This morning had marked the first time Emilio Sandoz had ever rung Gina Giuliani up, but her pleasure was quickly dampened by his tone when he asked if he might cancel their usual Friday visit. She agreed, naturally, and asked him if anything was wrong. Before he could answer, she made sense of the unusual roughness in his voice and asked, a little anxiously, if he were sick. There was a stony silence and then she heard his cool comment, "I hope not."
"I’m sorry," she said, a little huffily. "You’re right, of course. I should have realized it wasn’t good judgment to bring Celestina."
"Perhaps we have both made an error in judgment, signora," he said, the chill becoming glacial.
Offended, she snapped, "I didn’t realize she was coming down with anything. It’s not a very bad cold. She was over it in a few days. I’m sure you’ll survive."
When he spoke again, she could tell something was working on him but couldn’t imagine what it was.
"Mi scuzi, signora. There has been a misunderstanding. The fault is not in any way yours or your daughter’s." The Viceroy, she thought irritably, and wished he’d allowed a visual for the call—not that his face gave much away when he was like this. "If you will be so kind, I find that for now it is not… convenient that you should come." He paused, groping, which surprised her. His Italian was ordinarily excellent. " ’Convenient’ is not the correct word. Mi scuzi. I have no wish to offend you, signora."
Confused and disappointed, she assured him that no offense had been taken, which was a lie but one that she was determined to make true. So she told him that a change of scene would do him a world of good and prescribed an evening in Naples, which would be crowded and merry with shoppers. She was sure he’d be over the cold by mid-December. "No one does Christmas like the Neapolitans," she declared. "You have to see it—"
"No," he said. "This is impossible."
It was difficult not to be insulted, but she’d begun to know him and correctly interpreted his rigidity as fear. "Don’t worry! We’ll go at night! No one will recognize you—wear gloves and a hat and dark glasses," she suggested, laughing. "My father-in-law always sends guards with me and Celestina anyway. We’ll be perfectly safe!"
When this failed to move him, she took a step back and assured him, with a generous measure of irony, that she had no designs on his virtue and promised that Celestina would be their chaperone. This backfired rather decisively. There was another round of stiff apologies. She was astounded, when the call was over, by how very much she wanted to cry.
The flowers arrived that afternoon.
A week later, Gina pitched them onto a compost pile with a resolute lack of sentimentality. She did keep the card. There was no signature on it, of course—only a note in a shopgirl’s handwriting: "I need some time." Which, she supposed, was the exact if unenlightening truth. So, for Christmas, Gina Giuliani gave Emilio Sandoz time.
ADVENT THAT YEAR WAS DIFFICULT. GINA SPENT IT WITH FAMILY AND old friends, trying not to think of where Carlo was, or with whom, or of what the flowers from Emilio might have meant. Gina Giuliani was not good at not thinking about things. December seemed as endless to her as it did to Celestina, who was dying for the month to be over so it would be time for the big Epiphany party at Carmella’s. That was when all the children would learn if they’d gotten coal or gifts from La Befana—the Bitch, who had rudely driven the Wise Men away when they stopped in Italy on their way to see the Christ Child.
Everyone tried to prevent Celestina’s holiday from being spoiled by spoiling her with presents instead. Gina’s in-laws were particularly lavish in their giving. They liked Gina, who was also the mother of a beloved granddaughter, and made sure that Carmella included her at all the parties. But despite Don Domenico’s regular denunciations of his son, Carlo was family, and blood counts.
Only Carlo’s aunt Rosa, seventy-four and not inclined to subtlety, addressed the situation at Carmella’s party. Trying to escape the crush of friends and relatives and the mind-boggling noise produced by dozens of children whipped into a froth of sugar, excitement and greed, she and Gina took refuge in the library.
"Carlo’s a prick," Rosa said flatly, as the two women settled into butter-soft leather chairs and put their feet up on a stylishly low table. "A gorgeous man, Gina, I see why you fell for him. But he’s never been any good! He’s my own brother’s son but I’m telling you, he’ll screw anything with a pulse—"
"Rosa!"
"Boys, dogs, whores," Rosa went on, as relentless as Celestina. "They think I don’t know, but I hear things. I’d shoot the bastard right in the balls if I were you." Her cloudy eyes full of conspiracy and violence, the skinny old woman leaned over to grip Gina’s arm with surprising strength. "You want me to shoot him for you?" she asked. Gina laughed, delighted by the idea. "I’ll do it!" Rosa assured her, sitting back comfortably. "I’d get away with it, too. Who’s going to prosecute an old broad like me? I’ll be dead before the appeals are done."
"It’s a tempting offer, Rosa," Gina said, loving her, "but I knew he was a rat when I married him."
Rosa shrugged, agreeing reluctantly. Carlo had, after all, left his first wife for Gina. Worse, Gina Damiano had met the gorgeous Carlo Giuliani at an ob-gyn clinic; she was the nurse who took care of Carlo’s mistress in post-op after an ugly second-trimester abortion. Gina could still remember the sense of detached amazement at her own stupidity when, mesmerized by his looks, she heard herself accepting Carlo’s irresistibly charming offer of dinner that first night.
She shouldn’t have been surprised when she caught him with the next lover, but Gina was pregnant with Celestina at the time and made the mistake of being outraged. The first beating was such a shock, she could hardly believe it had happened. Later, she remembered the mistress’s bruises, and Carlo’s explanations. The signs were all there—it was her own fault for ignoring them. She filed for divorce; believed his promises; filed again…
"Your marriage never would have worked anyway," Rosa said, breaking into Gina’s thoughts. "I didn’t want to say anything before the wedding— you always hope for the best. But Carlo’s gone so much—all that space shit. Even if he wasn’t a prick, he’s never home." Rosa leaned forward, voice low. "In my opinion," she offered, "it’s mostly my brother’s fault. Carlo takes after my sister-in-law’s side, you know? Even when they were first married, Domenico was screwing around so much, he couldn’t imagine that his own wife wasn’t. Never believed Carlo was his. Poisoned everything. Then my sister-in-law spoiled Carlo rotten, to make up for it. You know why Carmella turned out so well?"
Gina shook her head, brows up.
"Her parents ignored her. Best thing that could have happened! They were so busy fighting over Carlo, they never got around to making a mess of their daughter. Now look at her! A good mother, a wonderful cook, beautiful home—and she’s a very smart businesswoman, Gina! It’s no wonder Carmella’s running everything now!"
Gina laughed. "Now there’s a novel approach to parenting! Have two kids, and concentrate on ruining one."
"At least you won’t have to take care of Carlo when he’s old," Rosa resumed philosophically. "I thought Nunzio would never die!" A bluff, Gina knew. Rosa had been devoted to Nunzio and missed him very much, but unlike most Neapolitans, she refused to give in to operatic bathos. It was a characteristic that bound the two women together, across the generations. "Men are shits," Rosa declared. "Find yourself a twelve-year-old and train him right," the old lady advised. "It’s the only way."