The captain finished the last cigarette he had rolled that afternoon.
It was two o’clock in the morning. He stacked Domenica’s letters in the order they were written on one side of the desk and cleared the other side. He retrieved his stationery, envelopes, and pen from the drawer.
He rubbed his eyes. He did not pick up the pen for a long time, but when he did, he did not stop writing until he finished a letter to Domenica Cabrelli. He doubted his words would matter, but that did not prevent him from writing them.
3 April 1940
Dear Domenica,
I have read the letters you sent. Thirteen in all. My mother had hidden them away, for reasons I do not understand. I cannot blame her entirely, however, for the distance between us. Letters or no letters, I should have returned to Marseille to see you and talk this through. The time wasted is my fault.
I have come to realize that the only time in my life that I found any happiness whatsoever was in your company. If this seems strange, imagine a man who preferred a life on the sea, who returned home to his mother’s house only when furloughed. I would drop my kit and pass the hours at the local bar until I could return to the ship. Home does not fill me with pleasant memories as Viareggio does for you. But I believe this is the only difference between us. We are simpatico, as your people say.
You see, before sleep, I picture the night we met. I sit in the chapel at Saint Joseph’s with you. I remember every word you said to me. There was a scent of incense in the air, and I was transported to an exotic port where only the two of us existed. My hands were burning that night, and I did not feel the pain because I was interested in your thoughts about every subject in the world. We talked, and yet there was not enough time to properly discuss anything with the intensity I craved. Our conversation helped me sort things, and I was grateful to you for having taken the time with me. For the months that followed, I found peace when I went back to that conversation. I thought of it before I would go off to sleep, and the memory of it cleared my conscience. I had not experienced that serenity since I was a young boy.
You have choices in your life. Many suitors, I am sure. You deserve their best intentions for you, naturally. I would be the last candidate for your affections in that stellar lineup of men, I know. But I doubt wholeheartedly that any man could possibly ever love you as much as I love you. In my imperfect way, I understand you. And I pray that in your imperfect way, you might love me too.
John
* * *
“Here’s another one of those blue envelopes from your captain.” Sister Matelda joined Domenica in the garden. She handed her an envelope. “One a day. Two weeks of letters. The man must have an almighty cramp in his hand.” Sister Matelda rubbed her hands together. “You’ll either marry him or kill him the way this is going.”
“Sister, what would you do?”
“With a man?” Sister Matelda was around Domenica’s age. When a young woman neared thirty, she was in the waning months of her marriageability, though this did not seem to be an issue with Domenica. “I chose a different path, or rather, it chose me. So I am not one to give romantic advice.”
“If you loved a man, and he had brought you nothing but aggravation, would you go back to him?”
“If we’re talking about George Garrity of County Cork, I had to leave him behind when I took my novitiate. I left him a bereft man in Macroom. I was told he was useless like a chair with no legs after I broke his heart. But somehow and eventually, he found his footing. He married soon after I took my final vows five years later. A lovely girl. Mary Rose McMasters of Killarney. She had red hair like a sunset, I was told. They have six children now. Love finds its way; it clears all obstacles.”
“You don’t regret becoming a nun.”
“There are days. I left my father’s home in hopes of an adventure. There was none of that in Macroom. But as God would will it, I’ve had adventure here. I love to teach, and I have my calligraphy. I have my interests. The love of God makes me question my life, and that same love gives me the answers when I need them too.”
“I want peace.” Domenica stood and went to the window.
“Have you thought any more about becoming a novitiate?”
“When this is all over, and it will be, I want to go home. I’m an Italian and I belong there. I miss Viareggio and my family and my work in the clinic. If I were to become a nun, I would have to give that up. And I’m afraid I’m not selfless enough to do that.”
Sister Matelda nodded. She understood. “Some of us can make our way in the world anywhere we happen to be. You have a place that you long for—that’s not a selfish thing at all. It just means you know where you are best loved and the most useful.”