A Harvest of Secrets(49)
True, the conversation with the mother superior had been charged with things unspoken, with secrets and allusions, but even that talk seemed to have been held against a background of quiet steadiness, of cares larger than those of this world. From what Vittoria could see, the nuns’ emotions had been set aside, or so deeply buried they could never reach the surface. Their lives were as bland as the small, bare-walled room in which she lay herself down to sleep, as bland as the polenta and greens they’d eaten for dinner, the tepid well water they’d drunk. As an adolescent visitor, she’d felt nothing but pity for these women, who were sacrificing every one of life’s pleasures in the hope of moving closer to God. Now, though she knew she could never trade places with them, Vittoria had at least a small appreciation for what they’d gained. She thought of the tension that filled every room her father sat in. She thought of the sometimes-fierce arguments she’d overheard between him and her mother, the fits of emotion she’d heard in the kitchen, or among the people who lived in the barn. She thought of her own foolish worries: what to request for dinner, how to have the meat cooked, what to wear, in which part of which room to place a new divan, lamp, or painting. All of that was missing from this whitewashed stone building, and the absence made all of it seem so petty.
She had an urge to write Carlo a letter, even though she knew it could never be sent. She longed for a true, open conversation, heartfelt, honest, free of secrets. Talks like that had been one of the gifts he’d given her, brief and quiet and so rare in her life, more valuable than diamonds.
The day had exhausted her, but before she fell asleep, she was visited by a memory of bringing her mother four peeled slices of pear on the last day she was able to eat. Propped up against the pillows, one of Vittoria’s ink drawings framed on the wall behind, her mother took a slippery slice in her fingers and laughed quietly when it twice fell back onto the plate. Eventually she was able to bring it to her mouth, chew and swallow it, and then she wiped her fingers on the blue silk napkin and shifted her eyes to Vittoria. So much love shone there. Love, and something else, compassion perhaps, fearlessness, a secret understanding. By then, the affair with Carlo had begun, and perhaps her mother sensed that, or had somehow found out about it. But her mother, also from a wealthy, landowning family, had been bred to silence and propriety, as if, in Italian high society, it was undignified to speak openly about life’s more treacherous subjects. Love, sex, death, disappointment. But on that afternoon, her mother studied Vittoria for a moment, blinked, swallowed, and said, very quietly and deliberately, “My beautiful daughter, until you have your own children you may never understand how having a child opens your heart to the deepest possible love. There are so many things I haven’t told you. My political views, my past, my secrets.”
“Tell me, Mother. Tell me now, please.”
Her mother shook her head. “I haven’t the strength. And, in the end, as I now see clearly, those things don’t matter very much. What matters is what I feel for you and your brother. It is, I think, what religious people must feel for God. A sense of having been given an incredible gift, and of being willing to give anything and everything back in return.”
Her mother closed her eyes tiredly. Vittoria waited, wanting more, but feeling that the air around them was as fragile as the thinnest glass. Any word might shatter the moment. She watched her mother’s chest rise and fall, the plate with the uneaten slices tilting on the tops of her thighs. Vittoria reached out and took the plate and napkin and set them on the night table, waiting, watching. At last, her mother opened her eyes, and the gaze there seemed to contain both death and something beyond death. Vittoria felt a tremor pass through her. Her mother smiled, wearily, and said four words Vittoria had been pondering ever since: “The surfaces fool us.” And then she closed her eyes again, too tired to go on.
Vittoria fell asleep thinking about her mother, woke up thinking about her mother, drank tea alone in the dining room (the nuns had risen long ago and were not to be seen), and then, with the help of the one young nun who’d greeted her the day before, she set off in the wagon, still pondering those last words. A hundred questions rattled around in her thoughts. How had she not known that her mother had come here “many times,” as Sister Gabriella put it? Were those the times her father or one of the servants had told her, Your mother has gone to see her family in Salò or Your mother and a friend are taking a few days by the sea? Vittoria wondered if all their years together inside the manor house had been wrapped in a fine quilt of lies, pretty new patches sewn on day after day, all of them hiding a thin stuffing of truth. How much do you know about your parents’ marriage? Sister Gabriella had asked. What a thing to say! What a question!
As she guided the horse along, Vittoria realized that her answer should have been: absolutely nothing. That she should have pressed harder for answers, for information, for the revelation of secrets. But she’d been so relieved to have gotten the Germans safely behind those walls, and so intimidated—a rare feeling in her life—by the mother superior, and the meeting had ended so abruptly . . .
She pushed the horse to go a little faster along the muddy road. Even though, beside the rolled-up and neatly tied tarpaulin (was there anything the nuns couldn’t do, any kindness they failed to observe?), the back of the cart was now empty, she worried about meeting the police again, or, worse, a German patrol. The small pistol sat wrapped in the waterproof at her feet, a foolish thing, perhaps, but it gave her some comfort. She wanted to get home as quickly as she could and try to unravel the threads on the quilt of lies. To rip off the pretty patches, tear out the stuffing, see what was there.