One Italian Summer - Lori Nelson Spielman Page 0,16
new Guggenheim museum that was said to look like a nautilus shell, and the handsome senator John Fitzgerald Kennedy, rumored to be a future presidential candidate, thrilled me. But not my sweet sister Rosa. At night, beneath the eaves in our tiny bedroom, she shared her fears with me. Though she was two years older than I, and sassier than most men, Rosa was timid, even cowardly at times. She craved security and safety and certainty. She wanted nothing more than to remain in Trespiano forever, surrounded by our family and Alberto and a flock of children.
Alberto and my father talked every night at the dinner table. Bruno and Alberto would leave for America. They would have no trouble getting visas. Uncle Ignacio would sponsor them, assuring the US government that the men would have jobs upon their arrival.
Behind his back, Rosa scoffed at the idea, claiming her fiancé was a dreamer, that they would never leave Trespiano and Mamma and Papà. But I knew her fate was sealed. She would soon be married to Alberto. Women in our family had no voice. Once her husband was in America, she would be expected to join him. Alberto wanted a strong, hardworking wife in his new homeland, a woman who would bear him many children. And if Rosa wasn’t willing to travel to America, there were plenty of girls in the village who would.
Alberto Lucchesi was smooth as a swan on the dance floor, and when he laughed, you couldn’t help but join in. Over six feet tall, he had a thick head of black hair and a twinkling gaze that seemed to mesmerize. I witnessed him charm more than one of my girlfriends, though I never told my sister. She was already insecure. And Papà was no help. He congratulated his eldest daughter on her prize fiancé, joked about her good fortune. “You, my dear daughter, are a simple fishing net. Yet somehow you have managed to catch the biggest fish in the sea.”
Each time Papà made comments like these, Rosa seemed to shrink. And when Alberto read books and newspapers or used words that Rosa could not pronounce, let alone define, Rosa’s self-doubt grew.
“Alberto will soon be bored with me.”
“The kindest girl in Italy?” I would say. “The most wonderful cook in Trespiano? The one who will make him a perfect wife? Nonsense.”
“And mother,” she added. “Alberto wants many children.”
“Of course. You will make the best mother.”
Rosa said nothing when Alberto began saving money for his voyage to America. She didn’t want to think about what would come next—a trek across the Atlantic all by herself. Often she would wake with nightmares and cling to me, relaying the visions of the whirling waters, the tiny ship’s cabin that she could not escape.
One day at dinner, Rosa announced that she had wonderful news. My father continued to roll his pasta onto his fork, uninterested in his daughter’s silly thoughts, but I sat up, curious.
“Alberto has written to his uncle Ignacio,” Rosa said.
My father’s eyes lifted.
“Ignacio has agreed to marry Paolina.”
I choked on my bread.
“They will marry as soon as Paolina and I arrive in Brooklyn.”
My father’s face lit up. He raised his glass of Chianti. “To Ignacio and Paolina. I never thought it would happen.”
To my family, it was settled. I would go to New York and marry Ignacio, a hot-tempered forty-one-year-old who needed a young bride to cook and clean and wash his filthy clothes. I shuddered. “Never!”
“Please, Paolina,” Rosa said, her hands folded in prayer. “You must accept his proposal. If you are engaged to a man in America, immigration into the United States will be easy. And best of all, we will travel together to America.”
My fork clattered onto my plate. “I will never marry this man. He is too old. I do not even know him.”
“Hush,” my mother said. “You are the second daughter. Do you not realize how lucky you are that someone is willing? Think of all your cousins who would jump at this chance.”
I threw my napkin on the table. “I do not believe in that curse. I never did.”
But as I spoke, my thoughts drifted to my great-aunt Isabella, my aunt Blanca, my cousins Apollonia, Silvia, Evangelina, Martina, Livia. All second-born Fontana women. All single.
“And what about children?” my mother said. “You finally have a prayer.”
I nearly upended my chair when I stood. “I no longer have an appetite.”
I was halfway up the stairs when Rosa grabbed my arm.