Page 127 of Promised to the Don of Naples
"Sorella."
"Sì."
"I owe you a conversation."
"I owe you one too."
He sighed. His hair had been cut three days before by Donna Pia, his beard shaved, a clean white shirt. He no longer looked like the man from the cellar; he looked like the brother I remembered from childhood in Mondello.
"I was cold to you in the south cellar. I know."
"You were."
"I was angry at the world, sorella. Not at you."
"I know. But I thought more than once that you were angry at me for marrying him."
"I was," he admitted. "For two days. After Mamma's letter, I stopped thinking that way."
"Va bene."
We stayed quiet for a while. Down below, at the Marina Piccola, a boat sounded its horn.
"Sorella. You're pale."
"I know."
"The nonna knows."
He reached his hand across the table and squeezed mine. It was the first time in seven years.
The phone rang at eleven. It was him.
"Bella mia. How are you?"
"I'm fine." I swallowed hard. "The nonna told me to rest. Matteo's well. And you?"
"I'm all right. Don't ask me where, bella mia."
"Va bene."
"I'll call you tomorrow."
"Sì."
He hung up.
His voice was tired in a new way. I stood there holding the phone in the room on the Via Tragara for a minute after he hung up.
The envelope arrived at four in the afternoon.
Donna Pia brought it up. No name on the outside, a plain seal, thin handwriting in the right corner that I recognized before I opened it.
Bianca.
I opened it.
The letter was short, only four lines.
