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I frown, hearing the story for the first time, which confirms thatMammais avoiding the subject of Gabriella for very specific purposes. She'll hate what's about to happen then. Let it serve as her punishment.
“Who is teaching her Italian?”
“Miss Rafaella, daughter of the cook Sofia. They became friends.”
“The one who just came back from the United States?”
“That's right, Don.”
“Has Gabriella gotten into any trouble in the last few weeks?”
“No, Don. Some of the maids teased her as soon as she arrived, but the girl never reacted, never did anything to cause problems.”
“Do you trust her, Luigia?” I ask and, to my surprise, the answer comes much faster than I would have expected.
“I do. When the girl arrived, I heard rumors among the soldiers. I was worried, but the only person Gabriella was willing to hurt was herself.” The last statement hangs in the air like a leaf in the wind. Tizziano raises his eyebrows as he drums his finger against his thigh.
“And do you think that has changed?”
“I think she's discovering that she has other options. Rafaella's friendship did her a lot of good.”
“Where is she sleeping?”
“In your father's visiting area, Don.”
“Move her to my wing.” I order, and Luigia lets the surprise show on her face for just a few seconds before hiding it.
“Which area? The one for visitors?”
“No. The main one.” More time of silence than necessary passes before the housekeeper gives me the answer I expect.
“It will be done, Don.”
“Alright. That's all” I dismiss her, and Luigia gets up. She gives a short bow and walks to the door but turns before opening it to leave. The housekeeper seems to consider whether to leave or continue, she gives Tizziano an uncertain look before making a decision.
“There is one more thing, Don Vittorio.”
“What?”
“The girl doesn't use the bed.”
“What do you mean?” I question, leaning against the back of the chair.
“She's been sleeping on the floor since she arrived.” I try to remember any hint of this during the night we spent in Rome, but I didn't go into the room where Gabriella slept, so I couldn't know.
“Did she say why?” I ask, without understanding.
In the cubicle where Gabriella used to live there was only one tiny bed, and that was occupied by her sick sister. The girl should be grateful for the big mattress she was given, but to do that she would need to make sense and, once again, Gabriella proves that this is something she refuses to do.
“No. But her bed is never unmade, the sheets are changed because of common dust, not body contact. She uses her spare bedding to cover the rug,” she explains.
I might believe that this is just a strange preference if, when I looked into Gabriella's eyes, weeks ago in that filthy hovel, I hadn't seen so much of her soul. When you have death as a job, this is a skill you develop.Bambinais refusing the bed because she doesn't think she deserves it; I would bet my title on that.
“Starting tomorrow, Gabriella no longer works in housekeeping.”
“Should I put her on other tasks, Don Vittorio?”
“No.” The woman blinks and twists her fingers in a nervous gesture before turning and leaving my office.
