The music coming from the pier was underscored by the moan of an occasional foghorn and the shimmy of the boats as they rubbed against the pilings. The weather-beaten pier creaked as she walked over it. The railing was crumbling, and planks were missing. Domenica could see through the holes as shallow seawater sloshed over the rocks underneath it. One sure sign of eventual war was obvious: Repairs on public property had ceased. Manpower was officially needed elsewhere; besides, there was no point in fixing the structures that might be destroyed. Better to let the weak fall and shore up where the infrastructure was strong.
Domenica joined the crowd that had gathered on the long pier to welcome the Arandora docked in the harbor. The great ship was so massive, she blocked the night sky with the curves of her hull. The shell of the Arandora was bright white; she was trimmed in lipstick red and navy blue. Two bright blue stars on her smokestacks marked the ship as one of the five most exclusive ocean liners to ever sail the seas. Domenica stepped back and went up on her toes to take in the grandeur. The polished brass bindings twinkled as they caught the light of the flames from the torches that lit the pier. The upper decks began to fill with passengers dressed in their finery as they formed an orderly line to disembark. The gangplank was lowered on clanking chains that hit the ground with a thud.
“Here they come!” a young French girl shouted. A woodwind quartet began to play an airy tune. The parade of stylish ladies floated down the gangway one by one wearing satin drop-waist dresses in ice cream colors with matching wide-brimmed hats embellished with mounds of tulle that resembled tufts of cotton candy.
A group of photographers from the French newspapers gathered around a particular young woman wearing a white lace chemise with flutter-cut sleeves. She must be a famous performer, Domenica thought as the flashbulbs popped, turning everything bright white. Domenica stood on her toes to catch a glimpse of the young woman as she sashayed past. Domenica was disappointed when it was revealed that she was not Janet Gaynor or Myrna Loy but just another pretty girl who had sailed around the world on a luxury yacht. There had not been a movie star or a Vanderbilt or a Russian ballerina from the Ballet Russe disembark the Arandora Star.
Domenica decided to walk the length of the pier before returning to Fatima House. A crowd had gathered outside a popular club where the band had moved outdoors to play. Soon the patrons spilled out onto the pier from inside and began to dance. Domenica was lost in the music when she felt hands clamp around her waist, only to be scooped up off her feet and lifted into the air. She ordered the stranger to place her safely back on the ground.
“Next time ask me before you throw me in the air,” Domenica snapped.
“Forgive me. I saw you moving to the music.”
The young man went off in search of a willing dance partner. It wasn’t like Domenica to chastise anyone caught up in the moment, especially when music was involved, but the last time Domenica’s feet had left the ground was at Carnevale, when she danced with Silvio.
When the girls asked her if she had been in love, Domenica had claimed she hadn’t been, but truthfully, she couldn’t be absolutely certain one way or the other. The only love she had known for another in that regard had not been impetuous or dramatic. There had been no falling off a mountain, no breathless moments in midair, because her first love began in friendship. She loved Silvio Birtolini first as a friend, with a love that was practical, sturdy, and, in her heart, everlasting. And even though he did not belong to her, she loved him anyway. Wasn’t that the nature of true love? To hope for his happiness more than your own? Or did that make her a sap, as the Americans called those who had no will of their own? He’s marrying someone else, Domenica, she reminded herself. He doesn’t belong to you. That settled that.
CHAPTER 17
The bucket that Sister Marie Honoré had placed under the leak in the roof over the corridor on the first floor of the hospital was about half full of rain. Domenica emptied it and returned it to the spot and waited until she heard the first ping of water through the hole in the roof.
Domenica placed the clipboard with her notes from the night rounds on a hook by the door before returning to her station in the lobby. The only sound was the ticking of the big clock on the wall. She slipped out of her shoes. It was 2:05 in the morning. Whenever she worked the overnight shift, Domenica managed to catch the clock as it read 2:05, the day and month of her mother’s birth. She yawned and thought about going down the hallway to the nurses’ station and making herself a cup of tea. One of the girls had made macarons. Instead she leaned back in the chair and stretched.