WHITE SHIELD WITH A BLACK STRIPE
1.
All along Scottie had thought that finding Robertino would solve everything, but it had only uprooted her and left her with nothing to do. Her need to dig, to know, to unbury secrets had led her to discover that her husband was a spy and a homosexual. She could not erase these things, no matter how much she wanted to. He had promised to take care of her. What did that mean? What did one do in these cases? She had no one to ask. Besides, she couldn’t tell anyone—Michael’s job was at risk, and more.
She realized there was one person she could talk to.
“I quite enjoyed meeting you,” said Scottie on the telephone, “and I wondered if you’d like to come for a visit. My husband is away,” she added.
She and Ecco met Julie at the Siena train station. Despite being visibly pregnant, Julie was straight out of the pages of Vogue in a tailored yellow Hermès suit with a hobble skirt, plus a frilled hat. The skirt was so tight that Scottie wondered for a second how she was going to actually descend from the first-class train car.
Julie reminded her of Leona in many ways. They were cut from the same upper-crust slice of life, and the name-dropping began immediately, the “do you know so-and-so,” “my cousin at Hotchkiss,” “our place in Maine” … This was a way of establishing status that Scottie was perfectly familiar with, after her years at boarding school and Vassar. She could play this game, but she was in no mood to.
“I believe your husband and my husband have a special friendship,” said Scottie as they sat in the olive grove outside Sant’Antimo after hearing the monks intone Gregorian chants. Scottie had proposed a tour of Tuscan hill towns, Montalcino and Sant’Angelo in Colle and San Quirico, and this picnic in sight of the ancient abbey. It would give them time alone to talk, away from prying eyes and ears. She brought a loaf of bread, a half wheel of pecorino and a bottle of wine, remembering the way Carlo had packed these same items for her, the last time she saw him. There was no point in thinking of Carlo as the man she should have married. There would no doubt be other men who would seem equally perfect, she imagined. The problem was what to do with the man she was already married to.
For today’s picnic she had added a jar of olives and some slices of prosciutto, though the latter was attracting bees that had Julie swatting the air and emitting small shrieks.
“They’re lovers,” said Scottie, tossing a napkin over the prosciutto.
Julie stopped her frantic motions and looked away across the valley toward Monte Amiata. She lit a cigarette. “I’ve never said that out loud,” she said, the smoke drifting away on the breeze. “Lovers.”
Scottie waited.
“I’ve screamed at him about it,” resumed Julie at last, her voice steady. “Cried and yelled and threatened. Doesn’t do any good. He buys me things, but nothing changes.” She examined her hat and tossed it aside.
“Well,” said Scottie, “it’s almost romantic, when you think about it.”
Julie turned and looked at her sharply. “It is not. It is disgusting. How are you not angry? I’ve been furious for years.”
Scottie thought for a moment. “I’m not a perfect wife either.”
“But you’re not a … freak.”
“They can’t change.”
“How do you know that? They could try. They could at least restrain themselves. I was livid when Michael appeared in Rome. Livid. Stalking us.”
Scottie nodded. “Yes. I was upset, too, when I found out.”
“The occasional dalliance I could stand. That happens, no matter who the man is. One turns a blind eye to that sort of thing. But this sickness…”
“Love.”
“Stop calling it that.”
“But isn’t it better to think of it that way?”
“No. I mean, for God’s sake, we’re both pregnant. They have no respect.”
“Do you think that Duncan loves both of you, you and Michael?”
“What a disgusting question!” Julie got up, walked away into the olive trees. Scottie waited a few moments, then stood and followed her.
“I hate you,” said Julie. “If you were a better wife, maybe your husband would leave Duncan alone.”
Scottie knew she shouldn’t, but she laughed. “I did think that, too,” she said.
“It’s not funny.”
“Oh God, Julie, I didn’t invite you here to torment you. You’re the only one who understands. The only one who knows what this is like.”
Julie nodded, brushed away a tear. “Us. Mrs. Cole Porter. Maybe the Duchess of Windsor. There are rumors.”
“The question is, why do you stay?” Scottie asked it in as kind a tone as she could.
Julie wandered back to the picnic blanket, poured herself another glass of Vernaccia. “My parents would never speak to me if I got a divorce.”
“Is that the only reason? He has a good job, you enjoy living abroad? He’s a good father, good to you in his own way?”
Julie shrugged.
“What I’m thinking,” Scottie said, her voice rising, “is that there are no rules for this. The rules are effectively off. They don’t live by them, and we don’t have to.”
“You mean lovers?” Julie said, finishing her glass of wine. “I’ve tried that. I thought it would make him jealous, make him pay more attention to me. He didn’t care at all.”
“So you’re trapped.”
“Yes.”
Scottie let it go at that, and drove Julie around the countryside, sticking to safe topics like where to find the best ceramics, lace and handmade shoes. Buying things seemed to calm Julie, to put her back at ease. Scottie doubted her own emotions could be tempered by a pair of gorgeous leather boots, though she bought a pair, just in case.
Scottie drove Julie back to the station and kissed her on the cheek, waving good-bye as the train pulled out of the station. She looked down at Ecco and sighed.
“We need some pasta,” she said.