Bellagrand: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

predicament.”
    “What predicament? Love?”
    “Something like that.”
    “My point is,” he said, “we never talked about having babies. We only talked about not having babies.”
    Gina sighed. “When was the last time we talked about not having a baby?”
    She saw by his silence he couldn’t remember. And he usually remembered everything.
    “In any case,” she continued, “what would you like me to do about it?”
    “Nothing, clearly.”
    “All right then.”
    “Where are we going to live? We’re still at your mother’s house.”
    “I can’t make enough, that’s true,” she said. “I’m not a man. But you are. And you can.”
    “Did you do this to force me to get some menial job?”
    “No, Harry,” said Gina. “I just want a baby. I wish you still had your father’s bank accounts to fall back on. I know things were easier for you when you could just buy what you wanted and send on the bill to your father’s accountant. I won’t object if you decide to get in touch with him.”
    “You know that will never happen. Not after what he did, what he said.”
    “You can tell them about their grandchild. Esther—”
    “Never.”
    “Your sister might be happy to hear from you, no?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t care.”
    “Babies smooth over a lot of things.”
    “Not this.”
    “Mimoo says . . .”
    “I don’t care. Baby, no baby, my father, my sister are gone from my life. Just like they wanted.”
    She fell back on the bed. “Why are you pushing them away, caro ?Your family, my brother. Your friend Ben. You used to be so close. Why have you not written to him? You don’t even know if he’s still in Panama.”
    “If I don’t know where he is, how can I write to him?”
    “I bet your sister knows. You could ask her.”
    “Stop it.”
    “His mother must know. You could get in touch with her. You got along with his mother so well.”
    “Yes, but she gets along too well with my father. I’m not going to reach out to her, Gia. Besides, I don’t think Ben wants to hear from me anyway.”
    “You can’t be on the outs with everyone, Harry.”
    “Salvo hates me so much he won’t step foot in his own mother’s house. How is this my fault?”
    Gina said nothing, biting her lip, forcing herself to say nothing. Why did she have to be a Sicilian? They always blurted out every damn fool thing on their minds.
    “Do you know what Mimoo says?”
    He fell back on the bed too. His hand went over her belly. He spun toward her, bent over her, kissed her. “No. Tell me what Mimoo says.”
    “She says the baby brings his own food.”
    “Mmm.” He kissed her bare stomach, caressed her hips, fondled her breasts. “You know who brings her own food? You.”
    Five
    SHE MAKES HER OWN tomato paste. She is dressed in some shimmering gauzy summery thing, and her hair is tied up. The dress has to be loose and sheer because she is about to undertake heavy physical labor. She might perspire. All he does is sit and watch her, his mouth slightly open, his whole soul short of breath. He has watched her make the paste so many times. He never gets tired of it.
    She has been simmering tomatoes all morning, boiling them down. She has strained all the pulp, removed their seeds, their skins. She has undressed the tomatoes.
    Now she needs his help, and that’s why he’s been sitting at the kitchen table gaping at her.
    They drag two plywood boards from the porch down the stairs and to the back. The boards take up nearly the whole overgrown yard. But that’s where the sunshine is. It’s late summer and warm, and it’s the only way to make enough paste to last the winter. The tomatoes she grows are always splendid. In his father’s house he never ate tomatoes the way he eats them now, raw, cooked, boiled, steamed, fried. Any which way he relishes the tomatoes. It’s the fruit from the Sicilian tree of life.
    They carry the two pots of stewed tomatoes to the boards. She spreads the thick messy pulp over the