exceeded the costs of the wedding, though they didn’t tell anyone lest it seem that they were in need of money.
“Consider me your partner!” Mr. Carver had told Gabriele with a broad smile during the toasts at the wedding meal that followed the wedding mass. “Always have enjoyed a fine glass of vino.” As soon as the toasts were over, he set his glass down and asked Ruth Carver to pass him the water.
Willa put the check back in the envelope and left it on the dresser. Now that she and Gabriele were married, her obligations to the Church were concluded, at least until children were born, and she had made certain that would not occur anytime soon, no matter what Father Enrico said. Anyway, how would he know? She would be too busy painting to think about having children. And she and Gabriele would have to buy a house first. Her parents’ check would surely be enough for a down payment. She would ask Gabriele or perhaps Signora Marcheschi. She pulled the linen shift on over her head and buckled her sandals, then went out into the hallway where she could smell newly baked bread. She went down two flights of stairs and along a musty passage at the back of the house.
“…it’s already nine o’clock and she’s still asleep,” Willa overheard her mother-in-law saying as she neared the kitchen. “Does she think this is a hotel?”
When Willa entered the kitchen, she saw six loaves of bread cooling on the counter. Signora Marcheschi was busy with some papers. She wore black stockings and black shoes and had wound her grey hair on top of her head and pinned it in a roll. Her black dress was fully covered with an apron that buttoned at the back of her neck. Nearby, Grazia, also in black, held a dead chicken by its legs. She dipped it into the kettle of roiling water on the wood-burning stove, pulled it out, laid it on the counter, and began plucking the feathers. She looks like a vulture, Willa thought, imagining her as a black shape on a greenish-yellow background with dead prey around her.
“Buongiorno. Come state,” Willa said using the respectful voi. She wanted to impress Signora Marcheschi with her good manners. Gabriele had explained that she must wait until her new mother-in-law invited her to call her mamma, thus acknowledging their warm relationship. It was an important Italian custom, he said, especially between older people and younger people.
“Buongiorno,” Signora Marcheschi said without looking up from her papers. “Sto bene. E tu, come stati?” Tu? Signora Marcheschi had addressed her in the informal way. Is that an invitation? Willa wondered. She wasn’t sure. Grazia grunted and continued to pluck the feathers off the bird. Some of the feathers floated through the air toward Willa. Her nose started to itch. Will Signora Marcheschi or Grazia serve breakfast or should I make it myself? Her nose ran and she sneezed.
“You will be responsible for making lunch for the workers,” Signora Marcheschi said, still looking at her papers.
Willa wasn’t sure she had understood her mother-in-law correctly. “I’m planning to paint today.”
“Santo cielo!” Signora Marcheschi waved her hand as if to swat an annoying bug. “We have work to do.” Willa wasn’t sure what Signora Marcheschi meant. Grazia shook her head and dipped the chicken in the kettle again. Willa stepped closer and stared at the wet, headless bird. “Today, we’ll visit our tenants so you can meet them and their wives,” Signora Marcheschi continued. Perhaps the tenants’ wives could be the subjects of another painting of life in Orvieto, Willa thought. Does Signora Marcheschi mean that I need to bring my pencils and a sketchbook?
“May I have some breakfast first, please?” She remembered to say colazione, the word for breakfast, correctly. Often, she mixed it up with collasso, the word for heart failure, which had made Gabriele laugh. Now, every time they made love, he joked that she gave him un collasso when he only wanted a cup of coffee. Willa smiled at the thought of Gabriele’s little jokes. How happy we are!
Signora Marcheschi pointed to a grey enamel coffee pot with a large spout on the stove. “There’s bread on the table.” Willa looked around for a cup, but saw only one that someone had already used. It was chipped and had a large crack up its side. As there was neither a place to wash it nor any clean cups, she filled it with coffee and said nothing. No need to embarrass her mother-in-law already by suggesting that her dishes weren’t clean. The almost black liquid in the cup looked like thick syrup and tasted bitter.
“Is there any cream and sugar, please?”
“La straniera!” Signora Marcheschi muttered without looking up. What does she mean? Willa wondered. She wished Gabriele were there to explain, as he had done during the previous six weeks on their honeymoon at Montecatini whenever she hadn’t understood what people were saying or what was expected. So much to learn all at once.
Grazia picked up the bald chicken by its legs. Blood dripped from the bird’s neck onto the old linoleum floor. She wiped the floor with a towel she had nearby; it came up with dark streaks of dirt and chicken blood. She tossed the towel on the counter and passed the bird back and forth directly over the fire on the wooden stove, twisting and turning it constantly. The smell of burning pinfeathers made Willa feel lightheaded. She took her coffee to the table in the middle of the room and sat down. Faded green paint flaked off the tabletop. She brushed the pieces away with one hand. Grazia grunted and came over with the towel to wipe the specks from the floor before putting the towel back on the counter and then resumed butchering.
Willa watched her cut open the chicken and pull out the insides, piling the entrails on the counter next to it. Flies cruised nearby. She looked away and cut a slice of bread from the warm loaf. She wished she could have butter and jam, too, but decided not to ask just in case it might seem impolite. As there were no plates, she nibbled at the bread from her hand and took a sip of coffee. Both tasted burnt. A painted clock on the wall above the stove ticked in the silent room.
“It’s very warm today,” Willa said.
“We’re too busy to notice the weather,” Signora Marcheschi replied.
Taking up a large black knife, Grazia made a single, sure cut between the thigh and the breast of the chicken; then she twisted the joint where the thighs joined the body in a smooth motion. Willa heard the cracking of sinews and cartilage as the thighs separated from the breast and the back of the chicken. Grazia dropped pieces into a smoking skillet on the wooden stove and then disappeared into the garden. The chicken sizzled in the pan. Willa carried her cup to the counter and set it down. The chicken’s head lay nearby still covered with reddish feathers, its red comb drooping, and its eyelids closed as if a whitened film had grown over them while the chicken slept. She noticed the tiny eyelashes, the yellowish beak slightly parted as if the chicken were merely trying to get its breath or were panting in the heat of the kitchen. She looked into its pinkish mouth, open and vulnerable. A wave of nausea swept over her. She looked away until her stomach calmed, then remembered the visit to the tenants and went to get her sketchbook.
The silver coating of the mirror in their room had crazed and peeled, leaving gaps in her image. She found some fresh water in the pitcher by the bed, brushed her teeth, and applied some lipstick. She pinched her cheeks until they looked pink and healthy. By the time Willa returned to the kitchen with her sketchbook, Grazia was stirring tomatoes and herbs into the boiling pot. She poured boiling water into an empty pot and dropped in the neck from the chicken along with its feet, liver, and finally its heart and another organ Willa couldn’t identify.
Signora Marcheschi looked at the clock and then at Willa. “It’s 9:45. Make late.” She had packed two large, wicker baskets with numerous vials; some used clothing, including shirts, socks and a tiny pink dress; and several bottles of wine. She added the loaves of bread on the counter. “Take,” she said to Willa, indicating two large, metal containers with handles, which were still sitting on the table.
“Where shall I put my sketchbook?” Willa asked.
“No draw,” Signora Marcheschi said.
“Why?”
Signora Marcheschi didn’t answer. Willa lifted the heavy containers, holding one in each hand, and followed her mother-in-law outside. As she stepped onto the top stair, the loose step came up. She stumbled, scraping her shin on the metal can, but managed to regain her balance without dropping the containers or falling. She continued down the stairs and followed Signora Marcheschi along a dirt path that led toward a wooded area. There the path ended. Willa stepped over the fallen branches and around stumps. Dirt, sticks and rocks invaded her sandals. She stopped to remove the debris. Signora Marcheschi shook her head and sighed. “Shoes no good.” They continued walking for nearly twenty minutes until ahead of them in a clearing in the woods Willa saw a young woman in a tattered, print dress washing clothes in a wooden bucket. Around her, several small children close in age, dirty and dressed in rags, crawled on the ground outside a small, wooden structure, the only building Willa could see. Could this be their house? The young woman stopped her work to greet Signora Marcheschi and accepted the gift of the pink dress and a loaf of bread.
“Grazie mille, Signora Marcheschi.”
“You’re too thin, Theresa,” Signora Marcheschi said. “Tell your husband that I said you are to eat more.”
“I will, Signora.”
“How can she eat more if they don’t have enough food?” Willa whispered to her mother-in-law after they left.
“Why must you insult everyone?” Signora Marcheschi said.