Read Online The Girl from the Paradise Ballroom by Alison Love - Free Book Online

working late tonight, performing at La Rondine. The thought of rising at dawn made his flesh quake with exhaustion. He had not had an undisturbed night in the four months since his son was born. The baby had been christened Enrico: after his grandfather, according to the custom, but also in secret homage to Antonio’s hero, the singer Enrico Caruso.
    Valentino rose to his feet, pulling a comb from his trouser pocket. “Well, I will be on my way. No, I’m not going to the
fascio
tonight. I have other fish to fry.” He winked at his brother, who groaned.
    “Oh, God, Valentino. Who is it this time?”
    “You don’t expect me to reveal the lady’s name, do you? What do you take me for, a cad?” Valentino ran the comb through his hair, which was slicked with scented oil. “All I will say is that her husband works late at Bianchi’s restaurant, sometimes until one, two o’clock in the morning. The poor girl gets lonely and longs for company. Oh, how she longs for company. I cannot describe it to you, Antonio.”
    “I hope that you’re being careful, that’s all,” Antonio was saying, when he heard the flurry of footsteps in the corridor. It was Danila, who had come downstairs after settling the baby. In one hand she waved the envelope she had picked up from the mat.
    “It’s from Bruno! I recognize his handwriting. Filomena, there’s a letter from Bruno.”
    Filomena stepped from the scullery, wiping her hands on her apron. She took the letter from Danila and stared. The envelope looked as though it had passed through many damp, weary hands on its journey from Africa.
    “Open it,” said Danila, so impatiently that Antonio thought she would snatch the letter from his sister.
    “Perhaps Filomena would like to read it alone,” he said.
    Danila stuck out her lower lip. “Pouf! Why should she? Bruno is not one for writing love letters. It will be full of his news, that’s all. If she wants to read it by herself she can do it afterward.”
    “Maybe he is breaking off our engagement,” said Filomena, still without opening the letter.
    “I do not believe so for an instant. He is an honorable man, my cousin Bruno. You should not even think such a thought, Filomena. It is not worthy of you.”
    “No, you should not,” said Valentino, who like Danila was craning over his sister’s shoulder, eager to see the letter. “Who else would have you, eh? Come on now, Filomena. Open it.”
    Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper, covered in looped untidy handwriting.
    “Well,” said Danila, “what does he say?”
    In silence Filomena handed her the letter. Danila had been right: there were no endearments in it, nothing that made it personal. It did not matter if the whole family read it.
    “He is coming home! Why didn’t you say so at once? He has been injured, although the injury is not great, and he is coming home. That is wonderful news. Isn’t it, Valentino?”
    “Wonderful,” said Valentino, who was gazing at the sheet of paper with reverence: a letter from a fascist hero, sent from the furthest outpost of the new Roman empire.
    Antonio looked at his sister. Her eyes met his for an instant, gravely.
    “Aren’t you happy, Filomena?” Danila said it warmly, but there was something needling in her voice all the same. “Bruno is coming home. You must be so glad.”
    “Yes, of course I’m glad.” Filomena knotted the strings of her apron more tightly about her waist and took a papery brown onion from the basket. “And now I must make some soup for Papa, so that he has something nourishing for tomorrow, while I am at work.”
    “You don’t sound glad,” said Danila.
    “Oh, there is no pleasing some people.” Valentino put Bruno’s letter on the table and reached for his hat. “Take no notice, Danila, she’s always been a sourpuss. Well, I’m off. I’ll see you in the morning, Antonino.”
    Danila was still staring at Filomena, a hurt expression on her face, when there was a chuntering