Tuscan Rose (22 page)

Carlo and Rosa spoke for a while about the play and the music before he had to go back inside. Rosa switched Sibilla to her other breast and, when she was done, burped her and laid her back in her basket.

‘I brought you some water.’

Rosa saw Luciano looking down at her. She blushed. How did he know that breastfeeding left the mother thirsty? She accepted the glass from him and took small sips.

‘Do you like the play?’ he asked, sitting down next to her.

Rosa didn’t want to tell him that the themes were too close to her heart. ‘How does it end?’ she asked instead.

‘The poor rise up against their oppressors.’

Rosa remembered the servants at the Villa Scarfiotti. She saw them lined up on the steps awaiting the arrival of the Marchesa, who referred to them as ‘little people’. She thought of Maria, and the Porrettis.

‘Do you think that could happen in Italy?’ she asked Luciano. ‘Could the poor rise up against their oppressors?’

Luciano studied her. His leg was pressing against her own, but whether he noticed or not Rosa couldn’t tell. She felt the warmth of his skin through their clothes. ‘They did,’ he said. ‘And they were crushed. You would have been too young to remember.’

‘You mean the workers’ strikes after the war?’

Sibilla gurgled and Luciano tickled her chin. His gesture touched Rosa. She had thought he was too masculine to be affectionate towards a baby.

‘Piero fought in the Great War,’ Luciano said, staring at his feet. ‘The soldiers were promised a good life in return for their sacrifice—land, work, education for their children. Well, that didn’t happen.’

‘Did Piero receive that…I mean, was Piero injured in the war?’ Rosa asked.

Luciano shook his head. ‘By some miracle he came home unscathed. He lost his eye to the fascists. He took part in the strikes and had his head kicked in by a Blackshirt.’

Rosa shuddered. She had heard a little about the riots while she was at the convent, but only from the paying pupils whose fathers were rich factory owners and fascists themselves. In their recounts, it was always the workers who were to blame for the violence. Rosa realised that there was so much that she didn’t know. She glanced at Luciano. She couldn’t blame him for being bitter. She had suffered because of the fascists too.

‘It must have been terrible,’ she said.

Luciano nodded. ‘I was a youth. Piero told me to stay home and take care of my mother and younger siblings. But I wanted to see…Well, what did I see? Women beaten until their faces were pulp. A man tied to a truck and dragged along until his arms were torn off. All for asking for bread for their families and some dignity.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Rosa, covering her mouth in horror.

Luciano turned away and shrugged. ‘I hate what Italy has turned into now. Even the peasants and workers have been convinced to think that Mussolini is a hero. Well, he’s not. He’ll drag us all to our doom if he isn’t stopped.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Rosa asked.

Sibilla gurgled again. Rosa picked her up and cradled her in her arms. Luciano looked at Sibilla and fell silent. Rosa waited for him to say something further about Mussolini but he averted his gaze. Speaking ill of the dictator could lead to a lot of trouble. Perhaps he didn’t trust her.

‘What were you going to say?’ she prompted him.

Luciano shook his head. ‘Never mind,’ he said, standing up. ‘Play the piano, Rosa, and enjoy yourself with the troupe. Your baby needs you. The less you know what I think the better.’

Les Misérables
ran for four weeks at a run-down theatre on Via del Parlascio. The audience was not as abjectly poor as the characters but carried about them an air of fatalism that their lives would be hard work until the day they died. They were factory workers; coal sellers who didn’t wash before they came so that all that could be seen of them in the dark was their teeth; cobblers with blisters on their hands; blacksmiths; barbers; travelling salesmen. In the better seats at the front were those whose position in society placed them above the poor, but who knew that their situation could change with a bout of ill health or bad luck. They were the bakers and merchants, railway station masters and petty officials. On Friday nights, the estate managers and
fattori
came to see the performance after a long day of haggling with brokers and suppliers and visiting the prostitutes who waited for them in the Piazza della Signoria. Rosa wondered if she might see Signor Collodi in the audience, but she never did.

‘Four weeks is a good run in Florence,’ Orietta explained to Rosa. ‘But we need to take the show on tour if we are to save sufficient money for the quieter months. We try to perform in the towns before August, when the big theatres send their troupes on tour.’

Rosa was glad to get away from the chaotic Porretti household and her attic room, which was proving unbearably hot as July approached. The first destination was the spa town of Montecatini
Terme. To save on the cost of train fares, Luciano had arranged for the troupe to travel part of the way in two empty lorries heading towards Pistoia to pick up loads of charcoal. When Rosa saw the black dust that covered the insides of the lorries, she understood why Luciano had instructed everyone to wear dark clothes for the journey.

While they were waiting for the drivers to check over the lorries, Orietta rummaged in her bag and pulled out a package wrapped in brown paper.

‘I made it for Sibilla,’ she told Rosa.

Donatella and Carlo turned around, interested to see what was in the package. Benedetto and Piero were already asleep under the canopy they’d erected to provide shade while waiting. Luciano was talking with the drivers. He glanced over his shoulder then turned back to the conversation.

Rosa untied the string and opened the paper. Inside she found a cotton batiste baby dress and bonnet. The dress was decorated with pink embroidery and the bonnet was trimmed in dainty lace. Rosa was filled with gratitude.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I never expected such a lovely gift.’

Orietta squeezed Rosa’s arm. ‘Sibilla’s a beautiful baby, she needs a nice dress.’

If Rosa had been blessed with a sister, she would have wished for one like Orietta. She admired the seams. ‘The stitchwork is so fine,’ she said. ‘You’re very talented.’

‘I come from a family of tailors,’ Orietta replied. ‘It must be in my blood.’

Luciano shot a dark look at his sister. Carlo turned away. Orietta blushed and stopped herself from saying anything further. Rosa, sensing the tension, glanced at Donatella who shook her head. It was obviously better not to pursue that line of discussion.

Rosa carefully folded the dress and rewrapped it in the paper. ‘Sibilla can wear it tonight. For our opening,’ she said.

The trip to Montecatini Terme was Rosa’s first so far out of Florence and she enjoyed the view of the woodlands and
vineyards. A sense of adventure was stirring in her breast. ‘Enclosed’ had been the term used to describe life at the convent. Rosa realised that her life had been enclosed in more ways than one: the convent; the villa; and prison. Poverty was another kind of enclosure. Suddenly she felt the joy of freedom growing inside her. The troupe was a band of outsiders and Rosa was an outsider too. But she didn’t mind being one as long as she was with them. None of the troupe asked her prying questions about her heritage or Sibilla’s father. They didn’t seem to judge her. She’d given up the farce of wearing the curtain ring on her wedding finger. Rosa wondered about Luciano’s reaction to Orietta mentioning that their family had once been tailors. Perhaps they didn’t pry because the Montagnani family carried secrets of their own.

The drivers made a brief stop outside Prato.

Sibilla was hungry and Rosa sat by the roadside to feed her. When she’d finished, she felt sleepy. She rolled up her bag as a pillow and lay back. Between Sibilla’s feeds and working with the troupe, she’d learnt to snatch sleep whenever she could. She noticed that Orietta, Carlo and Luciano were talking with each other on the opposite side of the road. Donatella, with Dante under her arm, sidled up next to Rosa.

‘It’s a sore point with Luciano,’ she whispered.

‘What?’ Rosa asked.

‘Their father and how their family were once famous tailors.’

‘They were?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Donatella, nodding. ‘They were wealthy. Their clients included dukes and marcheses.’

Rosa looked at Donatella. ‘What happened?’

‘Their father gambled on a risky investment and lost it all.’

‘Oh,’ said Rosa. She’d always been poor but she could imagine it would be a shock to be born wealthy and then suddenly have nothing.

Donatella leaned forward. ‘Not only did their father lose everything but he ran away for the shame. Their mother was pregnant with Carlo and Orietta was only a baby. They were taken
in by their mother’s brother but after that their mother was bedridden. She died soon afterwards. Luciano won’t speak of his father. Piero told me that Luciano’s grief was so great that he often ran away, and Piero would find him in a field or piazza staring forlornly at the sky.’

‘How old was he when this happened?’ Rosa asked, surprised to find herself so curious. Why was it when someone mentioned Luciano’s name she wanted to know everything about him?

‘Luciano was ten. Piero was fourteen. They were only boys but they had to carry the family,’ Donatella said, before adding: ‘They still do.’

Rosa glanced in Luciano’s direction. The contradiction of his fine profile and elegant gestures against his poverty made sense now. He laughed and joked with the troupe, but Rosa noticed the faint worry lines that marked his forehead. It was always Luciano who was working out when and where the troupe would eat, sleep, and how to divide the earnings. Rosa imagined him as a ten-year-old boy trying to support his family and his ailing mother. The thought of it gave her a panicked feeling in her chest. No wonder he looks anxious so often, she thought.

Montecatini Terme was a picturesque town of tree-lined boulevards, and classical and Art Nouveau buildings. It had a belle-époque elegance about it. The shops were as fine as any found on Via Tornabuoni and the people promenading on the pavements were beautifully turned out in butterfly-sleeved dresses or drape-cut suits. They sported suntans, and their carefree languor reminded Rosa of the sculptured nymphs that decorated the town’s fountains. Because the troupe did not have the means to perform at the new Teatro Giardino Le Terme, Luciano obtained a permit to set up the troupe’s tent in the park that formed the centrepiece of the town.

When the tent was ready and chairs had been hired from a local café, Luciano, Piero, Carlo and Benedetto handed out bills for the evening’s performance to people strolling and picnicking in the park. Donatella took Dante for a walk, while Rosa and Orietta
prepared polenta with leeks and tomatoes. The men returned along with Donatella, who had purchased wafer biscuits made of almonds and sugar for dessert. They ate quickly before changing into their costumes and taking positions at the tent entrance to welcome the patrons. The audience consisted of spa attendants, masseurs and hotel waiters on their night off. Some tourists also came, but the serious theme of
Les Misérables
didn’t sit well with them, and most left after the first act.

‘Tomorrow night we’d better resort to our juggling and dog acts,’ said Luciano, eyeing the pile of poster bills that would now be wasted. ‘I guess that after a day of taking the waters, mudpacks and herbal massages the last thing they want is a dose of reality.’

‘Les Misérables
is far too serious for this crowd. Why don’t we pull out
Gabriella?’
suggested Benedetto. ‘It was a hit when I was performing with another troupe in Rome a few years ago.’

‘What’s
Gabriella
about?’ asked Rosa. If they changed plays she was going to have to come up with a different musical accompaniment.

Benedetto spread out his hands dramatically. ‘A husband goes to France to find work to support his family. He leaves behind his beautiful wife, Gabriella, and two young daughters. Although he sends them money faithfully, Gabriella takes a lover. When she learns her husband is returning, she kills her two daughters and runs away with her lover.’

‘It’s too gruesome for this town,’ objected Donatella. ‘The woman chops her daughters into pieces.’

Despite the heat, Rosa shivered.

‘Rosa, are you all right?’ asked Orietta, looking concerned.

Rosa knew that Benedetto was only fooling around, telling his bloodthirsty story for entertainment. But the idea disturbed her. ‘A mother would never do that,’ she said, tears burning her eyes. ‘A mother would never kill her children.’

Benedetto raised his eyebrows. ‘Italy has one of the highest infanticide rates in the world! Women kill their babies all the time—or abandon them at orphanages.’

Anger raged inside Rosa, but it wasn’t directed at Benedetto. What he’d said was true: it was one of the reasons for the existence of OMNI. She couldn’t understand herself why she was having such a fierce reaction. The image of Maria bleeding to death loomed up before her.

‘Only when they are so desperate there is no alternative,’ she said. ‘Only when the life of the child will be so miserable that the mother feels she has no choice.’

Benedetto was about to say something else when Orietta tweaked his arm and he thought better of it.

Orietta looked at Rosa. ‘It’s all right. You are a beautiful mother, Rosa. That’s why you can’t believe anyone could murder their own child.’

Despite her effort to control herself, Rosa burst into tears.

‘It’s a stupid idea,’ said Luciano, flashing an annoyed look at Benedetto. ‘If the audience can’t appreciate
Les Misérables
on their holidays, I can’t see them flocking to see a bloodthirsty play.’

‘It has a good ending,’ insisted Benedetto. ‘The husband returns and takes revenge on his wife and her lover. He cuts them up into pieces and then throws them in the toilet.’

‘Perfetto!’
groaned Luciano, shaking his head.

Rosa couldn’t bear it any longer. She picked up Sibilla and rushed out of the tent. She found a seat under a tree and threw herself down on it, heaving with grief. Had her mother not wanted her? Was that why she had been left at the convent?