Free Cabaret by Lily Prior

immediately sent Signor Porzio out to get the magazine cover framed, and then she displayed it proudly in the reception area where all the bereaved marveled over it.
    I bought several extra copies and gave one to Uncle Birillo and Aunt Ninfa. I had signed my name across it like an autograph. They were so proud. In those days they hadn’t got their own phone, so Aunt Ninfa went to the post office with her address book and a stack of coins, and spent all day on the public telephone informing everyone she knew. Soon a line of people wanting to use the phone stretched around the block, furious at Aunt Ninfa’s refusal to relinquish the receiver and vacate the kiosk. Uncle Birillo was equally pleased, and congratulated himself on having guided me into the business in the first place.
    I gave another copy to Fiamma.
    “Is that you?” she asked unnecessarily, and then laughed.
    The last copy I gave to Pierino. He dragged it onto the floor of his cage and then shat on it.

Chapter 12
    O n Thursday June 15, 1972, I was to present myself at Civitavecchia, Banchina 5, where I would, according to the brochure I had been sent, board the
Santa Domenica,
and in so doing, step back into a lost world of luxury and refinement. But I had a lot to do first. Fiamma, who was now pregnant, came round and cast a critical eye over the contents of my wardrobe.
    “You can’t wear any of this stuff,” she said dismissively; “although I suppose if you have to perform any burials at sea, it would be all right.”
    It was true that most of my clothes had been bought with funerals in mind. In my line of work I could hardly get away with the miniskirts in psychedelic colors and platform shoes then in which Fiamma scandalized, but also excited, the grandees at the Ministry.
    Together we hit the streets around the Piazza di Spangna, where the sidewalks heaved with shoppers, foreign tourists, ice-cream vendors, gigolos, artists, and priests, and where the very trendiest boutiques in the whole of the city were to be found. Brushing aside my protests, Fiamma quickly filled a suitcase with the flimsiest, shortest, tightest, and most revealing garments she could uncover.
    “For heaven’s sake, Freda,” she snapped. “You’re supposed to be twenty-three not forty-seven.You’ve been middle-aged your whole life.”
    This came as something of a shock to me at the time, but thinking about it afterward, I supposed she was right.
    So my cruise wear was one problem solved; at least it would be if I could summon the courage to put on the neon pink minidress with matching briefs and peaked cap, the gold lamé catsuit, or the super-flared pants and fringed bra top in lime green nylon. Signora Dorotea was to look after Pierino for me. She was the only one I thought I could trust with him.
    There was one other thing I knew I had to do before I left.
    For some time now Mamma’s teeth had been worrying me. At the end of the day, in that space between waking and sleeping, I thought of Mamma’s teeth. In the eye of my mind I could see her smile, and I wanted to restore it to her. Now was the time.
    Therefore on Sunday June 11, 1972, I took two buses to the place where Mamma’s life was snatched, and mine shattered, seven years ago. I had not been there since. The road didn’t seem as long as it had then, or as steep. I started walking from the top, remembering all the details of that day that had seemed forgotten.
    The poppies growing along the scrubby verge, the white butterflies, the dust rising, the sun hot on my skin, the wind in my face and my hair, plucking at Mamma’s hat, her laughter. An invisible band struck up “Io So Perchè,” and Mamma’s voice sang along. The wind began to whistle faster. It grew louder in my ears. Fiamma’s giant bubble of gum burst. The air became taut and tense as the hulk of the car hurtled out of control and roared toward the old man who was waiting for it to consume him.
    I ran. My legs couldn’t keep pace with me. I