publishers, critics, Anne Frank scholars, and Elie Weisel. Vivian prepared magic tuna fish. She peppered the pink flesh with paprika, cumin seed, and chopped celery; pulverized it with a fork; then set three scoops on a large plate, in the design of a face. All of this she framed in a halo of cocktail rye breads. She created myriad hors dâoeuvres, all of them inexplicably childlike: pigs in blankets, Swedish meatballs, tiny salami and American cheese sandwiches on miniature buns with yellow mustard. Arrangements were made in advance for Francesca to stay at Evelynâs.
Cars from New York parked side by side in the DeSilva driveway. A case of champagne chilled in the refrigerator. Isabella stood pressed into the corner, largely avoided by the guests. Alfonse, too, evaded the commotion, hiding in the kitchen and replenishing hors dâoeuvres, impressing the female guests with his exotic nonaversion to housework. On one foray out of the kitchen, tray of pigs in blankets extended as a shield, he was accosted by an erudite American to expound on Sonnet #19 in Isabellaâs collection. Alfonse nodded and smiled, trying to place the manâs remarkably unpleasant accent (was it New York or Boston?) and conceal the fact that he had not read beyond the first two poems in his daughterâs volume. (He kept his autographedcopyâ To Papa, Love I .âits cover shiny with infancy, binder arthritic from unuse, on its own shelf in his nightstand, where each night he passed it over for his well-worn copy of Italo Calvinoâs Italian Fairy Tales , a wonderfully dreamy and slumberous collection that reminded him of what he considered his home, even if heâd never been there.)
Mrs. Val Noonan suggested that Isabella be allowed a sip of champagne. âAfter all,â she told Vivian, âThe party is in her honor. And at 14, sheâs a young lady herself.â She chucked Isabellaâs chin.
âSheâs right, you know, youâre a perfect young lady,â Vivian gripped Isabellaâs arm and held on, as if it might float away.
Isabella watched carefully as Mrs. Val Noonan poured the champagne. Bracelets jingling, teased red hair spraying the air with the choking scent of roses, the agent brought the plastic cup to Isabellaâs lips, tilted it just enough so the bubbles scratched at the inside of her mouth and made a clear, hot stream to her stomach. Isabella snatched the cup from the veiny, jeweled hands and cemented it to her lips. A long smooth swallow sent the liquid through her body, calming her bones, slowing her hyper brain, making her eyes sink like pillows into her head. She seemed to have been dropped, feet first, into the living room. She looked down at her body, her knees, her fingers, felt her throat, and emitted a large sigh.
âMmmm.â She smiled at Mrs. Val Noonan, unglued herself from the corner, and thrust her body into the crowd like a volleyball. Most remarkable to her was the utter absence of fear; in its place pulsed a golden warmth toward all humankind, particularly the thirty-two guests who edged about the living roomâdipping things, bumbling through mundane conversation in four-syllable words, drinks in hand, cigarettes burning, glasses and suits and stale, day-long breath. She looked into each pair of eyes and smiled, welcoming them, one at a time.
âExcuse me, sir,â she pressed her small fingers into the back of a young man with a thin, sand-colored beard; he smiled and stepped aside. She spun through the crowd like a ballerina, entered the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and counted nine bottles of champagne waiting for her. She gripped one about the neck and flew up the stairs to her bedroom, pressed the door closed, leaving sweaty prints on the white,semigloss paint. âOuch, ouch, ouch,â she said, kicking off her pinching penny loafers. She flopped down onto the bed.
She stared, rapt, at the dark, chubby bottle. Her fingers
Cars from New York parked side by side in the DeSilva driveway. A case of champagne chilled in the refrigerator. Isabella stood pressed into the corner, largely avoided by the guests. Alfonse, too, evaded the commotion, hiding in the kitchen and replenishing hors dâoeuvres, impressing the female guests with his exotic nonaversion to housework. On one foray out of the kitchen, tray of pigs in blankets extended as a shield, he was accosted by an erudite American to expound on Sonnet #19 in Isabellaâs collection. Alfonse nodded and smiled, trying to place the manâs remarkably unpleasant accent (was it New York or Boston?) and conceal the fact that he had not read beyond the first two poems in his daughterâs volume. (He kept his autographedcopyâ To Papa, Love I .âits cover shiny with infancy, binder arthritic from unuse, on its own shelf in his nightstand, where each night he passed it over for his well-worn copy of Italo Calvinoâs Italian Fairy Tales , a wonderfully dreamy and slumberous collection that reminded him of what he considered his home, even if heâd never been there.)
Mrs. Val Noonan suggested that Isabella be allowed a sip of champagne. âAfter all,â she told Vivian, âThe party is in her honor. And at 14, sheâs a young lady herself.â She chucked Isabellaâs chin.
âSheâs right, you know, youâre a perfect young lady,â Vivian gripped Isabellaâs arm and held on, as if it might float away.
Isabella watched carefully as Mrs. Val Noonan poured the champagne. Bracelets jingling, teased red hair spraying the air with the choking scent of roses, the agent brought the plastic cup to Isabellaâs lips, tilted it just enough so the bubbles scratched at the inside of her mouth and made a clear, hot stream to her stomach. Isabella snatched the cup from the veiny, jeweled hands and cemented it to her lips. A long smooth swallow sent the liquid through her body, calming her bones, slowing her hyper brain, making her eyes sink like pillows into her head. She seemed to have been dropped, feet first, into the living room. She looked down at her body, her knees, her fingers, felt her throat, and emitted a large sigh.
âMmmm.â She smiled at Mrs. Val Noonan, unglued herself from the corner, and thrust her body into the crowd like a volleyball. Most remarkable to her was the utter absence of fear; in its place pulsed a golden warmth toward all humankind, particularly the thirty-two guests who edged about the living roomâdipping things, bumbling through mundane conversation in four-syllable words, drinks in hand, cigarettes burning, glasses and suits and stale, day-long breath. She looked into each pair of eyes and smiled, welcoming them, one at a time.
âExcuse me, sir,â she pressed her small fingers into the back of a young man with a thin, sand-colored beard; he smiled and stepped aside. She spun through the crowd like a ballerina, entered the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and counted nine bottles of champagne waiting for her. She gripped one about the neck and flew up the stairs to her bedroom, pressed the door closed, leaving sweaty prints on the white,semigloss paint. âOuch, ouch, ouch,â she said, kicking off her pinching penny loafers. She flopped down onto the bed.
She stared, rapt, at the dark, chubby bottle. Her fingers
Similar Books
