the only source of natural light. I imagine that if the chrome lamps weren’t shining, throwing a warm glow into the corners, it would be black as a closet in here.
We pass through a huge dining hall where naked plywood tables and folding chairs are stacked—before or after a party, or maybe always at the ready. The windows have been jazzed up with embroidered curtains, and one whole wall is a cupboard for china. The kitchen is cavernous, but it is the kitchen of a working family. A funnel-shaped brick fireplace dominates, with well-used iron grills. Do they actually cook over an open fire? There is also, of course, a gourmet range in stainless steel, and a pair of fancy refrigerators. Track lighting looks down on a ten-foot granite island with built-in sinks for preparing the baskets of tomatoes and baby zucchini, great bunches of sage and basil and loaves of bread that are making me faint with hunger.
Still in heels and the silk dress, Cecilia trades the doctor’s coat for an apron, refusing offers of help.
“No, no. You relax. I hope your ride on the bus was okay. Giovanni picked you up?”
“Everything was fine. He said he had been studying—seems like a good kid.”
“We are proud of him. He is going to carry the flag for our contrada during Palio. It’s an honor. They always pick the most handsome young man.” She caresses Nicosa’s cheek. “It used to be his father. Still is.”
Nicosa removes Cecilia’s hand and kisses her palm with the passing intimacy of a long marriage. “Where is Giovanni?” he asks.
“He’s at soccer. After school he practices the flag, and then soccer,” she tells me with a smile. “Busy schedule.”
“We had a nice talk.” I describe our conversation about his love for Siena.
“That’s more than we talk to Giovanni in a week,” marvels Nicosa.
Cecilia says, “He likes to talk in the car.”
“Or shopping. He’ll quote Dante if you buy him a pair of tennis shoes.”
Cecilia frowns, retrieving a melon from the window, swinging her hips around the kitchen in sensual display; just like Nicosa, she’s sexual and distant at the same time.
“You’re making him out to be a brat. He is not a brat,” Cecilia says.
“I would never say that about my son! He’s a good student and stays out of trouble; what more can we ask? Do you need me to cut the prosciutto?”
“Non ora. Fra un pò.”
“Voglio vedere Giovanni giocare.”
“Va bène.”
Her husband leaves, and Cecilia lets out a sigh that probably says more than she would like me to know at this point. Her demeanor is guarded. Despite the excited welcome, she is hovering on the other side of the island and keeping her eyes on the food prep, as if to maintain a distance while evaluating the stranger in her kitchen.
“Nicoli wants to see a little of Giovanni’s practice,” she says. “We will have something to eat in a minute. I would have met you at the bus, but we had to perform an emergency C-section.”
“Mom and baby okay?”
“The baby will have some problems,” she says, ending the discussion.
I try to let things unwind as if I really were just a long-lost relation. There are moments of awkward silence. She takes a bowl from the refrigerator and starts dipping zucchini blossoms into a batter she must have prepared between surgeries. I thought I was efficient. But these are petty thoughts. This is an industrious woman who is also a publicly betrayed wife. Despite all that, she and her husband seem to be—wildly and improbably—in love. It makes me see that Sterling and I are still way at the beginning.
“Do you think Nicoli bought my story about selling security systems?”
“Sounded good to me,” she says. “Do you really?”
“When I was on the robbery squad at the FBI, I used to collect the tapes from the surveillance cameras in banks. It’s about as technical as popping out a CD.”
“Don’t worry; Nicoli wasn’t paying attention.”
“But you’re still afraid to
We pass through a huge dining hall where naked plywood tables and folding chairs are stacked—before or after a party, or maybe always at the ready. The windows have been jazzed up with embroidered curtains, and one whole wall is a cupboard for china. The kitchen is cavernous, but it is the kitchen of a working family. A funnel-shaped brick fireplace dominates, with well-used iron grills. Do they actually cook over an open fire? There is also, of course, a gourmet range in stainless steel, and a pair of fancy refrigerators. Track lighting looks down on a ten-foot granite island with built-in sinks for preparing the baskets of tomatoes and baby zucchini, great bunches of sage and basil and loaves of bread that are making me faint with hunger.
Still in heels and the silk dress, Cecilia trades the doctor’s coat for an apron, refusing offers of help.
“No, no. You relax. I hope your ride on the bus was okay. Giovanni picked you up?”
“Everything was fine. He said he had been studying—seems like a good kid.”
“We are proud of him. He is going to carry the flag for our contrada during Palio. It’s an honor. They always pick the most handsome young man.” She caresses Nicosa’s cheek. “It used to be his father. Still is.”
Nicosa removes Cecilia’s hand and kisses her palm with the passing intimacy of a long marriage. “Where is Giovanni?” he asks.
“He’s at soccer. After school he practices the flag, and then soccer,” she tells me with a smile. “Busy schedule.”
“We had a nice talk.” I describe our conversation about his love for Siena.
“That’s more than we talk to Giovanni in a week,” marvels Nicosa.
Cecilia says, “He likes to talk in the car.”
“Or shopping. He’ll quote Dante if you buy him a pair of tennis shoes.”
Cecilia frowns, retrieving a melon from the window, swinging her hips around the kitchen in sensual display; just like Nicosa, she’s sexual and distant at the same time.
“You’re making him out to be a brat. He is not a brat,” Cecilia says.
“I would never say that about my son! He’s a good student and stays out of trouble; what more can we ask? Do you need me to cut the prosciutto?”
“Non ora. Fra un pò.”
“Voglio vedere Giovanni giocare.”
“Va bène.”
Her husband leaves, and Cecilia lets out a sigh that probably says more than she would like me to know at this point. Her demeanor is guarded. Despite the excited welcome, she is hovering on the other side of the island and keeping her eyes on the food prep, as if to maintain a distance while evaluating the stranger in her kitchen.
“Nicoli wants to see a little of Giovanni’s practice,” she says. “We will have something to eat in a minute. I would have met you at the bus, but we had to perform an emergency C-section.”
“Mom and baby okay?”
“The baby will have some problems,” she says, ending the discussion.
I try to let things unwind as if I really were just a long-lost relation. There are moments of awkward silence. She takes a bowl from the refrigerator and starts dipping zucchini blossoms into a batter she must have prepared between surgeries. I thought I was efficient. But these are petty thoughts. This is an industrious woman who is also a publicly betrayed wife. Despite all that, she and her husband seem to be—wildly and improbably—in love. It makes me see that Sterling and I are still way at the beginning.
“Do you think Nicoli bought my story about selling security systems?”
“Sounded good to me,” she says. “Do you really?”
“When I was on the robbery squad at the FBI, I used to collect the tapes from the surveillance cameras in banks. It’s about as technical as popping out a CD.”
“Don’t worry; Nicoli wasn’t paying attention.”
“But you’re still afraid to
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