The Good Left Undone(39)

Griffo remained in fine voice, but her contralto was hard to hear over the buzz of the crowd, the carousel music, and the churning of the gelato contraption, which was louder than a cement mixer. Domenica pushed through the crowd to listen to Griffo’s program. She felt bad for the singer as the barge loaded with fireworks rubbed against the pilings and squeaked loudly as it was guided slowly out to sea during her aria.

Soon the sky would be filled with sparklets of candy colors and scribbled with smoke. Griffo concluded her program and bowed. Domenica applauded the singer along with a small coterie of her local fans. Griffo sang in a style that few appreciated. She was a classical singer—her presentation was like calligraphy in the air, her phrasing full of curlicues. The young Italians preferred effortless American swing and jazz. Gilda Griffo was out of style. She bowed, jumped off the barrel, and landed on the dune. She shook the sand off the hem of her skirt.

“You’re in fine voice, Signora,” Domenica complimented her.

“Who can sing on a wine barrel? I need a proper amphitheater, but it’s booked. They’re playing frog hop on the stage. Carnevale has gone to the weeds. The old days were better. There was respect for craft.” Griffo walked off.

Monica Mironi waved at Domenica from the middle distance. She carried her infant in a basket and the one-year-old on her hip. Her oldest son walked ahead of them.

“La bella famiglia!” Domenica greeted the Mironi children.

“They should be home asleep, but Leonardo didn’t want to miss the fireworks.”

“Tonight will be the twenty-ninth finale of fireworks I’ve attended.” Domenica knelt and spoke to the little boy: “I understand why you don’t want to miss them.”

“What a beautiful dress!” Monica took in Domenica’s drop-waist dress with a ruffle on the hem. “Emerald green is my favorite color.”

“How have you been?” Domenica asked.

“I will come and see you again.”

“You have an appointment, remember?”

Domenica watched Monica walk to the carousel with her children. She needed help, but where was her husband? There were some men in the village who provided for their families but spent little time with their children. She was grateful her father had not been one of them.

Domenica walked along the pier. The merchandise that was exotic and new at the start of the festival had now been picked over. She heard the gelato maker shout that he was almost out of sugar. The bomboloni stand had enough dough for a final batch, and there wouldn’t be more until the next festival. It seemed the tourists had left and taken the best food and fun with them.

“Cabrelli. I need to talk to you,” Guido Mironi yelled as he jumped onto the boardwalk and cut her off. He was soon joined by a few faces she recognized. They were men who worked with Mironi at the marble mine. They had been drinking. They had loosened their ties and unbuttoned their vests. Domenica kept walking.

“Cabrelli, are you deaf?” Mironi shouted.

The men laughed.

Domenica turned and walked back to face him. “Signore Mironi.”

The men in his company began to taunt their friend. “Signore! Signore!”

“I went to school with her.” Mironi toasted her with a bottle.

“When you bothered to show up,” she said. “Excuse me.”

Mironi blocked her from moving past him. “I want to talk to you,” he said.

Domenica looked down the boardwalk, searching the crowd for Monica and the children. They were gone. “Signore.” Domenica folded her arms across her chest and planted her feet firmly on the boardwalk. As a small woman, she had learned how to take up space and fill it with confidence. Her stance and Mironi’s tone of voice caused a crowd to form around them in anticipation of an argument. Domenica searched the circle for a friendly face but did not find one.

“Stay out of my business,” he sneered. He handed the bottle of grappa to one of his pals in order to fish into his pockets. He reeked of wine but remained sober enough to stand, though his ample weight shifted from one foot to the other.

“What is this?” He waved a pamphlet in the air.

Domenica realized it was the booklet explaining family planning that she had given to Monica. She snatched it from him. “This is not the time or place to discuss private matters. Come to Dottore Pretucci’s office if you have questions.”

“I tell her what to do. Not you. Not Pretucci. Me.”

“She’s well aware that you’re the padrone.”

“I am the padrone!” Mironi roared.

“And now the entire village knows you’re the boss.”

The crowd laughed, enraging Mironi. He lunged for Domenica. He was big and lumbering, but she was quick and stepped out of his way. She folded the pamphlet and tucked it inside the sleeve of her dress.

“Stay away from my wife!” Mironi warned her.

The crowd split into two sides: men and women. Domenica felt the tension of the two camps as she became the voice of the women. She stood firm as Mironi turned back toward the beach, but instead of leaving, he spun around and spit at Domenica’s feet.

Domenica looked down at the ground and up at Mironi. “Aren’t you a big man in every way but the important one?”

A ripple of nervous laughter went through the crowd. The fight was lopsided, a bear and a mouse. The people were riveted by the sight of the young woman standing up to the giant.