Writing Brings Out the Best -- and Lots of Honesty -- in Filomena

By the time we arrive back at the villa, it is time for lunch. Giuseppi has prepared a delicious bean soup and braised dandelion greens. Ah, I think as I sit down, certain foods are eaten by both the rich and the poor! Mama always steams dandelion greens for me, because she knows how much I love them.

Giovanni insists that I drink a little wine with lunch, which I know is a dangerous thing. I am not capable of consuming too much alcohol. But I sip the half a glass of Chianti he has poured me.

We finish lunch with a platter of cheeses and fruits. Figs and pears, apples and oranges. Oh how I wish I could have taken some of this bounty home for Mama to sample!

When Giovanni attempts to fill my glass a second time, I place my hand over the rim.

"I am afraid I'm already getting dizzy," I say. And to myself, I add: "I won't be able to work at all today if this keeps up!"

A cup of espresso finishes off the meal for us. I feel ready for a nap, and as it happens, Giovanni leads me out to the terrace to sit in the lounge chairs. The sun, the warm breeze, all of the food and drink, it's easy for me to fall asleep.

I wake up to the sound of voices arguing inside the house.

"Signor, I am faced with a pile of guest sheets and towels this high, I thought she was going to help me." It's Sofia's voice. She sounds as though she is panicked and stressed. And so cranky!

"Sofia, I can find someone else to help you. I promise I will do that immediately because I do appreciate the fact that you need help."

"But Signor, with all due respect, isn't that young woman capable of assisting me? She did fine the other day."

"Yes, well, I'm sorry, Sofia, she is not available today. As I said, I will find help for you. Leave the laundry for today."

"Oh Signor, I couldn't possibly do that, it's my job."

And with that I hear her disappear. And even though I am thrilled that I will not be washing laundry in that hellish basement again any time soon, I find myself feeling guilty. Somebody has to do the laundry, and if isn't me, it's going to be another poor somebody, like Sofia.

I hear Giovanni approaching. I close my eyes. I realize that he has freed me from this sorry chore, but once more, I am confused about who I am and where I belong. Am I Filomena when I dine at the villa and occupy these lounge chairs?

He sits down and I open my eyes and turn to face him. "Good afternoon," I say. "I suppose I should begin my workday pretty soon."

"Ah well, I suppose. But what would you say if we spent a few minutes sitting here writing?"

A smile blooms on my face. "I can hardly refuse your offer!"

"That's just one thing I love about you Filomena, you are honest and you say what's on your mind!"

Ah, well, I think to myself, there are many things that I don't tell you, Giovanni!

I have my journal and now he hands me the fountain pen which I adore. I sit there, my buttery leather journal in one hand, and the handsome wooden fountain pen in the other, and I think to myself, "I am so grateful that I have this opportunity to be a real writer!"

He opens a book I haven't seen before. "So Filo -- may I call you that?"

I smile. "Yes, I answer to that name, and also, just so you know, some people just call me Fi!"

"Yes, and my friends call me Vanni, and I wish you would do that too!"

"I promise that I will think about it!" I recall at that moment how I first nicknamed him D for Diavolo. Now, that doesn't really fit the Giovanni that I am getting to know.

"So this book, Fi, maybe you know of it, it's one of the most famous of Italian novels, if not the most famous. It's called 'The Betrothed,' or 'I Promessi Sposi.' Have you heard of it?"

"I have heard of it but I have not read it. As you might expect, our schools are not the best."

"Yes, well, one of the reasons I am so excited about unification is that it opens up the possibility that we will someday have national standards for education. But that discussion is for another day. Today I want to read to you a small passage from the novel, which tells the story of two lovers who are prevented from marrying, at least at the start."

My heart starts racing. It must be the wine, but his mention of the two lovers prevented from marrying suddenliy washes over me with fear. He's talking and I'm not listening.

"Would you like to try?"

I blink. "I am so sorry Giovanni but I think the wine has lifted my head into the sky like a bird taking flight. Please, would you repeat what you were saying?"

Giovanni chuckles and reaches over and briefly runs his fingertips softly back and forth under my chin. Instantly, I am flooded with goosebumps. "What I was saying is that we can read novels and then we can be inspired to write our poetry. Would you like to try?"

I consider his proposal and something inside me recoils. Shall I be truthful? "Honestly, Giovanni, if you wouldn't mind, I would prefer for you to read another sonnet like the other day!"

He seems surprised at first, but he quickly adjusts. "OK, I am glad you feel that you can be honest with me Filo! So give me a moment and I will get another book."

When he leaves, I am free to gaze out at the sea. I feel so dreamy and relaxed. How can I possibly go to work after this? Perhaps I will ask for another espresso, so that I can wake up!

And as if my thoughts are transmitted instantly, Sofia appears with a silver tray bearing two cups. She sets them down on the table between the lounge chairs. I watch her carefully, wondering if she is going to speak to me. And when she does, her words are like a sharp knife across my throat.

"So he lets you do exactly as you please." She gazes at me narrowly. "There is a price you pay for that."

I open my mouth to respond but I realize that I have nothing to say. And now Giovanni is on his way back carrying a large book. She gives me one last dark look and disappears from the terrace.

As he sits down, I realize that Sofia is right. Giovanni is spoiling me. And maybe there will be a terrible price to pay! Once again, I start drowning in fear. Suddenly I want to run away, to go home to Paola and hide. Oh how awful I feel. Sofia has managed to ruin the afternoon!

Meanwhile, Giovanni is casually flipping through pages. He stops. "I think you will like this one my dear. It's the most famous sonnet Petrarch ever wrote. It's called 'I'd sing of Love in such a Novel Fashion.' Are you ready?"

I nod my head yes, but inside, my heart is all aflutter. Oh how insecure I feel!

He begins to read:

I'd sing of Love in such a novel fashion

that from her cruel side I would draw by force

a thousand sighs a day, kindling again

in her cold mind a thousand high desires

I'm only half listening as he finishes the rest of the poem. The only words that stick out are "her cruel side" and "her cold mind."

"So are you ready to write Filo?" I stare at him blankly. "Uh...yes, sure." Inside I'm churning. I feel like not just my face but my whole body is burning up with shame and confusion. "But would you mind terribly bringing me a glass of water? Actually, a pitcher of water?"

He eyes me curiously. "Are you feeling ill Filomena?"

"Just very very warm. Perhaps we should move into the shade?" And then I hear myself, asking for water, then a pitcher, and now asking for shade. When did I start making so many demands on him?

"Whatever you'd like. I'll get you some water and then we can move to the table over by the palm trees."

He gets up once more and I decide I should too. I walk around the terrace and then come back to the lounge chair. I take a sip of the coffee but it is supremely bitter. Another thought haunts me: maybe Sofia spiked it with poison!

Soon Giovanni and I are sitting at the table with water and coffee and our journals and pens. I'm tempted to ask him to reread the sonnet and then I think, no more demands Filomena!

"And so, now are we ready to write, my raven-haired sweetheart?" I am feeling so touchy that I am about to protest his calling me that. But reason returns.

"Yes, I'm ready." I open the journal to a fresh page. The gold edging glitters in a shaft of sunlight. I run my finger along the gold. Such a sumptuous journal!!! I force myself to concentrate. As I consider the phrases I recall from the poem, I have an idea of what I might write. I start:

"Her cruel side came out this afternoon. And as soon as she said what she did, I realized that perhaps she was right. Perhaps I am alreaady becoming a spoiled girl. Perhaps I will regret it. But never mind. She isn't the kind of person I like or find attractive. She seems to have no love for anyone including herself. She seems to have a cold mind and an even colder heart. What made her that way? Is it because she has worked too long in the hellish basement, stirring laundry in boiling water? Maybe what is really troubling me is the fact that I know now how hard she works. And even if I don't have to do the laundry from now on, some other girl will, maybe even someone I know! How do I feel knowing that? I do feel guilty, I must say. Why is it that some people are born to wealth and others, like me, and so many many others, are born to poverty and endless toil? When I hear about the unification bringing equality to all of Italy, I wonder if that is true. Will there ever really be equality throughout our newly formed country?"

Giovanni and I stop writing about the same time. I'm worried about what I have written. Will I get Sofia in trouble? That's the last thing I want to do, even though I really dislike her. But there's something else that concerns me: will Giovanni be shocked by what I feel about the endless divide between the rich and the poor?

"Would you please read first, Giovanni?"

"Sure, I can do that." He begins:

"If love were a novel

I would write a thousand,

no a million

pages, celebrating

the sweet girl who enchants me."

"She's got such exotic eyes that sparkle

dark dark and shaped like almonds.

Her hair -- I can only imagine unbraiding.

I see it falling in black ripples

there, low down on her back."

"But it is her soul

that really attracts me.

She holds in her unspoiled heart the whole of the sea

and all the stars dotting the night sky.

Hers is a spirit that is infinitely alive.

She reflects everything that is good

and so much that I've never known before."

When he stops reading, I feel like I need to hide my face.

"So?" he says.

I'm looking down at the table. "Oh it's...it's just lovely Giovanni...but...is it...is it really...about me?" Of course I know it is. I look up. He cups his hand against my face.

"Yes it is absolutely about you and it is really how I feel. You are a gorgeous young woman, Filomena, but it's your soul that has really hooked me. I've never met anyone who is quite as earnest as you are!"

I'm overwhelmed by what he wrote, but also, scared to share what I've written. But what choice do I have? I'm going to have to read it. "Thank you Giovanni. I have never met anyone like you either." I stop.

"So? Will you read please?"

"I know I have to read. But...I am not sure you will appreciate what I've written. In fact you may hate it!"

"Please Fi, let me be the judge of that, will you?"

I take in a long breath and I read:

"Her cruel side came out this afternoon. And as soon as she said what she did, I realized that perhaps she was right. Perhaps I am alreaady becoming a spoiled girl. Perhaps I will regret it. But never mind. She isn't the kind of person I like or find attractive. She seems to have no love for anyone including herself. She seems to have a cold mind and an even colder heart. What made her that way? Is it because she has worked too long in the hellish basement, stirring laundry in boiling water? Maybe what is really troubling me is the fact that I know now how hard she works. And even if I don't have to do the laundry from now on, some other girl will, maybe even someone I know! How do I feel knowing that? I do feel guilty, I must say. Why is it that some people are born to wealth and others, like me, and so many many others, are born to poverty and endless toil? When I hear about the unification bringing equality to all of Italy, I wonder if that is true. Will there ever really be equality throughout our newly formed country?"

I stare at the table. I hold my breath. Giovanni is silent. Oh dear, I think, I went overboard, being too honest. Now I've done it.

Finally he speaks. "Filomena, what you have written is just so pure and wonderful. It's ...yes...it's disturbing, mostly because I know who and what you're talking about. But it is also so exciting because it really makes me think. It makes me see the world through your eyes. And I realize that there is so much that I don't see, ever, not the way that you do!" He sets his hand over mine. "Do you see how very powerful...and persuasive your writing is?"

The exhileration I feel when he says this just adds to my dizziness. How can this be happening to me, a girl who grew up in such poverty? I speak quietly and I keep my eyes low, studying the table.

"Thank you...thank you so much, Giovanni. You make me feel like.." I raise my eyes and smile at him. "...like I might actually be a writer someday!"

And then it hits me. I need to work. It will make me feel a lot better if I go to the kitchen and put on an apron and help Giuseppi. I will feel as though my pay is justified. "But right now, I must be the assistant chef. I have a job to do -- I must earn my pay!"

He chuckles. "OK, Fi. I will not argue. But tonight I have no guests so there won't be a huge meal to prepare."

And when I get to the kitchen, I see that he is right. Giuseppi is sitting at the counter with a newspaper, drinking espresso. He offers me one, and I decline. "I've had my fill of wine AND coffee today," I say. I don my apron. "So what can I do?"

He smiles. "I was going to make stracciatella today. Would you like to try to make it?

" "Oh yes. I have made it for holidays before, as that is the only time we are fortunate enought to have eggs."

Giuseppi shakes his head in agreement. "It makes us appreciate them so much more when they are scarce, doesn't it?" And for the next few minutes he tells me how he grew up, very poor, in Sicily, not far from Syracusa. His family had a small restaurant, and Giovanni's family, vacationing in Sicily, used to be regulars. When Giuseppi's father died of a heart attack, Giuseppi at age 13 became the chef. Eventually, Giovanni invited Giuseppi to work at the villa.

"I have a very good job, thanks to Giovanni," he says.

I proceed to make the stracciatella, starting first by making a chicken broth. How exquisite it is to have a chicken (already plucked by Giuseppi.) I cut the carcass into pieces, and set them in a large kettle with water and sliced onions and carrots, oregano and some other spices that Giuseppi recommends.

While the chicken broth is simmering, I tell Giuseppi about my situation, how my father also died young. And how difficult it has been for Mama and me to scratch out a living in Paola. I tell him that I'm honored and excitd to work at the villa.

"Yes, I understand completely," he says. "And now maybe your whole life will change, just like mine did!"

I consider what Giuseppi says. What I want to say is, "I'm not sure that for me, it's that simple." But instead, I smile at him, and begin to wash the spinach and prepare the eggs and bread crumbs.

Later as I am finishing setting the table for one -- for Giovanni -- he comes into the kitchen. When he sees one place setting, his face turns sad. "I had hoped you would have dinner with me tonight, Filomena."

I take a moment to think about how to speak diplomatically. "My dear Giovanni, you are so generous and so very kind to me, and I so much appreciate all you have done and are doing, by hiring me and by helping me with my writing. But I ate lunch with you today and honestly, I think Mama would really appreciate a small bowl of this magnificent stracciatella I have made. Would you be insulted if I took my dinner, and some for her, and returned home?"

He studies me, and slowly, a smile emerges. "I don't mind at all. I urge you to take as much food as you need. Please please feed your Mama, as you can see that we have more than enough here." He reaches out and sets his hand gently on my forearm. "But in exchange, can I send the carriage for you tomorrow at eleven? Can we arrange for you to come every day, to write and also to work, so that I can look forward to having lunch with you each day? And then we will write, either the two of us alone, or with my friends, whoever is here?"

His stating the arrangement in this straightforward fashion makes me feel more relaxed than I've felt all day. Here now I can see how it will work to be both Filomena, the writer, and Filomena, the working girl who earns her keep, cooking!

I look at him and once again, love floods me. "Thank you so much Giovanni," and for the first time, I can imagine calling him Vanni.

After I am finished in the kitchen, I remove my apron and seek him out on the terrace. He is fast asleep, with a wine glass, half empty, by his side. I decide not to wake him. Instead, I remove the white ribbon from the end of my braid, and tie it into a bow that I lay gently on his chest.

The rest of the evening is wonderful, because Mama is so thrilled with the soup, and I am so thrilled that I will be going back to the villa every day from now on. Well, except for Sundays! I love the idea of working in the kitchen, and I am proud and delighted that I might become a real writer!

Poetry and Politics

I creep so quietly into the house, Mama doesn't wake up. Thank God! I can't begin to explain to her how horrible I'm feeling after the day I spent at the Villa.

I remove my uniform and drop into bed without washing or eating a thing. As I'm falling asleep, it occurs to me that I need to return that uniform -- it lies in a black and white heap on the floor.

"Tomorrow," I think. "I will worry about that tomorrow!"

When I wake up the next morning, the sun is bright in the sky. I blink. My mind is a blank cloud. I struggle to sit up. My arms and my chest and my neck and my back are all so sore that it takes everything out of me.

Then I remember all the lifting and stirring I did, moving that giant iron pole around and around and around in the steamy cauldrons. The whole of yesterday starts to fill my mind like a dark vapor. But then I shake my head no, I won't think about it now.

I listen for Mama. I hear nothing. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I move my head in circles. My neck screams out in every direction.

Thank God I don't have to return today, I say to myself. I gaze at the dirty uniform on the floor. More images from yesterday arise: the wringing of soaked towels and hot heavy sheets...pulling them out of the cauldrons with the iron pole...hanging them on clotheslines.

"No more!" I cry out loud. I will wash the uniform today and meet the carriage tomorrow and send it back to the Villa without me.

And so will end my brief "affair" with Giovanni! I will, if he seeks me out, tell him that I cannot be a guest and a house slave all at once.

I am in the kitchen fixing coffee when Mama enters. "Bongiorno," she says. "You came in so late last night I didn't hear you Fi!"

"Yes, Mama, it was really late when I finally finished with the laundry. What a day it was!"

As I say those five words, something comes over me. Instead of thinking about the long suffering afternoon, I begin to recall the intense pleasure I had in the morning, sitting in the sun on the terrace with the three men, all of us writing and listening to Giovanni read poetry. Suddenly I have a strong urge to go back, just for that blessed experience writing! But how can I possibly manage that?

"So tell me all about it," Mama says, "I'm anxious to hear everything."

I pour a coffee for me, and one for Mama who has taken a seat at the table. I'm trying to decide how to tell her what transpired.

"Before I speak, Mama, I must eat something. I am sfamatta!"

Mama gets up from the table and produces a loaf of her delicious bread, and some provolone and figs. I devour it all!

"I worked so hard yesterday afternoon I thought I would drop!" I proceed to tell her the long hot story of the laundry.

"Ah so you are earning your money!" she says, and I can tell she is pleased. I know she was so afraid that I was not actually going to work as a maid!

"Yes, I am," I say, pouring a second cup of coffee. "I will be very honest Mama. When I left the villa last night I was more tired than I have ever been before. I decided...I couldn't do the job any more."

"Oh," Mama says, a look of surprise on her face. "But I have always known you to be a girl who works extremely hard." "Yes, that's true, Mama, but they asked me to do heavy work I am not used to!"

How odd, I think, now Mama seems to be arguing in favor of me working at the villa! I decide to tell her about the morning. I describe the bliss I felt sitting at the table on the terrace staring at the sea and writing more freely than I ever have before.

"Oh Mama," I say, "they loved what I wrote! I so much want to be a writer like these other people are!"

Mama shakes her head. "Oh my dear Filomena, do I really need to remind you that these people are of the highest class? Their lives involve nothing but leisure activities. They can afford to play all day long and they never have to think about working. Please, Filomena, don't start getting fancy ideas! I guarantee that you will end up a very unhappy girl!"

Something inside me feels like rebelling against what Mama is saying. I took to heart what Giovanni said to me yesterday: that I may work as a maid, or a housecleaner or a laundress, but I have the soul of an artist!

Mama asks me if I will return to the villa and I say I'm not sure.

"Well if this Giovanni is really behaving like a gentleman, and he is willing to keep paying you so well for your work, perhaps you should stay!"

I laugh to myself. If Mama only knew how Giovanni was professing his love for me last night, she would be singing a different tune!

I finish my coffee in silence. I know what I need to do today. I take two pails from the kitchen and walk to the fountain for water. My arms ache carrying them when they are full. I decide to take my time. I walk 20 paces, and set the pails down and stand with my face up to the sunny sky. I close my eyes and once again I am sitting on the terrace staring out at the sea. When I open my eyes, Signore Padilla --with his bushy grey mustache-- is passing me. I smile at him but he -- a big grump -- frowns at me. He must wonder why I am standing in the middle of the cobblestone lane staring up at the sun. I pick up my pails and continue on my way, slowly, and feeling a kind of pleasure in my own company that I have not felt before.

Back home, I pull out the wooden washtub and I begin scrubbing my uniform and apron. Ah but my fingers are sore and the three of my knuckles are threatening to bleed. I wrap a clean rag around my hand so I don't soil the uniform. My navy blue dress is next, and then, the pile of underwear and towels and all the other laundry Mama has left for me. When I finish, I step outside into the sun again. Then I return to the house and sweep and mop the floors. In the afternoon Mama sends me to Signora Spada's house, where I do her laundry too, as she has a young baby.

Late in the afternoon, Signora Strada asks me to hold baby Ernesto, as she is preparing dinner. I sit with the chubby little fellow, bouncing him on my knee, all the while watching his beautiful little face. He has bright eyes, and he smiles a lot and makes the funniest gurgling noises. As I am walking home from the Strada's, it occurs to me that I would like to have a baby at some point in my life. And then I think, "Oh to be wife to Giovanni,! We would write together every day and we would have a nanny, una bambinaia, to help care for our babies!" And then I realize that I have been dreaming, and I force myself to stop thinking such farfetched thoughts!

When I reach home, the sun is pouring into the small window in the kitchen. Mama is out. I bring my new journal into the kitchen and set it on the table. From the shelf I get my precious dip pen, and the bottle of ink Mama got for me for Christmas almost two years ago. I open to a fresh page and sit there. Nothing comes. I turn back to the first page I wrote in the company of Giovanni and his friends. I smile, because I really like what I wrote.

I begin writing. "The sun is pouring through the window into my eyes. I realize that I can write about whatever is happening to me, at any given moment. Yesterday I went to the Villa and I had the most splendid morning writing -- and the worst afternoon working -- all in one day. I thought this morning that I would never return. But now as I sit here writing I think, "I would do anything to be on the terrace again writing with D and his friends!"

Clouds have moved in to block the sun. I sit there, staring into the grey blue sky. I write "How quickly the weather has turned tonight. How quickly I change my mind! I am not certain about anything anymore!"

I am done writing. I walk to the back of the house where we hang clothing. My uniform is dry, and so is my apron. And also, my navy blue dress. What shall I wear tomorrow morning when I meet the carriage? I smile because I never really made a decision to go back. It's as if my heart spoke, and that carried me. And I suppose, it's the writing that got me in touch with my heart.

Before I go to bed, I fold the uniform very carefully. And then the apron. I set them both at the end of my bed, on the left side. Then, on the right side, I lay my navy blue dress. I blow out my candle and slip into bed early, thinking that when I wake up in the morning I will decide what to wear!

*******

The next morning, I wake up early. I feel the excitement I always feel when I am going to see Giovanni. Somehow I am convinced that the job will work out. But God knows how! I kneel on the floor and pray to the Divine Mother, asking her to guide me. When I finish my prayers, I take the two buckets from the kitchen and walk to the fountain. I am going to wash my hair -- which is down to my waist! So there is never enough water to rinse it clean!

But I do a good job this morning. When I sit down for breakfast, Mama asks me if I am going to return to the job. "Yes, I think I will," I say. "I will meet the carriage today at eleven."

And even though I know a hellish afternoon is in store, my heart is full as I think about seeing Giovanni again, and I am so so excited about writing. When I walk into my bedroom, I decide to wear the navy blue dress, so I can sit at the table feeling -- or pretending to feel -- that I am fully equal to D and his friends (even though I know I'm not!) I will change into the uniform in the afternoon!

Soon it is time to meet the carriage so I braid my hair in one long rope. I tie a white ribbon around the end. Then I collect my things, including my new journal, and hurry outside. My boots clatter on the cobbles and my heart pumps with excitement. I walk through the portal and start up the road to San Lucido. And almost immediately there is the carriage! And to my amazement, standing beside the carriage is Giovanni, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His shirt is the most beautiful acqua color -- the same color as the sea! And the same color as his eyes! My heart is racing!

He smiles at me. And without thinking, I walk into his embrace. He takes hold of both my hands and swings me in a circle. And then another. I laugh and pull away.

"Something wild has gotten into you today," I say.

He laughs again. "Well you see my dear Filomena I wasn't at all sure you would appear today. And when I saw you, my heart twirled and danced inside me!"

I step up to the carriage with his help, and he gets in and settles next to me. The carriage starts up. I notice a straw hat with a large brim. He takes my hand in both of his.

"So, I am wondering Giovanni, what would you have done if I hadn't appeared?" I am smiling.

He squeezes my hand hard. "OUCH!" I squeal. He eases up. I lift my hand. "You see what doing the laundry will do!" My knuckles are raw and the skin of my hands is dry and rough.

"Oh cara mia, I am so sorry. No more laundry for you!"

I stare at him. Could it be? Could I be free of laundry duty? Is that possible? Well I guess so, since he is after all the boss!

"So back to your question. If you had not appeared today, I was prepared to go to the church and ask the priest to help me find you!"

"Oh, you're not serious?" I think he is kidding but he looks very solemn.

"I am absolutely serious. But seeing as you are here, let's not dwell on that!"

We ride for a while in silence. "I see you have brought your journal," he says. "I'm very pleased."

"Yes, well, I hope you will include me in your writing circle again today."

"Ah, I'm afraid my friends had to leave," he says and instantly, I feel a wash of disappointment. It must show on my face.

"But do not despair, you and I can sit together and write, Filomena!"

"Well I wrote yesterday, at home." I say proudly and suddenly I feel like a small child reporting to a parent.

"Wonderful! I will look forward to you reading out loud!"

We are almost at San Lucido, when Giovanni leans forward and speaks to the driver. "Don't stop at San Lucido, Mauro," he says. "We are continuing on to Amantea today!"

"Si signore!"

I turn to him in amazement. "What? Where are we going?" For a moment, I panic. Where is this man taking me?

He hands me the straw hat. "Here you will need this for the sun. Please do not worry yourself, Filomena. Amantea is 20 kilometers, and so we won't be traveling too long." He turns to face me. "I wanted a chance to talk to you away from the villa." My heart thumps. I am wondering what he will say.

He lets go of my hand and sets his hands on his knees. He closes his eyes briefly. "So what I have to tell you today is something that maybe I should have talked to you about when we first met. But there wasn't an opportunity. Now I know I have to share with you more about my life and...my passion."

Oh no. His passion? Another woman, of course.

"Filomena, you are familiar I'm sure with the movement to unify our country, yes?"

I stare at him. "I...yes, I guess so. Although I really don't know that much." Before I stopped going to school, we had a class in Italian history, and the teacher spent a few days talking about the Risorgimiento. "I know that there are those who are in favor of having all of the states be united in one league..."

He nodded. "Yes, so the movement has been central to my life for the last few years. I am part of a group of writers and poets and musicians who are dedicated to fighting for a unified Italy, to make all Italians, from the very north to the south, feel pride in our shared history, our great heritage. All Italians deserve to feel equal and connected. We will be one country, Filomena, after centuries of separation. My friends and I are part of a group called the National Society. Some people in the past have labeled us Liberals, or worse. Revolutionaries. Or just troublemakers! This is another issue between my father and me. His head is in the sand and I've long since given up trying to talk to him about politics!"

I sit and listen. I'm still stuck on the word passion. What he is saying doesn't seem very...passionate. And I wonder why exactly he is telling me about it now. But then he explains.

"One of the things we have as our goal in the National Society is the adoption of a national language so that all of us -- no matter where in Italy we live -- will speak the same tongue! My goal in coming here to Calabria is to help to lead the unification in the south. I have studied the dialect of your region and I want so much to speak to people here about the fight for Italian unity, which is the goal of Tullio and Edoardo and all of friends, the artists and writers and musicians you served at dinner. I am hoping you will join me in this crusade!"

I blink. He wants to bring me into the fold. But what does that mean? I am scared to tell him I don't really understand. But then I think, I have no choice.

"What does this mean, Giovanni? Are you asking me to join your cause? What exactly do I have to do?"

"Well Filomena, it's not just my cause, it's the cause for our whole nation. Think about it, a united Italy!"

"Yes. I see. Well. I am quite willing to be a member of the National Society, as long as it doesn't cost too much."

He laughs. "You are priceless, Filomena, just priceless!"

"And I do believe in unification, at least, I think it's a good idea to the extent that I understand it."

Giovanni takes my hand again and leans over and kisses my cheek. "I am thrilled that you are open-minded my dear dear girl. That makes me so happy."

We ride in silence. The sea is glittering in especially beautiful shades of blue and green. I'm still not sure what all this talk of unification means for him and me. I'm far more concerned about us! And about my job at the villa. I decide that now is as good a time as any to broach that subject.

"Giovanni, you said to me before that I would no longer be doing laundry. Are...are you serious?"

"Of course my dear. I don't want you to slave over the wash. If I could, I would have you do no work at all in the villa!"

My eyes widen.

"Yes, Filomena, but I understand that I absolutely cannot bring you into my home without a legitimate reason. One that protects your honor and dignity! Part of the reason that I am telling you all this about my passion for political unity in Italy is so that you begin to understand why I am so deeply attracted to you and to your province."

My head is spinning. No laundry? Politics instead of work? Mama will have a fit because she won't understand a bit of it.

"Giovanni, I am not sure what you are saying. You are paying me. I must work for that money in a way that is honorable."

"Yes. Exactly. So let me ask you: is there any work at the villa that you can do without making your hands bleed?"

I blink. I think about the days I've worked at the villa. A solution pops into my mind.

"Well I always find it enjoyable to work in the kitchen with Giuseppe. He is very very kind..." what I don't say is, "unlike Sofia, who is a slave driver!"

"Fine. It's settled. You will be the assistant chef from now on. You will chop and stir and cook and set tables and yes, serve dinner when guests are visiting. And you may have to wash dishes if that isn't too disagreeable."

I chuckle. I've just gotten a new job. And all I had to do was ask. In all my life I've never had a job like this one!

Suddenly the driver pulls up the horses. Are we already at Amantea? I look up.

The town -- a cluster of orange roofs -- is set into a hillside above the ocean. Giovanni addresses the driver. "Please leave us off here, Mauro, we will walk to the beach."

And so we do. We walk on the beach out to a sandy point. Standing there, Giovanni tells me a story about when he was a little boy. "It must have been the first time I was at the beach," he says. "My parents had taken a house. And of course I had a nanny, and I remember so clearly that she was fighting with me because I insisted on wearing a jacket, made of a beautiful red wool, to the beach. She finally gave in! So there I was walking in the sand in the heat of summer, wearing my bright red jacket!"

I laugh. I can imagine a little boy with soft blonde curls in a red jacket. Walking the beach.

My heart is full of love for Giovanni. I reach for his hand, and surprising myself, I kiss it and hold it against my cheek.