principle, of “yes” or “no,” but of price.
“A Ferrari,” he said through compressed lips. “Yes, all right, that would also be possible.”
“What if she has a miscarriage? What if the child is a girl?”
Domenico shivered. On their own, his fingers traced the sign of the cross. These things must not, would not, happen. “I would still consider that you had fulfilled your part of the bargain. What do you say?”
“Uncle—” Emma said, and Domenico held his breath. “What does Aunt Stefania...how does Aunt Stefania...” She bit her lip and was silent.
She had hit on a sore point, and Domenico was honest, if halting, about it. “Your aunt is not entirely... comfortable with the arrangement. Naturally enough, she would prefer that it not be necessary. But she understands the need. She will love the child as her own, you should have no fear on that score. And...,” he hesitated, hoping he was still telling the truth, “...and she will love you none the less for it.”
“I see.” Emma didn’t look much comforted.
Franco patted her shoulder. “Give us time to think it over,” he said. “We’ll talk about it and let you know our decision tomorrow.” He gave Emma a remnant of the old, oily smile. “All right, sweetheart?”
Emma nodded, looking at neither of them.
Domenico reached for his cane and stood up. Franco had made up his mind. He would wheedle or browbeat her into it. It was as good as done.
“I’ll see myself out,” he said, unable to meet Emma’s eyes.
EVERY Thursday afternoon without exception, throughout the long winter, Domenico would have Clemente drive him up the mountain to Gignese for his two o’clock visit with the Ungarettis to assure himself that things were well.
At first these visits were awkward. They would sit stiffly in the beautifully furnished parlor, the three of them, over china cups of tea or coffee, and comment on the unusually fine weather, or the health-giving mountain air, or the lovely view from the windows. As for the subject on everyone’s mind, the subject of Emma’s pregnancy, Domenico would scrupulously avoid it. (Stefania wasn’t the only one “not entirely comfortable” with the situation.) And so it would hang between them like an immovable, impenetrable curtain around which they were forced to talk.
Domenico would ask if there was anything they wanted. The answer was always no, although Franco would sometimes have some additional requirement concerning the promised Ferrari. At precisely three o’clock Domenico would rise, Emma would offer her cheek to be kissed, he would nod to Franco—for some time he had preferred not to shake hands with him—and he would leave, feeling guilty and unfulfilled, as if there was something he had come to do, and he hadn’t done it. Emma was so quiet now, so pale and resigned. With time his old affection for her had blossomed again, and his heart ached to see her as she was.
But after a month Franco’s interest in these weekly calls waned and he began finding other things to do: coffee and newspapers with his friends at the cafe; bocce on the court beside the village square. He would spend days at a time back in Stresa, doing God knew what—cavorting with his mistresses, Domenico assumed. But it was all to the good. Emma began to blossom. She became talkative again, and laughed often, with that merry little hiccup at the end, a sweet sound Domenico hadn’t heard for years. With the swelling of her abdomen she seemed to become contented and happy, and Domenico along with her. His weekly visits, far from being a chore, became something he looked impatiently forward to.
Most important, Dr. Luzzatto pronounced her health, and that of the developing child, excellent. And it was his opinion, from the way she was carrying the baby, that it was indeed a boy.
There were only two things to mar his happiness. First—and this was something that Dr. Luzzatto had warned him about more than once—he worried that there would be a problem later, when it was time for her to turn the child over to Stefania and him. The hormones that flowed through a new mother’s body, Luzzatto had said, often exerted a power that no man could understand. Emma was likely to experience depression, even despair, when the baby was taken from her. Domenico should prepare himself for it. It was natural and expectable, and there was nothing to be done about it. Given time, it would pass. Still, it hurt him to think of her unhappiness to come.
The other worm in the apple was a thing he learned from Caterina, the live-in servant he’d hired to look after Emma. Emma had become friends with the young laundress who came once a week to bring the washed and pressed linens and to take away the dirty ones. This Gia, according to Caterina, was a sluttish, independent creature with loose morals and brutish manners. At first the friendship between two women of such different classes had been inexplicable, but then one day Caterina had heard them whispering and giggling about pregnancy and childbirth. Gia was also pregnant, and there lay the source of their closeness. But—and here the housekeeper lowered her voice to a whisper—Gia could not even say for sure who the father was. The dreadful girl spoke laughingly— laughingly!—of giving the child up for adoption if there was money to be made from it. Even in jest, it wasn’t right, it wasn’t natural. Caterina wrung her hands beneath her apron. This Gia was not a fit companion for a woman of Emma’s class.
In his thoughts Domenico agreed with her and might easily have seen to it that there was no further contact between them. But he hesitated to interfere. Whom else did Emma have to giggle with and confide her girlish secrets in? Franco? Besides, once she returned to Stresa and was with her own kind, time and distance would necessarily put an end to their closeness. The problem would take care of itself.
BUT the other problem, the problem of Emma’s maternal hormones, did not take care of itself.
Emma gave birth at the villa in Gignese. Her labor, attended only by a midwife and her assistant (Dr. Luzzatto had been with a patient in Belgirate and had not made it back in time) was difficult and extremely hard on her. The baby, a strapping, squalling boy, was healthy—everything Domenico could have wished for—but Emma’s condition troubled him. When he arrived a few days later (she had asked that he permit her time to recover, which was what gave him the first real inkling that all was not as well as it might have been), she remained secluded in her bedroom, and it was the nurse who brought him the beautiful infant. Dr. Luzzatto prevented Domenico from seeing her until the following day. It was not her physical condition that was cause for concern, Luzzatto warned gravely, but her mental state. It was more precarious than he’d expected. Four days now, and still her spirits were dangerously low.
The following day, when Domenico was permitted to call on her—Stefania was not with him, having preferred to remain at home—Emma was on a regimen of tranquilizers that Luzzatto had prescribed. It was like talking to some cleverly made mannequin, an automaton controlled by gears and pulleys, but ultimately lifeless. Her hair had been combed and her face had been made up to hide her pallor. She smiled, she nodded, she replied to questions, but there was no emotion, no human connection. Her eyes were enough to make one weep. For Domenico, all the joy had been squeezed from the occasion. It was the tranquilizers that were making her so spiritless, Luzzatto said,
