wicker armchairs in front of the house, Grazia seemed quiet and wan, as if the imposing shadow of her mother darkened any gleam of adolescence in her.
But when the three of us, having left the grown-ups to their conversation, went for a walk in the park and Clara and I asked Grazia to tell us a story, she became a different person—she rattled on happily, and her whole face lit up.
Today she's telling us the story of
Wuthering Heights
and we're getting to the part where Heathcliff forces Cathy to marry his repulsive son, when Grazia stops and says, “If I show you something, do you swear you won't tell a soul?”
“What is it?” Clara says.
“First swear. Go on, make a cross with your fingers and kiss the cross.”
My sister and I perform this ritual. Then, from the pocket of her flowered dress, Grazia takes out a photo.
“Look,” she says with a little flutter of emotion, “this is the man I'm going to marry, my fiancé. Look how handsome he is, not a bit like Heathcliff's son. Look.”
We look. A black-and-white photo. In the foreground there's a boy in a soldier's uniform. It looks like one of those photos of a dead person in a cemetery, with the background fading into white. We're at a loss for a moment. At last I manage to say in a thin voice, “He's cute.” She doesn't notice and goes on with her story. “I kept seeing him in front of the repair shop where he works and he smiled at me, but I always looked away. But then one day I see him at the end of the street and when I go by he says, ‘Hello, beautiful signorina,’ and holds out a wonderful red rose. I look around to see if anyone's watching, then I take the rose and hide it under my coat and run away. Then I see him again at the same place, and this time we tell each other our names. And each time we meet we talk a little more, but if my mother's with me, we pretend not to know each other. I've gone with him in his car, up into the hills, and we kissed. Oh, I love him, I love him, I love him—but if my mother finds out she'll kill me, I have to think up excuses to go out, and I can't think of any more!”
I find this story more exciting than
Wuthering Heights.
That night Clara and I discuss it.
“Here's what I think. I think he should kidnap her. They could find a priest to marry them in secret, and the two of us could be witnesses.”
Clara says, “I don't think they'll get married.”
“And why is that, excuse me very much.”
“Because Mariapia doesn't want it.”
“But you're not listening–I told you he'll kidnap her and they'll get married in secret.”
“Yes, fine. But you'll see–when he comes to her house to kidnap her, Grazia will say no, that she doesn't have the courage to do it.” Then, after a moment of silence, Clara adds, “Do you think Papa will be as terrible with us, the way Mariapia is with Grazia?”
“But what are you saying!” I blurt back. “Just because they're cousins doesn't mean they have to be alike.”
But at the same time I have a sudden doubt because I remember the way Papa says that if any suitors show up for us he'll kick their backsides.
Not long after that, Mariapia, Elisabetta, and Grazia came to visit. Grazia had swolleneyes. I couldn't wait for the grown-ups to settle into their chairs in front of the house so we could go to the park. Once she was alone with us, Grazia said that it was all over, that her mother had begun to suspect and one day she'd followed her to the gas station where they'd agreed to meet to go up into the hills, that her mother had dragged her home, hitting her the whole way, and that Aunt Elisabetta had had the husband of a friend of hers telephone the owner of the shop so that the boy was fired. Now she could only leave the house if she went with her mother, and next year her mother was sending her away to boarding school. She burst into tears, and Clara and I each held one of her hands. Then, still sobbing, she said, “My mother says he's lower class and for
But when the three of us, having left the grown-ups to their conversation, went for a walk in the park and Clara and I asked Grazia to tell us a story, she became a different person—she rattled on happily, and her whole face lit up.
Today she's telling us the story of
Wuthering Heights
and we're getting to the part where Heathcliff forces Cathy to marry his repulsive son, when Grazia stops and says, “If I show you something, do you swear you won't tell a soul?”
“What is it?” Clara says.
“First swear. Go on, make a cross with your fingers and kiss the cross.”
My sister and I perform this ritual. Then, from the pocket of her flowered dress, Grazia takes out a photo.
“Look,” she says with a little flutter of emotion, “this is the man I'm going to marry, my fiancé. Look how handsome he is, not a bit like Heathcliff's son. Look.”
We look. A black-and-white photo. In the foreground there's a boy in a soldier's uniform. It looks like one of those photos of a dead person in a cemetery, with the background fading into white. We're at a loss for a moment. At last I manage to say in a thin voice, “He's cute.” She doesn't notice and goes on with her story. “I kept seeing him in front of the repair shop where he works and he smiled at me, but I always looked away. But then one day I see him at the end of the street and when I go by he says, ‘Hello, beautiful signorina,’ and holds out a wonderful red rose. I look around to see if anyone's watching, then I take the rose and hide it under my coat and run away. Then I see him again at the same place, and this time we tell each other our names. And each time we meet we talk a little more, but if my mother's with me, we pretend not to know each other. I've gone with him in his car, up into the hills, and we kissed. Oh, I love him, I love him, I love him—but if my mother finds out she'll kill me, I have to think up excuses to go out, and I can't think of any more!”
I find this story more exciting than
Wuthering Heights.
That night Clara and I discuss it.
“Here's what I think. I think he should kidnap her. They could find a priest to marry them in secret, and the two of us could be witnesses.”
Clara says, “I don't think they'll get married.”
“And why is that, excuse me very much.”
“Because Mariapia doesn't want it.”
“But you're not listening–I told you he'll kidnap her and they'll get married in secret.”
“Yes, fine. But you'll see–when he comes to her house to kidnap her, Grazia will say no, that she doesn't have the courage to do it.” Then, after a moment of silence, Clara adds, “Do you think Papa will be as terrible with us, the way Mariapia is with Grazia?”
“But what are you saying!” I blurt back. “Just because they're cousins doesn't mean they have to be alike.”
But at the same time I have a sudden doubt because I remember the way Papa says that if any suitors show up for us he'll kick their backsides.
Not long after that, Mariapia, Elisabetta, and Grazia came to visit. Grazia had swolleneyes. I couldn't wait for the grown-ups to settle into their chairs in front of the house so we could go to the park. Once she was alone with us, Grazia said that it was all over, that her mother had begun to suspect and one day she'd followed her to the gas station where they'd agreed to meet to go up into the hills, that her mother had dragged her home, hitting her the whole way, and that Aunt Elisabetta had had the husband of a friend of hers telephone the owner of the shop so that the boy was fired. Now she could only leave the house if she went with her mother, and next year her mother was sending her away to boarding school. She burst into tears, and Clara and I each held one of her hands. Then, still sobbing, she said, “My mother says he's lower class and for
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