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going to find you, somehow, so I can tell you that.”

6

    Vedete? Io son fedele alla parola mia.
    Â 
    You see? I am faithful to my word.
    Â 
    â€”Manon, Manon Lescaut, Act One

    â€œI don’t know what else I can do,” Doria said. She cast her mother an exasperated look. “ Veramente, Mamma, I work from before the signora is awake until she goes to bed at night. I’ve been there five years, and no one knows the house as well as I do! I clean, and I scrub laundry, and I iron the sheets and the curtains. I help Zita with the cooking, and I serve at table. I always wear my apron, and I never complain.”
    â€œYou must have done something to make her angry.” Emilia Manfredi dusted her floury hands over the sink, and gathered up the scraps of dough to roll another sheet for the ravioli.
    â€œNo one has to do anything to make her angry!” Doria pressed harder on the stone pestle, grinding the basil and garlic together. The pungent scent of pesto filled the room. “You can ask Old Zita, and she’ll tell you, Mamma! The signora ’s angry all the time. That’s why no one else will work there!”
    â€œLucky for you!” Emilia snapped.
    Doria clacked the pestle angrily against the rim of the mortar. “You don’t know what it’s like! She’s so mean the signore calls her his policeman, did you know that?”
    Emilia clicked her tongue. “That’s not a nice thing.”
    â€œBut she is like a policeman, Mamma, giving orders, shouting, always trying to catch someone in a mistake. The maestro stays away all day with his dogs and his friends, and Zita hides in the kitchen, but I have to go upstairs, downstairs, in and out all day, and be silent all the time besides.”
    â€œYou should always hold your tongue! You’re only the housemaid.”
    â€œI’m not the housemaid here, Mamma! Surely I can speak in your house?”
    â€œHmmph.” Her mother slapped the mound of dough with an angry hand. “You’d better not lose your job, Doria. You would have no place to go.”
    Doria stopped, the pestle poised and dripping crushed basil. “No place to go?”
    Signora Manfredi reached for the rolling pin, and began to spin it over the dough. “There is no room here, Doria, you know that. The house is overflowing as it is.”
    â€œIt has always overflowed!”
    â€œSì, sì, sì,” her mother said. “It has always overflowed, and I’m tired of it.”
    â€œThat’s hardly my fault!” Doria said with asperity. “I’m not the one with six children!”
    Emilia tossed her head. “We take what God sends us, Doria.”
    Doria sighed, a little ashamed. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, Mamma.”
    â€œWell, never mind. In any case, you have a good job, in a good house.”
    â€œYou don’t need to tell me that. I love it there. I like taking care of Signor Puccini.”
    With deliberation, her mother laid down her rolling pin and folded her arms beneath her pendulous bosom. She fixed her black eyes on her daughter. “You are behaving yourself?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œYou know what I mean.”
    â€œBehaving myself!” Doria clicked her tongue, and ground the pestle into the basil leaves once again, turning and turning it in the mortar until a green paste began to form.
    â€œAnswer me!” her mother snapped.
    Doria let the pestle fall, its handle dropping into the sticky pesto. She turned, and matched her mother’s posture, arms folded, chin thrust out. “You think I’m sleeping with Signor Puccini? Why not just say so?”
    Her mother’s eyes hardened. “Watch your tone with me, Doria Manfredi! It’s a good question. Everyone knows about the signore! ”
    â€œYou shouldn’t listen to gossip, Mamma. Not about the maestro, and most certainly not about your daughter!”
    â€œIt