In the days of Via Sulis her kidney stones were frightening, and every day it seemed as if she would die. Surely that was the reason she couldn’t have children, even now, when they had a bit more money, and they’d take the short walk to Via Manno to see the devastated place where they hoped to rebuild their house, which they were steadily saving for. They especially liked to look at the pit when grandmother got pregnant, except that in the end all the stones she had inside her always turned the joy into sorrow, and blood everywhere.
Until 1947 people were starving, and grandmother remembered how happy she was when she went to her village and came back all loaded down. She’d run up the stairs and into the kitchen, which always smelled of cabbage because not much air came in from the light well, and place on the marble tabletop two loaves of civraxiu and fresh pasta and cheese and eggs and a chicken for broth. Those good smells covered up the odor of cabbage and the neighbors welcomed her warmly and told her she was so pretty because she was good.
In those days she was happy, even if she didn’t have love, happy with the things of the world even if grandfather never touched her except when she performed the brothel services; and in bed they continued to sleep on opposite sides, taking care not to touch, and saying, “Good night.”
“Good night to you, too.”
The best moments were when, in bed after her services, grandfather lighted his pipe and it was clear from his expression that he felt good. Grandmother would look at him from her side and if she smiled at him he said, “Does this amuse you?” But it wasn’t as if he ever added anything else, or drew her to him; he kept her distant. And grandmother always thought how strange love is, if it doesn’t want to come it won’t, with bed or even with kindness and good deeds, and it was strange that here was the most important thing, and there was no way to make it happen, by any means.