Page 96 of Promised to the Don of Naples
I answered in short. Sì. No. Grazie, nonna. I couldn't bring myself to call her anything else. She seemed to expect me to call her that.
Halfway through lunch, Donna Beatrice came in silently and held out a plain white envelope, no stamp, nothing written on the outside, to Luca.
He opened it, read it, and closed it. Then he folded it in four and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Cazzo, I thought. Something else from my father. But if the nonna doesn't ask in front of her, I don't ask in front of her.
"Valentina."
"Sì, nonna."
"After lunch, you'll sit with me in the music room." She wasn't asking. "Have coffee brought in. Just coffee."
"Va bene, nonna."
Luca, at the head of the table, lowered his eyes to his plate and said not a word.
The music room had been opened by Donna Beatrice before lunch.
The curtains were drawn back, the afternoon sun coming in yellow over the piano keys. The nonna sat down in the green velvet armchair—the only one with a high back, near thewindow. She rested her cane against the arm of the chair and took the cup of black coffee Donna Beatrice brought.
"Signora," she said, and it was the first time all day she'd called me that. "Do you play?"
"I play."
"Play for me."
I sat down on the piano bench. I lifted the lid. I rested my fingers on the keys—C, D, E—like someone testing, someone buying time.
"What, nonna?"
"Play whatever came into your head on its own when I asked."
I swallowed hard.
Chopin, Op. 9 No. 2.
Mamma's nocturne.
I started to play. Left hand first, then the right coming in slowly. It was going well, the sound filled the room, I closed my eyes.
I got to the middle, and stopped.
I couldn't finish. My hands locked over the keys, and I felt a knot in my throat.
"Signora."
"Scusi, nonna. I can't."
"Look at me."
I looked.
The nonna had the cup at her lips, her black eyes above the rim. She swallowed and set the cup down on the saucer without a sound.
"That same nocturne," she said, "your mother played for me in Capri."
I went still.
