Read Online The Light in the Piazza and Other Italian Tales by Elizabeth Spencer - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Spencer
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Cypress, river, hill and city like a natural growth among them—they looked down on Tuscany. The air was fresher here, but undoubtedly very hot below. There was a slight haze, just enough to tone away the glare, but even on the distant blue hills outlines of a tree or a tower were distinct to the last degree—one had the sense of being able to see everything exactly as it was.
“There is no question with Clara,” Mrs. Johnson murmured. “She has been very carefully brought up.”
“Not like other American girls, eh? In Italy we hear strange things. Not only hear. Cara signora , we see strange things, also. You can imagine. Never mind. The signorina is another thing entirely. My wife has noticed it at once. Her innocence.” His eyes kept returning to Mrs. Johnson’s knee, which in the narrow silk skirt of her dress it was difficult not to expose. Her legs were crossed and her stocking whitened the flesh.
“She is very innocent,” said Mrs. Johnson.
“And her father? How does he feel? An Italian for his daughter? Well, perhaps in America you, too, hear some strange words about us. We are no different from others, except we are more—well, you see me here—we are here together—it is not unpleasant—I look to you like any other man. And yet perhaps I feel a greater—how shall I say? You will think I play the Italian when I say there is a greater …”
She did think just that. She had been seriously informed on several occasions recently that Anglo-Saxons knew very little about passion, and now Signor Naccarelli, for whom she had a real liking, was about to work up to the same idea. She pulled down her skirt with a jerk. “There are plenty of American men who appreciate women just as much as you do,” she told him.
He burst out laughing. “Of course! We make such a lot of foolishness, signora. But on such an afternoon—” His gesture took in the landscape. “I spoke of your husband. I think to myself, He is in cigarettes, after all. A very American thing. When you get off the boat, what do you say? ‘Where is Clara?’ says Signor Johnson. ‘Where is my leetle girl?’ ‘Clara, ah!’ you say. ‘She is back in Italy. She has married with an Italian. I forgot to write you—I was so busy.’”
“But I write to him constantly!” cried Mrs. Johnson. “He knows everything. I have told him about you, about Fabrizio, the signora, Florence, all these things.”
“But first of all you have considered your daughter’s heart. For yourself, you could have left us, gone, gone. Forever. Not even a postcard.” He chuckled. Suddenly he took a notion to start the car. It backed at once, as if a child had it on a string, then leaping forward, fairly toppled over the crest of a steep run of hill down into the city, speeding as fast as a roller skate. Mrs. Johnson clutched her hat. “When my son was married,” she cried, “my husband wrote out a check for five thousand dollars. I have reason to think he will do the same for Clara.”
“Ma che generoso!” cried Signor Naccarelli, and it seemed he had hardly said it before he was jerking the hand brake to prevent their entering the hotel lobby.
She asked him in for an aperitif. He leaned flirtatiously at her over a small round marble-topped table. The plush decor of the Grand Hotel, with its gilt and scroll-edged mirrors that gave back wavy reflections, reminded Mrs. Johnson of middle-aged adultery, one party only being titled. But neither she nor Signor Naccarelli was titled. It was a relief to know that sin was not expected of them. If she were thinking along such lines, heaven only knew what was running in Signor Naccarelli’s head. Almost giggling, he drank down a red, bitter potion from a fluted glass.
“So you ran away,” he said, “upset. You could not bear the thought. You think and you think. You see the signorina’s unhappy face. You could not bear her tears. You return. It is wise. There should be a time for thought. This I have said to my wife,
“There is no question with Clara,” Mrs. Johnson murmured. “She has been very carefully brought up.”
“Not like other American girls, eh? In Italy we hear strange things. Not only hear. Cara signora , we see strange things, also. You can imagine. Never mind. The signorina is another thing entirely. My wife has noticed it at once. Her innocence.” His eyes kept returning to Mrs. Johnson’s knee, which in the narrow silk skirt of her dress it was difficult not to expose. Her legs were crossed and her stocking whitened the flesh.
“She is very innocent,” said Mrs. Johnson.
“And her father? How does he feel? An Italian for his daughter? Well, perhaps in America you, too, hear some strange words about us. We are no different from others, except we are more—well, you see me here—we are here together—it is not unpleasant—I look to you like any other man. And yet perhaps I feel a greater—how shall I say? You will think I play the Italian when I say there is a greater …”
She did think just that. She had been seriously informed on several occasions recently that Anglo-Saxons knew very little about passion, and now Signor Naccarelli, for whom she had a real liking, was about to work up to the same idea. She pulled down her skirt with a jerk. “There are plenty of American men who appreciate women just as much as you do,” she told him.
He burst out laughing. “Of course! We make such a lot of foolishness, signora. But on such an afternoon—” His gesture took in the landscape. “I spoke of your husband. I think to myself, He is in cigarettes, after all. A very American thing. When you get off the boat, what do you say? ‘Where is Clara?’ says Signor Johnson. ‘Where is my leetle girl?’ ‘Clara, ah!’ you say. ‘She is back in Italy. She has married with an Italian. I forgot to write you—I was so busy.’”
“But I write to him constantly!” cried Mrs. Johnson. “He knows everything. I have told him about you, about Fabrizio, the signora, Florence, all these things.”
“But first of all you have considered your daughter’s heart. For yourself, you could have left us, gone, gone. Forever. Not even a postcard.” He chuckled. Suddenly he took a notion to start the car. It backed at once, as if a child had it on a string, then leaping forward, fairly toppled over the crest of a steep run of hill down into the city, speeding as fast as a roller skate. Mrs. Johnson clutched her hat. “When my son was married,” she cried, “my husband wrote out a check for five thousand dollars. I have reason to think he will do the same for Clara.”
“Ma che generoso!” cried Signor Naccarelli, and it seemed he had hardly said it before he was jerking the hand brake to prevent their entering the hotel lobby.
She asked him in for an aperitif. He leaned flirtatiously at her over a small round marble-topped table. The plush decor of the Grand Hotel, with its gilt and scroll-edged mirrors that gave back wavy reflections, reminded Mrs. Johnson of middle-aged adultery, one party only being titled. But neither she nor Signor Naccarelli was titled. It was a relief to know that sin was not expected of them. If she were thinking along such lines, heaven only knew what was running in Signor Naccarelli’s head. Almost giggling, he drank down a red, bitter potion from a fluted glass.
“So you ran away,” he said, “upset. You could not bear the thought. You think and you think. You see the signorina’s unhappy face. You could not bear her tears. You return. It is wise. There should be a time for thought. This I have said to my wife,
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