This book plunges deeply into the mind of Valora Bianchi, a quiet and beautiful 27 year old apprentice temporarily studying abroad in the United States from Italy.
She collides with 29 year old Elena Rose, a troubled woman from surburban Seatt...
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I.
Some women conquer men, some bear children, others conquer family, marriage, business. Some women earn heaven. Some women escaped hell. I am none of those women. I come from a small province in Italy, unheard of and hidden from the world. It's a province kissed by the Mediterranean. A place to be proud of.
The town I spent my life in was so very tiny. I knew all the residents by name and the families by common physical attributes. Revelling in the smell of risotto, the tunes of old records that sang our cherished traditions from beneath small shutters pleasured my ears. Constant repartee of people filled the roads with dancing, drinking, laughter; all ritualized as the three most appropriate decorum of our culture. Streets illuminated at the hint of sunset, and children would retire from their bikes into their homes. It was a romantic city, one thick with the red of Sangiovese that tipped out of glasses and veined the cracks of sidewalks. And the evening air, always heavy with lust. In the day, wind blew free of haze and Baroque structuresradiated white with sweet euphoria. The midnight lovers would clear the streets to make way for the morning workers; dusted with grit they would wipe their foreheads with rags as they maintained the grace of our city.
Every day vegetable and fruit vendors that descended from the Sicilian mountains would line the markets to sell their fresh produce to the residents. Full of happy mutuality and rich with harmony, this place was bliss. But even in the enchanting reality of this island I called my home, I yearned beyond it. I hungered for more, and many of my aspirations this Italian city could not satisfy. In September, I left my town one month ago today to pursue my studies overseas.
The first week, I regretted it. My accent was thick, clumsy and incomprehensible. The food was abominable. I seeded myself with guilt as I sprawled about my queen bed, a bed that my family at home could never imagine having dreams on. The second week was a replica of the first. By the third, I had familiarized myself and blended into good company. I arrived at my destinations, studied through the nights, and counted my cigarettes that rested in my coat pocket between strides. My heels now echoed the pavement of American streets with a quiet confidence.
By the fourth week, I felt I had established a home. Suitable for a foreign woman that longed for Sicily. I preferred to let my discomforting homesickness wash over me in isolation, far away from the judgment of people. I kept my lips sealed and hadn't much to say outside my mind that didn't involve wine, laughter, or my work. My emotions always ran deeper than presumed, but it seemed nonsensical to disturb the peace of others with them.
The audience rose from their chairs at the closure of the seminar, papers ruffling and zippers fastening. A low murmur with straggling laughs took place while the bodies parted single file from the auditorium. A hand grasped my shoulder.
