Read Online That Summer in Sicily by Marlena de Blasi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marlena de Blasi
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by it, begins to fidget with her glass, smooths her perfect corona of braids. Smiles fitfully. I rise, place my drink, unfinished, on a small table, and thank her. Tell her I’ve some work to do before dinner.
As though she hasn’t heard me, she asks, now reverting again to English, “Have you brought other clothes? Something elegant, I mean.”
“A nice dress. Gray tulle.” I tell her, wondering why she would be interested in my wardrobe.
As though “nice gray tulle” did not signify
elegant
to her, she says, “Maybe I have something that Agata could fix up for you. In fact, I think I do. Sometimes we have outside guests to supper and we all dress up a bit.”
“As I said, I believe we’ll be leaving tomorrow . . .”
Again, she will not hear what she does not want to hear. “It’s not often there’s someone new to present, you know.”
“Agata, vieni qua, tesoro.”
Agata arrives trotting, breaking only long enough to take her orders to look at whatever’s left in the trunks in the old dressing room. And to take me with her.
Trunks? Dressing room? I follow Agata up three flights of wide, worn stone stairs. At the top we follow a corridor scented with mold to enter a room furnished all in armoires and dressers and trunks, accessorized here and there with mousetraps, those sprung, those still baited. The mold is masked by the perfume of decaying rodent. Backstage at some decrepit theater. Agata bends into and riffles through a large trunk. I see only her prosperous black-silked derrière and hear her mutterings and beseechings to the Madonna. Holding up some sort of dress or gown in what might be a silvery-brown color, she declares it
quella giusta.
The right one.
“
Spogliati,
take your clothes off,” she commands.
Moments later, wearing what must have been a lovely pre-war tea gown, I am being twirled about by Agata. The bodice is too tight and the skirt is too long, but Agata begins a ruthless pinching of the seams, roughly gathering the hem and draping it here and there, telling me to hold it exactly the way she places the stuff in my hands. She stands back for the effect.
“Non é male,”
she says. “
Potrebbe essere molto carino.
Not bad. It could be very sweet.”
So abruptly disturbed after its long repose that, when I let go of it, there are two large, jagged holes in the fine old tea gown where my hands had held it. This time Agata calls upon Santa Rosalia.
“
Toglilo adesso e dammelo.
Take it off now and give it to me,” is the next command. Still zipping my jeans, smoothing my hair, I run to catch up with Agata, who has the wounded silvery-brown thing under her arm, but she disappears down one corridor or another, and when I arrive back at the dining hall, Tosca is no longer there among the widows who prepare the tables.
Later, as we dress for dinner, I tell Fernando of my visit to see the frescoes and of Tosca’s thoughts about current world events. I tell him that she spoke to me in English.
“After all these days—how long has it been, nearly two weeks that we’ve been here?—what do you think of Tosca? What will be the impression you leave with tomorrow?” I want to know.
I’m crisscrossing the thin suede ropes of my new black sandals ’round my ankles, my calves. I’ve also taken out the gray tulle ballerina dress that has been rolled up in my lingerie bag since Venice. A shawl. Tosca’s question about my clothes has inspired me.
“First of all, I don’t think we’ll be leaving tomorrow after all. When I went to settle up our account just a few moments ago, she reminded me that
ferragosto
is not the prudent time to be on the road. She’s right, of course. Whatever direction we take, we’ll be among the raging hordes of vacationers. She says that in a few days, perhaps another week, the roads will be clear. Even the weather is due to break, according to her.”
I hobble on one sandaled foot into the bathroom, sit on the edge of the tub behind where he
As though she hasn’t heard me, she asks, now reverting again to English, “Have you brought other clothes? Something elegant, I mean.”
“A nice dress. Gray tulle.” I tell her, wondering why she would be interested in my wardrobe.
As though “nice gray tulle” did not signify
elegant
to her, she says, “Maybe I have something that Agata could fix up for you. In fact, I think I do. Sometimes we have outside guests to supper and we all dress up a bit.”
“As I said, I believe we’ll be leaving tomorrow . . .”
Again, she will not hear what she does not want to hear. “It’s not often there’s someone new to present, you know.”
“Agata, vieni qua, tesoro.”
Agata arrives trotting, breaking only long enough to take her orders to look at whatever’s left in the trunks in the old dressing room. And to take me with her.
Trunks? Dressing room? I follow Agata up three flights of wide, worn stone stairs. At the top we follow a corridor scented with mold to enter a room furnished all in armoires and dressers and trunks, accessorized here and there with mousetraps, those sprung, those still baited. The mold is masked by the perfume of decaying rodent. Backstage at some decrepit theater. Agata bends into and riffles through a large trunk. I see only her prosperous black-silked derrière and hear her mutterings and beseechings to the Madonna. Holding up some sort of dress or gown in what might be a silvery-brown color, she declares it
quella giusta.
The right one.
“
Spogliati,
take your clothes off,” she commands.
Moments later, wearing what must have been a lovely pre-war tea gown, I am being twirled about by Agata. The bodice is too tight and the skirt is too long, but Agata begins a ruthless pinching of the seams, roughly gathering the hem and draping it here and there, telling me to hold it exactly the way she places the stuff in my hands. She stands back for the effect.
“Non é male,”
she says. “
Potrebbe essere molto carino.
Not bad. It could be very sweet.”
So abruptly disturbed after its long repose that, when I let go of it, there are two large, jagged holes in the fine old tea gown where my hands had held it. This time Agata calls upon Santa Rosalia.
“
Toglilo adesso e dammelo.
Take it off now and give it to me,” is the next command. Still zipping my jeans, smoothing my hair, I run to catch up with Agata, who has the wounded silvery-brown thing under her arm, but she disappears down one corridor or another, and when I arrive back at the dining hall, Tosca is no longer there among the widows who prepare the tables.
Later, as we dress for dinner, I tell Fernando of my visit to see the frescoes and of Tosca’s thoughts about current world events. I tell him that she spoke to me in English.
“After all these days—how long has it been, nearly two weeks that we’ve been here?—what do you think of Tosca? What will be the impression you leave with tomorrow?” I want to know.
I’m crisscrossing the thin suede ropes of my new black sandals ’round my ankles, my calves. I’ve also taken out the gray tulle ballerina dress that has been rolled up in my lingerie bag since Venice. A shawl. Tosca’s question about my clothes has inspired me.
“First of all, I don’t think we’ll be leaving tomorrow after all. When I went to settle up our account just a few moments ago, she reminded me that
ferragosto
is not the prudent time to be on the road. She’s right, of course. Whatever direction we take, we’ll be among the raging hordes of vacationers. She says that in a few days, perhaps another week, the roads will be clear. Even the weather is due to break, according to her.”
I hobble on one sandaled foot into the bathroom, sit on the edge of the tub behind where he
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