Almost Famous Women by Megan Mayhew Bergman

Author:Megan Mayhew Bergman
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Scribner

Even inside the convent walls we felt the threat of typhus and malaria, the stress and strain of political turmoil. We washed our hands raw. The last of winter was still upon us and we did not have full gardens or a lemon harvest to take our thoughts away from the unrest. Though the Carbonari insurrections and violence were worse in the south, there were revolutionaries in our hills—the Adelfia and Filadelfia. Just last month the Austrians had crossed the Po, upsetting Italy’s unification advocates. One had the feeling that Italy did not yet know itself, and more blood would be shed in its quest to become whole.

Do not let strangers in, the abbess instructed, and do not leave the grounds unless absolutely necessary. The Carbonari are anticlerical, and we do not know what or whom they would use to make a point.

That afternoon, after Allegra had received her lessons, we sat together in the cafeteria, light streaming through tall, thin windows. A dinner of ribollita and piselli was being prepared. The cooks, I knew, were dumping the week’s leftovers into a pot with tomatoes and bread to make a thick soup. I could smell the onions frying on the cast iron.

Tell me, I said, what you want to say to your papa.

Dear Papa, she began, her lovely face racked with concentration. There are no amaretti and I do not receive evening milk here. I want to come home now.

Allegra could not yet read. She looked at the paper—a used sheet of music I’d found with one blank side—eagerly.

She watched my hand as I wrote: Dear Papa, I am happy here but miss you dearly. Please bring amaretti when you come.

Knowing the abbess would not be pleased with the letter’s contents, I edited the text.

Allegra’s blond hair was pinned into a simple knot. She was thinner, I felt, than when she had come; she had not eaten much since arriving. Her knees bounced.

Now, she said, pointing to the page, tell him that I like singing. If he visits, I will sing for him. I will sing “God the Son” and “O Salutaris Hostia.”

I did as instructed and ended the letter: Con affetto, Allegra.

Now, I said, patting her small hand. Off to prayers. She trailed behind me as we walked to the chapel, the convent’s bells tolling the hour of four, reverberating in our chests. As we reached the great doors, Allegra touched the back of my leg, pausing for a moment, gathering herself before she joined the other children.

I wanted to cup her small head in my hands, crouch low, kiss her worried forehead. I wanted to bring her to my hip, tell her a funny story, play with her hair. But I did not touch her, and let the girl go running down the center aisle alone, blond hair bouncing, the travertine loud underneath the soles of her feet.

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