didn’t just drop in to visit, the way Brigomarus felt free to do; and that was a relief. It was enough of a tightrope walk to keep Umma’s image going in this tavern and in the neighborhood, without trying to fool Umma’s own mother into believing that Nicole was Umma.
So where was Umma? Back in West Hills trying desperately to cope? Floating somewhere in limbo? Or — with a jolt that made her gasp — dead? Dead and… gone?
For now, Nicole focused on a simpler problem. “Don’t you worry about it,” she said to Julia. “Everything’s going to be fine, and Brigomarus will figure out he’d be smart to keep his nose out of things that are none of his business.”
“How can you say they’re none of his business?” Nicole hadn’t pegged Julia as a worrier, but neither had she presented Julia with a problem that pertained directly to her. “You’re part of his family. They’ll all be up in arms when they hear what you want to do, mark my words.”
In the United States of the late twentieth century, family was a pallid thing — so pallid that Frank, damn him, could abandon his with hardly a backward glance, and abandon it without disapproval from anyone but Nicole. If anything, his colleagues were jealous he’d latched on to a new, young, sexy girlfriend. And Nicole herself, while she liked her sisters well enough, lived two thousand miles away from them and didn’t call as often as she should, let alone write. She’d hardly thought of them at all in the week before she came to Carnuntum, except to wish she could palm the kids off on them for a couple of days after she found out Josefina was heading for Ciudad Obregon.
On the whole, Nicole had liked things that way. She hadn’t cared for it when Frank bugged out, not even a little bit, but she’d enjoyed being free herself, ever since she’d got big enough to tell her mother no and make it stick. If she didn’t have to kill herself over money and her job, she liked responsibility, liked being, from day to day, the only one who really took care of the house, the kids, her life in general.
Julia sounded as if family disapproval in Carnuntum was like being shunned in an Amish community — Nicole had seen something on television about that, and been caught by the intensity of reaction to something that amounted to the silent treatment. Silence was lovely, she’d thought. So was being left alone. She could have used a lot of that when she was growing up, stuck sharing a bedroom with a sister she could barely stand the sight of, who’d grown up into a reasonably decent person but with whom Nicole had next to nothing in common.
It seemed Umma had about the same relationship with her sisters as Nicole had — but The Family meant far, far more.
Well. So it did. She d weathered infidelity, shed weathered divorce. She could weather family disapproval, too. She was her own person, first, last, and always.
She said so, loudly and emphatically. She had no real hope of raising Julia’s consciousness, but maybe, over time and with repetition, some of it would stick.
Right at the moment, Julia didn’t look enlightened. She looked horrified. Nicole was used to working hostile audiences; it was what a lawyer did for a living. But Julia had a look that warned her to go slow or she’d lose the case. She tried one more time, regardless: “I am my own person. You can be your own person. Family doesn’t have to dictate every breath you take. It isn’t even your family! I’m not worried about it. Why should you be?”
Julia’s chin was set, her face closed. She wrapped herself in a cloud of flour, slapping together another batch of bread for the evening crowd, immersing herself in work to keep from listening — or perhaps to keep from screaming at her mistress to shut up.
She visibly relaxed when Nicole dropped the subject. Nicole sighed. “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” she murmured in English, and started, painfully, to laugh. Julia’s startled expression only made her laugh the harder.
Family you could escape, but even in West Hills it was sometimes hard to escape the neighbors. Not that, there, they dropped by and wanted to borrow a cup of oil and stay on for a chat; it was more like hard rock at three A.M. and dog poop in the front yard.
In Carnuntum, there wasn’t anything at three A.M. but maybe an early rooster crowing, but during the day plenty went on. The day after Brigomarus came to pull his sister into line, Nicole looked up from chopping scallions to find herself face to face with a vaguely familiar figure. It was the voice that jogged her memory, high and rather thin, with a touch of what people in Indiana used to call adenoids.
The owner of the voice, Nicole realized, was rather obviously pregnant. She didn’t seem to be blooming, but rather the Rosemary’s Baby type: wan and hollow-cheeked, but in this case irrepressibly cheerful. She held up a cup and said brightly, “Good morning, Umma! It’s been absolute days since I saw you. Here, look, I have an excuse. I’m out of oil and my dear woollyhead of a husband has gone off all day drumming up clients, and it’s such a long walk to the market.”
Nicole was no recent expert in cup-of-sugar diplomacy, but she’d seen plenty of it when she was growing up. If it wasn’t sugar, it was coffee, or maybe, in extremity, a cigarette: a transparent excuse to come by, camp in the kitchen, and chatter the morning away. Housewives did it to lighten the monotony, or to get out of washing the ceilings, or to drum up sympathy for this or that husbandly stunt.
In Carnuntum, apparently, the medium of exchange was olive oil. Nicole spared a half-instant to wonder if Umma actually gave away what she sold to regular customers, then shrugged and dipped the cupful. Her neighbor, as she’d expected, didn’t just thank her and leave, but perched on a stool near the counter where Nicole was working. It was a slow time of day, as she must have known and calculated. She looked as if she was a regular occupant of that same stool, easy and comfortable — surprisingly so for someone whose pregnancy didn’t seem to be treating her well.
“So,” she said. “How is everything, then? Do you believe what Valentia got up to with that traveling eye- doctor? Why, I hear her husband whipped her black and blue — then she made him feel so guilty he gave her a new necklace! Imagine that!”
Nicole hadn’t known she was tense till she felt the muscles of her back and shoulders relax. This was the easy kind of neighbor, then, the one who never let you get a word in edgewise. She didn’t appear to notice anything odd about Nicole, nor did she expect any answer to her rapid-fire questions — just rattled right on through them. There was something strangely soothing in the endless flow of her voice, names and events that were as alien to Nicole as the far side of the moon, but so many of them were familiar, too: this couple married, that one divorced (“And he tried to pretend her dowry was his own family money, can you believe that? Got slapped good and proper for that one, you can be sure!”), a third blessed with a son, “and about time, too, after six daughters — they had to expose the last four, they just couldn’t feed them.”
The woman sighed. Her face, for a moment, was almost somber. “Some people have children and don’t want them. Me, I want them and neither of my first two saw even one birthday.” Nicole heard her with grim astonishment. Things like that didn’t happen in California. No — they did, but rarely enough that they put you on the talk-show circuit with your anguish. Well, Nicole’s neighbor was on the talk-show circuit, too. She sighed and patted her belly. “This time, by Mother Isis, everything will be fine. It will.”
On and on it went. Somewhere in the middle, Julia came down from cleaning upstairs, greeting the visitor with a smile of honest pleasure and a delighted, “Fabia Ursa! How good to see you. You’re looking well.” Which gave Nicole a name and a respite, while they chattered at each other for a while — till Julia seemed to remember her status and excused herself to take the heap of soiled bedding and filthy clothes across the street to Titus Calidius Severus, who would trample them in a tub full of water and fuller’s earth. No washing machines or laundromats here. No Tide, either, worse luck.
Nicole realized as the morning went on that she liked Fabia Ursa. She also realized she couldn’t say that of anyone else she’d met in Carnuntum, even Lucius and Aurelia. It was odd, because back in the twentieth century she’d cordially despised the kaffeeklatsch queens, as she’d liked to call them. Fabia Ursa was a cheerful soul, happily married to a somewhat feckless but much beloved husband, whose foibles she was not shy about sharing. She had two slaves who did everything, as she professed, and had not much to do, it seemed, but trot about and discover who was doing what to whom. She did it with such relish, and with such a clear sense of vocation, that it was impossible to dislike, still less despise her.
Yes, Nicole liked Fabia Ursa. She was not so sure at all that she liked Titus Calidius Severus. Sometimes she did. Then he’d say something, or do something, to set her off again.
He waved to Nicole whenever they saw each other outside their front doors. She always answered politely, and she remembered to use his praenomen. Past calling him Titus, however, she gave him nothing he could take for encouragement.
