“I have a good dress.”
“And I only have one daughter. And she is going to be dressed better than Principessa Borghese on the finale of Carnevale. You need to stand out in the crowd.”
“Whatever makes you happy, Mama.”
“I’m looking for your future happiness. Believe me. You won’t get a husband wearing the old linen.”
CHAPTER 14
The last night of Carnevale was a fashion show; ladies wore their best dresses on the promenade while the men turned out in ties and vests. The sideshows of singers, musical combos, jugglers, and gymnasts provided spectacle while the food tents provided the final bites of sustenance. The lines at the food tents doubled as the clock ticked toward midnight and the start of Lent. The prices dropped on souvenirs and leather goods as the night wore on. The vendors cleared the last items of their inventory before packing up to return to their cities to the north.
The weather was cool and clear. The full moon was a pearl button in the blue velvet sky. The round firepits on the beach blazed in the dark, as the revelers fed the flames with the last of the pine logs. The air was sweet with anisette, cocoa, and earthy tobacco. The boardwalk was so crowded that by the time Domenica ate a sausage-and-pepper sandwich and threaded through the throng down the pier to the gelato stand, she was hungry again. The lights blurred in streaks of pink as the carousel spun to the organ music.
Gilda Griffo, the village chanteuse, was now close to seventy years old. She had sung at most weddings and ribbon cuttings since the Great War. She typically gave an a capella concert on the last night of Carnevale. Since the stage at the end of the pier was occupied, Griffo was sent to sing aloft on the wine barrels, filled with sand, that anchored the boardwalk and kept seawater from spilling onto the street during high tide. The previous evening, the same barrel perch had featured a magician who enjoyed quite a turnout.
Griffo remained in fine voice, but her contralto was hard to hear over the buzz of the crowd, the carousel music, and the churning of the gelato contraption, which was louder than a cement mixer. Domenica pushed through the crowd to listen to Griffo’s program. She felt bad for the singer as the barge loaded with fireworks rubbed against the pilings and squeaked loudly as it was guided slowly out to sea during her aria.
Soon the sky would be filled with sparklets of candy colors and scribbled with smoke. Griffo concluded her program and bowed. Domenica applauded the singer along with a small coterie of her local fans. Griffo sang in a style that few appreciated. She was a classical singer—her presentation was like calligraphy in the air, her phrasing full of curlicues. The young Italians preferred effortless American swing and jazz. Gilda Griffo was out of style. She bowed, jumped off the barrel, and landed on the dune. She shook the sand off the hem of her skirt.
“You’re in fine voice, Signora,” Domenica complimented her.
“Who can sing on a wine barrel? I need a proper amphitheater, but it’s booked. They’re playing frog hop on the stage. Carnevale has gone to the weeds. The old days were better. There was respect for craft.” Griffo walked off.
Monica Mironi waved at Domenica from the middle distance. She carried her infant in a basket and the one-year-old on her hip. Her oldest son walked ahead of them.
“La bella famiglia!” Domenica greeted the Mironi children.
“They should be home asleep, but Leonardo didn’t want to miss the fireworks.”
“Tonight will be the twenty-ninth finale of fireworks I’ve attended.” Domenica knelt and spoke to the little boy: “I understand why you don’t want to miss them.”
“What a beautiful dress!” Monica took in Domenica’s drop-waist dress with a ruffle on the hem. “Emerald green is my favorite color.”
“How have you been?” Domenica asked.
“I will come and see you again.”
“You have an appointment, remember?”
Domenica watched Monica walk to the carousel with her children. She needed help, but where was her husband? There were some men in the village who provided for their families but spent little time with their children. She was grateful her father had not been one of them.
Domenica walked along the pier. The merchandise that was exotic and new at the start of the festival had now been picked over. She heard the gelato maker shout that he was almost out of sugar. The bomboloni stand had enough dough for a final batch, and there wouldn’t be more until the next festival. It seemed the tourists had left and taken the best food and fun with them.
“Cabrelli. I need to talk to you,” Guido Mironi yelled as he jumped onto the boardwalk and cut her off. He was soon joined by a few faces she recognized. They were men who worked with Mironi at the marble mine. They had been drinking. They had loosened their ties and unbuttoned their vests. Domenica kept walking.