“Oh, sweetheart, don't be sorry. She didn't hurt me. See?”
“She broke your necklace,” Tonino said, wanting to hold on to something real.
“I don't care,” Sally said.
She took Tonino in her arms. She was so touched that out of all this Tonino wanted to comfort her. “I'm not even mad at your mother,” Sally said. “And neither is your father. Your mother just isn't feeling well and doesn't know what to do. We both understand that.
And you know your father didn't hurt her. He just stopped her, and now he's taking care of her and helping her get back home. It will be alright.”
But how could it ever be alright? Sally thought. Tonino will live with this for the rest of his life. It was true that at that moment Sally was not angry at the woman who had attacked her. She wasn't even sure why she did it. Perhaps the woman wasn't sure why either. But it was Sally, and not his mother, who was holding Tonino in her arms, and now she began to get furious that a mother could be so selfish and self-absorbed with her own problems that she would not consider or care about the consequence of her actions on her own child. People said she was crazy. Was she? Maybe, Sally thought. Or maybe she just didn't love Tonino as much as Paolo did. Or even Sally.
---------
Once the initial surprise passed and both Paolo and Sally had comforted Tonino, Sally realized that she wanted to fight back. It was not in Sally's nature to accept an attack, and she had done so instinctively only to protect Tonino from having to witness a prolonged and escalated incident.
But Sally had become so angry by now, that the proverbial smoke felt as if it were coming out her ears. And she was chomping to go back and confront the woman.
“There's no point in that,” Paolo said, “it would only make things worse.”
“The point in that,” Sally said, “is that she probably thinks she can do it again without consequences any time the urge hits her. I want to let her know I'm not a pushover, and that next time she'll have a real fight on her hands. One that she'll lose. The nerve of her!!” Paolo was silent.
“Well??!!” Sally insisted furiously.
“There must be a better way than another physical confrontation. That will only start this terrible thing all over again, Sally.”
Paolo was right. Sally knew she wasn't going to go up to the woman's door and smack her. She even laughed to herself at the thought. It was like a cartoon.
“Well, something has to be done,” Sally told Paolo. “In my country, assault is a crime.”
Suddenly Sally knew what to do. “I'll go to the police! That will scare her into behaving herself!
No, on second thought I can't do that,” Sally said , remembering her little bout with the Questura. “That will be worse for me than for her. Oh, let it go,” Sally decided.
“No, you are right. We shouldn't let it go,” Paolo finally said. “I can't allow her to have this threat over me, over us, over Tonino. Your friend Marco is a lawyer, isn't he?” Paolo asked.
“Yes....” Sally said.
“Let's have him prepare a statement for her to sign--a kind of private restraining order--where she admits she hit you and agrees to never go near you again, or you can have her arrested. It will be worse for her if it's the second time.”
“But why would she agree to do this?” Sally asked.
“You can threaten to go to the police. She'll believe it, because ordinarily you should. But,” Paolo added “I never want you to do it for any reason. We'll handle this ourselves. After all, she is Tonino's mother.”
And it worked out exactly as Paolo said. But the signed agreement made Sally only half satisfied. Her primitive self still wanted to scratch the woman's eyes out. But she was Tonino's mother.
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
Sally suddenly had an overwhelming desire to catch up with herself. All her days were spent working. Every evening was spent out with Paolo and an ever-growing assortment of friends. Sally used any rare spare time to write letters back to New York, or to take care of endless daily shopping and other necessary chores. Or she clipped and watered her plants on the large terrace. She never wasted time. Sally wanted to waste time. Just for one evening.
“You know what I'd like, Paolo?”
“What would you like?” Paolo smiled, mimicking her.
Sally wasn't quite sure how to say this so he wouldn't take it personally. “I'd like to stay home one night by myself. And think. No, actually NOT think. Stay home by myself. And do nothing.”
“By yourself?”
She knew he wouldn't understand. No Italian in his right mind would want to be by himself if he could be with someone else. And besides, this was an on-going struggle between them.
“I haven't been by myself in such a long time,” she tried to explain.
“Are you getting tired of me?”
“No, no, of course not! Well, it's just that I'd like to visit with me for a change,” she tried to joke. Paolo looked concerned.
“Oh, I'm probably just tired and maybe getting a little cold,” Sally quickly added. “Anyway, how would you feel if I didn't join you all at Gino's on Friday night?”
“Ok,” he said, clearly with reservation.
She had just gotten comfortable in an old robe and slippers when she realized she wasn't enjoying her visit with herself all that much. For one thing, it was hard to do nothing in a house that cried out to have something done. Also, she knew Paolo did not fully appreciate, or even understand, her need to have some time alone by herself. Which made her feel guilty. And, she missed him.
The phone rang. She was pleased it was Paolo. But he sounded strange.
“Kennedy was shot,” he said.
What a weird conversation! she thought. She almost said “Kennedy who?” Instead she said,” What are you talking about?”
“They shot him. President Kennedy. They say he may die.”
“MY President Kennedy?? Of the United States???” She never heard of such a thing. They can't shoot a President. Of the United States! These days it would be impossible.
“Don't be silly,” Sally said. “They can't shoot a President of the United States these days.”
“I heard it on the news.”
“The news must be wrong. They must mean something else. Or probably they made a mistake.”
Softly, but firmly, Paolo said, “Your President has been shot. They think he may die.” Paolo was no fool. He wouldn't tell her this if he hadn't really heard it.
“I didn't hear this!” she cried. Of course, she hadn't had the radio on for hours.
“It just came over the news. I think it may have just happened. “None of it is very clear yet, but I just wanted to let you know. Go listen. I'll call you back.”
Sally quickly put on the radio. Even though she spoke Italian nearly fluently, it was hard for her to understand news on the radio. They spoke so fast and in a style she couldn't always follow. On television she could understand almost everything because she could put it together with what she saw. But even so, the radio made clear that something of disastrous proportions was going on. And it certainly involved President Kennedy. She could also make out “Dallas” and “shot.” But she couldn't understand whole sentences. The phone rang again.
“He's dead,” Paolo said.
“No, he's not!!” she said.
“It's on the news just now.”
“I didn't hear that!!.....but..I can't make out...what they're saying...”
“I'm so sorry, Sally, but President Kennedy is dead.”
“No, he isn't!!!” Sally insisted.
“Should I come over?”
“Yes. Hurry!”
Sally tried to listen again. She was so frustrated that she didn't have a television set. Well, when Paolo came he could translate it all into something she could understand. By then, the news people will have cleared up their mistake. Boy, they just don't care how much they get wrong, do they? she thought.
Sally had an unreasonable tendency to scoff
at what seemed to her to be the amateurish methods of the Italian media. She remembered that during Pope John XXI's lingering death she had called one of Rome's major newspapers to check on a press release that she had sent out for a client.
The reporter who answered the phone, although no doubt harassed and overworked, simply, and cynically, said, “His feet are blue,” and hung up.
Now with this Kennedy thing, Sally was really annoyed that they had apparently gone too far. No matter what Paolo told her, she would find out tomorrow what was really happening when she picked up the international HERALD TRIBUNE on the Via Veneto.
---------
When Sally and Paolo arrived at the Via Veneto early the next day, Sally didn't even need a copy of the HERALD TRIBUNE. She was astonished to see a long funeral march of Italians making their way from the ancient stone walls around the park at the far end of the boulevard, down the winding hill past the famous, fashionable outdoor cafes, to the end of the street where the American Embassy was located. The mourners were headed to the Embassy with purple and black funeral banners. And flowers. Blocks and blocks of flowers. They were walking slowly to a small but solemn funeral band, and they were crying.
The marchers were crying. People on the street were crying. The cafe patrons were crying. The policemen were crying. All of Rome was crying. Sally did not cry.
Paolo did not cry either. But Paolo was visibly upset. He was upset for Sally. And as a political professional, he was also disturbed at the uncertain fallout of this event for Italy, for America, and for the world. He was not surprised that Sally seemed so cool about it all. He realized that she was in a nearly clinical state of denial and shock. He stood by her constantly, watching her like a hawk. He held her hand. He touched her hair. But she wouldn't let him hold her in his arms. She said there was no reason to, as she stood there pulling herself more and more into herself and away from the reality of the world and everyone in it.
They turned around almost immediately and headed for Paolo's apartment where there was a television set. Neither of them said much on the way. Sally was working hard at still hoping it was all a mistake. The two state-owned television channels were transmitting via satellite the exact coverage that was taking place in America, as it was happening, as well as replays of previous events .There was an Italian voice over the picture, but Sally could still faintly hear the American reporters underneath. Finally she would be able trust her eyes and ears.
In the darkened room, they sat like stone statues, holding each other's hands as they watched the re-runs of the shooting in Dallas. It was so hard to make out! Was that the President? Was he down? Yes, yes, it must be Kennedy: Jackie in her hat, climbing over, covering him with her own body. Oh, my god! Oh, my god! But he's ok, isn't he? He doesn't have to be dead!! What is that? People in the crowd, falling on the ground? Some smiling and waving at the TV camera. Well, maybe he's just hurt? No, look there's Jackie----oh, is that blood on her? It can't be. It must be!! She's next to Johnson. What the hell is he doing? He's President!! Oh, god. Oh, god.
“Paolo,” Sally pleaded. “Paolo.” As if he could change everything.
Together they stayed glued to the television for three days. Eating in the living room. Talking in low voices. Yet by being overseas at this time, Sally missed so many of details in the U.S. as they happened. She missed the fear. The talk of an international plot. The closing of the boarders. Even the protests when these shattering events interrupted the daily “soaps.”
While they watched, the phone rang constantly. Their friends would first speak to Paolo and then ask for Sally. They would tell her how sorry they were, and give her their condolences. They treated her as if a close relative had died. With the added regret that this beloved person didn't just die, but had been murdered by another member of the American family. A situation not unfamiliar to Italians in their own long, turbulent history.
At one point Paolo said, “Sally, I have to say I admire you Americans. You passed so quickly and peacefully from one President to another without a revolution! That's impressive. And, now, look....here. How quickly you've captured this guy.....what's his name?...”
“Oswald”
“Oswald. This guy Oswald on his way to jail so soon after....”
Together they saw a handcuffed Oswald being led through a jostling crowd. He looked like a college student in his dark crew neck sweater and white collared shirt. Together they saw the Dallas police seemingly lead him straight into a man in a fedora hat. A sudden shot and a huge commotion on the screen cut off Paolo's sentences of praise. They were both still numb from previous events and now Jack Ruby's shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald again turned reality inside out. For Sally, it was so preposterous that a part of her was sure none of it was true.
But Paolo possessed that ancient steady-eyed European view that anything could happen; no historical horror seemed impossible, no conspiracy was too far fetched.
Increasingly dumbfounded, together they watched the draped casket on wagon wheels, the riderless horse, the drums. It could have been Lincoln's funeral. “Oh, Captain! My Captain!” The burial in the cold wind.
Sally continued to watch the solemn, sparse and nearly Puritanical Presidential funeral procession--so different from the opulent and massive rituals of European emperors, kings, and dictators---with a feeling that America had disappeared. She didn't even think to call home because something inside of her said it probably wasn't even on the planet anymore. After all, she had left one country behind, and while she was away, it had disappeared and another must have taken its place.
---------
The weeks went by and soon Rome returned to normal. People who knew Sally was American finally stopped rushing up to her on the street, in a hallway, or in a restaurant, and hugging her and crying. She could now stop making herself stiff and barely tolerant each time they did this. Now too Paolo was relieved of having to take over this awkward situation by putting his hand on their shoulders and saying a kind word to them, as if Sally were incapacitated and he was the translator. In fact Paolo was being very kind in general about the fact that for awhile now Sally was not much fun to be with.
Finally one midnight before Paolo left to go home, Sally woke up and said: “I had the strangest dream about Jackie Kennedy last night. Jackie and I were...somewhere...and I was with her as if I were her best friend. And she was so full of pain, that I was in pain too. She was crying and I loved her so much that her pain was tearing me apart!!”
“Why is that so strange?” Paolo asked.
“Well, it's understandable that I grieve for her, but these emotions were so much stronger than that. It was as though I were the widow. Yet I hardly knew either of them. I've been here their whole time in office. I essentially feel they are strangers to me, like they are someone else's President and First Lady. Besides, I even think that whole 'Camelot' thing was a bit overdone...”
Paolo hunched himself up on one elbow and his wise eyes studied her face. “But that wasn't Jackie Kennedy,” Paolo said.
“No?” she asked, turning her face toward his. “Who was it?”
“She was just... your stand-in for.... America,” Paolo replied.
“America!” Sally held her breath. The torrent of surprise, confusion, grief, fear and loneliness that the Kennedy assassination had buried deep in her at last broke through. “Yes, America. America...!” she cried.
As Sally finally cried for America, the tears tumbled from her eyes and streamed down her cheeks while Paolo tried gently to brush them away.
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
Sally was relieved when she saw Paolo waiting for her. She had tried to call him all day to let him know she would be late getting out of work. It was unusual that she couldn't get a hold of him at home at least some time during the day.
Especially since he had no job. Again, the Italian government was toppled by irresolvable differences of opinion. Again, Paolo was now waiting for it to be put back together.
Again.<
br />
These last few years were particularly turbulent for the Italian Parliament. As a result, Paolo was out of work more and more often. And he had less and less money. Sometimes he couldn't even afford to put Italy's expensive gasoline in the car.
Sally wanted to help him. Her new job, for an American import firm, was steady and well-paid by Italian standards. But Paolo would not hear of it. Once, when Paolo was more nervous and irritable than usual about having so little money, Sally suggested that he take a temporary, or even part-time, job. Paolo looked at her as if she had lost her mind.
“You can't just get a job! Sally,” Paolo said. “There aren't any. And for whatever work there is, you have to go through friends and get recommendations. I couldn't ask someone to go to all that trouble for me for a job I wasn't going to keep.”
“Well, then,” Sally continued pragmatically, “don't go after something high-level. Work in a store, pump gas in a garage, look in the papers, do anything.”
“I can't do just anything! I have a PROFESSION!!”
“OK,” Sally said.
She thought how different this attitude was from the life she knew in the States. She remembered a college friend who was studying to be a doctor. During semester breaks he would work as a freight elevator operator in the building his father owned.
“But,” Sally continued to Paolo, “it seems to me one does everything possible to solve a problem when there is one.” It was hopeless. She saw that Paolo actually could not comprehend what she was talking about. But now, as she walked to the car, she still wondered why she could not find him, or his mother, at home anytime today.
“Sorry I'm late,” she said as she leaned over and kissed his ear. He looked terrible.
“Tonino is in the hospital again.”
“What...! When? What for!?”
“He went in this afternoon. The doctor called me this morning with the results of the blood tests from his last medical exam. They weren't so good. He's getting new transfusions now.”
“Oh, this is awful!” Sally said. “I thought he was all better! This isn't supposed to happen, is it?!” Paolo shrugged.
“I only have a few moments, but I wanted to see you. Let's have a coffee. Then I'm going back to the hospital.”
Over coffee, Sally said, “I'll go with you.”