Luciano closed his eyes and leaned back, relishing the sounds of swallows, joyous in the absence of the construction work that filled the weekdays.
A shadow fell across his closed lids, and he opened his eyes to see Elisa standing in front of him.
“Elisa.”
Elisa bit her lip and sat down beside Luciano. She said nothing.
“Elisa?”
Elisa shook her head, and put her head in her hands.
“What is it?”
Elisa just shook her head again.
Luciano watched her, wondering what to do. He remembered now, Elisa’s skittishness, her tendency to leap out of her seat at the sound of anything hitting the floor, even a spoon. Her stream of apologies at what she deemed an infraction against himself or Fatima, that would leave the two of them looking bewildered at each other while Elisa ran to a darkened corner to catch her breath.
She had grown less edgy in their time together. Now? There was an air of her old brittleness. What had been happening?
“Maestro?”
Luciano startled, Elisa was regarding him, her face strained.
“Sì, cara?”
“Are you okay?”
Ah, so this was no fresh insult at home that was causing her pain. It was him.
He sagged against the solid safety of the ancient wooden bench. Felt it prodding against his bones, perhaps more brittle with age, but still solid. Luciano breathed heavily.
He opened his eyes and saw that Elisa was still watching him, chewing her lower lip as she did when they worked out math problems together. That lip was red and chapped.
“I’ll be honest, cara. It’s been a difficult time. And I’ve let it get the better of me.”
Elisa was silent.
The two of them watched the pigeons and cats argue over a scrap of food in the piazza. The bell tolled the hour and at the fifth sonorous bong, Luciano stood up. Elisa startled slightly before smiling at him in a fleeting way.
Luciano nodded to himself and whispered, “Allora.”
Isotta felt Margherita’s head tip onto her shoulder. The curls, frizzy from a day of playing at the park and chasing Isotta though the streets, tickled Isotta’s chin. Hardly daring to breathe, Isotta laid the child into her crib. Margherita twitched and sighed, freezing Isotta as she removed her hands. But then the little girl rolled onto her side, popped her thumb into her mouth and sank into slumber.
Isotta sighed in relief. Lately Margherita had fought sleep. Always wanting one more game of hide and seek, or one more drink of water, or one more story read aloud. Isotta could never refuse her, particularly when it came to books. In fact, even now, the end of Margherita’s crib was stacked with books. Perhaps they would keep her occupied if she woke again at five in the morning.
Tiptoeing out, Isotta followed the sound of the soccer game into the living room. She sat on the arm of the chair to lean against her husband, whose vision was trained on the television. “How’s the game?” she asked.
Massimo glared at her. “Fine. Trying to watch.”
Rebuked, Isotta got up and went to the kitchen, where Anna was washing dishes. “Can I help?”
“No, no. I’m about done. Is she sleeping?”
“Yes, finally. She ran me ragged today. It’s a wonder she didn’t use her plate of sausage as a pillow and nod off at the table.”
Anna placed the last dish in the rack above the sink and reached for a towel.
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”
“I said I’m fine! Go watch the game with Massimo.”
Isotta adjusted her blouse before answering in a measured tone, “Oh, I think Massimo would prefer to watch it alone.”
Anna smiled, tightly. “Men. Always hypnotized by a moving ball.”
Drumming her hands on the table, Isotta noted a rising level of irritation. She was getting tired of gender being used as an explanation for violating social conventions. First her sister, now this. Plus, there was that awkward conversation with her mother that she never wanted to think about again. So much for relying on a mother’s wisdom for advice on how to broach the subject of birth control with Massimo.
Did she get any special passes just by virtue of being a woman? Or was that grace only extended to people with penises?
The bluntness of her thoughts rattled her. But in retrospect, Isotta realized that she had spent her life muting herself in order to be seen as attractive. It was this whirlwind of her new life that made her value concise honesty. At least in her own reasoning process.
Anna carefully placed a wineglass in the cabinet. At Isotta’s lack of response she turned toward her and said, “Isotta, it is not your place to be offended.”
Isotta flinched. “I’m not offended.”
“Then stop acting like a child.”
“How am I acting like a child?” Isotta fought back the tears rising in her throat at the sudden criticism from a woman she had started to feel safe with.
“Sulking in the kitchen? Come on, Isotta. Go be with your husband.”
“But he doesn’t want me there.”
“Just because he’s not fawning all over you doesn’t mean he doesn’t want you there. You can’t expect it to be your honeymoon forever.”
That was true, but the words might have been easier to swallow if there had actually been a honeymoon. Instead, she went from her wedding day straight into instant motherhood. Isotta’s thoughts battled between wondering if perhaps it was unreasonable to expect affection from her husband after a month of marriage and countering that a smile or a kind word weren’t too much to ask.
“Look, Isotta, I speak my mind when it comes to my household. Massimo works hard during the day to provide for the family. Is it too much to ask that we make his evenings pleasant? He likes a good meal, so I cook a full dinner every night. The least you can do is allow him room to unwind. If you pout, he’ll find you unpleasant. That’s how affairs happen.”
The logic of this didn’t sit well with Isotta, but maybe it was one more way her
