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.
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!
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!
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