shooed me toward the window leading out to the balcony.
I recognized the sound, a mandolino, but what I did not understand was why it was coming from below, right underneath my window.
I moved the curtains back, narrowing my eyes on the street. From the soft glow of the lamps, I could see a crowd had formed. At the center of it was Corrado Alessandro Capitani, accompanied by the mandolinista playing a soft tune on the instrument.
My eyes narrowed even further when I noticed papà standing on the other side of him, moving his arms like a conductor would. I could smell alcohol on the breeze, and I wondered how much they all had to drink.
Corrado cleared his throat when papà squeezed his shoulder, and then he started to…sing. To me. From beneath my balcony window.
A loud laugh escaped my lips. Mamma pinched me on the arm, hard enough that it felt like a wasp sting.
“Do not laugh at him, mia figlia,” she said. “He is doing this for you.”
“I am not laughing at him,” I said, rubbing the spot, but still a smile lit up my face. I imagined it was brighter than any moon, any flame, in the world. “I am laughing because my heart is happy, mamma.”
“Shh,” Anna shushed us both, closing her eyes.
The man could not sing, but still, his voice was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. My favorite sound. I opened the windows and stepped out onto the balcony, needing to be closer. I leaned against the iron, placing my hand underneath my chin, closing my eyes, getting lost in the melody of the traditional song, “Serenata.”
I knew il mio amante would rather take a bullet for me than to sing me this love song. He truly loved me.
I had a suspicion then on the term papà had set that neither the bull nor Eraldo would agree to. Corrado had.
The traditional song merged into another. I remembered, from my time in New York, my aunt’s old records, that this song had been sung by a man with a throat made of velvet. I opened my eyes to see better, like it could help me see him better. The man my heart had known forever, but was so new to my eyes.
I swayed to the melody, keeping my eyes on his, and when the canzone came to an end, I applauded softly. I wiped a tear from my cheek and then bowed to him, as if the dance was ending.
Come tomorrow, our dance, a permanent one, was just beginning.
16
Alcina
I had dreamed of wearing this dress many times.
Even as a child I would beg mamma to let me wear it after she showed it to Anna and me the first time. Anna thought it looked old. I thought it had charm that most dresses these days did not.
It was vintage and had belonged to my nonna Evangelina. It was classic, elegant, and romantic—it was timeless. A dress that could have been worn years ago or in modern time.
Anna said that if the wedding dresses of Grace Kelly and Apollonia Vitelli—from The Godfather—had a child, it would be nonna Evangelina’s.
“I take it back,” Anna said, appraising me through the mirror in our parents’ casa after mamma helped me into it. This was the first time I had seen myself all day. It was bad luck for the bride to look in a mirror before she put her gown on. “I have a better description. If old-world Roman Catholic had a mood, it would be this dress.”
The entire gown was made of fine French lace, even the bodice and long sleeves, and it barely swept the floor, especially with the heels I wore.
Anna softly ran her hands through each side of my hair, which we had parted down the center, making sure it was perfetto before mamma set the matching scallop veil on my head. The tulle was made in Italy, but the lace matched the dress. Mamma pinned it on in such a way that it looked like it was made to be there. The beauty of it cascaded over my shoulders and ran along the floor. It was longer than the gown.
Anna smiled at me before she put her hands over her mouth. “The dress did not fit me,” she said, shaking her head some, “but it is perfetto for you, Alcina. You look ethereal.” She turned and looked at mamma, moving her hands away from her face dramatically. “Alcina!” she screamed. “Alcina!”
I laughed at