Alone in the compartment I remembered the way Bruno had looked at me and how he had changed, fled from me. “If you refused his offer of marriage, why did you give yourself to him?” papà would have said. “Because I couldn’t help it,” I would have answered. Because I was curious and wanted to find out who I would be after doing this forbidden thing. I touched the corno and tried to think about the flowers that grew in Orvieto instead of Bruno, but it was no use. I was sad, frightened, and very hungry.
The conductor came for my ticket. “We’ll be delayed for several hours, signorina. The dimonstranti have called a strike.” Would they be on the train? Gypsies, too? I touched the corno.
“Where can I get something to eat?”
“The vagone ristorante is closed. The waiters joined them.”
“Could you help me put my luggage on the rack?” I said. “It’s too heavy for me.”
“The baggage attendants have joined the strike, too, signorina.”
I sat down to wait. I had changed, certainly, but what had changed was not so much within me. Rather, the real change was in the way Bruno saw me. A presumption of virginity was enough to establish a woman’s goodness, but the real measure of goodness should be love, I thought. If you love someone, whatever you do with that person is right. Becoming lovers was right because I loved Bruno just as Gilda loved the Duke. Does Bruno know that I love him? I decided to write him a letter. Surely, he would understand. My stomach growled.
I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes. If Gilda had been papà’s daughter, he would say, “You sold cheap” just as he had said to Silvana when she came home pregnant and without a husband. Of course, Silvana hardly knew the fathers her children. I’ve known Bruno all of my life, and we’re nearly engaged. I didn’t regret that Bruno and I were lovers, only that I had lost my temper. Nonna Marcheschi always said that it wasn’t becoming for a lady to lose her temper, especially a young lady who doesn’t yet know what is correct.
I opened my eyes when the train moved forward. It hesitated, and moved forward again. I checked my watch. Three hours had passed. The compartment door opened. A group of gypsy women entered, all of them gesturing and chattering in a language I didn’t understand. I touched the corno. The men remained outside in the corridor. Their swarthy presence added to my uneasiness. The gypsy women stacked their bags and baskets on the floor and in the hallway. It was so crowded that I couldn’t stand up, much less escape. At least they can’t run away with my luggage. I tried to move my suitcases aside. One of the young women smiled and lifted my bags onto the rack above me.
They settled noisily into their seats. Three of the men, each one of a different generation, sat opposite me. They nodded at me. I averted my eyes, but I didn’t know where to look. A very old woman sat down to my right, a younger one to my left. The youngest squeezed into the seat beside me. I held my purse on my lap, covered it with my arms, and crossed my ankles, drawing myself in to avoid contact. The more I withdrew, the more the gypsy women spread out around me, their warm bodies touching mine. Their rings looked cheap compared to the one Bruno had given me. Will they try to steal mine? They wore scarves over their long hair, which looked like it had never been cut. Are they clean? Their necklaces and bracelets of brass and glass beads clanked. I could smell their bodies and feel the warmth of them. Is the white-haired one the older woman’s mother or grandmother? Occasionally, they smiled at me through broken teeth and dark gaps where teeth were missing. Soon, they opened their baskets. The spicy odors of their voluminous picnic filled the compartment. I was both attracted and repelled. My stomach growled. The woman sitting next to me tapped my arm, pointed to the food and to me.
Although I was very hungry, I shook my head. What if papà found out that I ate with gypsies? The woman smiled and pushed my purse out of the way. I put it on the floor underneath my legs. If they try to steal my purse, I’ll kick them and scream, I decided. The woman covered my lap with a greasy cloth. I touched the corno and then remembered that gypsies steal gold. I buttoned up my dress to hide the necklace. The woman next to me laughed, put thick, dark slices of bread on top of the cloth, and piled the slices with spicy meats. She offered me some pickled vegetables and an oily salad from a common pot. It doesn’t look like spiders or mice. Does poisonous food smell good?
The older man sitting opposite me passed me a bottle of red wine and a glass. The glass looked dirty. Doesn’t wine make the poison work faster? He raised his glass in my direction. “Salute!” I tried to be polite. I pretended to take a sip. He smiled and pointed. Can he tell that I’m not drinking the wine? I wondered. The women ate with their fingers, talking all the while. Are they talking about me? About how they can steal my purse and my luggage as soon as their poison takes effect? I pressed my legs against my purse. My stomach growled. Someone burped. I was very hungry. It had been an entire day since I had eaten. I’m already far from Orvieto, I thought. Perhaps I’ll taste just the meat. No one will know. The gypsies are eating it and they’re still alive, still awake.
I took a bite of the food. Delicious. I drank more wine and took another bite. The bread was delicious, too. I drank more wine and ate some pickled vegetables. In fact, I ate everything. They gave me more food, and I ate that, too. The woman refilled my glass several times. Outside in the corridor, one of the men began to play a guitar, rhythmic passages that rippled in my bones. I brushed the crumbs from my dress. Gypsies are actually very friendly, very hospitable people, I thought. If I hadn’t left Orvieto, if Bruno had stayed with me, I wouldn’t have known what was really true. It must be fortuna that I’m going to Milano alone.