The Glass Butterfly (31 page)
But the words she spoke were just the ones Doria wanted to hear.
“Doria, good,” she said. Her voice was not the crow's caw, but a hoarse whisper that was almost inaudible. “You're back. Come in.” She turned, and waved her hand at a cluttered dressing table. “Put it there, and sit down.”
Doria's knees felt weak as water, and though she meant to demurâshe knew very well the housemaid did not sit down to have tea with the mistressâshe thought if she did not set the tray down quickly, she would drop it. With her elbow, she moved the clutter of perfume and lotion bottles aside enough to make room. She could see the
signora
truly had need of her. The bedroom was a mess, bed unmade, curtains wrinkled and dusty, everything in need of a good scrub. The room smelled sour, as if something had been spilled and not cleaned up. The new broom, it seemed, had not yet reached Elvira's bedroom.
signora
truly had need of her. The bedroom was a mess, bed unmade, curtains wrinkled and dusty, everything in need of a good scrub. The room smelled sour, as if something had been spilled and not cleaned up. The new broom, it seemed, had not yet reached Elvira's bedroom.
With the tray safely settled, she turned, linking her trembling hands in front of her.
“Buon giorno, signora,”
she said carefully. “I was very glad to get your note.” She had decided, as she scurried toward the villa, that she would not expect an apology. Surely Elvira was humiliated enough, especially if the
signore
had ordered her to take Doria back.
“Buon giorno, signora,”
she said carefully. “I was very glad to get your note.” She had decided, as she scurried toward the villa, that she would not expect an apology. Surely Elvira was humiliated enough, especially if the
signore
had ordered her to take Doria back.
Elvira sank onto the chaise longue. Her corset shifted when she did, and Doria was sure it was fastened wrong. “Sit, sit,” Elvira said, pointing at the stool before the dressing table. Her hand shook, and there was a tremor in her head Doria had never seen before.
Doria said gently, “Oh, no, signora, but thank you. I've brought you some teaâand your package from the chemist's.”
“I want you to have tea with me,” Elvira said. “And I will tell you what Giacomo has written from Roma.”
Doria bit her lip in an agony of confusion. A housemaid did not sit down with her mistress. But Elvira looked so ill! And Puccini would want Doria, his own nurse, to look after his wife, wouldn't he?
Again, Elvira pointed a wavering finger at the dressing table stool with its lacy flounce and padded seat. Her lips parted, and Doria saw with a shudder that they were wet, that her teeth were not clean. “Signora,” she faltered. “Thereâthere is only one teacup. I didn't thinkâ”
Elvira forced her lips into a parody of a smile. “Go get another,” she said. Her gaze skittered away from Doria, around the untidy room, but it seemed to Doria she saw nothing. She had a letter in her hand, a much-creased envelope with a sheet of paper half out. Doria wanted to take it from her, to see if it had the crest of the Hotel Quirinale at the top. Perhaps it was this very letter that had forced Elvira to send for her!
She backed toward the door. Elvira half rose from the chaise, but Doria waved a hand to stop her. “Please, just sit, signora. I'll be right back.” She dashed down to the kitchen for another cup and saucer. She and Zita didn't speak, though Zita raised questioning eyebrows. Doria shrugged, rolled her eyes, and hastened up the stairs once again.
She knocked on the half-open door, and went in. Elvira was on the chaise, her arms folded tightly around her, as if she were cold. She was staring at the dressing table, her lips working as if she were talking to herself. Or praying.
Doria said, “Signora?”
Elvira started. “Oh! Doria!” She stared at her for a moment, her eyes wild. “Tea, good. Yes, tea. Iâ” She pointed a ragged fingernail at the dressing table. “You see, I've already poured you a cup. Give me that one, and I'llâ” She struggled to rise, unfolding her arms and pushing herself up from the chaise. “I'll pour for myself,” she said, crossing the room on unsteady feet. She took the fresh teacup, and placed the other one, half full, into Doria's hands.
Doria wanted to protest, to tell the
signora
to let her do the serving, but a tingle had begun in her toes, a prickling that spread up her ankles and calves. Her
fé
.
signora
to let her do the serving, but a tingle had begun in her toes, a prickling that spread up her ankles and calves. Her
fé
.
She held the half-full teacup, bemused by the sensation in her legs. Elvira poured tea for herself and carried it back to the chaise. Elvira lifted the teacup to her lips, then produced another ghastly smile. Her eyes had gone flat, like those of one of the water snakes that squirmed among the marsh grasses at the edge of the lake. They made Doria shiver. “Drink your tea,” Elvira insisted, her voice rasping as if she were the heavy smoker and not her husband. “Do sit down, Doria, and drink your tea.”
Still Doria hesitated, caught between the creeping sensation of her
fé
and Elvira's strange behavior. Elvira snapped, “Oh, do as you're told, girl!” For that moment, she sounded like herself, but she caught a noisy breath, as if she hadn't meant to speak that way, and she held up the envelope. “From Giacomo. Drink your tea, now, and I'll read it to you.”
fé
and Elvira's strange behavior. Elvira snapped, “Oh, do as you're told, girl!” For that moment, she sounded like herself, but she caught a noisy breath, as if she hadn't meant to speak that way, and she held up the envelope. “From Giacomo. Drink your tea, now, and I'll read it to you.”
At last Doria sat down, crossing her tingling ankles beneath the lacy stool. There was no time to think about what her
fé
was trying to tell her. Elvira pulled the letter from the envelope, but her eyes never left Doria until, obediently, Doria drank the tea.
fé
was trying to tell her. Elvira pulled the letter from the envelope, but her eyes never left Doria until, obediently, Doria drank the tea.
She didn't drink much. It tasted awful, though she had made it herself, and she wondered if it was too old, or if there had been mold on the leaves. She hadn't noticed any, and surely Zita would not have moldy tea in her kitchen. Elvira sipped her own tea, and seemed not to notice anything amiss.
But then, Elvira Puccini had gone mad. Zita was right. The only thing to do now, Doria thought, was to humor her. And to get the
signore
home to see that she had proper care.
signore
home to see that she had proper care.
“Drink, drink!” Elvira said, and drained her own cup as if to demonstrate.
“I would like to hear the letter,” Doria demurred. She pretended to take another sip, but even where the liquid touched her lips there was a nasty sensation. She put the cup back on the tray, and folded her hands in her lap.
“Oh, the letter, the letter,” Elvira said irritably. “It's just the usual, but I'll read it to you.”
To Doria's great disappointment the letter was, indeed, just the usual. The maestro wrote about struggling with
Fanciulla,
about the terribly wet, cold weather in Rome, about some people he and the
signora
both knew, whom Doria had never heard of. She listened closely through to the end. The letter wasn't long. There was no mention, as she had so hoped, of herself.
Fanciulla,
about the terribly wet, cold weather in Rome, about some people he and the
signora
both knew, whom Doria had never heard of. She listened closely through to the end. The letter wasn't long. There was no mention, as she had so hoped, of herself.
So why had Elvira asked her to come? Surely not just to bring something from the chemist's! Doria looked around for the bottle of disinfectant, but she didn't see it. Elvira must have put it somewhere while she was in the kitchen.
While the
signora
was folding the letter back into its envelope, Doria rose. She gathered the teacupsâher own still a quarter fullâand lifted the tray to take it back downstairs. She waited a moment, hopeful Elvira would speak to her about her job. Elvira, however, seemed to have forgotten her. She gazed down at the envelope in her lap, smoothing it over and over with her fingers, her lips working again as if she were reciting what she had just read. Doria went to the door, and opened it with her elbow while she balanced the tray with both hands.
signora
was folding the letter back into its envelope, Doria rose. She gathered the teacupsâher own still a quarter fullâand lifted the tray to take it back downstairs. She waited a moment, hopeful Elvira would speak to her about her job. Elvira, however, seemed to have forgotten her. She gazed down at the envelope in her lap, smoothing it over and over with her fingers, her lips working again as if she were reciting what she had just read. Doria went to the door, and opened it with her elbow while she balanced the tray with both hands.
She paused in the open doorway. “Signora?” Elvira didn't look up. “Signora!”
Finally, Elvira lifted her head, and fixed Doria with a vacant expression. “What is it?”
“You asked me to come here today, signora,” Doria said. As an afterthought, hoping it would help, she curtsied. “I thought perhaps you were going to give me my job back.”
Elvira's eyes sharpened, focused, glared. “Your job back!” she said in a grating voice.
“Sì, signora,”
Doria said. A sudden pain of nerves shot through her stomach, but she held her ground. “I want to come back, and I can see you need me.” She nodded at the turmoil of the bedroom.
Doria said. A sudden pain of nerves shot through her stomach, but she held her ground. “I want to come back, and I can see you need me.” She nodded at the turmoil of the bedroom.
“I don't need you,” Elvira said, her voice rising, the black crow squawking. “A little whore like you? You're never coming back here! Never! Do you hear me?”
Doria's stomach clenched, and she thought she might be sick, right there in Elvira's bedroom, right on her beautiful Turkish carpet. She clutched the tray against her, the cups and teapot clattering together, the tea she had not finished slopping over the surface. “Why did you ask me, then?” she demanded. “Did you send for me only to insult me one more time?”
“Esatto!”
Elvira cried, leaping up with sudden energy. She threw up her arms, and her shawl flapped around her like great black wings. Crow's wings. “One more time! One
last
time!” she shrieked. “Go home now, go back to your ignorant mother and your filthy hut! You will never bother me again!”
Elvira cried, leaping up with sudden energy. She threw up her arms, and her shawl flapped around her like great black wings. Crow's wings. “One more time! One
last
time!” she shrieked. “Go home now, go back to your ignorant mother and your filthy hut! You will never bother me again!”
Doria didn't move for one long, frozen moment. Then, with a deliberate gesture, she turned the tea tray over in her hands. The teapot, the painted cups and saucers, the creamer and the bowl of sugar fell to the floor with a gratifying crash. Porcelain, pottery, and glass shattered. Sugar flew everywhere, and the teapot burst into pieces as if it had been struck with a hammer.
“You,” Doria Manfredi said to Elvira Puccini in a loud, clear voice, “are truly the
strega
they say you are. I pity the
signore
that he has to suffer you. Thanks be to God
I
will never lay eyes on you again!”
strega
they say you are. I pity the
signore
that he has to suffer you. Thanks be to God
I
will never lay eyes on you again!”
Leaving the mess where it was, white cream blurring the red and green and purple design of the carpet, she spun about, and ran down the stairs to strip off Zita's apron, seize her coat and hat, and dash out into the rain.
Â
Her fury and resentment turned to pain with shocking swiftness. She stumbled as she navigated the muddy lane toward her home. She passed several people, but she didn't speak to them, didn't look at them. She knew they were staring at her, but she didn't care. She only wanted to reach the sanctuary of her own house. It seemed to take hours to get there, though it could only have been minutes. By the time she finally staggered over the sill into her mother's kitchen, her stomach felt like it was on fire.
Emilia met her at the door. “What happened? What did she say?” But Doria could only shake her head. She half fell into the house, still in her coat and hat, clutching her middle with her arms. “What is it?” her mother said, her voice shrill with anxiety. “What's wrong with you?”
“I don't know,” Doria groaned. “My stomach hurts so much, Mamma! It's awful!”
“But, Doria, you were fine when you leftâwhat happened? Did you eat something?”
Doria shook her head, and collapsed onto a kitchen chair. A cramp seized her, and she gasped. Another followed, the pains so close in succession she could hardly draw a breath between them. Emilia said, “Tell me what happened!” but Doria couldn't speak.
There was agony in her belly now, coming on so fast and so fiercely that it was beyond anything she had ever felt in her life. She pulled up her knees, groaning, twisting to find a position that didn't hurt.
“The doctor! I'll fetch the doctor!” her mother cried. In moments she was gone, hurrying down the lane with only a ragged umbrella to protect her from the rain.
Doria hardly knew she had gone. She gasped and shuddered under the onslaught of pain, a pain that writhed in her belly like a live thing, a live beast with teeth and claws. She fought it for a time, there on the chair, and then found herself on the floor, curled into a ball, without remembering how she had gotten there. She thought she cried out, but she wasn't sure. In the midst of one particularly brutal spasm, the light faded around her, and for a time she knew nothing.
She woke again to a steady torment, and to the sounds of voices coming through the front door. Her mother. The doctor. She wanted to call to them, to beg for help, but all that came from her mouth was an agonizing grunt as her belly contracted, the live pain gripping her with devilish strength. She could barely see Dr. Giacchi as he bent over her, or feel the pressure of his hands and her mother's pulling her up, cradling her between them, maneuvering her into the bedroom. She knew what the doctor was spooning into her mouth, though, and she swallowed it greedily. The laudanum burned down her throat, but the sensation was nothing compared to the agony of her stomach, the bite of a flea contrasted with the bite of a tiger. Dr. Giacchi's medicine reached down into her belly to soothe the beast there, to ease the cramping at least a little. She gave a sob of relief and slipped into unconsciousness.
Â
Doria woke in darkness, roused by her own groans. The pain had returned with more strength than it had before, intensified by the respite she had gained. Her mother appeared at her side, to bathe her forehead with vinegar water and chafe her wrists, to weep over her daughter's agony. Dr. Giacchi had left a dose of laudanum, and Emilia administered it, but this time it seemed to do little to help.
Emilia said, over and over, “Doria, what happened? In the name of God, what happened?” but Doria, writhing in misery, couldn't tell her. She could barely remember, in truth. The all-consuming pain drove everything from her mind.
It went on and on, until the sun rose behind the thick rain clouds. Emilia kept the curtain drawn, but rain-tinged light illumined the bed on which Doria suffered, twisting and turning in search of surcease. Vaguely, she was aware of her brothers staring at her through the doorway, though Emilia wouldn't let them come in. The doctor returned, and gave her a larger dose of laudanum, which helped a little. Zita came, and sat beside her bed for a long time, stroking her forehead, rubbing her back between spasms of pain.
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