The Knotty Bride

by Julie Sarff

  I stare hard at the brochure of the beautiful bed and breakfast. The pictures of the sea look so warm and inviting that I can almost hear the little waves calling my name. “Lily Bilbury,” they say, “Come, sit by the sea. Come and forget all about your broken heart.”

  I decide right then and there that I will accept their invitation.

  Chapter 2

  A few hours later we are south of Florence, driving along the Umbrian autostrada and closing in on the town of Orvieto. The countryside outside Orvieto is our stop-off point. Here, Francesca has arranged for us to stay at the Inn of the Seven Hounds, which is owned by some distant relative of hers.

  Simply put, the place is amazing. There are all these little houses clustered around three shimmering pools. Each one of these houses looks like something out of Casa Bella with its own small kitchen, living room, bathroom and two small bedrooms. True to its name, the Inn of the Seven Hounds also has a small group of beagles loping along hither and thither, longing to be petted. All these things are truly wonderful, but the high point of the inn is the spa that consists of a lovely thermal pool inside a rock grotto.

  “The spa will be open exclusively to the three of you before dinner,” Francesca’s great-uncle Mario Tallete says as he shows us to casita no. 5.

  With the splendidness of our lodging, the private spa, and seven loping hounds, the casual reader might assume that I am already on vacation. But I am not. I am on a mission. This mission started several months ago when, in an effort to help the Italian tax office locate Carlo Buschi’s unnamed heir, Rupa, Francesca and I went to visit a farmhouse that belonged to the Buschi family. This farmhouse was near Dagro, Switzerland, and we were hoping to find a relative who might know the name of the daughter mentioned in Carlo Buschi’s vague will. Sadly, when we arrived at the farmhouse after a frightful battle with Mother Nature, we found the place all shuttered up and abandoned. Arriving in a terrible snowstorm, we did what anybody else might do in such a situation– we broke in. The place was pretty empty save for some long-forgotten furniture and a jewelry box. As luck would have it, the jewelry box contained a very intriguing scrap of yellowed paper. On it, Carlo Buschi had written the names of three women. Fancying ourselves super sleuths, we have developed a theory that goes like this: we believe that one of the women may be the missing daughter.

  I know; we’re absolutely brilliant!

  So, in an effort to solve the missing heir mystery, several months ago we sought out the first lady on the list. Margherita Tazzini, a Milanese interior designer, told us quite a few interesting stories about her love affair with Signor di Meo, Villa Buschi’s dandy of a florist. In the end, however, we were very disappointed to learn she was not Carlo Buschi’s daughter but his goddaughter. Sadly, she knew nothing about any child of Carlo Buschi’s, and that is why we have come to the Inn of the Seven Hounds. We have moved on to the second name on the list: Beatta Cavale.

  Rupa, bless her heart, has been trying to get in touch with Beatta Cavale for over a month. Since she didn’t have a direct number for the Signora, she had to leave a message with the town priest. Finally, Beatta returned the call and it was all very peculiar and secretive because when Rupa asked if she could help us locate the missing heir, Beatta Cavale informed us that she couldn’t discuss the matter on the phone. So, first thing tomorrow morning we’ll call on the Signora who lives in a nearby town. In the meantime, we decide we deserve a visit to the spa.

  Isn’t it amazing how one can forget all one’s problems when enveloped by the healing powers of hot water? Especially the healing powers of a tiny, shimmering, thermally-heated pool that is inside a natural grotto? Although to be truthful, we don’t actually forget all our problems. Instead we begin to discuss them quite loudly. In a terrible turn of events, Rupa’s husband, Dario, has begun to talk about a permanent separation.

  “It’s awful. He says it was my latest and greatest attempted rescue of 102 cats which finally pushed him over the emotional and financial brink. He says he has no other choice, he must go his separate way!” Rupa looks down at her hands as she says this. To my astonishment, she isn’t wearing her wedding ring. Did she take it off for the spa? Or has she stopped wearing it altogether?

  I feel terribly guilty about all this. After all, I was the mastermind behind the plan to rescue the cats. Our flood-lit spa no longer seems like a sanctuary. To escape the gloom, I duck my head under the water. While holding my breath and pretending to be most engrossed in examining the grotto’s rock formation, I shed a tear. Or at least I think I do. It’s hard to tell if one is actually crying when one is immersed in water.

  “Why you naughty thing, did you sneak that in? The sign on the door says no alcohol,” I say when I bob back up to the surface to find Rupa holding a flask.

  Looking much happier than a moment before, Rupa busily pours bright yellow liquid into small plastic cups that she has pilfered from the water cooler. With a half-smile she hands one to me.

  Well, what do you know? Maybe I don’t have to wait until my vacation to Lipari to start forgetting all my problems. Maybe I can start forgetting them right here, right now.

  “Cheers,” I say to the ladies and hold my plastic cup up high.

  ******

  “Look at those bulging muscles,” Rupa says airily as we are waited on hand and foot in the inn’s dining room by yet another one of Francesca’s relatives. This one is a second cousin on her father’s side. I can’t remember his real name because Rupa keeps referring to him as “Hornirino,” which is a very embarrassing name she has invented.

  You have to understand, we ended up drinking a lot of limoncello in the spa.

  Fortunately, Francesca pays no mind to this blatant objectifying of her cousin. Instead she sits rigid in her chair staring at the ceiling, popping pickled asparagus into her heavily-lipsticked mouth. Encouraged by Francesca’s lack of attention, Rupa continues to behave poorly. Every time Hornirino walks away from the table, she pretends as if she is cupping his buttocks in her hands. At the same time she cackles loudly, “I’d like to enjoy a typical Italian.”

  Okay, you have to understand when I say we drank a lot of limoncello in the grotto, I mean a lot.

  And yes, Hornirino is a really lame name. According to Rupa, it’s some loose translation of the idiomatic term “horny.” As a feminist, I believe blatant objectification of anyone is wrong. Still, I have to admit I feel a tingle of happiness watching Rupa have a little fun. Back in the spa she seemed so depressed when talking about her husband.

  “It’s my mother-in-law who’s getting to him,” Rupa had explained as we sat around the rim of the grotto pool, dangling our feet in 102 degrees water. “She’s always been unhappy that we got married. Always complaining that her son did not marry a Catholic woman in a Catholic church.”

  “Honestly, what is her problem?”

  “I don’t know,” Rupa had replied. “Dario always defends her. He says she had a rough childhood.”

  “Who didn’t have a rough childhood, am I right? Like ninety percent of the planet had a bad childhood. Doesn’t give anybody the right to be rude to their daughter-in-law,” I lectured like the wise person I am after three Dixie cups of limoncello.

  “More wine?” Hornirino asks, snapping me back to the present. I stare at him agog. With his mass of curly hair, broad shoulders and “come hither” looks, the man is perfection. Strangely, when he reaches over to pour me a drink, I hear an odd noise.

  “Shh, Rupa, now you’re the one making some kind of animalistic sound,” I whisper a second later.

  “I am?” she asks before returning to growling.

  I look at Francesca to see if she notices we’re ogling her cousin. Nope, she’s officially checked out. She’s not even picking at her asparagus anymore. Good, because at this point I’m beginning to feel slightly dirty.

  Despite her naughty innuendos and spicy double-entendres, Stefano, which was poor Hornirino’s real name, was not biting. Five delicious courses later,
Francesca and I assist Rupa --who still isn’t wearing her wedding ring --in walking across the lawn to our private casita. Quite tipsy, Rupa goes on and on about how we should all go out dancing.

  “Why not, we’re not dead. We should live a little,” she continues.

  “Oh yes, let’s,” I say in response to her third hearty rendition of “Does anybody want to par-tee?” It’s a bit like the old days, back before I was married, back before I had children. I think I know exactly what to wear. In my bedroom at casita no. 5, I dump out my overstuffed duffle bag. Even though I knew I was only leaving Arona for one night, I packed as if I was going on a safari. I brought half my closet. What can I say? I am a mother and a mother learns to be prepared for all circumstances; surely there must be something in this bag for me to wear out on the town.

  “Let's go, ladies,” I return to the living room dressed in dark slacks and a pale pink top that the clerk at Upim swore was a perfect complement to my skin tone.

  “I absolutely cannot remember the last time I went dancing. Come to think of it, I did shake my groove thing at my children’s birthday party when they turned four. I guess what I mean to say is I can’t remember the last time I went dancing unaccompanied by small children. I think it was before Enrico and I got married. And hey, even though I’m a mother, I am still entitled to an occasional night out, right?”

  “Shh,” Francesca whispers in my direction before returning to the task of covering up Rupa with a blanket.

  “She just sat down and fell asleep,” Francesca murmurs with a shake of her head. “Maybe we should leave her where she is. The couch looks comfy. What do you think?”

  I think my evening of fun just went down the toilet, that’s what I think. And who am I kidding anyway, I can’t stay up late. On nights when I’m not working, I’m usually in bed by nine.

  Chapter 3

  According to Francesca, I fell asleep on my feet. Such a thing could only happen to a single mother of two. Working three to midnight and then waking up early to get the boys ready for school is wearing me down. At least Francesca had the good sense to help me to my bed. She must have pulled back the sheets so I could crawl underneath.

  Now, after a good night sleep, a shower and a cappuccino, I feel ebullient as the three of us pile into the car, heading out to meet Beatta Cavale.

  “Lily, be a dear and take the keys, will you?” Rupa asks, telling me she doesn’t feel like driving and adding that she feels a bit under the weather.

  “Headache, too?” I hazard when she winces at my every word as I pull out onto the highway. She nods, and I try to keep my good-natured banter to a minimum.

  We veer left at a fork in the road, and find ourselves on the road to Civita di Bagnoregio. I give a sentimental sigh as we pass by an exit for Orvieto town center. Too bad we don’t have time to visit. It’s such a beautiful town. It’s hilly, with all these little distinct quarters, each one more charming than the first. I particularly love the narrow, twisty streets that seem to shout, “Come check out all my delights.”

  Hmm, that sounds seedy. Maybe that’s not exactly what the streets of Orvieto shout, but you get my point. Orvieto is not seedy at all. It’s an incredible city, and I loved every minute of it when I visited it with Enrico on our honeymoon.

  In no time at all, we’re past the outskirts of the city and barreling down the road, driving past all the local wineries. There must be one every 100 feet, with their caves tunneling into the side of hills that are made up of volcanic soil. Once again I give a wistful sigh longing to stop for a short visit. I find myself wanting to tell Rupa, “Orvieto wine is so delicious, have you ever had it? It’s all dry and fruity, and like no other wine I have ever tasted. Trust me, it goes down cool and clean and smooth.”

  Of course, that would never do, because the last thing Rupa wants right now is more alcohol.

  “Take a right here!” she snaps officiously, reading the directions she has printed out from Bing maps. I do as she says, and we find ourselves heading down a small country road. Here the Umbrian countryside is a patchwork of small farms built on fertile soil. This area reminds me of the land surrounding Bettonina, the small Umbrian town where Enrico was born. And remembering the Umbrian town where Enrico is from has the undesired side effect of causing me to think about Enrico himself. These days I’m having so many problems with my ex. In the last few months, the man has stopped parenting altogether. I never see him, and I never hear from him. Federica, the woman for whom he left me, is the one who picks up our children from school so they can spend Saturday nights with their father.

  Truth be told, I used to feel much animosity towards Federica. Nowadays, however, I feel nothing but pity because I found out that Enrico is two-timing Federica with Francesca’s nineteen-year-old cousin, Lidia. Being the big chicken that I am, I still haven’t plucked up the courage to tell Federica the truth. Although, lately, I’m beginning to think she suspects something. Last Sunday when she dropped the boys off at my door, she was very grim-faced. I asked her what on Earth was the matter and she said, “Oh, nothing. Just wedding planning and all. It’s going to be soon now. I do hope you and the boys will come.”

  She proceeded to go on for a good while about her upcoming nuptials and asked me how I felt about sage-colored wedding dresses, saying, “They are all the rage right now. Very Zulu.”

  I really didn’t know how to reply to that. The truth is I’m not really current on what some brides in South Africa are wearing these days. I opened up my mouth to give an encouraging, “I’ve always adored sage,” when I noticed that Federica didn’t look like a happy bride-to-be. In fact, she looked as if she might throw up all over her expensive Ferragamos.

  Which just goes to show what a miserable excuse for a human being Enrico is! Thinking about his duplicitous ways is enough to make my blood pressure shoot a mile high.

  “How fast are you driving? This is a tiny country lane–not the autostrada,” Rupa shrills as trees, fields, sheep and goats whirl by.

  Well, look who’s yelling. And I thought she had a headache. By the way, wasn’t it her idea to have me drive this morning? Yes, it was. She said she was ‘under the weather’ and handed me the keys. And now she’s going to criticize my driving? Does she think that I am going to wreck the Multiplus? I have news for her: the Multiplus is a POS anyway, wreck or not. I mean the car is like ten years old and has carted around a million dogs and cats. Not to mention the fact that, oh yeah, it’s a Multiplus for crying at loud. It rolled off the production line in some Eastern European country and I think they officially stamped POS on the tailgate.

  I make an exasperated gesture in the Italian style and ease off the gas. “Happy?”

  Her reply is a curt bob of the head before she returns to studying the directions. Five minutes later I maneuver the car around a roundabout in the modern town of Bagnoregio. It’s impossible to drive into the older part of the city, so we park in a huge lot swelling with tourist buses. Then we head up Bagnoregio’s main street to the pedestrian bridge that connects to the old town.

  Everyone should visit Civita di Bagnoregio once in their life, but if you can’t visit it in person, google it. It’s a miracle. It rises on the opposite side of the gorge, like something out of an Indiana Jones film. It’s a masterpiece sitting on top of a capstone. A capstone made of volcanic tuff that is slowly sloughing off on the edges into the gorge carved by the river below.

  “Would you look at that?” Rupa gasps, and Francesca, who has brought along a very expensive camera with an enormous lens, begins snapping a million pictures.

  “Have you ever seen anything like it?” A German man with his own expensive camera asks.

  “Never,” I gasp. “Never in my life have I seen such an amazing sight.”

  The German man points animatedly to his guidebook. “It says here that the entire town is in jeopardy. Every so often another house sloughs off into the abyss below.”

  “Gracious me,” Rupa replies.

  “No
t to worry,” the German man continues in stilted English, “Almost all people are gone now. It is, how do you say, a ghost town.”

  But it’s not a ghost town. Beatta Cavale lives here. For some reason the idea that “every so often another house sloughs off into the abyss below” gives this mission a new urgency, and we hurry along the narrow pedestrian bridge that crosses the gorge. When we finally reach the other side of the bridge, we walk through the arched entryway and make our way to the city center; it’s a tiny square with stone houses and a blissfully plain church. We pause long enough to admire the medievalness of it all. Then we follow Rupa’s directions to the worst possible outcome: a house that sits on the very edge of town. I ring a very rusty doorbell, and a cheerful older woman in a dreary housecoat greets us with a warm, “Buon giorno.”

  “Permesso?” we say, which is the Italian way to ask if you can enter someone’s house– sort of like sailors who ask “Permission to come aboard.” Beatta smiles and ushers us into the cool of her hallway which is devoid of decoration except for a cross.

  “Voi siete Signora Brunetti e Signora Bilbury?” she asks.

  “That’s right, I’m Lily and this is Rupa, and this our friend Francesca di Campo.”

  “Pleasure,” says the woman, motioning us into a small living room with a threadbare sofa and a few wooden chairs. An antediluvian TV stands on a pea-green ceramic plant stand. The only other object in the room is a picture of the Madonna that hangs on the wall behind the sofa.

  Despite her meager trappings, Beatta Cavale smiles graciously and asks us how we take our tea. We protest that she needn’t bother. Ever the Italian hostess, she insists and disappears via a swinging door to the kitchen. Rupa, who has taken up a place on the couch, takes advantage of our Beatta’s absence and whispers, “I hope she is the heir. She needs the money desperately. Her house is about to slip into the gorge.”