Chapter 5: Don Corvaia

I sat on the bed with the lamp on and waited for the door.

The cars at the end of the pier had gone by half past two.

At five the lock turned, and my husband came in wearing a black suit.

It was cut exactly to his shoulders, and it had cost more than my brother's.

The shirt under it was white, the collar open, and there was a small dark stain on his right cuff.

He saw me, and he stopped on the threshold.

"You're awake," he said.

"Gaspare called you Don Corvaia."

I had expected him to lie.

He closed the door, set the key on the table and took off his jacket.

"Yes," he said.

"The Table's been trying to get a meeting with Don Corvaia for a year. My brother talks about it at breakfast."

"I know."

"Nobody has ever seen his face. My father used to say that if you saw it, you wouldn't have long to describe it."

"That was your father's phrase," he said. "He wasn't entirely wrong."

My hands had begun to shake, and I pressed them flat on the blanket.

"I fed you," I said.

"You did."

"For a year. Every Sunday. And you let me."

"I did."

"Was it a joke? A man like you, sitting on a church step with his hand out, and the stupid Ardizzone girl bringing him loaves?"

"It was never a joke."