The village was quiet as Domenica Cabrelli walked to work on the eve of the finale of Carnevale. Only a few locals were out, conducting the business of early morning. The fishermen were setting up their haul at market, and two nuns were haggling with the local farmer over fresh bunches of broccoli rabe to make Lenten broth. The food stands along the boardwalk were covered with tarps. The bunting that crisscrossed over the promenade fluttered in triangles of red, white, and green. The only sound she heard was metal against metal as a vendor scraped the grill of the sausage-and-pepper stand, preparing for his biggest night of sales.
The pink sky was dappled with streaks of gold light like feldspar. The light broke through, illuminating the crests of green waves. The tourists would not notice the necks of the periscopes on the submarines of the Italian regimen as they ran practice formations in the middle distance, but she did. Italy was preparing for a war no one wanted.
When she unlocked the door of the clinic, she opened the windows and propped open the door to let the fresh air into the room. The smells of the alcohol-based tinctures, ammonia, and formaldehyde intensified inside when the clinic was sealed shut.
Domenica went about her chores to prepare the clinic for the day ahead. She swept the sidewalk, then went inside and swept the floor. She dusted the surfaces with a rag spritzed with alcohol. She even swabbed Dr. Pretucci’s fountain pen. She put on her apron and cap and washed her hands. She put out the gauze, tongue depressors, and thermometer on the worktable before taking a seat at the desk. She was looking over the patient list when Monica Mironi entered the clinic with her three small children.
The young mother carried her sleeping newborn in a cestino, and her one-year-old balanced on her hip, while her three-year-old son walked dutifully behind her. The children’s cheeks were bright pink on the chilly February morning. Their mother had a similar blush to her cheeks, with the delicate features and expression of a sad doll.
“How can I be of service, Signora?” Domenica pulled out a chair. She gave the boy an apple and took the infant in the basket and placed her on the table. “I’m sorry there’s no heat. Dottore Pretucci keeps the clinic cold.”
“Say ‘Grazie,’ Leonardo.”
“Grazie, Signorina.”
“Prego.” Domenica ruffled the boy’s hair. “Good manners.”
“I hope so.”
“Dottore Pretucci won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t need to speak with him. I wanted to talk to you.”
Domenica sat down. “How can I help you?”
Monica lowered her voice. “I want you to teach me how not to have a baby.”
“You don’t want any more children?”
“I would have more children, but I shouldn’t. The midwife from Pietrasanta told me that I have bad blood. She birthed my daughter three months ago. She told me if I have another baby, it will endanger my life. I worry that if I become ill, or something happens to me, there will be no one to take care of my children.”
“Do you live with your family?”
“My in-laws. That’s why I’m worried.”
“I understand.”
Monica nodded sadly. “My husband wants lots of children.”
“Did you tell your husband what the midwife said?”
“He thinks it’s a lie.”
“Why would a midwife lie? She’s in the business of birthing babies. It would not be in her best interest to curtail the activity, would it?”
“True.” Monica smiled.
“We can have Dottore Pretucci examine you when he’s in the office and issue a report. Maybe then your husband would believe the severity of your condition. You know, if he saw it on paper.”
Domenica knew Guido Mironi would never take the word of a nurse as fact, but he might listen to Pretucci. She made notes about her conversation with Monica in her logbook. “I will make a note that the doctor should expect a visit from your husband.” Domenica put her pencil down and leaned forward in her chair. She wasn’t supposed to advise patients, but in this instance, she felt it was important. “Signora, do you understand the science behind how a woman conceives a baby?”
“I know some things.”
“It’s possible to prevent a pregnancy with a barrier method. Do you know what I am talking about?”
She nodded.
“Dr. Pretucci can provide them to your husband.”
“He won’t use them.”
“What if the doctor recommended it?”
“Is there something I can do?”
“Without telling your husband?”
She nodded.
“It would be helpful for your husband to participate in planning your family.”
“Guido won’t hear of it.” Monica lowered her voice. “I have a friend who told me about a device. She showed it to me.”
“I would have to speak to Dr. Pretucci about it.”
“Would you? Would he tell my husband?”
“Your visits in this office are confidential.”
Monica exhaled.
“Let’s make another appointment for you to come in. I can ask your midwife to join us if that makes you more comfortable.”
“She sent me to talk to you, so I’m sure she won’t mind. She’s a Catholic and told me that the priest would give me absolution.”
“I hope so. You have a serious condition and you must listen to the doctor.” Domenica made an appointment in the log.
“Signorina, you went to school with my husband, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Domenica forced a smile.
“What kind of a young man was my husband?”
“Guido was high-spirited,” Domenica said diplomatically. Guido Mironi had been held back twice. During school, he was either in trouble or in close vicinity of it. There had been the incident with the rock and many more like it. But it was not her place to tell Monica about him. She scribbled Silvio Birtolini in the margin of the report and closed her notebook. “Guido was full of pep.”
For Monica’s sake, Domenica hoped Mironi had changed. Monica’s parents, who came from another village, could not have known the truth when they agreed to a match. “What kind of man is he now?”
“Il Duce.”
Domenica laughed with her patient. “Oh no. I’m sorry to hear it.”
“He had to go to Lucca today, so I had the morning. I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to talk to me.”
“I’m sure he wants what is best for you. For your health.”
“I hope so.” Monica gathered up her children to go.