Happened in Tuscany

by Lorena Franco

  ALICE

  InacornerofTuscany

  If it weren´t for Amy's regrets and complaints, I would surely enjoy the beautiful landscapethatloomsbeforeme.Stuckinataxi,withthetrunkfilledwithluggage,wecrossthe narrow cobbled streets of Montepulciano, to detour along the road and enter into flowery fields,withglitteringlushtreesinthesunlightandabeautifulblueskywelcomesus.

  WecrossvineyardsandclimbahillfromwhichIcanseeastatelystonehousethatatother timessurelycouldhavebelongedtoanItalianmarquis.

  "It'shere"saysthetaxidriver,withadistinctItalianaccent.

  "Thankyouverymuch."

  Ipaythewayfromtheairporttryingtogetbywiththeeuros,Ipickupmyluggagewiththe helpofAmyandthedriver,andlookatthefrontofthehousethatwelcomesusrathercoldly andabsently.Asifinyearsnoonehadenteredit.Asthetaxipullsaway,Irealizethatthelarge woodendoormusthavebeenbetweenthosewallssincetimeworntime.Iseethattheboltisas bigasthekeysIhaveinmyhands.Itisahousewithtwofloorsandsmallwoodenwindows.

  The stone, although dark, has been well preserved over time. Around us, we see vineyards, mountainsandagreenlawnthatinvitestocontemplatethestarsatnight.Iamcurioustoenter thegarden,wherethepoolis.CindytoldmeofitsoeffusivelyandwiththisheatiswhatIfeel liketodo.Takeadip!

  "Shallweenter?"IaskAmy,whostilllooksreluctant.

  "Thereisnocoverage!Thereisn´tanything!NeitherWifi,nor...Damnit!"

  Shewalksslowlyliftinghermobilephonetoseeifitcanconnecttointernet.Butshedoesn

  ´tsucceedandgivesmeatantrumforwhichIsighandrollmyeyesinpatience.

  "Lookatthebrightsideofthings,Amy.Itisawonderfulplace."

  WhenIputthekeyinthelock,IrealizethatwithjustoneturnI'malreadyinsidealarge lobbywithwoodenfloorsandwidestairsinfrontofme.Asifsomeonehadalreadyopened thatdoorrecently."Howstrange"Isaytomyself,notgivingtoomuchimportance.Tomyright, Ifindahugerenovatedmodernkitchenwithbreakfastbar,andontheleft,acomfortableliving room with fireplace and beige sofas strategically placed in front of a plasma TV and a bookshelffullofbooks.Weleavethesuitcasesinfrontofthestairsandnext,weseethatthere isacorridorwithapairofdoors.Iopenoneandseethatitisawonderfulstudyoverlooking thegardenandintheother,asmallbathroom.

  Iputasidemycuriosityaboutthehouse,athearinganoisecomingfromthepoolthatIcan seefromtheglassdoorofthehall.Someonehasplungedinthewaterfromthetrampoline,and bypayingalittlemoreattentionontheappearanceofthepersoninquestion,Irealizewhohe is.AndIcurseCindyandherstupidideaof​sendingmetoTuscanytofindmylongedforand missinginspiration.

  MARK

  Anunpleasantencounter

  Running toward me as the Devil's soul, from the pool I see to the crackpot who writes romanticnovels.Shelooksatmequestioninglyandconfused.

  "Whatareyoudoinghere?"Sheasksme.

  Behindher,ateenagerwithlonglegs,skinnyandblondashermother,followsherwitha mobilephoneinherhand,tryingtofindsignalthatIknowfromexperience,isnon-existentin mostofthehouse.

  "WhatdoIdohere?"Ilaugh,comingoutofthepool."Itismyhome!Whatareyoudoing here?"

  "Cindygavemethekeys"shesays,showingmethecopyofCindy'skeys."Sheinvitedme toherhouse,promisingmetherewouldbenoone."

  Cindy,sure...Whynot.

  Thewritercovertlycoughs,knowingthatIamright,thatisinmypropertyandthatsheis who should leave from here. Frowning, she picks up her mobile phone, trying to find some signal just like the teenager. I go straight to the only place where I know that I can have a decentcall:undertheweepingwillowofthegarden.IdialCindy'sphonenumber,whoIknow has purposely organized this meeting and as soon as she answers, she tells me to wait a second.Isnortandstareatthewriter,whosenameIcan´tremember,butIdorememberthat tightreddressshehadonwhenshecametoourbriefdate.

  "Cindy,stopwhateveryou'redoing,damnit",Ithreatenher.

  "Whatdoyouwant,Mark?"I'matameeting"Shewhispers.

  "IhaveyourAmericanfriendhere,thewriter,athome."Whydidyougiveherthekeys?"

  "What?AreyouinTuscany?"

  "Whatdoyouthink?"

  "Alaughcanbeheardontheothersideofthetelephoneline."

  "Oh,well...you'llhavenochoicebuttoshareasummerhouse"Shesays,stilllaughing.

  "That'snotfunny,Cindy.Tellyourfriendtoleaveimmediatelyor..."

  "Orwhat,Mark?Look,thathouseisyoursbutalsomine,andAliceandherdaughterare my guests. The house is big enough for all three of you, so big you don’t have to see each other’sfaceseveryday.Bytheway,whatareyoudoingthere?"

  "Didyoureadthereviews?"

  "I'mafraidso."

  "Relaxalittle,dammit.Butyouruinedmyplans."

  "Well,justrelax,butincompanyofsomebodyelse.You'llseehowniceAliceis,you'llsee

  ..."

  Ihangupthephoneleavingmysisterwiththewordinhermouthandlookwithangeratthe newinhabitantsofthehouse.

  Icometothemdryingmybodywithatowelandpointatthemwithmyfinger.

  "Youcanstay.Butwithonecondition.Leavemealone."

  IwalkawayfromAliceandherdaughter,andIgointothekitchen.Beforetakingadip,I tried to create a new recipe, something that would revive my kitchen. Reinvent myself, be original,innovative...receiveadamngoodreview.Asexpected,mybusinesssufferedfrom JohnLogan'sbadreview,andthoughI'mscrewedup,I'llkeepfightinginwhatIbelievetillthe end.

  "Whyareyousodisgusting?"

  AlicerestsherhandsonthemarbleoftheAmericanbarinthekitchen.

  "You'regoingtosoilthecounter"Iwhisper,staringattheflourymassinthebowl.

  "Look,Ijustwanttospendanicevacationwithmydaughterandwrite.Ifyouwantwe're goingtoahotelbut..."

  "Aslongasyoudon´tgointothekitchen"Iinterruptharshly.

  "I will not be able to eat?" Not even have coffee? Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?

  Ifaceherblue-eyedgazeandIcanseethesamegriefanddisappointmentforlifeinher,as inme.

  "Doyouwantmetoleave?"Iask,abitmorerelaxed.MaybeI'vepassedandI'veonlysaid stupidthingsbecauseoftheunexpectedsituation."

  "It'syourhouse"shesaysimmediately.FairwouldbethatmydaughterandIwereleaving

  "shesaysresignedly.

  "But here you could write your next romantic novel, right? And I could find a little inspirationforanewdishtobefamousworldwideandtoaddmeagaintothelistofthebest chefsintheUnitedStates."

  "Whathappenedtoyou?"

  "Forgetaboutit...Theofficeisagoodplacetowrite,Isuppose."

  "Let'snotbotheryoutoomuch"shesays,smiling.Thatsmilewinsme.Atleastalittle.

  "Youareachef?Herdaughterbuttsin.

  "MarkHope."

  "MarkHope?I'veseenyouonTV!"Exclaimstheexcitedteenager,approachingme."What areyoupreparing?"Sheasks,elbowingmeandstuffinghernoseintothebowl.

  "Well..."IlookedatAlice,hereyebrowsarchinginsurpriseatherdaughter."Well,it'sa doughtoputsomethingonit...Idon’thavethefaintestideawhatthehellI'mtryingtodo."

  "MynameisAmy.IfyouwantIcanhelpyou.I'mgoodatcooking,right,Mom?"

  "I'mnotgoingtoanswerthat.Wherecanwesleep,Mark?

  This ca not be happening. I can´t have two strangers in my house. A teenag
e girl poking aroundinmykitchen.Isnortandpointatthestairsthatareseenfromthekitchencounter.

  "There are two doors in front of the stairs that lead to two bedrooms. The views are incredible,you'llbefinethere"Ireply,resignedatthethoughtofhavingthemathomewithme.

  Alicewalksawayinthedirectionofhersuitcasesinfrontofthestairs.Shegrabsthemand climbs upstairs in silence, while Amy keeps poking her nose into my affairs. I don´t dare to pickonateenager,that'stoomuchforme.

  "Andwhatareyougoodat?"Iask,intendingtobreaktheiceortogetherboredandlose sightofher.

  "Iknowhowtocooksomedeliciouspancakes."

  "Isee.Pancakes."

  "AHA."

  "Veryhealthy."

  "ShallIpreparesome?"

  "Atfourintheafternoon?

  "Anytimeisgoodforsomepancakes."

  ItrytocalmmynerveswhenIseetheteenageropeningcupboardsanddrawers,insearch and capture of everything necessary to prepare pancakes. I'm starting to bite my nails. A teenage girl with crazy hormones peeking through my kitchen and wanting to cook in MY

  KITCHEN! I look at her feeling dazed, amused, and angry at the same time; And I resign myselftositonastooltocontemplateatAmy’sculinaryarts,afterthrowingtheuselessdough fromthebowlwithwhichIdidnotknowwhattodo.

  ALICE

  Unpleasant,petty,arrogant,jerk,idiot...Idon´thaveanymoreadjectivestoclassifyCindy's brother,towhichIhavetriedtosendamessagethatshewillreadwhenIwillmanagetoget signalsomewhere.Hasshearrangedallthis?This"casual"encounter?Damnit,shepromised metherewon’tnotbeanyoneinthishouse!

  Iunpackthesuitcasesandwhilegettingoutthelaptop,Ifeeltheenemyinfrontofme.Asif opening it a bomb would explode or something like this. I have a month to write a romantic novelandpresentitinSeptemberwhenIreturntoNewYork.OrsenditonthewaytoCindy, soshewon’tgetnervousandseethatI'mworking.

  Julioisabouttofinish,Augustwillarrive;Iwillbehere,inthisunknownhousenexttoan arrogantchefwhoseemsnottogetexcitedaboutmypresenceandImustwrite.That’swhyI am in Italy, so far from New York. To confront my fears, to drown my disastrous and failed marriageinafictitiouslakeandtorememberagainwhatinspirationis.Thatmagicmomentin whichyouareabletounitesomebeautifulfrankandmelodiouswords,thatwouldconquerthe wholeworld;especiallytoallthosereaderswholookforwardtomynextstory.Forthem.For me.Fortheeditorialcontract.Formovingforwardandnotlosingmyidentity.

  Mark's right. In this bedroom with flowery paper walls, a large canopy bed and a very femininebedspread,I'llbefine.Thesceneryfromthetwowindowsiswonderful;youbreathe pureairandpeace.ThepeaceIneed.Nexttothewindow,thereisatableofwhitepinewood, on which I place the laptop. Strategically located in front of the window overlooking the mountainsandafewvineyards,Iturnonthecomputer.WhenIopentheblankpageandwrite

  "Chapter1",IremainblanksoIrealiseIdidn’tlosemyhabit.Icursemybadluckagain.

  Ilettheminutespassby,puttingmyclothesinthecloset.Idecidetotakeashowerinthe bathroomnexttowhatwillbeAmy'sbedroomandwhenIleave,Ihearlaughtercomingfrom the kitchen. I wear jeans, a purple cotton t-shirt and comfortable brown sandals. It's five o'clock in the afternoon and I decide to go for a walk, to see how far I can go. To see if by breathingthisnewair,theyallowmetostayupallnightwriting.Creating.Fallinginlovewith charactersIknowexistsomewhereinmyimagination.

  Before opening the door, I glanced at the kitchen. I see that Mark has a good time with Amy,whoteacheshimwithallhergrace,toflipsomepancakes."Donotlettheappearanceof thepancakesfoolyou,Mark...Sometimestheoutsideisn´tthemostimportant"Isaymentally.

  Lethimseeforhimselfhowterribletheyare.Tosuckit.Getanindigestion.Justbecausehe’s sodisgusting,mean,arrogant,jerk,idiotand..."Whatabs!"Ifindmyselfthinkingafterhaving seenhimintheswimmingpoolinhisbathingtrunks.AndIrepeattomyselfthattheoutsideisn

  ´t really important when reality can be quite another. It's no use to have a wide back, strong arms and washboard abs; If inside you are rotten. Neither does a look of those that stick stronglyinthedepthsofyoursoulcatchyoureye,ifatheart,thesmiletheyshowyouisn´treal.

  That smile ... so perfect that you would give your life to see how those kisses taste. Kisses which on the other hand, are only facade and which are surely loaded with lies that have alreadybrokeninnumerablehearts,womenwhowantedtobelievethattheycouldchangethat whowecommonlycall:anintegraljerk.

  CHAPTER4

  ALICE

  "Therearepeoplewithwhomyoucan

  sitonacurb

  andbethehappiestpersonintheworld.

  Itisn´twhere,itisalwayswithwhom"

  Although it might seem to me at first, the house on the hill isn´t too far from the center of Montepulciano.Thecenterofthevillageisonlyatwentyminutewalkalongthedirtroads,and itisapleasuretobeabletocontemplatethetypicalvineyardsoftheregionandtheflowery fieldsinwhichInoticedHopes’summerhousewhenIarrived.Thetown,withalmostfourteen thousand inhabitants, is full of magic and life. History is breathed in every corner; On each yelloworstonefaçade;Ineveryembeddedgargoyleandineverywindowfromwhichmany eldersseelifepassfromtheinsideoftheirhomes.Theyremindmeofmyfather,solockedin hisownworldsincemomdied...

  IgodeeperinthestreetsofMontepulcianoandImingleamongitspeopleuntilIarriveat thestreet DiGraccianonelCorso,whereIseeabarwithasmallterracemadeofdarktables called" CucinatípicaToscana".Attheirtablesthereareyoungpeopleenjoyingapitcherof beerandothersnotsoyoungwithaglassofwine.Isitatoneoftheirtablesandimitatethose not so young, ordering a glass of red wine and some typical dish of the region. The waiter smilesandwithinafewminutesdelightsmewithatypicalTuscandishcalled Panzanella.

  "It'saverytastyTuscandish,ma'am."Thebreaddippedinwaterislettogoundoneand it’s seasoned with a little vinegar, oil, salt and pepper. At the end it is enriched with fresh tomato,onionandbasil.Enjoyit"hesayskindly.

  I suppress my desire to ask for Ketchup, because I know that in Italy gastronomy is important.InAmericaweareexpertsindestroyingnaturalandauthenticflavourswithketchup, mustardandotherunhealthyspecies.Ienjoyeverybitoftheactuallytasty Panzanella,whileI take small sips to my glass of red wine. I open the notebook, I take my pen and try to find inspiration among the faces of the people. I watch four young people sitting at the next table talking in a quick Italian that I don´t understand. They bubble over with happiness and authenticity,butthereisn´thinginthemthatinspiresmeorreallycallsmeattention.Ilookatan elderly couple walking slowly and awkwardly through the cobbled streets and at the same time,ared-hairedgirlridingapinkbicycle.InthelovelyfrontbasketIthoughtIsawacouple ofbooks,whoknowsifoneofthemismine.Iseparatetheself-centeredthoughtsfrommymind andlookatthemaninfrontofme.Hemustbeaboutmyage,maybealittleyounger;Buthis skin tanned in excess, perhaps because he is permanently outdoors, makes him appear older.

  Hishoney-coloredeyesarefixedonacupofcoffee,hishandsstillonthetable.Hewearsa greenplaidshirtandblackjeans.

  Self-absorbedinhisthoughts,adarkbrownlocksfallonhisforehead.Ihavealwaysfelt weakforthelocksthatfallonaforehead.Hisfaceisroug
h,masculine,withacarelessbeard leftfordays.I'msofocusedwatchinghim,Ihaven´tevennoticedthathehasbeenwatchingme

  for a while. He smiles at me, and without even giving me time to guess, he gets up from the chairandsitsdowninfrontofme.

  "American?"HeasksinaperfectEnglish,withoutlosingtheessenceofhisItalianroots, though.

  "Yes.AliceMorgan."

  "Whydoesthisnameringmeabell?"

  Ishrug.Ialsosmile.

  "AngeloCraviotoandalthoughitmayseemveryItalian,mymotherwasAmerican."

  "Wasshe?"Iaskalmostunconsciously.

  "Shepassedawaytwoweeksago.

  "Oh,Iamsosorry."

  Itisstrangehowaperfectstrangercanimmediatelyexplainsomethingsointimateabouthis privatelife.Thedeathofamother,theabsenceofalove,atormentofthepastorghoststhat inhabit within. Perhaps it is easier to talk to strangers, thinking that it doesn´t really matter whattheywillthinkofyou,becauseitisverylikelythatsoontheywilldisappearfromyour lifeforever.

  Heshrugshisshouldersandthanksmewithasmile.

  "Areyouawriter?"Heasks,pointingtomynotebook.

  "Yes,atleastIwas..."Ireply,disappointedinmyself.

  Heremainsthoughtfulforafewsecondsandthen,heopenshismouthinexcessandshows meexcitedandvivaciouseyes.

  "Obviously!AliceMorgan.Mymotherusedtoreadallyourbooks.Whatwouldshesay?

  Ah, yes ... They are more rewarding than chocolate. And believe me, my mother was a demandingreader."

  "Well,thankyouverymuch.Whatacompliment."

  "I live in one of the houses on the hill, about ten minutes from here. I have horses and I offertouristsrouteswiththem.Whenyouwanttocome,you'reinvited."

  "Great"Isayexcitedly,showingmybestsmile.

  "Andwhatbroughtyouhere?Whereareyoustaying?"Hewantstoknow.

  "I'm trying to get some inspiration out of New York. Do you know the Hopes? I ask, not muchhopeofit."

  "Of course, the Americans who spend their summers in another house on the hill.