“We can’t wait to see you dance,” Agnese said.
“Come see the Bergamasca after I’ve warmed up. Hopefully Mauro Cincotto still has the strength to lift me.” Domenica fluffed her skirts. “Don’t want to waste all your hard work on this costume, Mama. Ciao.”
Domenica loosened her braid as she walked through the crowd back to the stage. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in waves. She had thought about bobbing her hair, as was the fashion, but hadn’t gotten around to it.
“This is how I remember you,” a voice said from behind her.
Carnevale was a magnet for riffraff, parlor snakes, and worse. Domenica quickened her pace to lose the man in the crowd, but he circled in front of her wearing a mask.
He was tall and slim with a head full of black curls. He loosened the ribbons, removed his mask, and revealed his face. “Do you remember me?”
Domenica may not have recognized his nose, his regal forehead, and the planes of his face, but it was his smile that she would know anywhere. “Silvio Birtolini!” She threw her arms around him.
“I didn’t think you’d know me.”
“What happened to you? I was the tall one. By about a foot.”
“You’re not much taller now than you were when I left the village.”
“When you left, I stopped growing,” she joked.
“It was a devastation to lose me, wasn’t it?”
“You’ll never know.”
They laughed.
“Nineteen years. Can you believe it?” Silvio sighed. “I thought for sure you had forgotten me.”
“I would never forget my best friend.”
The cherub face of Silvio’s youth was gone. No longer did he have the round features of the carved putti that decorated the altar of San Paolino; instead, he had the height and athletic build of the statue of Saint Michael, who could hardly be contained in the arch of his shrine. Every girl who ever prayed at San Paolino was in love with Saint Michael, and now Silvio Birtolini had become him. Silvio’s face was angular, his nose strong; the only remnant of the little boy she knew was his eyes. They were the same soft dark brown velvet color, with the same tinge of sadness. Domenica was certain only she could see what his eyes revealed because she knew the source of his pain. “How did you find me?”
“I was looking all over for you.”
“You know where I live.”
“Is there still an orange door?”
“You remember! Papa painted it for Carnevale. Freshened up the whole place.”
“Are there still chestnuts in the garden?”
“There was a big harvest this year.”
“That was going to be my next stop.”
“You only want to see the things that haven’t changed.”
“But everything has. You and I and the stable behind the church. They’ve made our home into a garage for automobiles. Not a horse to be found.”
“They sent the horses to live up on the mountain. At least that’s the word in the village.”
“When we were children, most families had a horse and no one had a motorcar. Automobiles were too expensive. And rare. Soon every family will have a motorcar and no one will be able to afford a horse,” Silvio said.
“You sound like Papa. How long are you here?”
“Just tonight.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Before I leave town, I’d like to meet your husband.”
“So would my mother.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not married.”
“Signora Zanella said you—”
“You don’t know? Signora Zanella, poor thing. She makes up stories. She believes she’s a countess that owns the Banca d’Italia.”
“She doesn’t?”
“She doesn’t even have an account.”
“You’re not married?” Silvio took a step back and looked at her.
“I have a profession. I’m a nurse. I work for Dottore Pretucci.”
“Is he still alive?”
“He was close to our age when he sewed you up. He helped me become a nurse.”
“But that doesn’t explain why you’re not married. Are you a nun?”
“Does this look like a habit?”
“You could be a Sister of the Tarantella.”
Domenica laughed. “How about you? Are you married?”
“Betrothed.”
Domenica looked around the pier, happy to have something to do to hide her disappointment. “Where is she? I’d like to meet her.”