Free Sweet Life by Linda Biasotto

to find him better employment, as though what he wanted mattered.
    Paola needs something to calm her nerves, needs it now. She goes to the hallway. “Maria! Maria, caffè !”
    ~

    Maria gropes for the switch cord hanging by the headboard. Moving into a guest room has meant being woken by shouts instead of by the bell. True, this room with its high ceilings and arched windows is elegant, unlike the plain downstairs room she occupied for four decades. The Signorina insisted Maria move because it was taking her too long to climb the stairs. Nonsense. At sixty-two, Maria is as quick as ever. The problem isn’t her legs; the problem is the Signorina’ s worsening temper.
    Maria ties a robe about her waist, pulls on her slippers and takes the staircase. When she flips on lights as she goes, reflections from the chandeliers glimmer along the black-and-white terrazzo floor. She was employed in this piccolo palazzo – little palace – when Signora Catelli brought her babies home: first Carlo, and then, two years later, Paola. And Maria has been more than loyal, tucking the family secrets against the roof of her mouth instead of blabbing to other servants. She told no one about the late master and his son, how they whisked their mistresses inside the back door as soon as Signora Catelli stepped out the front. Let chauffeurs and cooks talk about their employers’ indiscretions; Maria is above such betrayals.
    And will she pass on what she has heard about the Signorina ’s latest beau, Signor Barbaro? If the rumour is true, let the Signorina find out for herself. Now the woman has another Romeo who visits the palazzo on Maria’s night off, and the man is certainly not grey-haired Signor Barbaro, who lives far away in Milan. This other fellow leaves black hair all over the bathroom.
    Each time the Signorina takes up with someone, she slips extra cash into Maria’s pay envelope. Call it a bonus or call it a bribe, Maria saves every lira for her Rico and Roberto, who must be provided with better chances than their father, Enzo, ever had. What an awful job he has, slaughtering pigs six days a week; returning home stinking of blood.
    Returning home to a silent saint, who saves her voice for prayers and secludes herself in the apartment unless she is dragging herself to Mass. Sì , Lidia’s accident was a terrible misfortune, but what good is it to be religious? Despite her holy airs, despite praying the rosary more times than the Pope, nothing has changed. Religion is a waste of time, nothing but false hope. And false hope drags the weak to their knees when they should be on their feet solving their problems. Light a candle and believe in miracles? Maria’s own faith died long ago when hope boarded a train without a single word of farewell.
    Now the aroma of pumping espresso makes her stomach growl. She takes four biscuits from a packet and drops them into her pocket. After pouring the coffee into a cup, she adds a generous amount of grappa before setting the cup onto a saucer, and that onto a tray. She hurries upstairs, switching off lights, until she knocks once at the Signorina’ s door and enters. She leaves the tray on a small table next to a gold brocade armchair. The Signorina , examining her eyelids, doesn’t notice.
    Maria smiles as she closes the door. What a waste of money, all those expensive creams. Old age will capture the Signorina the same way it does everyone. Maria bites into a biscuit. Oh, please, let there be no more royal summons tonight.

    ~
    Paola gives up at the mirror. In two weeks she’ll be forty, and when she’s this tired, she looks every bit her age. She will ask the doctor for sleeping pills; she can’t risk appearing haggard. She drops onto the gold chair and takes the cup. It’s the grappa and not the coffee that warms her, the strong liquor smoothing her on the inside the way strong fingers can smooth her on the outside.
    That Maria. Lately Paola has caught her sidelong looks, as though she