The Love of My Youth_ A Novel - Mary Gordon [95]
They reach the top of a hill, a long climb; he is breathing with effort. She is worried for him: his weak heart. On each side of the street are prosperous, heavy-looking villas, some of them, she guesses—seeing a sign on the door of one, 1932—built by Fascist grandees.
At the highest point, they pass the church of Santa Sabina (for after lunch, he tells her) and walk through a square arch. The park, she sees, is dedicated to the memory of a minor comic film star. The scent of oranges surrounds them. A sign forbids playing with balls, but all around them children, teenagers, even old men, are throwing and catching a great variety of balls.
This seems to be the place where brides are photographed. She wonders: Are they all getting married in the church? All today? There is one spot—before the splendid view of Rome—that all the couples covet. They are literally lined up in the few feet before the balustrade. She finds the assembly-line aspect of it all mildly saddening: she is disappointed for the brides. If she were one of them she would resent the erasure of her singularity on this day when a young woman wants to believe herself particularly singular.
She remembers the time that she imagined she would wear a long white dress and walk down the aisle to marry Adam. Is he thinking of that now, too?
She hadn’t been married in a long white dress; she’d worn a sleeveless purple silk sheath, a scarlet shawl, high strappy black sandals.
She and Yonatan were married in the house of one of their friends; twenty people were invited; there was champagne, canapés, then everyone went home. She and Yonatan had lived together for two years; they were both too busy for a honeymoon.
The day was nearly spoiled for Miranda because of her father’s grim face; he hated that his daughter was being married under a chuppah, by a rabbi. Her mother had asked if she wouldn’t consider having a minister as well; she had stubbornly refused. Now she regrets that she didn’t do something that would have made the day, if not happier, then easier for her mother. That would have softened her father’s wrath. But she didn’t think he deserved to be humored; she found his responses insupportable. “I’m not an anti-Semite,” he’d said. “I’d just like my traditions honored, too.” When Yonatan’s father raised his glass and said, “L’chaim,” her father had said, “Doesn’t anyone speak English here?” mortifying Miranda and her mother. She was almost as angry at her mother for standing silent, wringing her hands. Her brother had declined the invitation, as she knew he would.
She imagines what the day would have been like if it had been her and Adam’s wedding. Probably they would have married in his parish church. It would have been a day of easy happiness; everyone’s believing their marriage a sign of something hopeful in the world, a new beginning, a fine fresh start. Forty years later, she feels cheated of a day that never happened: that she had been denied the moment of being seen as the perfect embodiment of an old idea.
Adam is remembering his and Clare’s wedding in the Hartford City Hall. They very well understood that to some people, not the least Clare’s parents, their marriage was an embarrassment.
Miranda notices that, among the couples, one pose seems to be popular: the bride stands, wraps the long train of her gown around the groom, down on one knee like Al Jolson singing “Mammy.” She wonders what this means: I’ve got you now, for good? We are entwined forever? Wrapped in the train, the couples hold hands, leaning back, looking up at the sky. Miranda doesn’t understand why this pose might be appealing. She notices the dresses: none seems well made or expensive. One bride, pushing a baby in a stroller, is wearing a dress that is entirely see-through. Another, very