VITA FORGOT ALL ABOUT THE PULVERIZED VASE, ALONE WITH Francesco on their wedding night in their tiny house. Francesco’s naked back and shoulders were strong and tan, his muscles tight from his time in the army and all the work he did on the farm. She kissed Francesco again, this time longer and deeper, sinking further and further down as if happily drowning.
Francesco placed his rough hands on her face and slowly moved them down to start undressing his new bride. Vita felt an electric tingle move through her entire body.
Then, a sharp knock at the door.
It jarred Vita and brought her back to the surface, her eyes open, her heart quickening. The knock wasn’t unexpected, but was still a shock. Vita and Francesco had hoped they would be spared this one tradition on their wedding night, that they would be somehow passed over.
It was the padrone, Grieco.
He was well dressed and well groomed, in a suit, with a hat over his recently cut hair He took off the hat, stepped into the middle of the room, and said simply, “Buona notte.” The padrone didn’t need to say much more since there was no doubt why he was here. He wasn’t here to collect the rent or to see if Francesco was available for some last-minute farm work.
He was here for Vita.
Francesco obediently put his shirt back on, his shoes and his jacket, and without saying a word, without looking into the padrone’s face, made his way toward the door.
Before he slipped out into the cool November night, leaving his young virgin wife to his boss, Francesco tipped his hat to him but looked into Vita’s teary eyes with his own sad eyes. In that fleeting moment, Francesco silently told her so many things: how he loved her, how he hated this man, and how he hated this life they had to live.
Francesco wouldn’t fight. There was no point. Though he refused his consolation prize, his lamb dinner, in protest. Besides, he was sick to his stomach.
Vita thought about fighting back, punching Grieco in his face and making a run for it, chasing Francesco into the dark night. But it would only end in disaster. She and her family and Francesco and his family would be punished and barred from working the farm. They would starve. In Italy, the saying was “Don’t spit in the plate where you eat.”
So she closed her eyes and imagined Francesco in the padrone’s place as he put his hands on her, his mouth on her mouth, goose bumps of revulsion covering her arms. Vita let his tongue past her teeth, and allowed his big hands to move across her young, soft skin, skin that would be passed down in her genetic code to her granddaughters, great-granddaughters, and even to her great-great-granddaughter a century later.