Violetta had another dream. Perhaps, it was a more practical dream, though the intricate fingerings, keys, sharps, and melodies dancing through her head were not that far outside her reach. She sat at the dining room table, the hustle and bustle of her Italian family all around, and built her practical dream.
Giana shouted (Italians were universally loud, a shout was not a sound of anger but merely a normal volume) at one of Violetta’s aunts. The aunts were perennially involved in the lives of the entire family, but the married sister was in charge.
“Isabella, take the antipasto out!” Violetta watch Aunt Isabella take the only route from her post watching the front window to the kitchen, a circuitous route through three rooms. In her mind, Violetta saw a pass-through window between the kitchen and the dining room.
This was her dream- architecture. Violetta saw the problems her house layout provided and designed the house that would solve them all. After all, who better to design a house than a woman, who understood what a house needed to run smoothly? A man? She glanced into the living room, where the men sat, smoking cigars and drinking brandy, oblivious to the hard work around them. No, a woman ought to have designed the house, and Violetta would one day be that woman.