“But the PCI and the PSI are there?”
She took a sip of espresso. “Mmm-hmm.”
“And it’s the PCI that called the City Council meeting?”
Francesca acknowledged that this was true. “The communists want the mayor to reconsider his position on the American base.”
“And who’s the mayor?”
“A man named Gregorio Manzoni. He’s a member of the Democrazia Cristiana party, which holds a majority both here and in Rome, but only because the DC is in bed with the Americans.”
At the time, I thought Francesca was being a little harsh, but now I realize she was actually holding back.
“We have an election, the DC loses seats. The U.S. throws more money at them, they win seats. And the cycle repeats itself.”
It was clear Francesca was disgusted, which made me wonder about her own political allegiances. “So, you’re not a supporter?”
“Of Manzoni?” she said. I had meant the party, but I got the sense that she’d intentionally misinterpreted the question. “He’s fine. But he’s got to stop letting the Americans walk all over him.”
“In what waydothe Americans walk all over him?”
“Well, take the environmental testing your husband does,” she said. “We keep telling Manzoni that he must insist on seeing the numbers, that we need some kind of confirmation the water is safe.”
“And does he do that? Demand to see the numbers?”
“Of course not,” she said. “He tells us he doesn’t need to see them because he has assurances that the U.S. Navy is following the same safety precautions and procedures they observe in their own ports.”
I recalled what Paul had told me that first afternoon at the hotel. “Aren’t they?”
“How would we know?” she said, clearly frustrated. “We’re just asked to take the Americans’ word for it. All the time. It’s why everyone’s so outraged. We didn’t get a say in the submarine tender coming to La Maddalena, and now we’ve got all these submarines coming and going, and we’re not even allowed to ask questions.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s not your fault,” she said, brusquely. “But if you want to know why the PCI called the meeting, it’s because they feel—quite strongly—that Sardinians should get to decide what happens in Sardinia.”
50.
YOU’D HAVE THOUGHT PAULhad won the lottery the day he came home from work and announced that we’d been invited to Jim and Mary Lou Jenkins’s house for dinner. The invitation didn’t thrill me quite the way it did him, but like Paul, I was also beginning to feel the hotel’s walls closing in, so I picked out a dress and asked what we should bring.
The Jenkinses lived in a house on the Via Trinità, past the hospital, on the way out of town. It was walkable but not in good shoes, so I decided to wear my Keds and toss a pair of heels in my bag. Paul’s job was to carry the wine, which I’d bought at a cute little shop on the Via Italia.
We’d known the uphill walk was going to be a bear, but it was worse than we’d anticipated, and by the time we arrived in front of the house, we were drenched in sweat and several minutes late. I hurried to slip off my Keds, but when I went to remove the heels from my bag, I realized they weren’t there. “Oh my God,” I whispered, more to myself than to Paul.
“What?”
“I don’t have my shoes.” I could feel a drop of sweat trace a line down my back. “Should I go back?”
“Now?”
We were already late, and it didn’t make sense to turn around, but I hadn’t processed any of that when I heard a familiar voice calling to us from a passing car. “Our wheels arrived!”
It was Laura, hanging out the window of a sky-blue Volkswagen Bug. “We’re just turning around,” she shouted. “Wait for us!”
“Great!” I said, then turned to Paul in a panic. “What do I do?”
He sighed. “Put your Keds back on, I guess.”
By the time Laura and Bobby joined us, I had finished tying the laces. Laura was wearing a red pinafore dress and a pair of patent-leather Mary Janes, the kind with the platform heel, which made her legs look a mile long. “You look great,” I told her.
