«Grandma, you scare me when you speak seriously like that. Would you give me a nice glass of orangeade?» He laughed and got up to join me on the balcony. «I’m going to talk to my brother and rub it in a bit, with the details of the betrayal.»
Matteo wasn’t capable of being serious even at a funeral.
That year, the father of one of my classmates had died of a nasty disease: he had cancer.
The church was packed. Together with the usual friends, we sat at an appropriate distance from the front rows, where the relatives of the deceased were sitting.
In the central aisle, in front of the altar, the coffin was covered with flowers. On the first bench sat the wife with her two daughters and other women dressed in black, all crying loudly.
Shortly before the start of the mass, a woman entered in church, walked down the lateral aisle, knelt down at the feet of a statue of St Francis and remained there, praying, for a few minutes.
Despite her woeful attire, she could not hide her shapely body.
Slim ankles heralded two long legs, covered by a long skirt and slender, half-hidden calves. A narrow waist highlighted her perfect hips and posterior. An abundant bust was barely held inside a black blouse, buttoned right up to her neck. She had long brown hair that covered her shoulders and her face was hidden by a black veil resting on her head.
Numerous heads turned to look at her and several women whispered gossip.
She was the autra (other woman), the lover of the deceased. The wife was aware of this but had always ignored the issue.
It was better to have a cheating husband than not to have one at all. Being divorced in those days was dishonourable.
The woman got up, made the sign of the cross, looked at the coffin and left with her head held low. I thought I saw some tears on her face.
- Her Name Was Aprile - April 18, 2021