The Glass Butterfly (18 page)
“But, maestro . . . I don't understand at all! I didn't say anything.”
“You did, my dear, you did! There will be an
ostinato,
a beat in the orchestra, like Mademoiselle Minnie's heart beating with fear . . . with anxiety . . .” He scribbled something, and then reached for the port to fill his glass. Ruby drops scattered here and there on the desk, on the floor, on the lower keys of the piano.
ostinato,
a beat in the orchestra, like Mademoiselle Minnie's heart beating with fear . . . with anxiety . . .” He scribbled something, and then reached for the port to fill his glass. Ruby drops scattered here and there on the desk, on the floor, on the lower keys of the piano.
Doria stared at Puccini, openmouthed. She hadn't understood more than one word in four of what he had just told her. Surely nothing she had said . . . she couldn't have . . . No. It was only that he figured out what was wrong on his own, even in his port-infused state. She shook her head, bemused by the vagaries of living with an artist. A fleeting wisp of pity for his wife clouded her mind. It could not be easy.
He sketched in a chord, and then another and another. Quietly, so as not to disturb his concentration, she rose, and pushed her chair back to its place beside the card table. She started through the dark dining room toward the kitchen as he began playing the new chords, filling them in with his left hand while he picked out the melody in his right. It would work, of course. He would change it, and change it again, but she could hear that the idea was there. He would mold it and polish it and turn it upside down and right side up again until it was just right. She had heard him do exactly that with
Butterfly,
the music growing, maturing, flowering over the months he labored over it.
Butterfly,
the music growing, maturing, flowering over the months he labored over it.
The stove had gone cold. She would have to build up the fire to warm the irons again. She bent to pick up another stick of wood.
“Doria! What are you doing?”
Doria turned just in time to see Elvira burst from the stairwell in a whirl of long dressing gown and loosened black hair flying about her face. She looked for all the world like a
strega,
a witch from a child's fairy tale.
strega,
a witch from a child's fairy tale.
Doria put her finger to her lips. “Signora, the maestro is working!”
“Of course he's working!” Elvira put her hands on her hips and braced her big bare feet far apart as if ready for battle. “I heard you in there with him! What were you up to?”
Doria answered without thinking. “He asked me to help him.”
“Help him! Do you think I'm a fool?”
“No, of course not, signora, and I did try to tell him I know nothing ofâ”
Elvira's thick brows were drawn so hard together they looked as if they must hurt. “Don't be ridiculous!” she snapped. “How could you help Giacomo, you of all people? You, an illiterate village girl!”
Doria sucked in her breath. Her temper flared at the insult, and she spoke more loudly than she intended. “I am
not
illiterate! I read as well as you do!”
not
illiterate! I read as well as you do!”
“Don't talk back to me!” Elvira shouted.
They both realized, in the same moment, that the music in the studio had stopped. Together, they turned guiltily toward the door, expecting Puccini to come in, to remonstrate, to object to the noise.
He didn't appear.
Now the two women stared at each other. Elvira's eyes glittered, and Doria wished she had held her tongue. It never helped to argue with the
signora
. As they gazed at each other, the front door closed with a bang, leaving the house enveloped in a tense silence, broken only by the scratching and whimpering of the hounds at the back door.
signora
. As they gazed at each other, the front door closed with a bang, leaving the house enveloped in a tense silence, broken only by the scratching and whimpering of the hounds at the back door.
Elvira hissed, “Those bloody dogs!”
Doria, cautiously, as if to move too quickly might set Elvira off again, slid the stick of wood she was holding into the stove. She closed the lid with a soft click. “I was just ironing the linens for the morning,” she said. She pointed at the tablecloth as evidence of her industry. “The
signore
came in, and he asked meâthat is, I told him I couldn't, but heâ”
signore
came in, and he asked meâthat is, I told him I couldn't, but heâ”
When Elvira didn't answer immediately, Doria looked up. Her mistress was leaning against the counter, one hand on her chest, the other buried in the unbrushed mass of her hair. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were trembling. Softly, Doria said, “Signora?”
Elvira made a small, choked sound. Her eyelids fluttered open, and Doria saw that they shone with tears. Instinctively, Doria started across the kitchen. She supposed she meant to comfort her mistress, perhaps to touch her arm or take her hand, small gestures she would offer to any unhappy person. Elvira, however, threw up her hand, and Doria stopped where she was.
“You can't know how terrible it is,” Elvira said, her voice rough as gravel, “to have no one you can talk to. No one to share your burdens.”
Doria twisted her fingers in her apron. Her lips parted, but no words came. What could she, a housemaid, say to her mistress? What words of counsel could she serve up?
Elvira barked a mirthless laugh. “You see? I can't talk to GiacomoâI can't talk to my servantsâI am completely alone.” She pushed at her hair with both hands now, and the tears in her eyes slipped over her cheeks. Another sob escaped her, an ugly sound, as if she were doing her best to hold it back.
Doria dared to whisper, “Signora, surely your children . . .”
Elvira closed her eyes again. “My children! My children have no time for me. They have their own families, their work, their homesâwhat do they care for their mother, who did everything for them?”
Doria couldn't speak her thought aloud, that Elvira had driven everyone away from her with her rages and tantrums. In any case, what good would it do now? Her mistress looked so utterly miserable, so lost.... It wouldn't help to point out the ways in which she had created her own problems. “Signora Puccini,” Doria ventured, “why don't youâwhy not let me make you a cup of tea, and while you drink it, I'll brush your hair for you? That's always so relaxing, don't you think?”
Elvira's eyes opened and fixed on Doria. “Brush my hair?”
Doria, pinned by that dark gaze, squirmed a little. “I just thought . . . perhaps . . .”
Elvira sighed suddenly, and looked away, toward the darkness of the night beyond the kitchen window. “My mother's maid used to brush my hair,” she said sadly. “When I was small. My mother didn't like to do it, because it was so curly, and it tangled. If I criedâbecause it hurtâmy mother would throw down the brush and walk away, and her maid would finish for her.”
“It's still curly,” Doria said. “And so thick.”
“Yes,” Elvira said absently. “It's hard to brush even now.” She turned her head to look at Doria again, but she didn't seem to see her. “If I had a lady's maid,” she said, “that would help. If only Giacomo would agree to hire someone, find someone to do some of these things for me.”
Someone else for Zita and me to look after,
Doria thought,
and probably take my bedroom, as well
. She heard the crackle as the fresh wood caught fire inside the stove, and she moved to the sideboard to fetch the teakettle and fill it at the sink.
Doria thought,
and probably take my bedroom, as well
. She heard the crackle as the fresh wood caught fire inside the stove, and she moved to the sideboard to fetch the teakettle and fill it at the sink.
“Tea,” Elvira said. “You're right. Tea would be good. Bring it to my room.”
“
Sì, signora.”
Doria didn't turn as Elvira swept out of the kitchen. She heard her padding up the stairs, and she shook her head in bemusement. She had worked in this house nearly six years, and Elvira had never once, in all that time, told her anything personal. She had no real relationship with her mistress other than trying to anticipate her wishes and stay out of her path when she was in one of her moods. Was it possible the
signora
's moment of weakness might improve things between them?
Sì, signora.”
Doria didn't turn as Elvira swept out of the kitchen. She heard her padding up the stairs, and she shook her head in bemusement. She had worked in this house nearly six years, and Elvira had never once, in all that time, told her anything personal. She had no real relationship with her mistress other than trying to anticipate her wishes and stay out of her path when she was in one of her moods. Was it possible the
signora
's moment of weakness might improve things between them?
It was past midnight by the time she carried the tray up the stairs. She had wrapped a cozy around the teapot, and laid a cup and saucer and two biscotti on a clean pressed napkin. There was still no sign of Puccini. He had gone to the café, no doubt, and was now drinking
vin santo
with his friends. Doria suppressed a yawn as she shouldered the door open into Elvira's bedroom.
vin santo
with his friends. Doria suppressed a yawn as she shouldered the door open into Elvira's bedroom.
The
signora
was seated at her lacy dressing table, massaging cold cream into her cheeks. Doria set the tea tray next to her, and poured out a cup. Elvira, without speaking, picked up the cup with one hand and pointed to a hairbrush with the other.
signora
was seated at her lacy dressing table, massaging cold cream into her cheeks. Doria set the tea tray next to her, and poured out a cup. Elvira, without speaking, picked up the cup with one hand and pointed to a hairbrush with the other.
It felt strange to Doria to pick up Elvira's hairbrush, to clean a few strands of the
signora
's coarse black hair from its bristles. She had often brushed Puccini's hair, and washed and shaved him as well, when he was bedridden for so long, but Elvira was another matter. Even though it had been her own idea, now the thought of touching her, of being so close to her, made Doria's stomach quiver unpleasantly.
signora
's coarse black hair from its bristles. She had often brushed Puccini's hair, and washed and shaved him as well, when he was bedridden for so long, but Elvira was another matter. Even though it had been her own idea, now the thought of touching her, of being so close to her, made Doria's stomach quiver unpleasantly.
Elvira sipped from her teacup and set it down as Doria started on her hair. Doria did it the way her mother had when she was a little girl, brushing and brushing with regular strokes, smoothing snarls, loosening the long tangles. Elvira sighed, and her eyelids fluttered and grew heavy. In the mirror Doria saw her thick shoulders relax, the lines of her face soften and nearly disappear. She kept working, gathering Elvira's thick hair into a plait, smoothing it away from her temples and behind her ears. It felt rough and oily against her fingers, but she tried not to think about that. Elvira slumped a little, and for a moment Doria thought she might have fallen asleep, right there on the stool.
She reached the end of the braid, and tied it with a bit of ribbon that lay on the dressing table. When she released it, and stood back, Elvira's eyes opened. She glanced at herself in the mirror, and then at Doria. Her eyes suddenly narrowed, and her face tensed. “You think I'm old and ugly,” she said.
“No, signora, of course I don't!”
Elvira went on as if Doria hadn't spoken. “You'll see one day,” she said. Everything about her seemed to change all at once. Her lips thinned. Her shoulders hunched. Her forehead creased as if she had suddenly remembered all her complaints. She said in a sour voice, her mouth pulling down, “You'll see what it's like.” She pointed a long, sharp-nailed forefinger at Doria.
Doria's own shoulders tightened. She still held the hairbrush, and she cast about her for a place to put it down.
Elvira's eyes began to glitter with incipient temper. “That smooth skin, that slender waist! You're going to find out it doesn't last. When I met Giacomo I was so slim, he used to say he had to shake the sheets to find me! But nowâ”
With a sudden motion, she shoved herself to her feet. She turned swiftly around, and Doria flinched. Elvira said, “You'll see! One day you'll be old and fat like me, and then you'llâ”
“Signora,” Doria interrupted. “Don't speak of yourself that way.”
“I don't like the way you talk to me!” Elvira put her hands on her hips. “I never wanted you in this house, did you know that?” As her voice rose and sharpened, the fragile moments of peace evaporated like soap bubbles on a cold breeze. It was startling, Doria thought, how swiftly her mood could change. Perhaps Old Zita was right.
Pazza
.
Pazza
.
Now Elvira thrust out her heavy chin. “Oh, yes! I wanted someone older, someone who knew how to nurse Giacomo. I certainly never wanted an ignorant village girl, but Father Michelucci told Giacomoâ”
She broke off, listening. The door had opened and closed downstairs, and footsteps sounded through the studio. “It's Giacomo!” Elvira hissed. Her temper had brought the lines back to her face. The cold cream settled into them, thin white worms outlining every crease and wrinkle. “Out! I don't want him to find you here!”
Doria understood, with swift feminine instinct, that Elvira didn't want her husband to compare the two of them. She backed toward the door, but she said as soothingly as she knew how, “SignoraâI'm in your room every day, the
signore
knowsâ”
signore
knowsâ”
Elvira lunged at Doria, her big feet slapping on the carpet. She thrust at her shoulder with her extended fingers, as if she would push her bodily out of the room. Doria stumbled against the doorjamb, and rubbed her shoulder where Elvira's sharp nails stung through her dress. She wondered if Elvira had been this way with her children, pushing and shoving at them when words failed her. That would explain why they never wanted to see her. Her own mamma, though they quarreled so often, had never struck her, would think such behavior beneath her dignity.
Doria pulled the door open. Behind her, Elvira said, “Hurry! Hurry!”
It was too late to hide the fact that she'd been in the bedroom, though. Puccini was already at the foot of the stairs, and when he heard Doria's step on the landing, he tipped up his head, then, laughing, caught at the banister for balance. He was now very, very drunk; she could see that. She started down the staircase, and Puccini, his braces hanging loose over his trousers, started up it.
As they met, he said blurrily, smiling at her and grasping at her hand, “Doria
mia!
Not in your bed?” He glanced up at the landing, squinting as he tried to focus his eyes. “What are you doing up here at this hour, little nurse?”
mia!
Not in your bed?” He glanced up at the landing, squinting as he tried to focus his eyes. “What are you doing up here at this hour, little nurse?”
She pulled her hand free, afraid the
signora
would come out of the bedroom and see. “I wasâI braided the
signora
's hair for her,” she said.
signora
would come out of the bedroom and see. “I wasâI braided the
signora
's hair for her,” she said.
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