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.The cousin came, Laura Ansaldo, a big-boned pretty girl of eighteen with thick brown hair and large eyes.She slept on the sofa in the living room, was easy to get along with, and made herself helpful in the kitchen before and after supper.Etta had liked her until she noticed that Armando had gone mad over the girl.She then tried to get rid of Laura but Armando threatened he would leave if she bothered her.One day Etta had come home from work and found them naked in the marriage bed, engaged in the act.She had screamed and wept.She called Laura a stinking whore and swore she would kill her if she didn’t leave the house that minute.Armando was contrite.He promised he would send the girl back to Perugia, and the next day in the Stazione Termini, had put her on the train.But the separation from her was more than he could bear.He grew nervous and miserable.Armando confessed himself one Saturday night, and for the first time in ten years, took communion, but instead of calming down he desired the girl more strongly.After a week he told Etta that he was going to get his cousin and bring her back to Rome.“If you bring that whore here,” Etta shouted, “I’ll pray to Christ that you drop dead before you get back.”“In that case,” Armando said, “start praying.”When he left the house she fell on her knees and prayed with all her heart for his death.That night Armando went with a friend to get Laura.The friend had a truck and was going to Assisi.On the way back he would pick them up in Perugia and drive to Rome.They started out when it was still twilight but it soon grew dark.Armando drove for a while, then felt sleepy and crawled into the back of the truck.The Perugian hills were foggy after a hot September day and the truck hit a rock in the road a hard bump.Armando, in deep sleep, rolled out of the open tailgate of the truck, hitting the road with head and shoulders, then rolling down the hill.He was dead before he stopped rolling.When she heard of this Etta fainted away and it was two days before she could speak.After that she had prayed for her own death and often did.Etta turned her back to the other tables, though they were empty, and wept openly and quietly.After a while Cesare squashed his butt.“Calma, Signora.If God had wanted your husband to live he would still be living.Prayers have little relevance to the situation.To my way of thinking the whole thing was no more than a coincidence.It’s best not to go too far with religion or it becomes troublesome.”“A prayer is a prayer,” she said.“I suffer for mine.”Cesare pursed his lips.“But who can judge these things? They’re much more complicated than most of us know.In the case of my wife I didn’t pray for her death but I confess I might have wished it.Am I in a better position than you?”“My prayer was a sin.You don’t have that on your mind.It’s worse than what you just might have thought.”“That’s only a technical thing, Signora.”“If Armando had lived,” she said after a minute, “he would have been twenty-nine next month.I am a year older.But my life is useless now.I wait to join him.”He shook his head, seemed moved, and ordered an espresso for her.Though Etta had stopped crying, for the first time in months she felt substantially disburdened.Cesare put her on the bus; as they were crossing the street he suggested they might meet now and then since they had so much in common.“I live like a nun,” she said.He lifted his hat.“Coraggio,” and she smiled at him for his kindness.When she returned home that night the anguish of life without Armando recommenced.She remembered him as he had been when he was courting her and felt uneasy for having talked about him to Cesare.And she vowed for herself continued prayers, rosaries, her own penitence to win him further indulgences in Purgatory.Etta saw Cesare on a Sunday afternoon a week later.He had written her name in his little book and was able to locate her apartment in a house on the via Nomentana through the help of a friend in the electric company.When he knocked on her door she was surprised to see him, turned rather pale, though he hung back doubtfully.But she invited him in and he entered apologetically.He said he had found out by accident where she lived and she asked for no details.Cesare had brought a small bunch of violets which she embarrassedly accepted and put in water.“You’re looking better, Signora,” he said.“My mourning for Armando goes on,” she answered with a sad smile.“Moderazione,” he counseled, flicking his meaty ear with his pinky.“You’re still a young woman, and at that not bad looking.You ought to acknowledge it to yourself.There are certain advantages to self belief.”Etta made coffee and Cesare insisted on going out for a half dozen pastries.He said as they were eating that he was considering emigrating if nothing better turned up soon.After a pause he said he had decided he had given more than his share to the dead.“I’ve been faithful to her memory but I have to think of myself once in a while.There comes a time when one has to return to life.It’s only natural.Where there’s life there’s life.”She lowered her eyes and sipped her coffee.Cesare set down his cup and got up.He put on his coat and thanked her.As he was buttoning his overcoat he said he would drop by again when he was in the neighborhood.He had a journalist friend who lived close by.“Don’t forget I’m still in mourning,” Etta said.He looked up at her respectfully.“Who can forget that, Signora? Who would want to so long as you mourn?”She then felt uneasy.“You know my story.” She spoke as though she were explaining again.“I know,” he said, “that we were both betrayed.They died and we suffer.My wife ate flowers and I belch.”“They suffer too.If Armando must suffer, I don’t want it to be about me.I want him to feel that I’m still married to him.” Her eyes were wet again.“He’s dead, Signora.The marriage is over,” Cesare said.“There’s no marriage without his presence unless you expect the Holy Ghost.” He spoke dryly, adding quietly, “Your needs are different from a dead man’s, you’re a healthy woman.Let’s face the facts.”“Not spiritually,” she said quickly.“Spiritually and physically, there’s no love in death.” She blushed and spoke in excitement.“There’s love for the dead.Let him feel that I’m paying for my sin at the same time he is for his.To help him into heaven I keep myself pure.Let him feel that.”Cesare nodded and left, but Etta, after he had gone, continued to be troubled.She felt uneasy, could not define her mood, and stayed longer than usual at Armando’s grave when she went the next day.She promised herself not to see Cesare again.In the next weeks she became a little miserly.The journalist returned one evening almost a month later and Etta stood at the door in a way that indicated he would not be asked in.She had seen herself doing this if he appeared.But Cesare, with his hat in his hand, suggested a short stroll.The suggestion seemed so modest that she agreed.They walked down the via Nomentana, Etta wearing her highest heels, Cesare unselfconsciously talking.He wore small patent leather shoes and smoked as they strolled.It was already early December, still late autumn rather than winter.A few leaves clung to a few trees and a warmish mist hung in the air
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