The Love of My Youth_ A Novel - Mary Gordon [10]
He knows she is looking to him for rescue, but he can’t think of a thing that he might do. What should he talk about? The weather? The new influx of Russian tourists? The weak dollar? The progress of the repairs on the Piazza Navona? His daughter’s progress with the violin?
“You are shocked because I don’t express shame when speaking of my husband’s Fascist past. But I have no shame; I have pride. I have pride because I have understanding. My husband was punished for doing what everyone of his generation did. Now what do you think of all this, Miss Miranda? You see, I know about you and your politics and your past. That you, like so many of the naïfs of your generation, thought you would change the world, poof, like that. And then were shocked that you did not. I know from Valerie that you were political, and the young Adam was going to be a great pianist, and everyone thought you would be together forever and ever but that somehow the differences between art and politics were too great, and here you are now, forty years later, wondering what to say to each other. There is probably more to it, the kind of thing Valerie enjoys keeping from me, I would guess another woman, but we won’t go into that. But you see I know about you and your political past, so I can only imagine what you think.”
“I don’t have an opinion,” Miranda says.
“From what I know of you, this is a falsehood. Don’t condescend to me because I’m old. I can take your ideas. I’m not afraid of what you have to say.”
“I didn’t think you were afraid for a minute,” Miranda says.
“What did you think, then?”
“That you believe that I don’t know enough to have an opinion that’s worth anything to you.”
“I can just imagine what you’re really thinking, what you’re afraid to say for fear of making a scene. You think that everyone who was not your idea of a hero should be punished as a criminal. This is an American arrogance spoken by a people who have never had to resort to difficult choices.”
There is a sound of breakage, a sound that almost comically expresses what everyone feels. Only gradually, Miranda understands that she has broken her glass by grasping it in the effort not to say what she really means.
“What has happened?” the old lady asks.
Adam is sure she knows, but wants to hear the words. Her lips have disappeared with a spite or pleasure she feels no need to hide.
“Miranda has cut herself,” Valerie says, her hands fluttering, as if she’d never seen anything like this before.
“Valerie, Valerie, che succede,” Giancarlo shouts, running out of the room. “Non po sopporla.”
“Niente, caro,” Valerie says, running after him to some room whose entrance is invisible.
Adam sees that no one intends to do anything about what has happened to Miranda. He takes his handkerchief and wraps Miranda’s fingers. Her fingertips are bleeding, but he sees she isn’t severely hurt.
“Take her to the bathroom, she mustn’t stain the furniture,” the old lady says.
He can hear Giancarlo weeping in the kitchen. “Non ti preoccupare,” he hears Valerie saying.
“Valerie, are there Band-Aids in the bathroom?” Adam asks, sticking his head into the room into which she and Giancarlo have disappeared.
She nods and points, holding her husband halfway on her lap.
Adam takes Miranda’s hand and leads her into the bathroom. He opens the medicine cabinet, takes out a tube of antiseptic ointment, puts her hand under the water, spreads the ointment, and bandages each of her wounded fingers. He sees that she is crying, and he knows that she hates that she is crying and hates that he sees.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says.
She nods.
“I’ll see Miranda home,” he says to Valerie, who nods, still absorbed in her weeping,