The American Lady(110)

“So you were a coward, that’s your excuse? What do you want me to do, Franco?” Her hands trembled as she grabbed a pile of blouses from the drawer. She would not stay in this house a moment longer. Even if she had to run through the streets of Genoa on her own in the middle of the night! Her marriage, her child’s father, her love, her home, her workshop—she had lost them all. And Franco was a criminal.

“I know that you don’t believe me now, but here’s the truth,” came a quiet voice from over by the bed. “I was going to put a stop to it after this crossing. I swore that to myself on New Year’s Eve. I would give anything for this never to have happened.”

Franco got up and tried to put his arms around Marie from behind.

“Please, Marie, don’t go! Don’t do this to me. Everything will be all right again, I promise you. Think of our child. Think of the gallery we wanted to open. I’ll go to America and I’ll make sure that . . .”

She shook him off. Her suitcase was in storage somewhere, and she knew Franco would never send a servant to fetch it for her, so she stuffed some underwear into one of the linen bags that was used to take dirty washing down to the laundry. She added the blouses in, then two skirts.

“Marie, I’m begging you! If you go, I won’t survive that. Please, you can’t leave me now. I need you . . .”

She looked at him, her eyes blank.

And I won’t survive if I stay! she might have told him. But instead she said, “You’ve ruined everything.”





17

Half carrying and half dragging two sacks of clothes, Marie stumbled through the palazzo’s long hallways. She had to get out, away from there—she couldn’t think of anything else.

From the opposite end of the hallway, she saw the count at the front door. Patrizia was at his side.

“You are not going anywhere.”

Marie stared at her father-in-law, astonished. How self-righteous he looked! No “Marie, I’m so sorry.” No “I repent of my sins.”

“What are you going to do to stop me? Shut me away, like you did those poor men in your wine crates?” She spoke boldly but her words lacked conviction. Something crumbled inside her, and her strength ebbed away. Please let me go so that I have time to think, she pleaded silently.

“Marie, don’t leave without me! Please, I’m begging you! If you must leave, then take me with you!” Franco had followed her and now he clung to her arm like a child clinging to his mother.

“Ti amo,” he whispered. And then, “I love you more than my own life.”

A wave of pity broke over Marie. But she answered aloud, “That doesn’t count for much, with a life as miserable as yours.” It hurt her so much to say those words that she had to wrap her arms around her belly. She blinked against the pain and suddenly felt dizzy.

Franco flinched as though she had hit him.

“Marie, darling, be reasonable! We mustn’t be too hasty; we have to sit down and help one another to deal with this tragedy. Una famiglia, si?” Patrizia said, putting her hand on Marie’s arm with exaggerated concern. “In good times and in bad—isn’t that what you promised my son in Ascona, when you were married? Didn’t you tell us how happy you were on Monte Verità? That was a very good time for you and now the bad time has come, but it doesn’t have to stay this way, don’t you see? Everything can be good again, just as it used to be.”

Her voice was soothing, cajoling—almost a chant, as though she were driving out evil spirits.

Ascona, the wedding . . . Marie’s head was buzzing. What did Monte Verità have to do with all this? The mountain of truth, freedom, and love . . . How dare Patrizia mention it in the same breath as the terror and suffering that . . . Marie’s eyelids fluttered but the veil that clouded her vision grew thicker. If only she weren’t so dizzy . . . She raised a hand to her temples to brush the dizziness away, but it was becoming harder and harder to think.

What had she done wrong? All she had wanted to do was tell Franco about her idea of inviting Sherlain and Pandora here to Genoa! To help open her gallery. And then she had heard it. We are murderers.

The drawstrings of the laundry bag were pulling at her hand. So heavy. Everything was so heavy . . .

Just to lie down for a moment, then . . . Suddenly a lance of pain stabbed into her skull.

Marie fainted.



  “What’s this?” Patrizia said in a tone of disgust. She reached out and picked up the letter from the floor where Marie had dropped it.

Her husband looked thoughtfully in the direction of the bedroom where Franco had carried Marie after she fainted.