The American Lady(43)

“The Americans do, of course, but the Italians who live here don’t,” Franco answered as he reached for his billfold. “You have to be clever in the export business; you have to know exactly which market you’re targeting. We only supply businesses run by Italians, you see,” he explained. “Did you know that there are more Italians living here than there are in Rome? They even say there are more Italians in New York than there are in Genoa, Florence, and Venice put together!”

Marie frowned and was about to ask how that could be the case, but he went on.

“Italy is poor. Very few people live as well as my family does. You know yourself that there are hardly any factories in Europe. So how do people live? Anyone who isn’t a landowner . . .” Franco shrugged. “Every Italian who arrives here has already made a great sacrifice. Many families save for years to be able to send even one of their sons to America. They all think that the streets here are paved with gold!” He shook his head. “Well, we both know that it isn’t like that, but most Italians here live pretty well.” Suddenly his face lit up. “Let me show you my New York, so that you can meet a few Italians! There’s a big parade over on Mulberry Street this weekend, the festival of our patron saint, Saint Rocco—I could take you on Sunday afternoon.”

“A parade for the patron saint, that does sound wonderful . . . I’d love to come! Ruth’s dinner party will have come and gone by then, so I’ll be able to do what I want with my time again.” She made a face. “She wants to go shopping with me and Wanda tomorrow to buy me a ball gown! It’ll take all day, I’m sure. You see that I never get a moment to relax!”

Franco laughed. “How can a beautiful woman like you be so utterly indifferent to how she looks? I’d tell your sister to buy you ten ball gowns! But each of them has to be fit for a queen.” His eyes shone with pride and love as he reached out and stroked her hair. “This hair of yours is like finest Genoese silk. Please promise me you’ll never have it cut the way your niece has. It would be a mortal sin!”

Marie felt herself blushing again. She still hadn’t gotten used to all his compliments. She sighed.

“I really don’t like it when Ruth makes such a fuss over me. If only you could be at the party with me. Can’t you move this business meeting of yours to some other day?”

His face clouded over.

“You know how much I want to. But the Malinka puts in on Saturday evening, and I have to be there when it unloads. There’s no way around it. Last time there was an incident that . . . my father . . .” He bit his lip. “There are some things it’s not so easy to explain. Not to mention that—”

Marie took his hand. “You don’t need to say any more. Work comes first, I understand of course. But then we’ll have Sunday all to ourselves, won’t we?” she said, struggling to keep her voice light. She didn’t want him to feel guilty about having to spend time away from her. She had already changed their plans a few times to go to a reading or a show at a gallery or just to spend the evening with her friends.

When the waiter came back to the table and Franco paid the check, Marie felt a rush of relief. She couldn’t explain why exactly, but the conversation had taken some wrong turns. First his complaints that she was spending too much time with her artist friends, and then her indiscreet questions about his family business . . . It was a bit strange, but despite that she had never felt such depths of passion for anyone else before.

She felt a rush of panic as she took Franco’s arm and they walked toward the exit to the amusement park. She didn’t want to go back to the city, back to the burning heat of the asphalt jungle. She wanted to be alone with Franco, far away from all the questions. She wanted to be with him—just the two of them and the passion they shared.





12

Despite all her misgivings about the grand party being thrown in her honor, Marie was having a wonderful time: Ruth’s guests were all quite nice, if rather formal and distant with her; the music was lovely; and the ballroom that Ruth had rented on the top floor of the apartment building was magnificent.

Even getting ready for the evening had been enjoyable; Ruth had hired a French hairdresser for the occasion. He arrived at nine in the morning with his two assistants and spent hours showing Ruth, Wanda, and Marie how they looked with the latest French hairstyles. While Jacques and his assistants spent hours curling, combing, braiding, and piling up their hair, the ladies leafed through a stack of French fashion magazines. Even Marie was enchanted by French fashion, which looked to her a great deal simpler and more practical than the outfits in New York’s department stores, which were all ruffles and billows. When Ruth happened to mention that there was a French couturier nearby, Marie resolved to visit it as soon as time allowed—she already knew that Franco liked to see her wearing the latest fashions.