Emilia (Part 1)(28)
“A man, Lorenzo Corriere, approached me after my concert.” I gathered the envelope and slid it to the middle of the table. “He offered me a position at San Luigi. It’s a music conservatory south of Rome. I guess Mom went there. Anyway, the scholarship pays for everything, tuition, room and board, and a small living stipend. It wouldn’t cost you anything. I’d love to do this and, you know, follow in Mom’s footsteps. I think she would’ve wanted this for me.”
The last part, the part about my mom, was a less than subtle dig at his conscience. If I could persuade my dad this was a good idea, I’d happily throw a little guilt, shame, and blame into the mix to see what would stick. It was the most powerful currency in our world other than money and power.
Without meeting my eyes, he slid out the papers, thumbing through them one after another, though not with enough attention that I actually believed any of the words penetrated his thick skull. No words were exchanged, and I already had my answer. My father would fight this with every dirty trick in his arsenal. He had plans for me, and they didn’t include furthering my music career. They stopped and started with marrying some faceless man, popping out a gaggle of kids, and living out the rest of my life in servitude to a man who undoubtedly wanted me as much as I wanted him, which was not at all.
He reached the last page, gathered all the sheets of paper on top of the glossy pamphlet, and straightened them against the top of the table.
Tap. Scrape. Thump.
I flinched with each contact like I was awaiting my execution.
“This is a great opportunity, Emilia. It’s more than your mother or I could’ve imagined when you started banging on those keys in your mom’s lap.”
A grin split my face, full and wild. I couldn’t contain myself, and did a micro hop thing in my chair a few times like I was eight and not eighteen. “I know. Can you believe it? I’ve been freaking out for days. I can’t believe it’s real. I’ve read those papers so many times, I’m pretty sure I know them by heart.”
He drummed his fingers on top of the stack. “I noticed. They look like you’ve had them for months instead of weeks.”
“I was so scared to bring it up with you, so I took my time reading the material and researching the conservatory online. It’s so beautiful there, Dad. The buildings are a yellowish stucco with stone and arches everywhere. They’re lined with palm trees, and they have a crazy—”
“Emilia.” He held up his hand like a big fat red stop sign, and all of my excitement evaporated into bitter ash. “As much as I’d love for you to go here, it can’t happen.”
My teeth dug into the inside of my cheek with enough force to tinge with my mouth with the metallic taste of blood. “Why not?”
“I was waiting until everything was finalized to tell you this, but I might as well tell you now. I’ve arranged for you to marry Marcello Masciantonio. He’s coming here at Christmas to spend some time with you. He lives in Chicago, which might be a good change of pace for you. You’ve been in a funk since your mom died, and this move and marriage will give you the chance to reinvent yourself, make new friends and a new life. You can continue your piano lessons if that’s what makes you happy or you can start a family. Marcello’s talked about that and…”
His words bled together, no longer penetrating my brain. I balled my hands into tight fists, my fingernails tunneling into my palms and more than likely making deep crescents in my flesh. Obviously, his declaration didn’t qualify as news. I’d known this had been in the works since the run-in with the man I assumed was Marcello before my mom died, and based on a few recent conversations I overheard, I suspected he intended the marriage to take place in the not too distant future. Consequently, I had upped my efforts to uncover dirt on my dad so I could blackmail him into unwinding the agreement.
Still, his admission, coupled with his refusal to let me attend a renowned music conservatory in Italy, felt like a deathblow. His hate for me had to be enormous. That was the only explanation for his cruelty. What kind of man wanted his daughter to marry a stranger instead of following their dreams?
Sadly, I didn’t even realize playing the piano professionally was my dream and not my dad’s until Lorenzo approached me. I’d always waffled between loving it and feeling like it was an albatross around my neck. Now that I had the chance to become a concert pianist, I wanted it so bad I could almost taste it.
Silence wrapped around me, thick and stifling, strangling the life out of me one molecule of air at a time. Apparently my dad had ceased explaining himself at some point, and I had failed to react outwardly to his declaration.