She took a narrow street that climbed steeply up the hill and hurried beneath row upon row of washing lines. A woman leaned out of the window to hang her dripping petticoat and called to her, but Floriana was too busy to wave back and scampered on until she reached Piazza Laconda, which opened in the heart of town like a giant sunflower. There, dominating the square, was God’s own house, the most beautiful building of all, la Chiesa di Santo Spirito.
She was now quite out of breath and slowed to a hasty walk. The sun bathed the square in a bright golden light, and flocks of pigeons pecked the ground in search of crumbs or washed their dusty feathers in the fountain. A restaurant spilled onto the cobbles, infusing the air with the smell of olive oil and basil. Tourists sat at the little tables beneath stripy parasols, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, while local codgers sat in their waistcoats and caps playing briscola.
Floriana didn’t stop to talk to anyone on the way, although she was well known in the town on account of her infamous mother, and cherished like a stray dog. She went directly to the church to talk to the only Father who loved her unconditionally and was always there, no matter what. She had to thank Him for her good fortune, because if she didn’t, she feared it might be taken away like her mother.
She stepped quietly over the shiny stone floor, inhaling the incense that saturated the air and mingled with the sticky smell of melting wax. A few people prayed in the pews, their shadowy figures kneeling in the gloom. Tourists wandered around in T-shirts, muttering to each other as they admired the frescoes and iconography. Gold leaf shone in the candlelight, giving the haloes around the heads of the Virgin, Christ, and the saints an otherworldly glow. Floriana felt at home there because she had been coming for as long as she could remember. Her mother had been very religious, until she had sinned and turned her back on God out of shame. Didn’t she realize that Jesus welcomed the sinner with open arms? Floriana sinned all the time, like spying at La Magdalena, and she was full of pride and vanity, yet she knew God loved her in spite of this, perhaps even because of this, for it was well known that, like His son, He loved sinners best of all. So did Father Ascanio; otherwise, he wouldn’t have a job.
Floriana padded down the aisle to the table of candles, which stood against the wall to the right of the nave. She lit one every day to pray that her father might find someone to run off with as well, because she was weary of looking after him. So far, God hadn’t listened. She would have thought the Virgin would be more sympathetic, being a mother, but she seemed not to listen, either. Perhaps they didn’t realize that he was utterly useless and a great burden. She’d be better off without him, then she could go and live with her aunt Zita. Aunt Zita was her mother’s sister. She was married to Vincente, and they had five children already, so they could easily accommodate one more. In fact, they’d barely notice another mouth to feed, because she was only small and didn’t eat a lot.
With that thought in mind she lit her candle to thank God for Dante and La Magdalena. She prayed that he’d wait for her to grow up so that she could marry him. Then she sidled into a pew and knelt on the cushion to pray. She glanced around at the other people in prayer and wished they would all leave now so that God could hear what she had to say. It must be awfully distracting to have so many people talking all at the same time. But they didn’t leave, so she was left with no alternative but to think as loudly and clearly as she could.
She remained there for a long while, thanking God for every tree, flower, bird, and cricket she had seen that morning. She was sure that if she buttered Him up a little He might be better disposed towards her when she got round to putting in her requests. Finally, she read out her mental list. She did not ask for her mother back, which was usually her most ardent desire, because she felt she couldn’t ask for too much and today she wanted to marry Dante more than she wanted her mother. She hoped her mother would never find out.
When she had finished, she crossed herself in front of the altar, smiling sympathetically at the statue of Christ on the cross, for the poor man must be so tired of hanging there all the time, and left.
She found Costanza in the courtyard of her home, reading in the shade on a swing chair. Costanza lived in a big villa on the hillside just outside the town, but it was run-down, like the fortunes of her once illustrious family. Her parents were aristocrats, carrying the titles conte and contessa, which greatly impressed Floriana, whose father was their chauffeur. They had once owned a grand palazzo on Via del Corso in Rome, and a villa by the sea on the fashionable Amalfi coast. But Costanza’s father had suffered big losses that Floriana didn’t understand, and they had come to live in Herba when Costanza was three years old, in the holiday house they had once used only for a few weeks each summer. There they shut themselves in, barely socializing with anyone. But Costanza was lonely and isolated in her hilltop palace, and even her snobby mother could see that she needed the company of children her own age. So the countess finally relented and sent her to the local school when she was six.