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Jesus! Jesus! I’m like Jesus!” Marcellina made Aldo let him drive the car in our lane, to shut him up.
    The one good thing you could say about Etto Renzetti was that he wasn’t a Fascist. Did awful San Guarino have a squad? I hadn’t heard of one. The top floor of the factory served as housing for the workers who came from other places and could not afford houses on the avenue: Sardinians, Calabrians, Sicilians, Africans, Greeks. Maybe because of the war, they’d all gone home.
    Maybe the factory had been shut down. Maybe the San Guarino station was closed. We might chug right through without pausing, and I could say to the American, “The village we’re passing through—not that it’s really a village, as it only has one street—is the biggest eyesore in Italy.”
    The fact was, I had the crazy idea that Etto Renzetti would be standing on the platform, watching for me, shouting to be heard above the train. Your voice is in my ears! Why don’t you know what you’re like? What’s the matter with you?
    The American was watching me. “You didn’t get flour on yourself when you threw it out,” I said.
    â€œI was careful. What’s the next station?”
    â€œI don’t know. But it might have been closed.”
    My throat was beginning to feel uncomfortably dry. Sand-dry. I could feel the edges of a fright creeping up on me.
    â€œTell me, Annamaria, where you learned to speak Italian. I’m curious.”
    â€œIt’s a long story.”
    â€œThat’s the second time you’ve said that to me.”
    â€œI’m not very good at conversation, not when it’s about explaining things I’ve done.”
    â€œThen I’ll ask you something simple. Why are you in the army?”
    â€œI didn’t have a choice. I’d got into some trouble. The army was the best way out of it. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not—”
    â€œ
Va bene,
of course, I understand. I won’t press you, as we haven’t known each other for long. But why are you in disguise?”
    â€œI was ordered to.”
    â€œAre you Catholic?”
    â€œI went to a convent school, yes.”
    â€œIs your habit from the order at your school?”
    â€œYes. The Sisters of Mary of the Rosary.”
    â€œAh, the rosary. I suppose they made you pray one every day.”
    â€œOnly on Monday mornings.”
    â€œIn Sicily, where I lived before I married, nuns didn’t teach school. They were in hospitals, or they were cloistered.”
    â€œCloistered. You said that as if it’s something you admire.”
    â€œI don’t always like the world very much, it’s true.”
    â€œIs your home in Mengo like a cloister?”
    I didn’t know how to answer that. Maybe. I didn’t want to talk about home. I said, “You have a ring. It looks religious. Are you married?”
    â€œThe ring is part of my disguise, and I’m engaged. Sort of. It’s a long—I mean, it’s complicated.”
    â€œHe must be Italian.”
    â€œBasically. He grew up American.”
    â€œLike an immigrant?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhen my son was fourteen years old, his father wanted for us to move to your New York. A friend of his was opening a restaurant. Beppi had no intention of having this happen, so he began a hunger strike, and kept it up till we agreed to stay home, which was impressive of him. But he wasn’t so pudgy back then.”
    â€œYou could have sung in New York. That would have been wonderful.”
    â€œI didn’t want to go. I wouldn’t have. I wanted to only sing here. What’s his name, this maybe
fidanzato
of yours?”
    â€œTom Tully, in American. But really, Tullio Tomasini.”
    â€œHow is he? Is he handsome?”
    â€œYou would think so if you got to know him.”
    â€œIs he shorter than you?”
    â€œOh, yes. But I never held that against