The American Lady(17)

“It’s wonderful, of course! Everything I’ve seen so far has been . . . beautiful. I can hardly wait for you to give me the grand tour! You could fit a whole street of Lauscha houses in here,” Marie replied. It was odd, she thought as she spoke, that Ruth didn’t want to talk more about her daughter. When she had first become a mother, she had talked about little else. Marie hadn’t quite understood how anyone could talk for hours about a babe in arms, and had found the whole thing rather tiresome back then.

“Your drawing room is especially elegant. It’s so different!” Marie swept her hand around at the sleek black furniture, decorated only with modest inlay work. Dotted about the room were a bust of a pensive girl, a nude marble figure with long hair cascading down her back, and a bronze sylph.

“You were probably expecting me to make myself a doll’s house of a room, full of flounces and lace curtains,” Ruth replied, feigning indignation. “Come here, I’ll show you something I’m really proud of.” She walked over to a glass-topped table. Under the pane was a recessed tray, lined with black velvet, holding a whole swarm of butterflies and dragonflies, an array of brooches showing ladies’ profiles, and peacock feathers.

“These are my treasures. Of course Steven would buy me jewels with precious stones anytime I asked, but I prefer this kind of costume jewelry. I think they’re so much more original than the same old string of pearls or diamond necklace.” She laughed. “You really ought to see my friends craning their necks and peering to see whether these are real insects or just jewelry.” She picked out a gleaming, dark-gray hornet and held it up. “Doesn’t it look like it is real? It’s by René Lalique. And this snake here, I find there’s something very erotic about it. It’s from a workshop that . . .”

Marie felt ever more uncomfortable as Ruth picked up one jewel after another and told her about each piece, prattling on about artists whose names Marie only knew from Sawatzky’s books. She had never realized until that moment that there were actual people who could afford such artworks—and that her own sister was one of them. Ruth suddenly seemed a stranger to her. And the apartment she was so proud of looked more like a museum than a family home—though of course she would never say as much to Ruth.

What would Georgie make of all this? Marie wondered, and knew the answer right away: Georgie would most likely have gobbled down a whole tray of cookies by now, rather than nibbling daintily at one as Ruth was doing.

“Hallo, is there anybody there? Mother, Aunt Marie . . . Are you home?” The voice came from the hallway.

The door to Ruth’s drawing room opened wide and a tall, slim young woman stood in the doorway, whose hair . . . a grin flitted across Marie’s face.

“Wanda!” Ruth cried, putting her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. “For heaven’s sake, what have you done?”

All her poise and refinement were gone. She spoke—no, shrieked—in a hoarse voice.

Wanda raised her eyebrows and smiled at her mother.

“Do you mean my new hairstyle?” She pointed at her silver-blonde hair, which fell to just below her ears. “Didn’t it turn out well? So chic, and just in time for summer! You’ll all be hot and bothered while I’ll be able to enjoy the summer breezes!”

Only then did she seem to notice the guest. She turned to Marie.

“Aunt Marie, I’m so pleased to meet you,” she said with exaggerated good manners. She held out her hand awkwardly.

Marie put out her own hand in reply, calloused and tough from hours at the workbench, and grasped hold of Wanda’s. The girl’s skin was smooth and soft.

Their eyes met. Wanda’s eyes were blue and clear as water and they sparkled with amusement, as though she were laughing over some secret joke.

The little minx! Marie shook hands much harder than she usually did.

“Don’t worry; I only rarely bite.”





5

Why hadn’t he managed to get to the Casa Verde an hour earlier! Franco looked over irritably at the bar, where customers were already crowded three deep. As usual at this hour, the restaurant was packed to the rafters—the shifts had just changed at the nearby garment factories. Though all the tables were full, the stream of customers coming in the door never stopped. Italian tailors and factory hands, just off from their ten-hour shifts, the last three hours dreamt away in visions of a plate of steaming pasta and a glass of wine. And maybe a smile from Giuseppa, the owner’s daughter. Well, at least he had been given a table right away.

Franco leaned back, resigned. Given the crowd, it didn’t look as though Paolo would have any time for him in the next half hour.