9. Chapter One

10. Chapter Two

11. Chapter Three

12. Chapter Four

13. Chapter Five

14. Chapter Six

15. Chapter Seven

16. Chapter Eight

17. Chapter Nine

18. Chapter Ten

19. Part Two: Marguerite 1927 – 1973

20. Chapter Eleven

21. Chapter Twelve

22. Chapter Thirteen

23. Chapter Fourteen

24. Chapter Fifteen

25. Chapter Sixteen

26. Chapter Seventeen

27. Chapter Eighteen

28. Chapter Nineteen

29. Chapter Twenty

30. Chapter Twenty-One

31. Chapter Twenty-Two

32. Chapter Twenty-Three

33. Part Three: Tina 1950 –

34. Chapter Twenty-Four

35. Chapter Twenty-Five

36. Chapter Twenty-Six

37. Chapter Twenty-Seven

38. Chapter Twenty-Eight

39. Chapter Twenty-Nine

40. Chapter Thirty

41. Chapter Thirty-One

42. Chapter Thirty-Two

43. Chapter Thirty-Three

44. Chapter Thirty-Four

45. Chapter Thirty-Five

46. Afterword

47. Notes

48. About the Author

49. About the Feminist Press

50. Also Available from the Feminist Press

Umbertina

Prologue

He reached over to the low table where the lamp was always lit, day or evening, because the room was dark—dark and unheated and pervaded with Rome street noises—and where lay the paraphernalia of his profession: heavy black-rimmed glasses, pipe, tobacco pouches, matches, ashtray, pencils, note-pads, and clock. From the low table on the zebra-skin rug that created the island of détente between their facing wicker chairs, he picked up the black appointment book. “Va bene, Thursday at five?” he asked. Smooth, self-assured, deep-voiced.

“Don’t leave me like this!” Her own voice was anxious and too high-pitched. And she meant: Don’t reject me, make love to me! But unable to say so she put it another way: “Tell me something—am I right to go ahead with this divorce?”

“You must do as you feel.” It was the refrain of their meetings and it was like an old too-often repeated joke; if she could sort and act on her feelings that neatly she wouldn’t be there at all.

It wasn’t the answer that mattered. She wanted time to recover herself. The hour had been painful, another stalking of the same no-man’s-land. No-woman’s-land, she corrected herself. She was aware of the new currents—they had helped, in fact, to precipitate her into the psychiatrist’s office.

She searched his dark, lean, Sicilian face. “What I mean is, that in my marriage, at least I have sex if I want it with Alberto. You keep telling me to respond to my instincts—be more primitive, you say!—and yet I’m about to dissolve a marriage without another prospect in sight.”

“Well, I can’t help you there,” he said curtly, sitting back and crossing his legs so that her eyes were drawn, as always, to his bright socks. Priests were known to have large collections of socks. Vicarious sex for the vicars of Christ on earth.

“Thursday at five?” Dr. Verdile repeated.

“No,” she said, “I’m going to Florence.” She was repaid by his surprise as he looked up from his book and regarded her quizzically, inviting her to continue.