Inside, scrapbooks, photographs, pieces of paper. Isotta lifted out a photo album and quickly turned the pages, scanning for an image of herself. Nothing, these were of Massimo’s youth. So was the next. And the next. And the next. How many homages did one boy need? Isotta lifted out a stack of Massimo’s old schoolwork and a box of awards. Yes, yes, her husband was a shining star. Her stomach lurched in anger.
Isotta’s fingers brushed bare wood and she scooped up a final handful of report cards. Could this be all? She’d been so sure she’d find something here. The house was small and Massimo could hardly hide anything in their room or the living room. Did he destroy all evidence of Giulia?
Sitting back on her ankles, Isotta noticed that the inside base of the chest was almost a foot higher than the ancient wood floor she sat on.
A false bottom?
She dug her fingers in the crevice between the wood and the sides of the trunk and began to tug. The floor of the trunk lifted slightly before slamming back down. Isotta spent the next few minutes moving her fingers around the edge of the panel of wood. She mindlessly ripped off a snagged nail, and was heedless of her fingertips now scraped raw.
Isotta panted in frustration. Each side of the panel moved, but not enough. She cast her eyes around the room, looking for a tool. The fireplace! She leapt up and raced to the kitchen, snatching up the iron poker. At first she tried to use it to lever the side of the panel upwards, but then in a fit of fury, she slammed the poker down into the wood. It splintered.
Isotta whooped, and continued slamming the poker down into the place of give on the left hand side of the trunk. The wood split, then broke. She pulled at the pieces, snapping them where necessary, until she was able to get a hold of the panel from the sides of the hole she’d made and lift straight up. She threw the wood across the room and kneeled back down.
What was that sound? Anna and Margherita returning? How would she explain . . .
No, it was just neighbors passing, talking loudly. Quickly now, aware of the danger of being interrupted, Isotta brushed the debris off the top album and lifted it out of the chest. She breathed in and out, trying to slow her heart which seemed in danger of beating a path right out of her body. Isotta sat cross-legged and opened the cover. Instantly, she lost all the breath she’d fought to regain. It was a photo of Massimo and Giulia on their wedding day. The clear plastic page made a screaming sound as Isotta opened it to unstick the photo. She held it up close, staring at the woman’s features. No, not quite the same face. Not exactly. But enough to be eerie. And the look on Giulia’s face, she was sure she herself looked that besotted with Massimo on her wedding day.
An image, a memory, loomed—of the townspeople’s faces as she walked to the church. Of course. It’s not that they were ignorant country dwellers who couldn’t tolerate a stranger. They thought the dead had risen. Isotta reached up to shove her hair back from her forehead. With her fingers on the shadow-hued lock, she started to moan. Clutching the photograph to her chest she rolled on the floor and unleashed the sobbing that had been waiting for release.
Isotta’s stomach lurched, and she ran for the bathroom.
At the knock on the door, Luciano looked up from the spread of papers he was using to make a worksheet for Elisa.
He called, “Arrivo.” His limbs were creaking, probably from the stress of the day. He couldn’t get Isotta’s shattered face out of his mind—how it looked like a collapsed shell of a balloon that let go of all its air and all its color.
He opened the door to find Isotta.
Quickly, he held the door wider and moved to the side to allow her entry.
She strode in, suitcase in hand. “I can’t stay there any longer, Luciano, I just can’t. Massimo will be getting home from work soon, and Anna will be back with Margherita and the thought of seeing them both after this.”
Isotta dropped her suitcase and then let her head fall into her hands, “I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry I ran out. I just didn’t want to believe it was all a lie.”
Luciano put his arm around Isotta and led her to the couch. He said nothing while she sobbed against his shoulder.
Minutes passed. Finally, the sobs subsided and she sniffed, “I’m sorry.”
“Believe me, of all the things you could be feeling right now, apologetic should not be one of them.”
“I hate dumping my problems on you.”
“Considering I’m the reason you are in this condition, I can think of no better place for you to ‘dump’ your problems, as you so eloquently put it.”
Isotta pulled back and wiped her eyes. “No. You didn’t cause this. It was Massimo.” Her lip shook and she dropped her head in her hands, “Plus, of course how stupid I am. Stupid! I should have known he couldn’t love me unless there was something wrong with him.” Isotta began crying again, but this time, Luciano shook her shoulder.
‘”Allora. Please, listen to me. This is not about you. Massimo is charming. I happen to know, he also charmed my daughter. Many was the time I found him repugnant, the way he treated her, the way he talked to her like she was an annoying child, rather than a light on this earth . . .” Luciano
