The American Lady (5 page)

“These are my treasures. Of course Steven would buy me jewels with precious stones anytime I asked, but I prefer this kind of costume jewelry. I think they’re so much more original than the same old string of pearls or diamond necklace.” She laughed. “You really ought to see my friends craning their necks and peering to see whether these are real insects or just jewelry.” She picked out a gleaming, dark-gray hornet and held it up. “Doesn’t it look like it is real? It’s by René Lalique. And this snake here, I find there’s something very erotic about it. It’s from a workshop tha
t . . .
”

Marie felt ever more uncomfortable as Ruth picked up one jewel after another and told her about each piece, prattling on about artists whose names Marie only knew from Sawatzky’s books. She had never realized until that moment that there were actual people who could afford such artworks—and that her own sister was one of them. Ruth suddenly seemed a stranger to her. And the apartment she was so proud of looked more like a museum than a family home—though of course she would never say as much to Ruth.

What would Georgie make of all this?
Marie wondered, and knew the answer right away: Georgie would most likely have gobbled down a whole tray of cookies by now, rather than nibbling daintily at one as Ruth was doing.

“Hallo, is there anybody there? Mother, Aunt Mari
e . . .
Are you home?” The voice came from the hallway.

The door to Ruth’s drawing room opened wide and a tall, slim young woman stood in the doorway, whose hai
r . . .
a grin flitted across Marie’s face.

“Wanda!” Ruth cried, putting her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. “For heaven’s sake, what have you done?”

All her poise and refinement were gone. She spoke—no, shrieked—in a hoarse voice.

Wanda raised her eyebrows and smiled at her mother.

“Do you mean my new hairstyle?” She pointed at her silver-blonde hair, which fell to just below her ears. “Didn’t it turn out well? So chic, and just in time for summer! You’ll all be hot and bothered while I’ll be able to enjoy the summer breezes!”

Only then did she seem to notice the guest. She turned to Marie.

“Aunt Marie, I’m so pleased to meet you,” she said with exaggerated good manners. She held out her hand awkwardly.

Marie put out her own hand in reply, calloused and tough from hours at the workbench, and grasped hold of Wanda’s. The girl’s skin was smooth and soft.

Their eyes met. Wanda’s eyes were blue and clear as water and they sparkled with amusement, as though she were laughing over some secret joke.

The little minx! Marie shook hands much harder than she usually did.

“Don’t worry; I only rarely bite.”

5

Why hadn’t he managed to get to the Casa Verde an hour earlier! Franco looked over irritably at the bar, where customers were already crowded three deep. As usual at this hour, the restaurant was packed to the rafters—the shifts had just changed at the nearby garment factories. Though all the tables were full, the stream of customers coming in the door never stopped. Italian tailors and factory hands, just off from their ten-hour shifts, the last three hours dreamt away in visions of a plate of steaming pasta and a glass of wine. And maybe a smile from Giuseppa, the owner’s daughter. Well, at least he had been given a table right away.

Franco leaned back, resigned. Given the crowd, it didn’t look as though Paolo would have any time for him in the next half hour.

There was loud talk and laughter from the next table, where a fresh batch of customers had taken their seats amid much shuffling of chairs. As Franco looked across, he realized that the diners were all restaurant owners from the neighborhood. And they were all customers of the de Lucca family company too. So this must be some sort of regular get-together. Meaning it wouldn’t be long before someone came to him with the next complaint—as if he hadn’t had enough of those already today. And he had at least another three restaurants to visit after this one!

Franco put a surly look on his face. Then, all of a sudden, a gust of garlic wafted up to his nose and a moment later, Giuseppa set a plate of pasta down in front of him. He wasn’t in the least bit hungry but dug his fork in all the same so that nobody would disturb him.

Giuseppa took several jugs of wine over to the next table, where they were greeted with whoops of glee.

Fine, then. As long as they were busy getting drunk, they would leave him in peace.

Franco put his fork down. He was tired. None of his previous visits to New York had been such hard work. But this time, wherever he went there was nothing but trouble, day in and day out. And everybody expected him to conjure up the answer to whatever problem they had.

It had started with the very first restaurant he had visited that morning; the owner, Silvester Forza, had refused to take on two of the five kitchen hands he’d been sent, claiming that they were too old. Franco had demanded that he call the men and see for himself that they were barely into their thirties. So what did Silvester want? Children? Franco had said sharply that his father would hardly be pleased to hear that Silvester was acting as coy as a virgin on her wedding night. Was there anyone else, Franco asked, who could get hold of cheaper labor for him? Of course not, Silvester was forced to reply.

The next piece of bad news had come not long afterward. Michele Garello, who owned five of the best restaurants around, reported angrily that three of the kitchen hands he’d taken on had run out on him after just a week. He gave an ultimatum; either he got another three men from the next shipment, he said, or he wanted his money back, adding, “You tell your father that if I have to, I’ll find my own workers over here. I may have to pay them a few more dollars in wages but it won’t bankrupt me.”

Damn it! He would never have said such a thing to the old count in person.

Franco’s next customers hadn’t been all smiles either. One of them had complained that he didn’t need to buy as much wine at one time since his clientele mostly drank beer anyway. Of course he was just angling for a discount, because as soon as Franco mentioned the possibility, the beer drinkers were no longer an issue. The next restaurateur was having trouble with his liquor license. Perhaps Franco could put in a good word for hi
m . . .
Franco waved the idea away. “Pay your taxes, and they’ll restore your license. Besides, what makes you think that I have any pull with City Hall in these matters? I’m a foreigner!” Just because he was a nobleman, these people believed that his word was law.

Franco was clutching the fork so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. Tomorrow he would have his weekly telephone call with his father. He already knew what he would hear:
Don’t let these people get away with anything! Show them that they mustn’t mess with the de Lucca
s
. . .
Disgusted, Franco pushed the plate away. As though playing the tough guy would fix every problem!

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like Mama’s spaghetti?” Giuseppa asked, sitting down in the chair across from him and frowning.

“Your mother is one of the best cooks in the whole city,” Franco said, eating a hearty forkful of pasta to show her he meant it. Giuseppa and her mother were not to blame for his troubles after all.

“I could bring you something els
e . . .
”

Why was she looking at him so fearfully? Had he ever done anything to her? Franco frowned and shook his head. “Please don’t bother.”

He had already visited half a dozen customers before Paolo. Everywhere he went, they had given him something to eat—the
padrones
probably thought they’d have an easier time making their case if they softened him up with a plate of tuna, a slice of pizza, or a dish of zabaglione.

Giuseppa stood up. “I’ll get going then. Papa wanted me to tell you that he’ll be with you in a few minutes. I could bring you a glass of wine in the meantime.”

“Thank you, no, I still have some.” He pointed to his half-full glass.

“Maybe he’s just fed up with drinking his own wine! You should offer the count
a glass of Chianti! I bet he wouldn’t say no to that!” one of the men at the next table called over to Giuseppa. Another man elbowed him in the ribs to keep quiet.

There was laughter around the table, but it had a nervous undertone.

Franco glared at the group and saw that the man who had spoken was Solverino Mauro. He was a customer too, but not a good one. Only two days earlier, Franco had needed to pay a call on Solverino with four of his bruisers to collect some money he still owed from the last wine shipment.

The other diners were all looking over at Franco now like animals that had caught wind of something interesting. Some looked nervous, others awestruck, a few of them skeptical—there was hardly anybody in the neighborhood who didn’t know him. Everybody wanted to know how the powerful Count de Lucca’s son would react to such a provocation.

Franco looked coolly at Solverino. “I wouldn’t talk so loud if I were you. Or have you forgotten our little conversation a couple of days ago?” Solverino had only agreed to pay once one of Franco’s men had started to get a little rough.

The man lifted his hands in apology and gave an embarrassed grin.

“Solverino doesn’t know the first thing about wine!” another man called over to Franco. “Or he’d know that the de Lucca Rossese di Dolceacqua
really lives up to its nam
e . . .
” He looked around to make sure that everyone was listening before unleashing his punch line. “It has no more flavor than the water it’s named after!”

The table erupted with raucous laughter.

“What’s going on? Haven’t you got anything better to do than bother my guests with your idle chatter?” Paolo interrupted. “Maybe I should come eat at your place and do the same.”

He heaved a sigh as he sat down in the chair his daughter had occupied a few moments earlier. “What a rabble! As soon as they’ve had a few drinks they start to behave like silly schoolboys. Is there anything worse than having your competitors in as customers?”

Silly schoolboys! Not at all. Franco gritted his teeth. “Let’s talk about your next order. I have other calls to make today.”

When Franco got back to his apartment that night, he felt as though he’d spent a week working in a Sicilian quarry. His back ached and the muscles in his cheeks were so tense he could not relax his face at all.

It was a warm night. Tired though he was, he didn’t feel the need to go to bed yet. Instead he lit a cigarette and went out onto the balcony. Although he was almost at the top of an eighteen-story block, with only one apartment above him, there was nothing special about the view; to the right was a strip of the harbor and to the left the back wall of a print works whose chimney belched out stinking smoke day and night. Franco supposed it had to belong to one of the daily papers, though not one of the important ones.

He stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette.

Back home in Genoa the crickets would have begun their nightly symphony at this hour, the chirring call carried along on warm winds from the sea that reached into every last corner of the palazzo. The green marble floor of the courtyard would be shining silver in the light of the sickle moon.

The cigarette smoke had turned stale. Franco tasted a flat, musty flavor on his tongue like that of a rotten lemon.

Nobody had ever criticized his family’s wine before, not on any of his previous trips to New York. He would never have believed that anyone would dare.

He tossed his cigarette from the balcony and watched it arc away into the darkness. Something had to be done. He could not allow centuries of tradition—or his family’s good name—to be harmed.

He could well imagine what his father would say in this situation:

You have to be tougher. You have to shut up loudmouths like that before they can even say
Mamma mia!
If all our ancestors had been good-natured chumps like my son is, our family would never have lasted four hundred years. Do you want to be the first Count de Lucca to drag our name through the mud?

And so on and so forth.

Franco laughed bitterly at the thought. His father would never consider the possibility that one way to secure the family’s good name might be to make good wine. No, the old count had his own methods. Franco hated to admit it but he had to concede that—in their own way—they worked. Liguria was not by nature a fine wine region like Lombardy, for instance, or the Veneto, but there wasn’t a family in Italy who exported more wine to America. This was because the count bought up all the grape juice he could find on the market—and he didn’t care about the quality as long as the price was right.

All of a sudden Franco could hear his grandmother Graziella’s voice in his ear.
“Wine only comes out right if the Lord God blesses it with just enough sun and rain.”
He smiled at the memory of the elegant old lady. She had always taken him along with her to the vineyards when he was a little boy. He had held her hand, and in the last years of her life, when she was no longer so steady on her feet, she had held his. She clasped hold of his arm with her right hand and held the walking stick in her left, its silvered handle shaped like a bunch of grapes.

His father may not have passed on a love of winemaking—but grandmother Graziella certainly had.

“Just enough sun and rain, and if the Lord God is feeling especially kind then he will bless you with a woman who knows the vines, whose love will make them grow stronger than any of your modern breeding techniques. A woman’s love can make even the tenderest green shoots flourish. Nothing is stronger than that, my child.”

A woman’s lov
e . . .

Franco felt a fist clench around his heart.

If you lost a woman’s love, then whatever life was within you died away.

And all at once he was far away, lost in the distant past.

It had been many years ago. Franco was in his early twenties and had just finished his degree in economics in Rome when she had crossed his path—quite literally. He was leaving the university administration offices where he had just completed the final formalities for his degree when he had bumped straight into Serena Val’Dobbio. She was one of the first women ever admitted to study in the university’s hallowed halls, and she was on her way to register for courses. After only a few minutes in Serena’s company, Franco was hopelessly smitten, and he knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. She seemed to like him too, and they met whenever her seminars would allow it. He told her of his plans to plant a new kind of grape in the vineyards when he was done with his studies, and about his attempts at hybridization. She listened closely and confessed that she knew nothing about wine but that she was in charge of the vegetable garden at home. She told him that the villagers said her tomatoes grew as well as they did because she always had a song on her lips when she worked in the garden. Franco’s heart leapt. He could see wonderful pictures in his mind’s eye, promises of happines
s . . .
himself and Serena, hand in hand among the vineyards.
“A woman’s love can make even the tenderest green shoots flourish.”

And then it was time for him to go back to Genoa. They swore a thousand oaths of loyalty as they parted, promising to meet again when Serena was on vacation from the university.

Their letters sped from Genoa to Rome and back. They numbered every letter they wrote, worried that the Italian postal service might lose one. By day Franco was the hard-driving businessman his father had always wanted, shelving his plans to plant new vines because there was a longshoremen’s strike to deal with, and in the evenings he sat in his room in his parents’ palazzo, writing poems to Serena. He wrote to her about love—all-consuming and painful—and of his plans to make their family land at Lucca into the best wine estate of all time, with her help.

But the count had not approved of his son’s infatuation with a complete stranger. A woman who was not of their class. The daughter of a master baker from Palermo. He had acted as he had seen fit.

And Franco had been young and obedien
t . . .

Try as he might to recall Serena’s face to his mind’s eye, it had faded. It no longer hurt to remember her.

No other woman had managed to conquer his heart since then. He had had affairs, but these were only to satisfy his physical needs.

Franco felt a flash of bitterness. Whatever had become of the young man who had tried to capture the moonlight over Genoa and put it down in words? The man who had spent hours poring over volumes of botany to find out how to cross the old-established vines with other varieties to bear more fruit, to add depth of flavor to the white Cinque Terre and Colli di Luni wines his family had made since time immemorial?