The Last Promise (5 page)

“At three, outside the reservations entrance.”

“Three it is.” At this Francesca stood and Ross likewise stood and shook her hand. “I will be there. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Francesca walked out of the room and the young woman smiled at him.

“Thank you for your help,” Ross said. “I don’t know your name.”

“My name is Patrizia.”

“
Piacere,
Patrizia.”
It’s a pleasure.

She smiled. “Welcome to the Uffizi. If you would like, I have a little time right now. I could show you around. Then we could take a coffee at the bar.”

“Thank you. I’d like that.”

“You may leave your bag in here. It will be safe.”

Patrizia led Ross out of her office, past the ticket counter and up four flights of stone stairs to the second-floor gallery. As he walked down the wide, high-ceilinged corridor, a sense of awe fell over him. This place, these works of art, had saved his life. Not in a figurative sense, but in reality
. Perhaps life did come full circle,
he thought. Perhaps this was recompense for the injustices of his life. Maybe. If so, the first installment had been paid.

—Italian Proverb

 

 

 

 

 

A
lessio straddled the back of the living room’s leather couch as he gazed out the window. He had been bouncing a rubber ball against the window as well, but he had dropped it and it had rolled out of reach beneath the couch and so now he just looked. Eliana walked down the stairs, her arms full with a laundry basket.

“Don’t sit on the back of the couch, honey.”

He continued to gaze outside, as if he hadn’t heard his mother.

“Alessio.”

He moaned and slid one leg down.

“What are you looking at, sport?”

“Nothing.”

“Get down. And what
nothing
are you looking at?”

He reluctantly slid off the back of the couch, slumping back in the sofa’s thick cushions, his heels on the edge, his knees higher than his head. “Is it three o’clock yet?”

“Feet off the couch. You know better than that. And it’s way past three.”

He dropped his feet, which barely reached the floor. “Oh,” he said, sighing loudly.

“Since when do you care what time it is?”

“Dad said on the phone yesterday he’d be home at three.”

Eliana groaned. Her countenance softened; then she set her basket down and walked to Alessio’s side, sitting on the couch next to him. She put her arms around him and pulled him close. “He must have gotten caught in some traffic.”

She felt stupid offering the same worn excuses for her husband. She should be good at covering for Maurizio by now, but she wasn’t. It just seemed to get harder.

Alessio’s face was still bent in dejection. “I don’t like traffic,” he said sadly. “It’s always catching Dad.”

Eliana would have smiled at his observation had she not hurt for him. “Why don’t you go outside and play?”

“Dad told me that we’d go to the park and kick goals. He was going to teach me how to play.”

“He’ll be home soon, honey,” she said, hoping it was true. She honestly had no idea if he would be home or not. There was no telling with Maurizio. “Why don’t I go out and kick the ball with you?”

“Moms can’t do that.”

“Of course they can.”

“Dad says girls can’t play soccer.”

“He did, huh?” She didn’t doubt it; it was typical Maurizio. “Well, there are women who can play soccer better than your father.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Can you play better than Dad?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

He thought about this. “We can play if you want.”

“Okay. Let me check dinner first. You go get the ball.”

“It’s right there.” A fluorescent yellow-and-black soccer ball was sitting on the floor next to the couch. “Can I wear my Totti shirt Dad gave me?”

“What’s a Totti shirt?”

“You know. Totti. He plays on Team Italia,” he said, incredulous at his mother’s ignorance of one of the country’s best players.

“Yes, you may.”

“Can we go to the park?”

“I would, honey, but I’m still making dinner. We’ll just play in the courtyard. Now go change your shirt while I check the oven.”

Alessio ran upstairs. Eliana lifted her laundry basket.
Why do you make promises you can’t keep, Maurizio?
she thought.

 

It was dark outside. Eliana was reading in the den when she heard the gravel crunching beneath the Alfa Romeo’s wheels as Maurizio drove his car up the driveway five hours later than he’d promised to be home. Alessio had been fed, bathed and had gone to bed. Their dinner had gone cold.

The front door opened and he announced his return, dropped his suit coat on the sofa, loosened his tie and then, with a loud sigh of exhaustion, collapsed in front of the television. Eliana put down her book, and went to the kitchen to reheat their dinner. She did not greet him, certain that anything she said would come out more as a rebuke than a welcome. He had been gone for two weeks this time. She didn’t want to start fighting the second he got home.

With the exception of a load of wash and forty-five minutes of soccer with Alessio, she had spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen preparing a special meal for Maurizio’s return: spinach-pear ravioli in walnut cream sauce, bresaola with rucola, mushroom crostini and broiled Chianina steak. There was a bottle of their own best wine, L’incanto, in the center of the table, next to a sterling silver candelabra.

The food wasn’t all Eliana had paid special attention to. She had painted her nails, taken a long bath with scented oils and carefully shaved her legs so they’d be smooth for him. She had also spent extra time on her hair, but she was now regretting all of it. With each minute he’d been late, her mood had deteriorated still more. By the time dinner was served, she did not even bother to light the candles at the table.

She called him to dinner. A minute later he walked in, looked over the spread. “You shouldn’t have gone to this much trouble,” he said, acting magnanimous.

Eliana looked up at him, bridling her temper. She picked her words carefully. “I wanted to do something special for you.”

“You shouldn’t have troubled,” he repeated as he sat down.

She watched him for a moment as he picked at his food. “Did you already eat?” she asked.

“No. Well, just a snack. I had to get gas and I picked up a hamburger at the Autogrill.”

She wanted to scream. Instead she just quietly sighed.

“Where’s Alessio?”

“He’s in bed.”

Without comment, Maurizio cut a thin strip from his steak, raised it to his mouth.

“He waited for you. You promised him you’d play soccer with him.”

“I didn’t promise him. I told him if I was home in time.”

“It’s the same thing to a child.”

“They are not the same things. Someone should teach him that.”

“I think you are.”

For the rest of dinner the only sound coming from the table was the conflict of silverware against porcelain. Maurizio, not oblivious to her anger, complimented her cooking. His gesture was met with silence and he resigned himself to her sullen companionship.

American women are crazy,
he thought.
She works all day to make me a meal then sulks through it.

Eliana finished eating before him, put her dishes in the sink and then went upstairs to her studio. She picked up Maurizio’s coat from the back of the sofa as she passed by.

As soon as she was out of the room, Maurizio pushed back from the table, took the bottle of wine and went into the living room to watch the soccer game. He shut the door and lit a cigarette. Because of Alessio’s asthma, Eliana had forbidden him to smoke in the house, a regulation he regularly flouted, as much on principle as desire. “A single man has no master,” his unmarried colleagues derided him.
A woman shouldn’t be telling a man what to do in his own house.
Still he limited his smoking to two rooms, the living room and the bedroom.

In spite of Eliana’s silent treatment, he was content. He had eaten well. Twice, in fact. Drunk well. His team, Fiorentina, was playing well for a change. Eliana was sulking about something, but that was predictable, he thought. The reentry ritual was one they had been through a hundred times before. He had it down to a science. Eliana would sulk for a while; then she’d blow, inevitably launching into a tirade about how little time he spent at home or why he hadn’t bothered to call her. He would let her blow off steam; then he would remind her of how fortunate she was to be so well provided for and the sacrifices and loneliness his life on the road required. He might even throw in anecdotes of his business associates who made him look like husband of the year by comparison.

Either way, Eliana didn’t have the stomach for conflict that he had. She would go off for a while then come back and be civil—
be a good wife.

Always the same foolishness,
he thought.
If she wants me home so much, why does she make it so damn miserable to come home?

Still, the situation was manageable. And there was the upside. His wife was a good cook, she kept a good home and she was a good mother. There was a price for those things. Even Eden had snakes.

At around midnight Maurizio shut off the television and went into their bedroom. Eliana had finished painting and come back downstairs to do the dishes more than an hour before and had still not spoken to him.
Not a good omen,
he thought. She was like a pressure cooker. The more time that went by, the more steam built up.

He dropped his clothes on the floor at the side of the bed and climbed naked under the sheets. He lit another cigarette, stretched back in bed then called out for her.

“Eliana. Come to bed,
amore
. It’s late.”

No response. A moment later he tried again.

“I’ve been away from my woman too long,” he said playfully. “Don’t make your man wait any longer.”

A few minutes later Eliana walked into the room. She stopped at the foot of the bed, eyeing him fiercely. Her voice was low, simmering. “So tell me, Maurizio, was it lonely on the road?”

“It is always lonely,
amore
.”

“So you were all alone?”

He looked at her carefully, trying to guess the intent of her question.
“Certo.” Of course.

“Then who do these belong to?” She dangled two diamond earrings in front of him. “They were in your coat pocket.”

His eyes darted from the earrings to her. He laughed nervously. “
Per te, amore.
They’re for you. I thought they would look nice with your green dress. You know the one I gave you last summer from Venice. I was running late, I didn’t have time to have them wrapped.”

“Really?” Eliana’s eyes flashed. She raised her other hand. “And the lipstick I found with them—that too was a gift for me, Maurizio? Maybe next time you should buy some that isn’t already used.”

For a moment the two stared at each other; then Maurizio surrendered with a loud sigh. “Eliana,
è così.
”

Eliana exploded. “No, it’s not just the way it is! It’s the way
you
are.” She flung the earrings and lipstick case against the wall. “I won’t do this anymore. I won’t. It’s over, Maurizio. It’s over between us.”

“
Amore,
no,” he said calmly.

“Don’t you dare call me that. Don’t you ever call me that again.”

“We have a good life here,
amore. Una dolce vita.
”

“What do you know of the life I have here? You are never here. You are always someplace else with some other woman while I stay and keep your house clean and your son alive. You know nothing of my life, Maurizio.
Niente!
”

He looked away from her, yet his demeanor didn’t change. He was strong that way. “Where will you go?”

“Home. I’m taking Alessio and going back to America.”

Maurizio took a long drag from his cigarette, then looked up at her coolly. “No, you will not be taking my son to America.”

“Yes, I will.”

“No, I will not permit it. You are not in America, Eliana. You cannot take Alessio without my consent. And without my consent you would have to prove to a judge that you could give your son a better life in America. Unless you have some buried treasure I do not know about, I do not think that is possible. What will you do? Be a waitress? Maybe a secretary? You have no skills. You have no money. You have no insurance. How will you pay for Alessio’s health care? Be reasonable, Eliana. A judge in Italy will decide for Alessio, not you. A judge will never allow you to take him.”