“I shouldn’t tell the truth?”
“You could leave that to me.”
“But you leave the women to me. I recommended, with your approval, a tincture of black cohosh to Signora Luccizi, who is going through the change of life. How is giving a mother of three a pamphlet going to hurt her?”
“In this instance, and you must listen to me, it’s because your honesty has become a problem. Signore Mironi went to the priest, who came to me. He demands your license.”
“He has no right in the matter.”
“The priest supports Mironi’s position. And so does the law. We have to be careful in the area of reproduction.”
Domenica felt a rage rise within her. “I have to be careful because I’m a woman.” She sat down on the stool next to the examining table and tried to think.
Pretucci leaned on the table. “I’m afraid they’re serious.”
“I will go and see the priest myself and explain.”
“Don’t. He’s angry. I can protect you if you leave Viareggio. I will be able to argue that I sent you away to teach you a lesson. There’s a hospital in Marseille.”
“France? My mother needs me here.”
“You must be practical, Signorina. You don’t want the priest to decide where to send you. You’ll end up at the bottom of the world somewhere. If you go, in time, they will forget this happened. Listen to your boss. Your friend.” Pretucci pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his eyeglasses. Dottore did this whenever he needed to think. “If you go to Marseille for a few months, in time, I’m sure this will blow over and you can return to your home and this position.”
Tears stung Domenica’s eyes. She wiped them away quickly. “Guido Mironi was a mean child and he’s grown up to be a cruel brute. I’m not sorry I told him off.”
Pretucci tried not to smile. He had heard, in a matter of hours, as gossip wended its way through the small village, the story of Domenica Cabrelli and Guido Mironi at Carnevale. The details had gone around more than once, each time embellished with more, but always with a narrative of begrudging respect for his nurse’s determination to stand up to a bully. “You said what you had to say.”
“It might not have been the best idea, but I had no choice. The people of the village need to understand that they can come to the clinic when they need help.”
“There’s only one thing you need to know. You may be right, and your position has merit. But that’s all it has. You will not win this point in Viareggio, not ever, even if the entire town agrees with you. The priest always has the last word.”
* * *
Domenica lit the stove with a match. She placed the moka pot on the blue flames. The small lamp on the table flickered in the dark. She sat down and waited for the espresso to percolate.
The leather suitcase she had packed the night before belonged to her father. When Pietro Cabrelli was young, he had apprenticed with a goldsmith in Barcelona to learn soldering and filigree. His father, Michele, had given Pietro a suitcase for his first trip abroad. Eventually Pietro took the bag to India and Africa. Now it was filled with Domenica’s clothes, though she wouldn’t need them. She would wear the white uniform provided by the nuns of the Sisters of Saint Joseph of the Apparition.
“Did you sleep?” her mother asked from the doorway.
“Not at all.”
“Maybe you will sleep on the train?” Signora Cabrelli wrapped her arms around her daughter. “You must.”
“Have you ever been to France, Mama?”
“Once. In the south. I was young. I went with my cousins. We learned how to make soap.”
“I never wanted to leave you,” Domenica said softly.
“It won’t be for long.”
“That’s the only way I will survive. If I know it’s short in duration, I can get through it.”
“I want you to go to Mass. And say your rosary. Even if you have doubts, pray for me.”
“I will.”
“And I will pray for you. Your papa will be fine. He has the shop and his problems, which will never be solved, but it doesn’t matter. They keep his mind occupied.”
“I know you wanted to help, Mama, but why did you go to the priest?”
“You are my child and I am your advocate. I will fight anyone, any army, any cleric, even the pope himself, on your behalf. I was so angry when the priest punished you I wanted to take the cathedral down to its studs with an ax. That is my church. My faith. I have never missed a Sunday Mass or a holy day of obligation. Your father and I tithe. The Church has not survived for centuries because of the priests. The gold robes don’t scare me. The cardinals and bishops and the monsignors can talk to me and I will set their heads straight. I went to the priest because I believed I could change his mind. But he was impossible. He said if he allowed you to stay, every woman in the village would hear of your medical knowledge and come to you for a pamphlet, and soon there would be no babies in Viareggio! Imagine the stupidity of such a statement. I almost told him what he could do with his immortal soul, but your papa makes the chalices for Roma, and we can’t afford to lose the business.”
“Mama, it would be the first time in your life you held your tongue.”
“Well, there’s the greater good, isn’t there? I know how it works. And it’s not worth it. Do your penance and come home, and we’ll never speak of it again.”