The evening Roberto was expected back from Rome was a Sunday, which was the staff’s day off. Signora Valera complained bitterly that the staff hid from her on Sundays.

“It isn’t how things used to be. When you have a staff and they live on the grounds, you don’t pretend you don’t see them on Sundays! If they are there and something needs to get done, it used to be they would simply do it. They certainly wouldn’t claim arbitrarily that because it was Sunday, they could not. Or worse, pretend not to see me, or think they don’t have to answer when I ring them. Everyone is counting their hours and overtime now. They want to buy a stupidity box,” she said, meaning a television, like the one she watched many hours of each night. That was when I had sympathy for Sandro’s mother, imagining that it was a relief to be upstairs and alone. Where she could safely feel herself to be what she was, a counter of ham slices. There would be no pretending in her private quarters. She could be done with the constricting ribbons of her stacked espadrilles, which caused her swollen ankles to bulge in a crisscross waffle pattern, off duty from the vigilance of meting out her venom in controlled little gasps. Her bedroom television at an obscene volume, in that cell of noise she could be the kind of person who enjoyed her stupidity box. Every night I heard the familiar harmonica wail, loud and distorted, of Sanford and Son leak through the closed door that led up the stairs, the voice of an Italian-dubbed Lamont, Babbo, ma dai! Smettila, Babbo!