Apricot Kisses

by Winter, Claudia

  Alberto scrutinizes me for a long time before looking to the courtyard where Vittoria, my grandmother’s favorite white hen, is scratching in the mud.

  “Finding her ashes won’t change that she’s gone forever. Say good-bye here.” He taps his chest. By now, our estate manager has used up more than his weekly allotment of words in this conversation, a sign that he means what he says. I look into his watery eyes, which almost disappear beneath his heavy brows. I guess I’ll have to get used to feeling guilty all the time.

  “You’re right. Forgive me.”

  Alberto pats the back of my neck with his hand, a gesture I know from my childhood, when he would slap the back of my head if the situation warranted it. “Finish up, son. It smells of rain.”

  Hanna

  I don’t end up in a scary neighborhood. Right after the city limits of Florence, I say good-bye to the nice Italians by honking and screaming, “Grazie, grazie!” I leave the freeway at the next exit, courageously choosing the local road that runs parallel to the strada provinciale. Even though this will double my traveling time, I’m happy with my spontaneous decision. Within half an hour the fields and woods of the Arno valley open up in front of me.

  I am not a nature lover, but it’s unbelievable how the mellow landscape of this quiet side street affects me. On my right, the Arno winds its way through the hills like a serpent, copper colored in the late-afternoon sun that breaks through the clouds. The wind brushes against the back of my head, and I suddenly don’t regret anymore that I entrusted my hair to an obviously mad hairdresser who dyed it a brownish black and cut it very short. Tiny villages and farmsteads—houses with faded awnings, and little gardens with laundry lines—fly by. I hum along with an Italo-pop hit playing on the radio and wave to a bicyclist I pass; I just can’t resist. The air smells of meadows, lavender, and something sour that I can’t quite define. I’m almost at peace—at least for ten minutes until the idyll is destroyed by a bang and billowing black smoke.

  “Damn!” I step on the brake and come to a stop behind a tractor that is taking up most of the road. My car chortles violently, burps a few times, and then dies.

  Of course. Did I seriously think I could reach this godforsaken place—what’s it called?—without incident? I fish around the armrest for the crumpled piece of paper with the address. Montesimo. A short look at the map confirms what I thought: Montesimo is unreachably far. The next village is about two and a half miles away, and who knows whether it has a gas station, let alone a garage. The tractor has long since puttered out of sight, and an invisible mockingbird in the underbrush next to the road is having a loud laugh at my expense. My forehead drops onto the steering wheel.

  I know as much about cars as a carpenter knows about crocheting. It takes me ten minutes just to locate the lever that opens the hood. Above me a rain cloud—a rather large one—rumbles ominously.

  Fabrizio

  Umberto Lombardi is a tall, gaunt man with a beaked nose that somehow complements his starched shirt collar perfectly. From the lectern, where bingo numbers are usually called and award ribbons attached to the overalls of chicken farmers, he’s lording it over us. The community hall fills with the same black crowd that trampled down Padre Lorenzo’s graves this morning. Nobody wants to miss the public reading of a last will and testament, especially not if it’s the one of Giuseppa Camini.

  I glance around with my head bent, trying to endure the pitying looks and at the same time to act aloof enough so nobody speaks to me. The mayor’s wife, who starts to waddle toward me with a sorrowful expression, hits the brakes and instead presses Lucia and Marco to her ample bosom—making sure that everyone witnesses her expression of condolence.

  The proceedings in the darkened room seem strangely staged to me, almost as if, from behind the velvet curtain, Nonna were directing her own funeral feast (a horrible expression for the mountains of spaghetti, vats of minestrone, and buckets of panini). Nonna liked best the sesame-topped panini, some of which are right now disappearing into Lucrezia Gosetti’s pockets. Her son, Stefano, in shirtsleeves and bow tie, is sitting with the Bertanis. One row in front of them, Rosa-Maria sits in tears next to Alberto, who is more composed. Our foreman, Paolo stands by himself at the window, hands buried in his pants pockets and gaze directed outside as if he wished he were in the fields. I understand the feeling exactly.

  Lombardi coughs quietly, condescendingly—typical of his profession. He leafs through his folder. It’s obvious that he doesn’t feel comfortable with this group of peasants who are so different from his rich clients in Pisa. The lawyer has been taking care of our family’s affairs for two generations, but I’ve never understood what Nonna saw in this stuffed shirt. He can’t finish a sentence without using a word from a foreign language.

  Lombardi clears his throat more emphatically, but the room quiets down only when the mayor sits down and takes off his Panama hat. Chairs scrape across the floor, last morsels of food disappear into mouths, and glasses are deposited on the floor next to muddy shoes. All hundred and twenty or so curious pairs of eyes fixate on the lectern, as if someone shouted “Bingo.” I can almost hear Nonna whispering from the great beyond, “Bread and games, child. Even the old Romans knew the only effective way to get people to do what they have no intention of doing.” I almost laugh out loud. What the hell is your plan? I wonder.

  I eye Carlo, who stands by the door with his legs apart and arms folded, making his famous bella figura. Then I focus on a square of sunlight on the floor.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you in the name of the deceased, whose wish it was that the testament be publicly read. This is the last will of Giuseppa Camini, born Graziano, signed on February 10, 2014.” Lombardi clears his throat and rustles some papers, an eerie sound in the deep silence nobody dares disturb. “‘I hereby revoke all previous testaments and declare the following to be my ultimate wish. I appoint Umberto Lombardi of Grufo & Millotti as executor of my will. My loyal estate manager, Alberto Donati, has the right to live on the estate for the rest of his life. This right shall not be affected even if the estate should be leased, rented out, or sold.’”

  A tinge of excitement runs through the room like a slight cosmic disturbance. The notary looks up and adjusts his tie. I glance over at Alberto. The relationship between him and the deeply Catholic Nonna was an open secret, much gossiped about in the village. Alberto’s expression gives nothing away, but the way he squeezes the cap in his lap tells me enough. I offer a silent prayer of thanks to the heavens.

  “‘To my dear Rosa-Maria Alberti I leave my silver rose brooch and a stipend of five hundred euros per month for the rest of her life, to be taken from my life insurance. The rest of my jewelry, including a diamond necklace by Visconti, a gold bracelet by Gioielli, and my grandmother’s diamond ring, I leave to Lucia Camini, the wife of Marco Camini.’” Lombardi reaches for his bottle of water but then decides to continue without drinking. “‘My grandson Marco Camini gets the oil painting in the living room, but has no other claim on the estate. He received the statutory share on October 7, 2005, as noted in the attached document.’”

  A murmur runs through the room. Most people in the audience look surprised, some gloating, and others nod seriously. Marco stares straight ahead and Lucia contemplates the tips of her shoes. This fair deal is no news to them—but my brother messed it up when he ran his bookkeeping firm into the ground.

  “‘I designate my grandson Fabrizio as the sole heir of Tre Camini and all the tracts of land attached to it, since I know he will administer the estate the way I intended. I stipulate that he obtain possession of his inheritance as soon as he has entered the holy state of matrimony. Should Fabrizio Camini decline to accept the inheritance under this condition or not be married within a year after the reading of this testament, I designate Marco Camini as my sole heir. Until that time, my estate manager, Alberto Donati, is entrusted with the management of Tre Camini.’”


  The mayor’s wife lets out a satisfied guttural sound and rams her elbow into her husband’s side. Mothers turn to look at their daughters. Lucia stares at Lombardi as if he just revealed that Nonna left all her possessions to the church, and Marco inspects his fingernails.

  And what do I do?

  I run outside, far away from the chattering mob that’s pretending to be stunned by what they heard. And far away from the smile playing about Marco’s lips.

  Hanna

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me. Hanna.”

  “Carissima!” my mother says. “How wonderful to hear your voice. What’s that horrible noise in the background?”

  “It’s raining.”

  “But it’s sunny outside.”

  “I’m not in Berlin, Mamma.”

  “You aren’t?”

  “I’m in Italy,” I say, “doing research on an article. But my car got stuck somewhere in the middle of no—”

  “Wait, sweetie—my cell phone is ringing. I’m on call because Isadora went to the hospital. The poor girl, her nerves have finally caught up with her. And we had to admit a Croatian woman with three little kids last night, even though we’re crammed, and it’s only me. Isadora? How are you, dear? Did you—”

  “Mamma?”

  “Just a second, carissima. I’ll be with you in a moment. What do you mean, Isadora, they’re keeping you in the hospital? For how long? Did they tell you when you can get back to work?”

  I fiddle with the radio while listening to Isadora’s hard-luck story, which interests me about as much as the weather in Majorca. I turn the dial all the way to the left and then all the way to the right. All I get is static that’s interrupted twice by crackling voices. It’s no wonder—out here the end of the world seems about to begin.

  “I’m sorry, but this was really important,” my mother says, finally talking to me again. “So tell me again, child, why are you standing in the rain while calling me? Please go inside.”

  I look up at the convertible’s canvas roof in frustration and shrink deeper into the seat. I’m just glad I managed to find the button for the roof. Otherwise I’d be sitting in a motorized bathtub.

  “If you’d been listening to me,” I say, “you’d know that my car broke down on an Italian country road.”

  “Italy? Did they send you there on another business trip?” She sounds alarmed, like she always does when the topic of her home country comes up—one of the reasons I didn’t tell her that I not only wrote nasty articles during my last vacation but also did some research into my background. I wasn’t successful, since there are more Coleis in Tuscany than drops in the ocean. It’s strange that she keeps her family such a secret; after all, it’s mine as well. Unfortunately, that’s not the way she looks at it.

  “Forget it, Mamma. I just wanted to talk with someone. I didn’t mean to keep you from anything important.”

  “Where exactly are you now? Oh, the phone again! These cell phones are the scourge of mankind. Isadora? What else?” My mother’s warm voice, whispering words not intended for me, bubbles through the phone. I can see her in front of me, how she’s probably pacing in the kitchen, her bracelets jingling, the phone jammed between chin and shoulder. Her short, brunette curls bob up and down. Every part of her is in constant motion.

  My heart jumps when I hang up and throw the phone into the glove compartment. Really, I didn’t expect anything else. Mamma always worries more about everything and everyone else than she does about those who are right next to her.

  Fabrizio

  Lombardi has a letter for me. I have no idea how he found me. After I ran in circles in the rain for a while, torn between sorrow and a hot, scary rage, I hid in the men’s room of the town hall. When he pushed a crumpled piece of paper under the stall door, I just stared at it. There it is, next to the puddles of water that have formed at my feet. Lombardi leaves the room with a starched “I wish you well, Signor Camini. You know where you can find me.” Only then do I pick up the envelope. I turn it in my hands, not daring to open it.

  My grandmother always subscribed to the erroneous opinion that matrimony was the only lifestyle that’s agreeable to God. I have no idea why she was so fixed on that idea, why she had pursued it with relentless zeal late in her life. I was fourteen when her matchmaking efforts started. The first future Signora Camini was a girl in my class—she was two heads taller than I was, preferred hopping to walking, and had braces. So everyone called her The Brace. I ran away as fast as I could, and Nonna slapped me for it, saying, “How is a girl supposed to catch you, Fabrizio, if you’re always running so fast?”

  I didn’t want to be caught—and that didn’t change when the girl in question was the baker’s daughter, the baker’s daughter’s cousin, or the baker’s daughter’s cousin’s friend.

  I found the girl that Nonna didn’t want me to find at all when I was an adult, and it took me four years to realize that my grandmother’s doubts were justified. After that, there were countless women. They made me laugh and warmed my bed, and their shapely legs earned me the envy of other men. None of them touched my soul. None of them was Sofia.

  I laugh without humor. How silly of me to believe Nonna would stop her scheming just because she met the Grim Reaper. I go to the sink, avoid looking into the mirror, and turn on the faucet. While the water is running, I tear open the envelope.

  Montesimo, February 8, 2014

  My dear Fabrizio,

  It probably is unusual to start one’s last words to a loved one with an apology. Since you’re reading this, Signor Lombardi has just finished reading my testament and you are scared to the bone. You are furious and desperate, and I can understand how you feel. The Lord told me some time ago that my time is up, and so, with a heavy heart and deep conviction, I made the decision that might be the end of Tre Camini. Maybe you’ll understand my motives better after reading this letter.

  First of all, I want you to know that I am very proud of you. None of the Caminis, except your late father, has ever been as closely rooted to our estate as you are. Your love for it is palpable and present everywhere—shown in the calluses on your hands, in the way your laborers look up to you, and even in the taste of every single apricot. Our farm could be in no better hands than yours, of that I am sure. Yet, in the same way that your brother lacks attachment to our land, you lack insight into what makes a Camini a true Camini.

  Tre Camini is much more than just an agricultural estate. It’s a family business steeped in Christian values and traditions. In good and bad times alike, the family has guaranteed growth and a future. Without family, this country estate has no reason to exist. That’s why I want you to marry and pass on the family legacy in the face of God, as your grandfather and your father did. Fill Tre Camini with the laughter of children, because that is why it exists.

  You might say that this is not your way. You might think that I am old fashioned because I place so much value on these matters. But most of all, you believe that you will not find another woman you can love.

  Trust a stubborn old woman’s experience: love often grows where one least expects it.

  It is sometimes not enough to just trust that things will grow and thrive out in the fields. You are a Camini—and in their hearts, all Caminis are husbands, wives, mothers, and fathers.

  Your Nonna, who loves you very much

  PS: If you are not willing to try for Tre Camini, try for me. I don’t want to have to turn in my grave because Marco is doing something stupid with my apricots.

  Hanna

  I readily admit that there are worse things.

  On a scale from one to ten—with ten equaling being struck by a deadly disease; nine, giving birth to triplets; and eight, having an overdrawn credit line—a cloudburst on a deserted country road is not all that bad. True, I’m drenched, but the rain, which has lightened from shower to spr
ay, is lukewarm. I carry the urn safely in my arms—it seemed wrong to expose the old lady to a bumpy ride in a wheeled suitcase. The cyclist from before passes me and rings his bell somewhat maliciously. I can live with that.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been walking, but the afternoon sun is low, and each step seems to take me farther and farther from civilization. I pass a soaked cardboard sign with “50” painted on it, languishing in the ditch. A similar sign with a washed-out message dangles from a fence a quarter mile later. I detect only three humans—two women and a man in a field, carrying large bundles of hay on their backs. Otherwise I meet just horses, sheep, and a herd of donkeys. The herd, ears hanging, is gathered under a leafless tree, and I wonder if they’re longing, just as I am, for a dry place and a bowl of soup. Maybe not for the soup.

  I only notice the truck when it stops directly next to me. It’s a panel van, mottled yellow and brown, as if someone poured a bucket of dung over its ecru paint. The driver leans over and winds down the window.

  “Signora! You need help?” he asks in broken German. Is it obvious at first sight where I’m from? Warily, I step closer. Paolo Conte’s “Via Con Me” wafts out with the sharp smell of aftershave and sweat. I wonder if it’s possible to recognize by their appearance psychopaths who sew coats out of women’s skins. The man, who seems to be well groomed, is wearing a black Sunday suit. “Saw your pretty car on side of street.”

  I nod cautiously and glance at the faded direction sign. “Montesimo 6 km.” That’s almost four miles too far to be skeptical about strangers. Obeying Cartone’s advice, I answer in Italian. “I’m on my way to Montesimo. Is this on your way, by chance?”