ON THE FEAST DAY of the Virgin, the men of the town took the statue from the church and wheeled it through the streets on the giant platform they built new each year. The girls covered the platform with roses, working all morning, their fingers bloodied from thorns. Then they joined the throngs of people in the street, pressing against each other to throw coins at the Virgin as she passed. The old women, dressed in black, walked slowly behind the Virgin, praying, their voices so soft they sounded as if they were humming.
Francesca did not like this part of the feast. It was hot and the men always grabbed at the teenage girls in the crowd. Already her thighs were bruised from their pinches.
She looked at her sister, Mary, beside her, shouting, “Ave Maria! Ave Maria!” and throwing her own pennies and nickels at the passing wagon.
Francesca turned and fought her way out of the crowd, away from the parade. After the Virgin and the old ladies there would be a band and some floats and the littlest girls dressed up like miniature madonnas. Today there was also going to be a march for Mussolini, the local men who were Fascists would hold a banner with Il Duce’s face on it and march, singing the Fascist anthem. Her grandmother had taught it to her and Mary, and no doubt Mary would want to stay until the very end to sing it. But Francesca had had enough.
She cut through the Contis’ yard to the street beyond, which was deserted, and pulled a cigarette out of her pocket. It was half-smoked, discarded by her uncle Carmine earlier. That was how Francesca got all her cigarettes. At least today she was dressed for the warm weather in a pale-yellow short-sleeved dress that her mother had sewn for her. It buttoned down the front and had a wide, sailor-style collar. Really, the dress was for a child, a younger girl, but the fabric was so thin and soft that Francesca was happy to have it. She kicked off her shoes and rolled down her stockings, then leaned against the stone wall that marked the end of the Contis’ yard.
With her eyes closed, she tried to think of what people in other places were doing today. In the newspaper she had seen a picture of San Francisco, where there was going to be a World’s Fair. She did not know what people who lived in San Francisco did, though her father had once told her about a terrible earthquake there, and Antonio the fish man had once been a fish man there. Fish and earthquakes, Francesca thought, trying to put them together into some sort of life.
Hands covered her eyes and she knew right away it was Bruno. He had probably followed her.
“Guess who?” Bruno said. Most of the people their age did not have the accents of their parents; but Bruno did. His family went back and forth, never satisfied in either place.
“Bruno,” she said flatly.
He released his hands and laughed. “I’m going to kiss you,” he said.
She shrugged. It didn’t matter to her if he kissed her or not.
His lips were on hers, hungry, his tongue pushing its way into her mouth. Almost immediately it happened; Francesca seemed to fly out of her body and into the air between this short squat boy and this girl in the yellow dress. The boy’s hands, square and thick, were running up and down the girl’s body and Francesca felt nothing. Bruno was breathing heavier.
What would he do, she wondered, if she sat up and unbuttoned her dress to her waist and let him touch her breasts?
The band was playing “The Star-Spangled Banner” badly. Too much brass.
Francesca pushed Bruno away from her and began to unbutton her dress. She would’ve liked covered buttons, but they were too expensive. Instead, her mother had sewn on big, smooth black ones from an old dress of Nonna’s. They slipped easily through the buttonholes. This smooth, quick action brought a jolt of electricity to Francesca, the one she had when she wasn’t with Bruno, or any boy. It was a hum she wanted to keep going, to have a boy push forward like an accelerator in an automobile. A boy, she thought, could take her somewhere special if only he could keep that feeling going in her.
She unhooked her bra and shrugged it off her shoulders, letting her breasts fall free. Her breasts were large and full, and Bruno, when he beheld them, gasped. The hot, sticky air on her bare skin made her want to be touched even more, and it was Francesca who grabbed Bruno’s hands and placed them on her breasts. Almost immediately, she became that observer again, the one watching. How foolish they looked, Francesca thought. The boy’s hands as if they were kneading dough for pizza. The girl’s new dress in a rumpled heap around her waist.
The Fascists were singing. Soon the parade would be over and the streets would fill with people on their way to the church and the festa on its grounds.
Francesca, wanting to finish her cigarette, to get rid of Bruno, let him suck on her breasts briefly. He made loud slurping noises that disturbed her. When she roughly pulled him away, clutching his thick hair, he looked up at her, his mouth wet from his own spit.