“She sent me to talk to you, so I’m sure she won’t mind. She’s a Catholic and told me that the priest would give me absolution.”
“I hope so. You have a serious condition and you must listen to the doctor.” Domenica made an appointment in the log.
“Signorina, you went to school with my husband, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Domenica forced a smile.
“What kind of a young man was my husband?”
“Guido was high-spirited,” Domenica said diplomatically. Guido Mironi had been held back twice. During school, he was either in trouble or in close vicinity of it. There had been the incident with the rock and many more like it. But it was not her place to tell Monica about him. She scribbled Silvio Birtolini in the margin of the report and closed her notebook. “Guido was full of pep.”
For Monica’s sake, Domenica hoped Mironi had changed. Monica’s parents, who came from another village, could not have known the truth when they agreed to a match. “What kind of man is he now?”
“Il Duce.”
Domenica laughed with her patient. “Oh no. I’m sorry to hear it.”
“He had to go to Lucca today, so I had the morning. I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to talk to me.”
“I’m sure he wants what is best for you. For your health.”
“I hope so.” Monica gathered up her children to go.
Domenica went to Pretucci’s desk and opened the drawer. She removed a pamphlet and gave it to Monica. “Here’s a pamphlet about birth control. Look it over before your appointment and you can discuss it with Dottore Pretucci.”
Domenica found herself watching the family walk to the end of the street until they turned the corner and were out of sight. A feeling of dread pressed on her heart. Domenica was grateful Pretucci was working in Pietrasanta and was not present to witness her emotions. She brushed her tears away quickly and went back to her paperwork.
* * *
Domenica pushed the gate of Boncourso’s garden open and picked up a burlap sack full of chestnuts, one of several stacked under the pergola. The garden had changed since Domenica was a girl. The trunks of the chestnut trees had grown so thick over time, Domenica could no longer wrap her arms around them.
In summer, the garden was a hodgepodge of beauty and sustenance; red beach roses and yellow sunflowers grew among neat rows of summer endive, scallions, tomatoes, arugula, and peppers. Vines thick with grapes created a canopy over the pergola that provided shade when the gardeners took their lunch. In winter, the same pergola became a spot to sort dry beans and take in the faraway sun through the open roof of bramble.
Domenica hurried home with the sack of chestnuts. A few fell out onto the cobblestone streets, hitting the stones with a clatter. She didn’t stop to pick them up. She could see the fractured beams of the stage lights pull on through the trees.
Domenica called for her mother and father once she was inside the house, then remembered they were already at Carnevale. She hiked up the stairs quickly, dropped the chestnuts in the kitchen before taking the steps up to her bedroom two at a time. She ran a hot bath. She brushed her teeth as the tub filled. Soon steam rose from the surface of the water, fogging the mirror. Domenica sprinkled lavender oil into the bath before she slipped off her work clothes and eased into the water.
Her body ached. Her shoulders and hands were sore from a long week at the clinic. Her legs were tired from assisting the midwife during a long labor. Slowly Domenica revived as she scrubbed down with goat-milk soap. She rinsed with cold water and stepped out of the tub. She wrapped a towel around herself and went into her bedroom, where her mother had laid out her dance costume on the bed. She began to hum as she dressed, and soon she was singing. She pulled on her stockings, slipped into her dance shoes, and skipped down the stairs.
The village was packed with tourists. The revelers came from up and down the Ligurian coast and from as far north as the Dolomites to be entertained by jugglers, magicians, and music acts. Vendors from Firenze and Milano peddled their silk, straw, and leather goods in stands along the canals. Each Sunday during the month of February, the boulevard was cleared for the parade that featured a flotilla of gigantic papier-maché puppets with the garish faces of politicians, movie stars, and saints. The exaggerated depictions of the famous and notorious, with their googly eyes and oversized red mouths with teeth shaped like enormous piano keys, wearing the candy-color harlequin and stripes of the stock players of la commedia dell’arte, loomed over the crowds like a squall of monsters from a bad dream.