The Jewels of Paradise Read Free Page B

instruction in schools that had no books, no musical instruments, and teachers of music who, though unable to read musical notation, found perfectly legible the intentions of the politicians who offered them the jobs. She had refused.
    Thus her flight to Vienna and years of study, more digging through the archives in Saint Petersburg, and then her galley years in Matera after the desire to return to Italy had become too strong to resist. Then the renewed flight to Manchester and now this, whatever this was.
    A light knock at the door pulled her from these reflections. “ Avanti, ” she called. Thinking it would be a friendly gesture to be seen approaching whoever was there, Caterina started toward the door just as it opened and a woman the age of her mother entered the room. Like her mother, this woman was short and tended to roundness, as did her soft-skinned face, above which rose a structure of intertwined braids and tresses that sent Caterina’s memory to a production of Cherubini’s Medea she had seen many years ago at the Teatro Massimo in Palermo, in which the costume designer had clearly confused Medea with Medusa and had topped the head of the soprano with a loose-fitting helmet of snakes, whose twining and twisting had done a great deal to aid her performance by distracting the attention of the audience from her singing. Unlike those of the singer, this woman’s serpents were motionless.
    “Dottoressa Pellegrini?” the woman asked, and Caterina wondered if she had perhaps expected to find someone else in the room. The woman gave a very small smile and extended her hand. “I’m Roseanna Salvi, acting director of the foundation.” Caterina had been told that Dottor Asnaldi, the former director, had left a year before, and his assistant was now in charge until a permanent replacement could be found.
    “How very kind of you to come and find me, Dottoressa Salvi,” Caterina said, taking her hand. She addressed her both with her title and in the formal lei.
    The contact was fleeting, quite as if Dottoressa Salvi were fearful to entrust her right hand to this other woman for more than a second. She whipped her hand behind her back, embracing it safely with the other.
    “Would you care to take a seat?” Caterina asked, deciding to act as though this had always been her own office. She waved toward her desk and only then realized that there was just the one chair in the room.
    Caterina smiled at the situation, hoping for a mirror smile on the other woman’s face. Nothing, only attentive politeness. “Dottoressa,” she said, “perhaps you could take the chair.”
    Her hands still hidden, the other woman said, “I’m afraid I have to correct you, Dottoressa.”
    Here it came, Caterina thought. Territoriality, competition, beat down the newcomer, get the pecking order established. So much for female solidarity. Saying nothing, she smiled.
    “There’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not a doctor. Not of anything.” As she spoke, Not-Dottoressa Salvi’s face relaxed, and her hands came out from behind her back.
    “Ah,” Caterina said, impulsively placing a hand on the other woman’s arm, as if to provide comfort. “No one told me. In fact, no one’s told me anything, really.” Then, because they were women and because the situation needed to be eased, Caterina said, “Call me Caterina, please. And no dottoressa .”
    Signora Salvi smiled, and the snakes surrounding her head turned into mere curls. “And I’m Roseanna,” she said, avoiding the informal tu, no doubt leaving it to the dottoressa, however much younger she might be.
    “Can we call each other tu ?” Caterina asked. “Since we’re working together.” Caterina didn’t know if that was precisely true, but at least they did work in the same place and that was close enough for collegiality.
    As usually happens when one person suggests grammatical informality, the mood of the conversation eased with the establishment of equality. Signora