Authors: Lucinda Riley
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Historical
The Italian Girl
For my own son, Kit
‘Remember tonight, for it is the beginning of always’
Dante Alighieri
Contents
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York
The Metropolitan Opera House New York, July 1996
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York
My Dearest Nico,
It is strange to sit down to relate a story of great complexity knowing you may never read it. Whether writing about the events of the past few years will be a catharsis for me, or for your benefit, darling, I’m not sure, but I feel driven to do it.
So I sit here in my dressing room wondering where I should begin. Much of what I will write happened before you were born – a chain of events that began when I was younger than you are now. So maybe that is the place I should start. In Naples, the city where I was born . . .
I remember Mamma hanging out the washing on a line that reached across to the apartment on the other side of the street. Walking down the narrow alleyways of the Piedigrotta, it looked as though the residents were in a state of perpetual celebration, with the different-coloured clothes on washing lines strung high above our heads. And the noise – always the noise – that evokes those early years; even at night it was never quiet. People singing, laughing, babies crying . . . Italians, as you know, are vocal, emotional people, and families in the Piedigrotta shared their joy and sadness every day as they sat on their doorsteps, turning as brown as berries in the blazing sun. The heat was unbearable, especially in high summer, when the pavements burnt the soles of your feet and mosquitoes took full advantage of your exposed flesh to stealthily attack. I can still smell the myriad scents that wafted through my open bedroom window: the drains, which on occasion were enough to turn your stomach, but more often the enticing aroma of freshly baked pizza from Papa’s kitchen.
When I was young we were poor, but by the time I took my First Communion Papa and Mamma had made quite a success of ‘Marco’s’, their small café. They worked night and day, serving spicy pizza slices made to Papa’s secret recipe, which over the years had become famous in the Piedigrotta. In the summer months, the café became even busier with the influx of tourists, and the cramped interior was jammed with wooden tables until it was almost impossible to walk between them.
Our family lived in a small apartment above the café. We had our own bathroom; there was food on the table and shoes on our feet. Papa was proud that he’d risen from nothing to provide for his family in such a way. I was happy too, my dreams stretching little further than the following sunset.
Then, one hot August night, when I was eleven years old, something happened that changed my life. It seems impossible to believe that a girl not yet in her teens could fall in love, but I remember so vividly the moment I first laid eyes on him . . .
1
Naples, Italy, August 1966
Rosanna Antonia Menici held on to the washbasin and stood on her tiptoes to look in the mirror. She had to lean a little to the left because there was a crack in it that distorted her facial features. This meant she could see only half of her right eye and cheekbone and none of her chin; she was still too short to see that, even standing on her toes.
‘Rosanna! Will you come out of the bathroom!’
Sighing, Rosanna let go of the basin, walked across the black linoleum floor and unlocked the door. The handle turned immediately, the door opened and Carlotta brushed roughly past her.
‘Why do you lock the door, you silly child! What have you to hide?’ Carlotta turned on the bath taps, then pinned her long, dark, curly hair expertly on top of her head.
Rosanna shrugged sheepishly, wishing that God had made her as lovely as her older sister. Mamma had told her that God gave everyone a different gift and Carlotta’s was her beauty. She watched humbly as Carlotta removed her bathrobe, revealing her perfect body with its lush creamy skin, full breasts and long, tapered legs. Everyone who came into the café praised Mamma and Papa’s beautiful daughter, and said how she would one day make a good match for a rich man.
Steam began to rise in the small bathroom as Carlotta turned off the taps and climbed into the water.
Rosanna perched herself on the edge of the bath. ‘Is Giulio coming tonight?’ she asked her sister.
‘Yes. He will be there.’
‘Will you marry him, do you think?’
Carlotta began to soap herself. ‘No, Rosanna, I will not marry him.’
‘But I thought you liked him?’
‘I do like him, but I don’t . . . oh, you are too young to understand.’
‘Papa likes him.’
‘Yes, I know Papa likes him. He’s from a rich family.’ Carlotta raised an eyebrow and sighed dramatically. ‘But he bores me. Papa would have me walking down the aisle with him tomorrow if he could, but I want to have some fun first, enjoy myself.’
‘But I thought being married was fun?’ persisted Rosanna. ‘You can wear a pretty wedding dress and get lots of presents and your own apartment and—’
‘A brood of screaming children and a thickening waistline,’ finished Carlotta, idly tracing the slender contours of her own body with the soap as she spoke. Her dark eyes flickered in Rosanna’s direction. ‘What are you staring at? Go away, Rosanna, and let me have ten minutes’ peace. Mamma needs your help downstairs. And close the door behind you!’
Without replying, Rosanna left the bathroom and walked down the steep wooden stairs. She opened the door at the bottom of the stairs and entered the café. The walls had recently been whitewashed and a painting of the Madonna hung next to a poster of Frank Sinatra over the bar at the back of the room. The dark wooden tables were polished to a sheen and candles had been placed in empty wine bottles on top of each one.
‘There you are! Where have you been? I’ve called and called you. Come and help me hang this banner.’ Antonia Menici was standing on a chair, holding one end of the brightly coloured material. The chair was wobbling precariously under her considerable weight.
‘Yes, Mamma.’ Rosanna pulled another wooden chair out from under one of the tables and dragged it across to the arch in the centre of the café.
‘Hurry up, child! God gave you legs to run, not to crawl like a snail!’
Rosanna took hold of the other end of the banner, then stood on the chair.
‘Put that loop on the nail,’ instructed Antonia.
Rosanna did so.
‘Now, come help your mamma down so we can see if we have it straight.’
Rosanna descended from her own chair, then hurried to help Antonia safely to the ground. Her mamma’s palms were wet, and Rosanna could see beads of sweat on her forehead.
‘
Bene, bene
.’ Antonia stared up at the banner with satisfaction.
Rosanna read the words out loud: ‘“Happy Thirtieth Anniversary – Maria and Massimo!”’
Antonia put her arms round her daughter and gave her a rare hug. ‘Oh, it will be such a surprise! They think they are coming here for supper with just your papa and me. I want to watch their faces when they see all their friends and relatives.’ Her round face beamed with pleasure. She let go of Rosanna, sat down on the chair and wiped her forehead with a handkerchief. Then she leant forward and beckoned Rosanna towards her. ‘Rosanna, I shall tell you a secret. I have written to Roberto. He’s coming to the party, all the way from Milan. He will sing for his mamma and papa, right here in Marco’s! Tomorrow, we will be the talk of the Piedigrotta!’
‘Yes, Mamma. He is a crooner, isn’t he?’
‘Crooner? What blasphemous words you speak! Roberto Rossini is not a crooner, he is a student at the
scuola di musica
of La Scala in Milan. One day he will be a great opera singer and perform on the stage of La Scala itself.’
Antonia clasped her hands to her bosom and looked, to Rosanna, exactly as she did when she was praying at Mass in church.
‘Now, go and help Papa and Luca in the kitchen. There’s still much to do before the party and I’m going to Signora Barezi’s to have my hair set.’
‘Will Carlotta come and help me too?’ asked Rosanna.
‘No. She’s coming to Signora Barezi’s with me. We must both look our best for this evening.’
‘What shall I wear, Mamma?’
‘You have your pink church dress, Rosanna.’
‘But it’s too small. I’ll look silly,’ she said, pouting.
‘You will not! Vanity is a sin, Rosanna. God will come in the night and pull out all your hair if he hears your vain thoughts. You’ll wake up in the morning bald, just as Signora Verni did when she left her husband for a younger man! Now, get along with you to the kitchen.’
Rosanna nodded and walked off towards the kitchen wondering why Carlotta hadn’t yet lost all her hair. The intense heat assailed her as she opened the door. Marco, her papa, was preparing dough for the pizzas at the long wooden table. Marco was thin and wiry, the polar opposite to his wife, his bald head glistening with sweat as he worked. Luca, her tall, dark-eyed older brother, was stirring an enormous, steaming pan on top of the stove. Rosanna watched for a moment, mesmerised, as Papa expertly twirled the dough on his fingertips above his head, then slapped it down on the table in a perfectly formed circle.
‘Mamma sent me in to help.’
‘Dry those plates on the drainer and stack them on the table.’ Marco did not pause in his task as he rapped out the order.
Rosanna looked at the mountain of plates and, nodding resignedly, pulled a clean cloth out of a drawer.
‘How do I look?’
Carlotta paused dramatically by the door as the rest of her family stared at her in admiration. She was wearing a new dress made from a soft lemon satin, with a plunging bodice and a skirt which tapered tightly over her thighs, stopping just above her knees. Her thick black hair had been set, and hung in ebullient, glossy curls to her shoulders.
‘
Bella, bella!
’ Marco held out his hand to Carlotta as he walked across the café. She took it as she stepped down onto the floor.
‘Giulio, does my daughter not look beautiful?’ asked Marco.
The young man rose from the table and smiled shyly, his boyish features seemingly at odds with his well-muscled frame.
‘Yes,’ Giulio agreed. ‘She is as lovely as Sophia Loren in
Arabesque
.’