The American Lady (26 page)

15

Genoa, 7 January 1911

Dear Wanda,

How could you think of giving me such a shock! When the mailman came to our door with an express letter, for a moment I feared the worst—and you know where my imagination can lead me! I was all the more relieved then to read that everything is all right.

I can hardly begin to believe what you’re telling me! Richard Stämme has told you that he’s in love with you? Just like that? When you had almost given up hope? And you’re going to help your father in his workshop? I have a thousand questions for you, and I don’t know which to ask first. Your letter was so enthusiastic and so cheerful! And at last I recognized my own dear Wanda again, always full of ideas and get-up-and-go. I have to confess that for a while I feared you would lose heart, what with all the unlucky twists and turns your life has taken recentl
y . . .

Oh, I’m writing such convoluted nonsense! All I want to say is that I’m happy for you, happy with all my heart!

Believe it or not, I knew from your very first letter that you had fallen for Richard. Of course I agree with you that he is an extraordinary man. And he’s handsome too. I imagine that poor Anna wasn’t the only girl in the village whose head he has turned. Are you quite sure, though, that you weren’t exaggerating—even if only a little—about what happened on New Year’s Eve in front of Johanna’s house? I had always thought that Richard kept to himself. I would never have thought of him as a loving husband and father—although that hasn’t happened yet anyway, thank heavens. Dear, dear Wanda, I’m so happy for you! All the same I am afraid as well, in case things happen too fast between you and Richard. I can hear you saying that your mother was already married by your age—and you’re right, of course—but please consider that your mother was very unhappy in that first marriage. It would be rather silly to repeat the same mistake, wouldn’t it?

Now I don’t want to be comparing apples and oranges here, but all the same I will make one comparison: your mother left Lauscha for the sake of her great love, and you’re planning to stay in Lauscha for the sake of your great love—isn’t that odd?

What does your mother say to all this? The fact that you want to work side by side with Thomas must be something of a surprise to her, a shock even. (I do hope that you’ve written to her about this!) And what does Johanna say? She must have jumped when she heard it, I daresay. I can’t imagine she’s happy to see you head up the hill to your father’s house every day. Ruth’s phone must be ringing off the hook. And Anna? If looks could kil
l . . .
am I right?

I’d love for you to tell me a little more, in your next letter, about how everyone around you reacted and less (even if it’s just a little less) about Richard and his dark-blue eye
s . . .

Franco has just looked in on me—I am sitting in the orangery, which is beautiful, and I am breathing in the scent of orange
s . . .
can you even imagine that where you are, deep in snow?—though only to say that he still has at least another two hours of work to get through with his father in the office! And it’s almost six o’clock. Believe me, married life isn’t all wonderful. There are days when I see the cook or the chambermaid more than I see Franco. This despite the fact that he solemnly promised that he would work less in the new year. Well, we shall se
e . . .

I have just decided not to go in to dinner this evening. When my mother-in-law is the only one at the table, I can’t enjoy the food anyway. And so I have time to write a little more about your second piece of news.

You asked me for my opinion of Heimer and how things stand there. Dearest Wanda, I told you everything I know about his workshop back in New York. When I was still living in Lauscha, I never much troubled my head over other glassblowers and what they might be doing.

However, I was very surprised to hear that Thomas cannot even find customers for his glass hunting scenes. Even with all the goodwill in the world I cannot tell you how he should go about finding new commissions. Perhaps the simplest thing would be to go knocking on the doors of the wholesalers in Sonneberg to find out what sells. The job could be tailor-made for you!

You write that Thomas was very surprised by your offer to help and that he is still very reluctant to accept. Dear Wanda, that must be the understatement of the century, surely?! I can’t imagine that stubborn old fool taking advice from anyone—even you. I do know that much about the Heimer men—they are muleheaded as can be and entirely convinced that they know best! The fact that you are still prepared to try your luck with them is proof of your kind and helpful nature, which I came to know so well in New York. Only time will tell, though, whether this is the mission that you have spent so long looking for. All I can do is advise you to take things slowly and not put all your heart and soul into it.

And please: write to your mother and try to explain to her why you have taken such drastic steps—Ruth loves you more than you know and the same goes for Steven.

Now I have some news for you in turn. (Please be so good as to pass on these pages of the letter to Johanna so that I do not have to write everything twice.)

I should have told you all long ago, but I thought that after all the trouble I had caused the best thing to do would be to let tempers cool for a whil
e . . .

I am going to be a mother!

The little one is due in May—what do you say to that? I am most wonderfully happy as I am sure you can imagine. For years and years I thought that I was one of those women who was not destined to have children, and then a younger man comes my way and I am fertile after all! I already have a little bump and Franco says that if I carry on eating for two he will be able to roll me through the palazzo. Now and again I have cramps. Franco says that this is the child being cheeky with us. I have been wondering whether I should visit a doctor, but when I think how simple things were for Johanna even with the twin
s . . .
She was on her feet in the workshop the very day she gave birth, and back at work not two weeks later. So of course that lifts my spirits whenever I feel a twinge in my back or a pain in my womb. Ah well, I’m not as young as I used to be, but I won’t complain. I still sit at my workbench every day (although I never use the flame these days, I am working with a soldering torch instead). If only you could see the pictures that I finished yesterday! The rich glowing colors, the light that comes from the glass itself! I know it’s not considered appropriate for an artist to praise her own work but my series
In Vigneto
is really the best thing that I have ever done. In fact I had planned to give the pieces to Franco for Christmas, but I simply didn’t have time to finish them. When I showed them to him yesterday, he was so touched that tears came to his eyes—my inspiration for the pictures came from the vineyards that he loves so much. He wants to hang them on the window in the office. Perhaps it would be a good idea to take advantage of his good mood and tell him of my latest plan
s . . .
I have already written to you about how I want to open a little gallery this summer, but my new idea is to invite Sherlain and Pandora to the opening so that we can unite poetry, dance, and glass, so to speak. I am looking forward to hearing what Franco says about that.

I have written till my fingers ache, so I will finish here and go and find my darling husband now, even though the office is at the other end of the palazzo. If only the hallways in this place were not so long!

Please give my love to everyone and tell them that I miss you all dreadfully!

With love, Marie

Marie put down her pen, exhausted. Her eyes fell on the pendant watch that hung on its long chain from around her neck. Ten o’clock already! Where had the time gone? The answer was right there in front of her: a letter, several pages long. She couldn’t remember ever having written such a long letter before. Even though her stomach was beginning to grumble, she read everything through, adding a word or two here, crossing out there, putting little notes in the margin. When she was done, she hesitated for a moment. Wanda’s own letter had been so insistent, so hopeful—and she had sent it express! But Marie could see in every line that her niece was uncertain of what she was doing and that she wanted nothing in the world so much as approval and forgiveness for her bold plans. Marie couldn’t give her that, though—the news from Lauscha was too sudden, and she wasn’t quite sure yet what to make of it all. For the time being, it would have to be enough that she wished Wanda well.

Marie smiled as she folded the pages together and put them into the envelope that she already had on the desk. She dipped her pen into the inkwell once more and wrote the address. It would go to the post office tomorrow.

As she straightened up she felt the bones in her neck crack. She was stiff from sitting for so long. She massaged the muscles a little, and a shiver ran down her spine.

It was pitch dark all around, and cold. Only one small lamp hanging above the garden furniture gave off any light. Though the orangery was warm and gloriously scented during the day, it felt cold and decidedly unwelcoming now. When the sun shone, she was surrounded by palms and lemon trees, but at night there were only vague looming shadows.

All of a sudden she felt an urgent need to get back inside where it was warm and light. She gathered her pen and paper hastily and stood up.

The lights were on in the hallway that led to the bedroom. Franco! Marie hastened her step. He was probably already waiting for her. With any luck he would be in a good mood and not too worn out. Otherwise there was a chance he would disapprove of her plan just because he was tired.

“Franco, darling! Have you already had supper? If not, we ca
n . . .
” Marie stopped dead with her hand on the doorknob. The smile froze on her face. She looked at the bed, freshly made up with the sheets turned down by the maids, and felt a surge of anger. How long was the old count going to keep his son sitting up tonight? In a rage, she slammed down her things on the side table, and was just about to loosen the ribbon in her hair when she stopped.

She had no desire to sit here and wait. She would end up falling asleep from sheer boredom and then her news would have to wait until morning—when Franco might not have time for her once again.

Marie threw a shawl over her shoulders and left the room. She took the letter to Wanda with her. If she put it on the hall table, the errand boy would take it to the post office the next morning.

When she got halfway down the long hallway, she was briefly overcome by a wave of dizziness, but she fought it off and marched toward the office.

16

As the oak door of the office came into view, Marie was still brooding over whether to let Franco know how upset she was or whether she should try to charm him away from his work. On the one hand it would certainly make sense for her t
o . . .

“Telefon
o . . .
dodici uomin
i . . .
Firenze . . .”

Franco’s voice, loud behind the oak door, shouting, startled her back to her senses. She was just about to knock when Franco’s voice reached her once more.

“Questo è colpa nostra!”

Marie stopped in front of the door, dismayed, her hand on the doorknob. She had never heard her husband shouting like this. She suddenly wondered whether it was a good idea to interrupt. Franco had mentioned that a ship called the
Firenze
was due to dock in New York any day now with a load of de Lucca wine in its cargo. What had happened? What was “our fault” here?

“Annegati?”

Drowned?
The count’s voice, raised in a question. One word like a whiplash.

“No, soffocati
! . . .
Firenz
e . . .
una mancanza d’aria nel contenitore!”

Marie frowned. Who had suffocated? Not enough air in the shipping crat
e . . .
what crate?

“Una morte misera
! . . .
dodici uomini soffocati, capisci?!”

A miserable death? Twelve men ha
d . . .
suffocate
d . . .
on the crossing? Had she understood that properly or was her shaky knowledge of Italian letting her down? Oh God, something dreadful must have happened!

Marie swallowed. She felt a lump in her throat, felt disaster coming the way an animal smells danger on the wind.
Run back to your room as fast as you can,
shouted the voice in her head. Instead she stood rooted to the spot and went on listening.

“Ci costerà una barca di soldi!”

Wasn’t it just typical that the old count should be thinking of how much this would cost—whatever ‘this’ was—while his son was on the edge of a nervous breakdown? Marie was amazed at how clearly she was thinking.

“Una morte misera
! . . .
questo è colpa nostra!”
Franco shouted again. He had to be standing right by the door. His voice was loud and clear and, to her horror, she found she understood every word. “I curse the day I ever agreed to all this! How often did I beg you to make an end of it? Money, money, money! You would take any risk for money, however great. And now twelve men have met their deaths!”

Marie put a hand to her mouth automatically. Her head was buzzing, and she knew now with a terrible certainty that men had been shipped with the cargo of wine and that they had died on the crossing.

“Siamo assassini!”
Franco shouted.
We are murderer
s
. . .

The door was thrown open—and Franco walked right into Marie.

“Marie!” He stared at her in horror.

He was as pale as could be, and his eyes were rimmed with red. His hair was plastered to his forehead by sweat.

At the sight of him, fear tightened its grip around Marie’s heart. Wanda’s letter fell to the floor as she wrapped her arms around her body and hoped that this sudden pain would not devour her. Smuggling peopl
e . . .

“
I . . .
wa
s . . .
looking for you,” she said, staring into Franco’s eyes, horrified, reading the guilt there.
We are murderers!
“I don’t understan
d . . .
Franc
o . . .
Who has died? And what do you have to do wit
h . . .
smuggling people? Franco!” She clung to his arm.
This can’t be true,
she thought in a panic.
It’s a nightmare, I’ll wake up soon
.

Franco looked down at the floor, his eyes wet with tears. He couldn’t bring himself to answer. Behind him, the shadowy shape of his father drew closer.

“Have you been spying on us?” the count asked, his voice deadly quiet.

Marie glanced from one man to the other.

“I demand to know what is going on here!” Her voice was so shrill that she feared it might have startled the child in her womb.

“There’s been an acciden
t . . .
but I’ll take care of i
t . . .
I’ll make everything all right again an
d . . .
” The words came out slurred, as though Franco had been drinking. “I ca
n . . .
explain everythin
g . . .
”

“You will explain nothing, not to her!” his father interrupted. Then he spoke to Marie. “What we were discussing has nothing to do with you. Aren’t you ashamed to be listening at keyholes like a tattletale? Is that how you do things in Germany? Go to your room this instant! Franco and I are not done here. And don’t you dare breathe a word about whatever you
imagine
you heard here.” He put his hand roughly on her shoulder and was about to shove her away when Marie broke loose.

“Don’t touch me!” she screamed. “If you think you can intimidate me, you’re wrong! I’ve done nothing wrong, unlike you people!” She looked her father-in-law in the eye and saw how startled he was—the old man hadn’t expected her to put up a fight. Disgusted, she looked away and turned to Franco. Why did he let his father treat her like this?

“So? How many more lies are you going to tell? Have you any more fine stories about your vineyards?” she asked coldly.

“Mari
e . . . I . . .
” he stammered.

Her heartbeat was hammering all the way down to her womb. She was so furious that she was nearly ready to hit him. To beat her fists against his chest. To do anything she could to shake him out of his numb and helpless state. But she had to think of the child. She tried to take a deep breath. Her throat hurt.

“If you do not tell me the truth this instant, I will go to the police. They, and the emigration authorities, will certainly be very interested in whatever I
imagined
I heard. Especially since I can tell them the name of the ship that you used t
o . . .
” She didn’t need to finish the sentence.

It was a long night. Franco bolted the door of their bedroom so that the count could not disturb them, and then he confessed everything. He stuttered and stammered over the first two sentences, and then the whole story came pouring out.

It had all started five years ago when one of their neighbors had come with an unusual request: his son was involved in illegal gambling and had caught the eye of the police, so he had to hide out somewhere. Could Signor de Lucca perhaps help by getting the boy out of the country? It would be a shame for his whole life to be destroyed by one stupid, youthful mistake. And of course he would pay for their help. Times were hard and the winemakers from Venice, Friuli, and Tuscany were snapping at their heels; the Italian restaurant owners in New York could pick and choose from plenty of suppliers. Why not boost their difficult export trade with a little extra source of income? Franco’s father agreed. The old count had told Franco that fate had smiled upon them, that it was a gift from Heaven.

And it went on from there. What had started as a one-time favor for a worried father developed into human trafficking on a grand scale. Young men who had run into trouble with the law, men who wanted to emigrate but had been refused an American visa because of their health—all of a sudden anyone could reach the promised land as part of the cargo of de Lucca wine. Of course it only worked if the customs men on either side of the Atlantic got their slice of the “fare.” A family had to pay four hundred dollars a head for such an illegal crossing—and the ones who stayed behind often had to spend years working off their debt to the count. Twenty percent of the sum went to the “harbor fees” in Genoa and New York. One of Franco’s tasks was to look for shipping clerks, customs officers, and longshoremen who could be relied upon to shut their eyes at the right moment—for a price.

But the crossing fees alone were not enough to wipe the slate clean for the stowaways. Once they got to New York, Franco made sure that they found jobs in Italian restaurants or building skyscrapers—for wages that no legal immigrant would ever accept, of course. Which was why ordinarily the de Luccas only took men no older than forty. Anybody older would hardly have survived the hardship of the crossing and the backbreaking labor that followed.

“We worked out our system down to the last detail,” Franco said, giving Marie a tired smile. Then he began to weep.

The fares for the crossing, the money he handed out at the docks, the cheap illegal labor—there was a code word for everything. Marie shuddered. She was leaning up against the headboard in bed with a blanket over her, but shivering all the same. She had no words of comfort to offer. Not to Franco, and not to herself. Franco dried his tears and went on.

There had been incidents and small problems of all kinds. Once a stowaway had almost died from a severe case of diarrhea. Another time a fight had started and one of the men had his arm broken. But in all these years, nobody’s life had ever truly been in danger—until the crossing of the
Firenze
. Nobody knew what had happened. Twelve bodies had been found when the cargo was unloaded. All the evidence seemed to point to suffocation.

Marie did not stop asking questions until she knew every detail. Who the dead men were. Whether Franco knew their families. Whether the authorities in New York knew about what had happened. What was going to happen to the bodies. Every answer simply increased her torment, and Marie hated Franco for what he told her.

In the end she had to face the truth: She had married a liar. A slaver. And a murderer.

If anybody had asked her what she felt at that moment, she would not have known what to say. There was a gaping hole where her heart had been. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing was important in this life, nothing was as it should be. Marie felt a creeping fear that she might be going mad. She felt afraid for her child as well, wondering whether the little one was holding its hands over its ears in the womb to try to block out the dreadful truth.

“And now?” Franco’s voice was tired. She looked up.

All her illusions had been shattered. She felt hatred, mixed with the painful knowledge that she had lost everything. She fought in vain against this certainty.
Why did you do this to me?
she shouted silently in her mind. Then she looked at Franco.

“Am I supposed to tell you what to do next?” She laughed bitterly. “All I know is that I was a stupid cow for believing anything you ever said about the honor of the de Luccas. About your traditions, about how much you love your wine. You were lying to me the whole time!” She buried her face in her hands. If only some magic would make everything right again! But when she looked up, Franco was still sitting there, silent, distraught. Suddenly she felt nothing but disgust for him.

“You must have been laughing up your sleeve when I gave you that book about vine selection! You and your father had a far easier way to make the money you wanted so much.”

“Marie, pleas
e . . .
”

“Oh, so suddenly the truth hurts?” It was only for the child’s sake that she didn’t fly at him with her fists. Instead she swung her legs over the side of the bed and put her feet in her slippers. Her gaze wandered around the room as though to get her bearings. Then she went to the wardrobe.

“What are you doing? Marie! What can I say? I’m so sorry, so dreadfully sorry! I didn’t want any of this to happen! You wouldn’t believe how much I was against the whole business! I tried a thousand times to show Father how wrong it was, believe me. But you know how stubborn he is. What choice did I have but to go along with it?”

His voice was tearful, which only made Marie angrier.
Now
he was upset? Of course he was! But what had he been doing all these months and years?

“So you were a coward, that’s your excuse? What do you want me to do, Franco?” Her hands trembled as she grabbed a pile of blouses from the drawer. She would not stay in this house a moment longer. Even if she had to run through the streets of Genoa on her own in the middle of the night! Her marriage, her child’s father, her love, her home, her workshop—she had lost them all. And Franco was a criminal.

“I know that you don’t believe me now, but here’s the truth,” came a quiet voice from over by the bed. “I was going to put a stop to it after this crossing. I swore that to myself on New Year’s Eve. I would give anything for this never to have happened.”

Franco got up and tried to put his arms around Marie from behind.

“Please, Marie, don’t go! Don’t do this to me. Everything will be all right again, I promise you. Think of our child. Think of the gallery we wanted to open. I’ll go to America and I’ll make sure tha
t . . .
”

She shook him off. Her suitcase was in storage somewhere, and she knew Franco would never send a servant to fetch it for her, so she stuffed some underwear into one of the linen bags that was used to take dirty washing down to the laundry. She added the blouses in, then two skirts.

“Marie, I’m begging you! If you go, I won’t survive that. Please, you can’t leave me now. I need yo
u . . .
”

She looked at him, her eyes blank.

And
I
won’t survive if I stay!
she might have told him. But instead she said, “You’ve ruined everything.”