Swimming in the Moon: A Novel Read Free

and her own mother’s basket lost. “What can I cook for him now? What? Tell me!”
    “Broth and rice as the doctor ordered,” said a soft voice behind me, the Countess Elisabetta. “And that’s enough, Nannina. None of this was Lucia’s idea. But the count wants to see her.” Fear stiffened my legs. A hand on my back pushed me gently along. “Remember that he’s sick. I’ve given him laudanum. He’ll be sleeping soon.”
    Count Filippo’s room was a long hall away, but his voice already pounded in my ear as I walked stiffly forward. “ And I let you keep your little bastardina .” The voice rose: “Is that right, Teresa? This is how you repay me? Attacking the Maestro Toscanini?”
    I was in the doorway now. My mother’s back, stiff as a marble column, gave me courage. “She didn’t attack him, sir,” I said boldly. “She only sang from La Bohème .”
    “You!” He pointed at me, his fleshy, blotched face damp with sweat. “Always reading! What servant girl, what bastardina, needs to read? You should be cleaning this cesspool.” He flung his hand around the room. Sunlight glistened on the china and wood I dusted daily. He yawned. “Get out, both of you. I’m surrounded by imbeciles. The laughingstock of Naples.”
    “All Teresa did was sing,” said the countess, who had just arrived. “The maestro called her an angel. Who else has a servant like that? You should rest now, Filippo.”
    “Where’s my octopus?”
    “I asked her not to get it. Dr. Galuppi said to eat lightly.” We slipped out the door as the countess eased the fuming count back under his sheets.
    In the windowless chamber off the kitchen where servants ate, I gripped my stool, which seemed to dip and sway as if at sea. If we were turned out with Count Filippo’s word against us, what noble house or even decent merchant would hire us? Tradesmen’s servants slept in stairways, eating scraps. But Mamma heaved with rage, tearing at her bread, cursing our life. Better a count’s servants than any other fate open to us. Couldn’t she see that?
    “Are you crazy, Teresa?” Nannina demanded. “All the great divas of Europe want Maestro Toscanini. Madonna mia, why would he pick you?”
    “I don’t know,” said Mamma in a voice suddenly dry and brittle as eggshells. Her wide, dark eyes raked the room. “Does he know we live here?”
    I put my arm around her heaving shoulders. “No, Mamma. He doesn’t. He’s probably forgotten all about us. There’s an opera tonight, remember? He’s busy.”
    “He heard me say ‘Count Monforte.’ ”
    “No, he was already in the opera house by then.”
    “The guards will tell him.”
    “Maestro Toscanini doesn’t speak to guards,” Nannina snapped.
    Paolo called for us. The matter of Toscanini, piled on other troubles, had given the countess another headache. The count’s debts and many dalliances tormented her. He constantly reminded her that his money had restored her family’s crumbling villa, that all she brought to the marriage was a noble title. After each tirade she suffered throbbing pains that only gentle singing eased. Each time my mother’s misdeeds threatened our place, I reminded myself that Countess Elisabetta needed her servant’s voice.
    When the headaches came, she took to the sitting room, put a silk cushion over her eyes to block out light, and had the windows opened to the gentle wash of waves. Then Mamma sang softly: arias she heard from street singers, popular songs, French and Spanish airs she mimicked perfectly. I’d unwind Countess Elisabetta’s honey-brown hair, brush it gently, and rub lavender oil into her temples.
    These were our golden hours, sweet relief from the cramping pain of work: scrubbing pots and marble floors, polishing silver, cleaning fireplaces, oiling woodwork, blacking shoes, and hanging suspended on ropes to wash crusted salt spray from the high windows. With relief came the pure pleasure of ease in that lovely room. Breezes found it