Her sister-in-law introduced her to the groom’s relatives, who barely acknowledged her with a nod.

The groom’s sister observed her with curiosity through her monocle. She felt clumsy, pathetic, and wrinkled, and Angela was looking at her severely.

“Probably some old spinster they let stay here,” the younger woman thought to herself.

Bobò slipped away, practically on tiptoe. She moved the new lamp more to the center of the room because it wasn’t commanding enough attention where it was, then looked around to make sure everything was in its place because of her compulsive habit of never resting for a moment.

Near the closed piano, black and shiny like a coffin, was a guest who stood away from the others. He was looking at her. Her whole body trembled, and she approached him.

She saw, a bit confusedly, a gray head of hair, a tired smile.

“Don Concetto!”

“Donna Bobò!”

They fell silent. They had nothing to ask one another.

“It’s been so long….”

“So long …”

Bobò’s heart was in her throat. The lights, the whispering, the people, everything disappeared in the distance, dancing away. She had the impression of being alone, just with don Concetto, in an immense deserted place, feeling as though they should take one another by the hand. They looked at each other for a long time with a kind of anguish.

“So much time!”

“So much time …”

She saw how he had aged, and it pained her, almost as if the years had taken their toll only on him, leaving him stooped and devastated. The years … that had ruined everything with no means of making things right, that had left her virgin heart fresh and intact.

It wasn’t the harsh light that illuminated her eyes but rather the diffuse green light of memories of Licata.

But the serene radiance suddenly disappeared from her ecstatic eyes at the all-too-familiar voice, which was now sharper and lower than usual.

Following her sister-in-law into the dining room, her step was light and dreamy like that of the bride.

“You’re ridiculous!” exclaimed her sister-in-law. “You’re a foolish old woman! Aren’t you ashamed? Get the dessert wine ready and bring it down.”

She didn’t say: “Don’t come,” but Bobò didn’t go back in, just as if Angela had ordered her not to. She prepared the trays and called the servant to bring them into the living room.

“First the glasses, then the sweets …”

She went to her room and took off the cinnamon-colored dress so she wouldn’t be tempted to go back down. She felt that she couldn’t because now, under Angela’s sarcastic glare, neither she nor he would ever be able to relive that sweet moment, gone now forever.

She buried her face in her hands but did not cry. Filled with anguish, she saw with exacting clarity her gray life as an aging spinster, still in love.

Caterina’s Loom

Caterina’s Loom