Georgia set her nose to the fragrant liquid in her glass before she took a sip. “We all have secrets. We won’t burn you for yours, Ms. Kitty.”
A minute. Two.
“We were poor.”
Georgia grabbed my hand underneath the table, and I grabbed Rocky’s. The three of us seemed to squeeze at the same time. Kitty was doing this. She was about to tell her story.
“What most people would consider poverty-stricken. My father left for America when I was a baby. He was supposed to save up money once he got a job and send it back, and once we had enough, we were going to sail to America. But after he left…we didn’t hear from him again. Mamma said I never felt poor because I lived inside of my head. She said that was because…”
CHAPTER24
Canta Maria Ducci
TWENTY YEARS OLD
I have big dreams.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had them.
I dream of leaving Italy, of taking a boat to America, of becoming so much more than I am. Which, at the moment, is a cleanup girl at Hotel Tre. I’ve been here since I was sixteen, four years now. Since I decided to leave Triora and take the first steps in my future.
Instead of the girl who picks the lavender to set on the fresh pillows each day, I long to be the woman who deserves to be sleeping in this magnificent bed. I long to know what it feels like to have staff rushing after you, catering to your every whim.
Mamma would have told me this is why I could never keep still. Why I never truly felt the harsh winters or the brutal summers. Why I did not whine about being hungry or having to work at such a young age.
I lived inside of my head most of the time.
Inside of my head, I was a performer, an actress, a dancer. Even a singer!
Mamma said I had a way of taking all that stood against me and using it to fuel something inside of me she could never understand.
Being away from Triora, I believe I finally understand what that thing is in me that Mamma could never understand.
A hunger that went much deeper than the stomach. It is what an American from New York told me is called “drive.” He also told me that it was the Golden Age of Hollywood, and I had a face and body that would fit in.
Sometimes I wish I could tell Mamma these things. Tell her about the hotel and all the fancy guests who come and stay, but since Mamma went home to be with the angels, or that’s how I like to imagine it, I can only tell her these things in my thoughts.
That’s why I decided to leave Triora. Mamma died, and I had no one else.
The truth is, though, I think she always knew I would leave. Sometimes I would catch her looking at me like it was the last time. Like one day, she would wake up, and I would be gone. The only note left behind was the warm kiss I’d leave on her cheek. Most of the village had slowly been leaving, anyway. One of my friends told me she overheard the men talking. The village might be abandoned in a few years because of a lack of opportunities.
Mamma left me first.
I cried for two months after. I was scared and alone. Not entirely alone. I was surrounded by people. People who knew Mamma and would come to her for herbs that have healing powers. But it’s hard to put into words what I mean by “I felt alone.” Maybe it felt like she gave me life, shared hers with me, and that flame had gone out. Maybe it felt like no one would ever love me like she had. I could run to her with all my secrets. All these fantasies that played in my head about leaving for America. Making something of myself. Making something out of nothing. Then coming back to get her and letting her live with me in a house with people who would cook forus! She would not have to lift a finger, and she would have to wear dark glasses so the streets made of gold would not blind her.
She would tell me my dreams might have been big, but my hunger turned out bigger.
I sigh as I turn around to make sure the lavender is situated on the pillow just right and the room is as clean as it can be. The bellhop comes in and delivers fancy traveling bags and dresses that are to be hung up in the closet. He’s young, not much older than me, and winks at me as he leaves the room.
I get a lot of winks.
I get a lot of compliments.
None of them have taken me to America yet, even though a few have tried to take me to bed.
I know better than that. A young American actress with an older gentleman had come to stay at the hotel last summer. Her man winked at me. She caught it and gave me a sincere warning I took to heart.
“Darling, you’re a beautiful Italian girl with stunning features and dynamite legs. Don’t let the winks and compliments fool you. One minute they’re winking at you, and the next, they’re winking at the beautiful French girl in the maid’s uniform who is carrying a feather duster. Understand what I’m telling you?”
