Адриана Трижиани – The Shoemaker's Wife / Жена башмачника. Книга для чтения на английском языке (страница 14)
Concetta Martocci placed her hands in her pockets and looked down at the floor. «How is that my fault?» She took a deep breath.
«You led him on.»
«I did no such thing.»
«He sat with you.»
«He works in the church!» she said defensively.
«The nuns have coddled him. He’s arrogant. He doesn’t take the sacraments or attend mass regularly. He’s too familiar with the congregation.»
She smiled. «You’re jealous of Ciro Lazzari? I don’t believe it.»
Don Gregorio put his arms around her and pulled her close. He kissed her neck and then her cheek, but as he grazed her lips, she pulled away.
«He saw you kiss me.» Concetta patted her skirt. «What if he tells?»
«I’ll take care of it.» Don Gregorio reached out to stroke Concetta’s arm.
«I’d better go,» she said, her voice making it clear she’d rather not. «My mother is expecting me.»
«Will I see you tomorrow?»
Concetta looked at Don Gregorio. He was handsome and polished in ways the boys from the mountain would never be. His kiss was not clumsy like Flavio Tironi’s, behind the fourth pillar of the colonnade at the feast last summer, nor were his hands sweaty or his conversation banal. Don Gregorio was well traveled, full of observations and political opinions, and told fascinating stories about places she had never seen, but intended to. He was an educated man, a graduate of the seminary. He was as familiar with the streets of Rome as she was with the roads of Vilminore.
Don Gregorio saw something in her that no teacher or tutor had bothered to find. He did not press her to study mathematics or bore her with science. Instead, he had made her hungry to see the world beyond the mountains, places he knew would delight her like the pink beaches of Rimini, the shops on the Ponte Vecchio in Firenze, and the purple cliffs of Capri. He loaned her books of stories, not ones filled with dull academics but red-leather-bound novels with plots of sweeping romance and adventure.
Don Gregorio had dinner every Sunday afternoon with the Martocci family. The perfect guest, he arrived after mass and stayed until dusk. He paid special attention to Concetta’s grandmother, listening patiently to her complaints about her health and every detail of her aches and pains. He blessed their fields and their house, administered sacraments, encouraged the family to be devout, to perform acts of mercy in the village, and to support the church.
Concetta had loved Don Gregorio from afar, instantly, from the first day he arrived in Vilminore. Over the course of the next several months, she had found moments alone with Don Gregorio exhilarating. She spent her school hours conniving ways to go to the church, in the hopes of seeing him.
The boys of San Nicola were generally dull and unkempt; they worked in the mines or in the fields, and had simple ideas about how to live. They were boys like Ciro Lazzari, the church handyman who wore rags and casually joined her in the church pew as though he’d bought a ticket next to her on a carnival bench and therefore earned the right to talk to her.
All her life, Concetta had been taught to choose the best in all things, whether it was a yard of linen to make an apron or the finest distilled lemon water to wash her hair. She knew Don Gregorio was a holy man who took vows, but he was also the most powerful and sophisticated man on the mountain. She wanted him. At fifteen she would give up the notion of a life with a husband and children of her own to stay home with her mother and see Don Gregorio whenever she could. She was besotted with the priest, thrilled to share stolen moments with him, and encouraged by his attention. To spend the occasional long afternoon and the weekly meal in his company would bring her happiness, she believed with all her heart.
«Make sure Ciro doesn’t tell anyone about us,» Concetta implored. «If my father were to find out… if anyone…»
Don Gregorio took Concetta in his arms and kissed her to reassure her. Once she was in his arms, risk was meaningless. Her proper upbringing, strict morals, and common sense held no power against his kiss. The rules she had promised her mother to respect until marriage dissipated in the air like smoke from an urn of incense. She told herself she had nothing to fear. No one would believe a servant over the word of a consecrated man.
Don Gregorio kissed her neck. Concetta let him; then, slowly, she pulled away. She did not linger, but pulled the lace mantilla over her head and slipped out of the sacristy into the night.
Chapter 5. A stray dog
Un Cane Randagio
Three small roast chickens surrounded by strips of potatoes and cubes of carrots rested in the center of a platter. Several large ceramic bowls were filled with a puree of chestnuts, made with butter, cream, and salt. Sister Teresa had learned to stretch meals with chestnuts, which were roasted to make crust in place of flour, pureed to fill tortellini, or boiled, mashed, and served as a hearty side dish. By spring, the nuns and Lazzari boys had had their fill of them.
Ciro burst into the kitchen. «Sister?» he cried out.
Sister Teresa emerged from the pantry. «What’s the matter?»
«We must go to Sister Ercolina,» he said, out of breath. «
«What happened?» Sister Teresa handed Ciro a hot towel.
«I saw something at San Nicola.» Ciro mopped his face, and then cleaned his hands. «Don Gregorio. He was with Concetta Martocci.» Ciro felt his face flush with embarrassment. «In the sacristy. I just caught them.»
«I see.» Sister Teresa took the towel from Ciro and threw it back into the pot of hot water on the fire. She poured Ciro a glass of water and motioned for him to sit. «You don’t have to explain.»
«You
«I’m not surprised,» she said, evenly.
Frustrated, Ciro raised his voice. «Are you telling me that vows have no meaning?»
«Some of us struggle with vows; for others, it’s easier,» she said carefully. «Humans are capable of divine acts. But sometimes they sin.»
«There’s no excuse for him. Do something!»
«I have no sway over the priest.»
«Then go to Sister Ercolina and tell her what I saw. Bring me in. I’ll give her the details. She can go to the Mother Abbess. She’ll punish him but good![108]»
«Oh, I see. You want him punished.» Sister Teresa sat. «Is it your love for Concetta Martocci that drives you, or your dislike of Don Gregorio?»
«I am done with Concetta, after what I saw – how could I…» Ciro held his head in his hands. The pangs of unrequited love stung his heart for the first time. There was nothing worse than never having the opportunity to express true romantic feelings to the person who inspired them. Today, he had been as close as he had ever been! For months, he had imagined Concetta getting to know him, returning his feelings, eventually falling in love with him. How many kisses he had planned, in as many places as he could imagine. To know that she had chosen another was almost too much for his young heart to bear. And the village priest, no less!
«Poor girl. She believes whatever he’s telling her.»
«I knew he was a fake. There is nothing mystical happening in San Nicola. It’s all a show. A pageant of perfection. He cares too much about his vestments and the linens and what flowers will grow along the path in the garden. He’s particular about the wrong things. He runs San Nicola like a storefront! That priest is like one of those oily peddlers from the south who come north to the lakes to sell cheap jewelry during the summer. They sweet-talk the ladies and take their good money for glass beads. The way the schoolgirls gather around Don Gregorio, fawning over him, is no different.»
«Yes, it’s true, he’s handsome and he uses it,» Sister said. «Concetta is being duped. But you should never look down on someone for trusting the wrong person. It could happen to any of us.»
«I thought she was intelligent.»
«And why did you think that?» Sister Teresa had tutored Concetta since she was six years old. She knew exactly how little interest Concetta had taken in her studies and how much energy she had expended in the quest for physical beauty and sartorial elegance[109]. Far more effort went into her pursuit of glamour than into developing her intellect, character, or common sense.
«I thought she was… everything.»
«I’m sorry. Even those we love can disappoint us.»
«I know that now,» Ciro said.
«Priests aren’t perfect…,» Sister Teresa began. «Ciro, Don Gregorio already knows his shortcomings, far better than you ever will.»
«He doesn’t think he has any! He runs the church like he’s king.»
Sister Teresa took a deep breath. «Don Raphael Gregorio was neither distinguished academically nor admired for his spiritual acumen in the seminary. From all reports, he glided through on his good manners and pleasant personality. After he took his final vows, he wasn’t assigned to the cathedral in Milan. He was not chosen to write for the Vatican newspaper. He was not selected to be the bishop’s envoy or the cardinal’s secretary. He was sent to the poorest village on the highest peak in the most northern Alps of Italy. He’s a good-looking sap, and he knows it. He’s just exactly smart enough to know that he can only be important in a place where he has no competition. He says mass like I read a recipe aloud as I’m cooking.»