“You’re right,” she murmured. “We all do.” Her hope now was that she could—by way of the letter—locate Annamarie and bring her home.
Chapter 11
Bolzano, End of September 1937
A nna Karenina lay face down on the side table where Marco’s grandmother had discarded it, the cloth spine slightly cracked, one edge of the green-and-gold-striped cover slightly bent, as if it had been knocked into something hard. Annamarie picked it up and read the author’s name: Leo Tolstoy. The cover illustration was a black-and-white drawing of a man kissing the hand of a woman dressed in old-fashioned clothing. Annamarie kept one finger between the open pages and turned to the beginning of the book.
Chapter 1.
Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
“I’ve never been able to start that book properly.”
Annamarie dropped the novel onto the table and faced the grandmother. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
Maria Grimani pursed her lips and gave her just the slightest acknowledgment. She was dressed in a beige blazer, the triangular lapels large as sails above her bosom. Beneath the blazer, she wore a fitted black dress, the collar stitched with a twisted bronze design and the hem well below the knee. Just beneath the hem, Annamarie could see the rigid muscles of the woman’s calves, as if they were sculpted to stay permanently tensed. A beige leather purse slung over her forearm hung like a shield. Annamarie saw that the amulet on Signora Grimani’s wrist matched the twisted bronze scroll on the collar. Most remarkable was the grandmother’s hat. Pinned a little off to the side, it looked like a beret with two points, one slightly up, the other flopped down. Annamarie remembered a puppy they’d once had at the farm with one pointed ear and one floppy one, but Signora Grimani was no puppy. No sir. She was a bitch.
Frowning, Marco’s grandmother unpinned the hat and put her purse down, then indicated the chair across from her. Her obvious scrutiny made Annamarie squirm beneath her pioneer uniform. She was unable to stay out of this woman’s way, it seemed.
“I see you’re dressed to go to the university,” the old biddy finally said. “It must be nice for you not to have to pay a single lira for your education.” She looked at the ceiling where Annamarie’s bedroom was located above. “Or your room and board. Straighten your tie, young lady.”
Automatically, Annamarie’s hands went to the ascot, and she pulled the knot to her throat before sitting down.
“Christina’s old uniform has been taken in, I see.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Her cheeks warmed. It had taken making up stories as to why she had not packed “her uniform” with her.
“And how are you getting on with the Bolzano chapter? I hear they should be going to Venice soon.”
“That’s what they are planning, yes.”
“It would be an honour for you to see Mussolini and Starace in person.”
Annamarie had the notion that she was being baited. She did not have the money to go with her troop, and Marco’s grandmother had to know that. If Mussolini was there, that would be exciting enough, but the reason Annamarie really wanted to go was because, well, it was Venice.
Signora Grimani stood, went to a cabinet behind the divan, and opened the two doors, revealing shelves of glassware and porcelain trinkets. “You’ve been here quite some time, Annamarie. Four weeks now. I believe it’s time you tell me who you really are and what your intentions are.” She returned with an austere china plate, white and ridged like a scallop. Piled on the plate was a haphazard pyramid of translucent squares in a variety of pastel colours and coated with a thin layer of sugar icing. Signora Grimani placed it on the table between them.
“Your honesty,” she began in that lecturing tone again, “would provide an opportunity for me to change my mind about you.”
“I-I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Whatever you and Marco did, in whatever provincial backwater you live in, is what is called a fling. An affair. Like a slip of the tongue. He certainly did not expect you to follow him to Bolzano.”
Annamarie shifted in her chair. “You can’t know that.”
“Come now. He admitted it to me. You see? I suspected on the day you arrived. I observed how shocked he was and told him that if he plays with a loose cannon, he’s apt to blow off his head.”
Hot tears pricked Annamarie’s eyes, and she blinked rapidly.
“You’ve managed to befriend my daughters, however. Francesca dresses you up like a doll, and Christina—but she’s always been like this—fawns over you like an abandoned baby bird. Take a close look, Signorina Casa de Pietra. The one person you have come to be with sees you infrequently, and I have never had shortcomings with my grandson. Therefore, I have concluded that you are the only reason I see so little of him these days.”
“Marco has been busy,” Annamarie said. “He is committed to the pioneers, is working, and he has his studies. I can understand all that.”
“Yes.” She flicked a wrist at her, the bracelet jerking on the thin arm. “And in the meantime, you sit and wait.”
Annamarie ears turned hot, and she bit her lip.
“Since you will not volunteer the information yourself, I will tell you what I am certain about you: You believe you are in love with my grandson. You never belonged to the Giovani Italiane before you arrived in Bolzano. And you believe that Marco’s eventual fortune will help you in this ridiculous dream of becoming an actress—”
“On the contrary,” Annamarie sputtered. “Marco’s taken me to the cinema twice now, and Filipa Conti has given me a large role in the next play. It is not just a dream.”
Maria Grimani turned her head
