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Every word I said to myself this morning is still true. It is the price that this truth costs me that is responsible for the disappointment spreading bile in my mouth. I shouldn't, because it's still too small a price, I remind myself. The problem is that, after discovering all those truths, this one no longer seems so easy to accept.
“Better me than a daughter of thefamiglia, Rafa. We always knew this was my use to the Don,” I say out loud one of the many justifications I'm giving, silently, to myself.
Rafaella looks at me like I've gone crazy before her face takes on an expression that I haven't seen in a long time and that I've never seen on my friend's face: pity.
“You have the right to feel hurt, Gabriella.” The way she says the words is the same way someone would use to address a five-year-old child.
“I don't expect you to understand, Rafaella. I really don’t, but no, I don’t.” Despite saying this looking at her, the truth is that I am the biggest target of this certainty. It's a strange fight in many ways.
First, because I'm not used to having to fight for anything that concerns myself, and second, because the fact that I'm resisting the only conviction I've ever had, that I'm worthless, is actually completely new.
“I'm not hungry,” I say, getting up ready to leave the kitchen, but Rafaella's voice stops me from following my plans.
“This is not everything.” The humorless laugh that escapes me, this time, is not fake. I nod, asking her to continue. “You received an invitation.” I agree again and let out a long sigh.
“For tonight? Did he say where we will go or how I should dress?”
“It didn't come from the Don, Gabriella.” I wrinkle my forehead.
“Then from who?” I ask, curious, because it wouldn't make sense for Rafaella to be telling me about an invitation from anyone else. I could never accept it.
“FromSignoraAnna. For a women's tea.” I close my eyes and lick my lips.
“When?”
“Today, at 4pm.”
“Can you help me choose what to wear, please?” I force myself to ask even though I want to break something. I look at the dishes on the table, but it's the pile of newspapers that catches my attention.
“Call the Don, Gabriella. Maybe he'll let you stay home. This tea isn't going to be good...” she says the last part quietly, and my smile is sad when I look away from the stack of newspapers to my friend.
“Maybe?” I question, because it's not possible for her to really believe that Vittorio would care enough after seeing all the photos printed in those newspapers and magazines. Rafaella's expression becomes even more hopeless with my question.
“I'm sorry,” she whispers, looking devastated by the impossibility of me refusing the Don's mother's invitation.
“Don’t be. It is worth it.”
****
The path to the drawing room is the same one I've taken many times, but it still feels different. Or maybe it's just the way I've felt since those days.
The light walls, covered in wallpaper and decorated with white frames, hold beautiful paintings. I swallow hard as I stop in front of the closed doors to the room.
“Don't stop smiling.” With her eyes fixed on the provincial doors in front of us, Luigia says, keeping her lips closed and her voice low enough for only me to hear, even if there's no one else besides us in the hallway.
I turn my face towards her, her gaze is not really on me, but I am able to see in it the same pity that I saw when the housekeeper introduced me to my room in Vittorio's wing. Luigia has stopped being a constant figure since I stopped working in housekeeping, but I like to believe that, regardless of that, she likes me.
The advice given in an orderly tone sounds like confirmation, and I comply, pasting a smile on my face and feeling the same barbed wires from earlier stretching beneath it.
“Look ahead,” she orders too, and I obey. “It doesn't matter what you hear, or from whom. Don't stop smiling. Greet thesignora, then sit down.” I give a small nod, and, with a simple movement, the housekeeper opens the doors.
Every pair of eyes within the room turns our way, and there are many of them. The space finely decorated with Provençal furniture is occupied by at least two dozen women who can easily be divided into two groups: mothers and daughters.
I force my legs to move, and it feels like I'm walking into a den of lionesses. The certainty that each of these women saw the photos that Vittorio appeared in today's newspapers makes me want to vomit. I walk up toSignoraAnna and, keeping a distance of three steps, I bow briefly.
“Good afternoon,SignoraAnna.Graziefor the invitation.” Vittorio's mother's haughty gaze measures me from head to toe. She analyzes my modest blue dress with a boat neckline and three-quarter sleeves, the block heel sandals and, finally, the choker tied around my neck.
The disgust in her smile is as evident as the blue in her eyes when her face focuses on mine.
