Remembrance (5 page)

“And they did?” Serena's eyes lit up with an ugly fire. Perhaps he had come by his just deserts after all.

“No.” Marcella shook her head. Her voice was without pity in the summer night. “He killed himself, Serena. He shot himself in the garden, two months after the principessa died. He had no money left, he had nothing. Only debts. The lawyers told me that it took everything, the money from both houses and everything else, to pay his debts.” Then there was nothing left. It didn't matter. She hadn't come home for that.

“And the house?” Serena looked at her strangely. “Who does it belong to now?”

“I don't know. People I have never seen. They rent it to the Americans now since the end of the war. Before that, it was empty. I was here by myself. Every month the lawyer brings me my money. They wanted me to stay, to see that everything is all right. Once, the Germans almost took it over, but they never did.” She shrugged, looking embarrassed again. Serena had lost everything, and yet Marcella was still living here. How odd life was.

“And the Americans live here now?”

“Not yet. Until now they only worked here. Now … next week … they will move in. Before, they only used it for offices, but they came yesterday to tell me they will move in on Tuesday.” She shrugged, looking like the Marcella that Serena had known as a child. “For me, it makes no difference, they have all of their own people. And they told me yesterday that they will hire two girls to help me. So for me it changes nothing. Serena?” The old woman watched her closely.
“E tu? Vai bene?
What happened in all those years? You stayed with the nuns?”

“I did.” She nodded slowly. “And I waited to come back.”

“And now? Where are you staying?” Her eyes glanced down at the suitcase Serena had dropped at her feet. But Serena shrugged.

“It doesn't matter.” She suddenly felt oddly, strangely, free, fettered to no place, no person, and no time. In the last twelve hours every tie that she had ever clung to had been severed. She was on her own now, and she knew that she would survive. “I was going to find a hotel, but I wanted to come here first. Just to see it.”

Marcella searched her face, and then hung her head as tears filled her eyes again. “Principessa …” It was a word spoken so softly that Serena barely heard it, and when she did, it sent a gentle tremor up her spine. The very word conjured up the lost image of her grandmother … Principessa.… She felt a wave of loneliness wash over her again, as Marcella lifted her face and dried her eyes on the apron that she eternally wore, even now. She clung to Serena's hand then, and Serena gently touched it with her own. “All these years I am here … with your grandmother, and then here, in this house.” She waved vaguely toward the imposing building behind Serena. “I am here. In the palazzo. And you” —she waved disparagingly at the dismal little suitcase—”like a beggar child, in rags, looking for a hotel. No!” She said it emphatically, almost with anger as the corpulent body shook. “No! You do not go to a hotel!”

“What do you suggest, Marcella?” Serena smiled gently. It was a voice and an expression on the old woman that she recognized from a dozen years before. “Are you suggesting that I move in with the Americans?”

“Pazza, va!”
She grinned. Crazy! “Not with the Americans. With me.
Ècco.”
As she spoke the last word she snatched the suitcase from the ground, took Serena's hand more firmly in her own, and began to walk toward the palazzo, but Serena stood where she was and shook her head.

“I can't.” They stood there for a moment, neither moving, and Marcella searched the young girl's eyes. She knew all that she was thinking. She had had her own nightmares to overcome when she had first returned to Rome after the old lady's death. At first all she could remember here were the others … Umberto and Graziella … Serena as she had been, as a child … the other servants she had worked with, the butler she had once so desperately loved … Sergio when he had been younger and not yet rotten from within … the principessa in her prime.…

“You can stay with me, Serena. You must. You cannot be alone in Rome.” And then, more gently, “You belong here. In your father's house.”

She shook her head slowly, her eyes filling with tears. “It's not my father's house anymore.”

More gently still, “It is my home now. Will you not come home with me?” She saw in those deep green eyes the agony that had been there on the morning of the death of her father and knew that she was not speaking to the woman, but the child. “It's all right, Serena. Come, my love.… Marcella will take care of you … everything will be all right.” She enfolded Serena in her arms then, and they stood as they had in the beginning, holding tightly across the empty years.
“Andiamo, cara.”
And for no reason she could understand, Serena allowed herself to follow the old woman. She had only come to see it, not to stay there. To stand and gaze and remember, not to try and step inside the memories again. That was too much for her, she couldn't bear it. But as the old woman led her gently toward the rear entrance, Serena felt exhaustion overwhelm her … it was as though her whole day was telescoping into one instant and she couldn't bear it any longer. All she wanted was to lie down somewhere and stop thinking, stop trying to sort it all out.

Soon she stood at the back door of what had once been her parents' palazzo. Marcella quickly inserted the heavy key and turned it, and the door creaked, just as Serena had remembered it, and as the door swung open she found herself standing downstairs, in the servants' hall. The paint was yellowing, she saw as Marcella turned a light on; the curtains were the same, only they were no longer a bright blue but a faded gray; the wood floor was the same only a little duller, but there were fewer hands around now to wax it and Marcella had grown old. But nothing had really changed. Even the clock on the wall in the pantry was the same. Serena's eyes opened wide in amazement, and for the first time in years there was no anger and no pain. At last she had come home.

She had come full circle, and there was no one left to share it with but Marcella, clucking like an old mother hen as she led her down a familiar hallway into a room that had once belonged to a woman named Teresa, who had been a young and pretty upstairs maid. Like the others, she was long gone now, and it was into her room that Marcella led Serena, grabbing old frayed sheets and a blanket from a cupboard as she went. Everything was old and growing shabby, but it was still clean, and every bit of it was familiar, Serena realized as she sat down in a chair and watched Marcella make the bed. She said nothing. She only sat and stared.

“Vai bene,
Serena?” The old woman glanced at her often, afraid that the shock of all she'd heard and seen and learned would be too much. She could neither read nor write, but she knew people, and she knew from the look in Serena's eyes that the girl had been through too much. “Take your clothes off,
bambino mia.
I'll wash them for you in the morning. And before you go to sleep, a little hot milk.” Milk was still hard to come by, but she had some, and on this precious child of hers she would have lavished all she had.

Serena looked content to be where she was. It was as though suddenly all of her defenses had given way at the same time and she couldn't bear to stand up a moment longer. Coming home to Marcella was like being nine years old again, or five, or two.

“I'll be back in two minutes with the hot milk. I promise!” She smiled gently at Serena, cozily tucked into the narrow bed in the simple room. The walls were white, the trim gray, there was a narrow faded curtain in the room, a small ancient rug that dated back to the days of Teresa and the others, and the walls were bare. But Serena didn't even see them. She lay back against the pillow, closed her eyes, and when Marcella returned a moment later with the precious warm milk and sugar, she found Serena fast asleep. The old woman stopped just inside the doorway, turned out the single bulb that lit the room, and stood in the darkness, watching the young woman in the light of the moonlight, remembering how she had looked as a child. Like this, she thought to herself, only so much smaller… and more peaceful.… How troubled Serena had looked to her that evening … how angry … and how hurt … and how afraid. It hurt her to think back on all that had happened to the child, and then suddenly she realized as she watched her that she was gazing at the last remaining principessa of the Tibaldos. Serena di San Tibaldo. Principessa Serena … asleep at last in the servants' quarters of her father's house.

4

When the sun streamed in the narrow window the next morning, Serena lay sprawled across the bed like a young goddess, her hair fanned out behind her like a sheet of gold. Marcella stood once more in the doorway, watching her, awed by the sheer brilliance of her beauty, and even more amazed than she had been the previous evening that Serena had come back at all. It was a miracle, she had told herself.

“Ciao,
Celia.” Serena opened one eye sleepily and smiled. “Is it late?”

“For what? You have an appointment? One day in Rome and you're already busy?” Marcella bustled toward her and Serena sat up and grinned. Years seemed to have fallen from her in the hours that she had been sleeping. Even after all that had happened the day before, she was less worried than she'd been since leaving the States. At least now she knew. She knew everything that she had been dreading hearing. The worst had come. Now there was the rest of her life to consider.

“What would you like for breakfast,
signorina?”
And then she changed it quickly.
“Scusi,
Principessa.”

“What? You're not going to call me that! That was
Normal”
Serena looked half amused, half outraged. That was another era, another time. But Marcella looked dragonlike as she drew herself up to her full five feet at Serena's bedside.

“Now it is you. And you owe it to her, and to the others before her, to respect who and what you are.”

“I'm me. Serena di San Tibaldo.
Punto. Finito. Basta.”

“Nonsense!” Marcella fussed as she smoothed the covers over Serena, and then looked at her gravely. “Don't ever forget who you are, Serena. She never did.”

“She didn't have to. And she didn't live in the world we do now. That's all over, Marcella. All of it. It died with—” She had been about to say “my parents,” but couldn't bring herself to say it still. “It died with a whole generation of people whom our charming Duce attempted to destroy. Successfully, in a lot of cases. And what's left? People like me, who don't have ten lire left to their name, and have to get jobs digging ditches. Is that what being a principessa is all about, Celia?”

“It's in here.” She pointed heatedly to her vast breast, indicating where her big generous heart was, and then to her head, “and in here. Not in what you do and what you don't do and how much money you have. Being a principe or a principessa is not money.
She
had not so much money either at the end. But she was always the principessa. And one day you will be like that too.”

Serena shook her head firmly. “The world has changed, Marcella. Trust me. I know that.”

“And what have you seen since you've been back here? The train station and what else?”

“People. On the train, in the streets, soldiers, young people, old people. They're different, Celia. They don't give a damn about principesse, and they probably never did. Only we cared about that stuff, and if we're smart, we'll forget about it now.” And then with a return of cynicism she looked at the old woman. “Do you really think the Americans are going to care about that? If you told them you were hiding a principessa in your basement, do you think they would give a damn?”

“I'm not hiding you, Serena.” Marcella looked sad. She didn't want to hear about this new world. The old world had been important to her. All of it. She believed in the old order and how it had worked. “You are staying here with me.”

“Why?” Serena looked at her cruelly for a moment. “Because I am a principessa?”

“Because I love you. I always did and I always will.” The old woman looked at her proudly, and tears rapidly filled Serena's eyes and she held out her arms from where she sat on the bed.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that.” Marcella went to her and sat down. “It just hurts me to think about the old days. Everything I loved about them is gone. To me all that mattered were the people I loved. I don't want the damn title. I'd rather have
Norma
still here, and just be me.”

“But she isn't, and this is what she has left you. It is all she has left you, and I know she would want you to be proud of it too. Don't you want to be a principessa, Serena?” She looked at the girl in surprise.

“No.” Serena shook her head solemnly. “I want my breakfast.” She had only eaten bread and cheese at the station the day before. And she had forgotten dinner completely. But now she laughed at Marcella's earnestness, and the old woman dried her eyes and growled.

“You haven't grown up at all! You're just as impossible as you always were! Fresh … rude. …” The old woman grumbled and Serena stretched and got lazily out of bed with a grin.

“I told you. Princesses are a bad lot, Celia. Bad blood.”

“Stop making light of that!” This time the growling was for real.

“Only if you stop taking it so seriously.” Serena looked at her gently, but there was something very determined in her eyes. “I have better things to think about now.” The old woman made no further comment, but went back to the pantry to make a steaming pot of coffee, another precious commodity that was still difficult to get enough of, after the war. But from Serena she was hoarding nothing. She lavished it all upon the young princess with the modern ideas. Crazy, all this nonsense about not wanting the title, not using it, not … it was ridiculous, Marcella grumbled to herself as she made breakfast. She had been born to be a principessa. Imagine not using the title! Ridiculous! She had obviously been in America for too long. It was high time she came home and remembered the old ways. Ten minutes later she called Serena to breakfast and the striking young beauty appeared in a blue cotton bathrobe they had given her at the convent, and her hair was brushed until it shone like gold in the bright morning sun. “What's for breakfast, Celia?”

“Toast, ham, jelly, peaches, coffee.” A wealth of treasures some of which, like the jelly and the sugar, she had been saving for months. Serena instantly understood, and kissed the wrinkled old cheek before she sat down. She promised herself that she would eat sparingly, no matter how ravenously hungry she was.

“All of this just for me, Marcella?” She felt guilty eating all of the old woman's treasures, but she knew also that not to eat them would be to hurt her feelings. So she ate, carefully, but with obvious pleasure, and they shared the coffee, right to the last drop. “You cook like an angel.” She closed her eyes and smiled happily in the morning sunshine, and the old woman touched the smooth young cheek with a smile.

“Welcome home, Serena.” There was a moment of happy silence and then Serena stretched her long legs out in front of her and smiled.

“You make me want to stay forever.” But she knew that she couldn't, and she wanted to leave before the temptation became too great to venture into the rest of the house. She didn't really want to do that. Even if part of her did. The rest of her did not.

Marcella was eyeing her thoughtfully as she stood up. “Why couldn't you stay, Serena? You don't have to go back to the States.”

“No. But I have no reason to stay here.” Except that she loved it and it was home.

“Don't you want to stay?” Marcella looked hurt and Serena smiled.

“Of course I do. But I can't just move in. I have to have a place to live, a job, all of that. I don't know that I could find work in Rome.”

“Why do you have to work?” The old woman looked annoyed. She wanted to hold on to the past, Serena realized with a smile.

“Because I have to eat. If I don't work, I won't eat.”

“You could live here.”

“And eat your food? What about you?”

“We'll have plenty. The Americans throw away more than all of the Romans eat put together. There will be everything we need here once they move in upstairs.”

“And how do we explain me, Marcella?” Serena continued to look amused. “Resident principessa? Good luck charm? Your good friend? We just tell them they're lucky to have me, and I stay?”

“It's none of their business who you are.” Marcella looked instantly defensive.

“They might not agree with you, Celia.”

“Then you can work for them. As a secretary. You speak English. Don't you?” She looked at Serena with curiosity. After four years, she should, she was a bright girl after all. And as she listened Serena grinned.

“Yes, I do, but they wouldn't hire me as a secretary. They have their own people for that. Why should they hire me?” And then suddenly, her eyes began to sparkle. She had an idea.

“You thought of something?” Marcella knew that look only too well. It always made her faintly nervous, but often Serena's most outrageous ideas had been good.

“Maybe. Who does one speak to about jobs here?”

“I don't know.…” She looked pensive for a moment. “They gave me an address, in case I knew of any girls to help me with the house.” She looked instantly suspicious. “Why?”

“Because I want to apply for a job.”

“To do what?”

“I'll see what they have.” It was one thing to arrive, oblivious with exhaustion, and spend a night in Marcella's cozy servants' quarters. It was quite another to live eternally belowstairs in a house that had once been her own. And she knew that she wasn't ready yet to go upstairs. But if they gave her a job, she would have to. She would just have to tell herself that it was their house, that it had nothing to do with her, or anyone she knew, and that she had never seen it before, but she was still quaking a little inside as she rounded the end of the Via Nazionale and passed the Baths of Diocletian as she turned into the Piazza della Repubblica and found the address. What if they didn't give her a job? Then what would she do? Scrape up the last of her money and make her way back to the States? Or stay here, in Rome? But for what? For her heart, she told herself as she pushed open the heavy door into the American offices that had been established there. Rome was where she had to be. She smiled as she thought of it, and she was still smiling to herself as she stepped into the building and collided almost instantly with a tall man with a boyish grin and a headful of thick blond curls under his military hat. On him the hat looked jaunty and-he had it perched at a rakish angle, and his gray eyes seemed to dance with amusement as he looked into Serena's green eyes. For an instant she was tempted to smile at him, but her face grew rapidly serious, and as always when confronted with a uniform, she averted her eyes. No matter how handsome the man was, or how friendly, the uniforms always reminded her of her old nightmares, and she couldn't bear to look the men in the eyes.

“I'm sorry.” He gently touched her elbow as though to convey his apology in case she did not speak his language. “Do you speak English?” His eyes combed her face, and he was instantly struck by her perfect creamy satin beauty, the wheat-gold hair, the huge green eyes, but he noticed too the stiff way she pulled away from him after their brief collision, and then the chilly way she looked at him once she had regained her composure, caught her breath, and stepped back. She seemed not to understand what he was saying, and he smiled and said a few words to her in Italian.
“Scusi, signorina. Mi displace molto.
…” And then he faltered with a captivating smile. But Serena did not appear captivated, inclined her head, indicating that she understood and murmured,
“Grazie.”
Her attitude would have annoyed him except that in the brief moments he had watched her he had seen the pain lurking deep within the bright green eyes. He had seen others like her. Everyone had suffered in the war. The Ice Maiden, he dubbed her to himself as he went on his way.

He had noticed instantly her spectacular beauty, but chasing the locals had never been Major B. J. Fullerton's forte. He had managed not to do any of that since he had arrived. He had ample reason not to. The major was engaged to one of the most beautiful young socialites in New York. Pattie Atherton had been the most ravishing debutante of 1940, and now at twenty-three, she was engaged to be his wife. B.J. smiled to himself again, with a little whistle as he hurried down the steps to the waiting limousine. He had a lot to do that morning, and his encounter with Serena slipped quickly from his mind.

Inside, Serena had pondered the available desks for a quiet moment, headed toward one marked
EMPLOYMENT
, with a subheading in Italian
LAVORO
, and had then explained in halting English what it was she wanted in the way of work. She was anxious not to let them know how well she spoke English. It was none of their business, she had decided. And above all, she did not want a job as translator, or as Marcella had suggested, as a secretary. All she wanted was to scrub floors in her old home, beside Marcella, and for that she barely needed to speak English at all.

“You're familiar with the existing housekeeper, you say, miss?” She nodded. “Did she send you here?” The Americans spoke loudly and precisely to the Italians, assuming that they were both stupid and deaf. Serena nodded again. “How well do you speak English? A little? More than that? Can you understand me?”

“Si.
Un po'
… a leetle. Enough.” Enough to clean floors and polish silver, she thought to herself, and apparently the woman in uniform at the desk thought so too.