“Oh my God, it’s been so long. You’ve been away forever,” Teresa said, then quickly moved away. She glanced at her image in the small mirror hanging on a wall, and tied her hair in a bun with an elastic band.
“Did you miss me?” the girl asked, with a hint of sarcasm.
Teresa looked at her, not sure how to respond.
“Of course I did,” she said nonchalantly. “But you were crazy to disappear like that. Mamma at one point thought you might be dead.”
The girl looked away, annoyed.
“I was in Greece. It was expensive to call.”
Teresa raised an eyebrow.
“Thank God you finally decided to spend the money—otherwise you would’ve missed my wedding. We had no idea how to reach you.”
There was a short silence. Then the sister took the girl’s braid in her hand and studied it.
“I like your hair like this. Did you highlight it?”
“No, it’s bleached by the sun.”
Teresa stepped back and studied her.
“You lost weight,” she said. “I’m so fat, I need to shed at least five kilos.” She grabbed one of her thighs and pinched it. “Look at this. I hate it.”
“You look fine. I promise you,” the girl said, even though it was true that her sister had gained too much weight and her complexion looked pasty and uneven.
“So, who is this Vito?”
“You’ve never met him. He’s from farther south, near the cape, but he left and went to work in a hotel in the mountains near Bolzano for five years. He came back last summer, and now he’s opened a hardware store near us, in Corigliano. That’s how we met. He moved back because he said he missed the sun.”
Teresa turned her back again and started rummaging in the cupboard.
“He’s good-looking,” she added.
For a moment the girl regretted having arrived only a day before the wedding. She wished the two of them could have more time, get reacquainted and exchange secrets like they used to, but her sister seemed too busy to pay attention to her anyway. She was rummaging through the room, opening drawers, looking for things, while the girl stood, unsure as to what to do. Then Teresa looked at her, almost surprised to find her still in the same spot.
“So,” she asked, “are you okay now?”
“You want to know if I’m still using?”
“Well, yes.”
“I’m clean.”
“Good.”
The fact of this was all Teresa seemed to need to know, as though it were a minor detail, without narratives and complexities attached. But the girl sensed that her sister might be afraid of learning any of the details. Teresa, she realized, was actually ashamed of her. There was nothing much happening in the village; people always talked and gossiped, and her friends surely knew about the drugs, the rehab. Even her future husband had probably heard. Time to change the subject, she thought.
“And what about you?” the girl blurted out with a trace of hostility. “Are you in love with Vito?”
Teresa snorted, irritated.
“Of course. Would I marry him otherwise?” Then she looked at her small watch. “Sorry, I’ve got to go check on something.”
She turned around, called their mother, who was hanging the laundry outside, and left the girl standing there as she went outside in the backyard.
Teresa spent the rest of the day around the house in a pink polyester slip, checking that everything was under control—the food for the reception, the flowers, the veil, her shoes—while a girlfriend painted her nails, hands and feet, another washed her long dark hair in the sink. For once everyone had to listen to her requests; even her father was given small tasks, like running to the supermarket in town to buy an extra pair of sheer stockings and body lotion. For one day she was allowed to be tearful, fragile and euphoric, and she enjoyed every small crisis that arose in what seemed a sad imitation of a Hollywood actress getting ready for her red-carpet night.
* * *
The ceremony in church and the big lunch under the walnut tree went fast. By six o’ clock everything was over. All that was left in the garden were dirty plates, crumpled napkins, half-empty bottles. Even Teresa’s dress—which the girl had to admit was quite spectacular—by the end of the meal had wilted and lost its shimmer. The hem was soiled with the dirt it had picked up as the bride trailed back and forth among the guests. Her makeup had started to melt, her curls to slacken.
The girl felt a certain pity for what was in store for her older sister: the scrawny husband, with those mean eyes and the stupid Laurel and Hardy tattoo, who would eventually become estranged and probably abusive. The sex that in the years to come she would have to surrender to, even when she no longer wanted it. The pregnancies, the babies crying all night, their smelly diapers and baby food becoming her full-time job. The boredom, the feeling of being trapped, without the audacity to break away from a failed marriage. Time would go by and one day, before she was even old, the furrow would show up on her forehead as well.
* * *
He stopped the station wagon outside the gate and walked in. The yard was silent; the old dogs were asleep in the sun and they didn’t get up when he passed them by. He stepped in the kitchen through the half-opened door and breathed the garlicky smell of cooked food. In the semidarkness he saw the woman rinsing something in the sink. An older man was sitting at the table in the back of the kitchen.
“Good morning,” he said politely. “I’m here to see your daughter.”
The woman wiped her hands on her apron and came closer. Stout, with a bad haircut and tight lips, but he recognized the green eyes. She frowned.
“Which daughter?”
He realized he didn’t even know her name.
“The one who arrived the other day. For the wedding.”
The husband stood up. He too was weathered, coarse. Farmer’s hands, dry skin. Still chewing something. He seemed alarmed and intimidated at the same time.
“Who are you?”
“Hello, my name is Andor Antal.”
He offered his hand and put on a smile. He didn’t want to scare them.
“What do you want?” The man didn’t take his hand.
“It’s about a job. I met your daughter the other day. I’m interested in hiring her.”
The man and the woman stared at each other.
“What kind of a job?” asked the father.