Apricot Kisses

by Winter, Claudia

  The man’s face lights up, and he straightens and opens the door. “Of course! Get in. I’ll bring you there. No problem.”

  Sometimes I actually believe there’s a God, even if his angel, on this occasion, wears a toupee.

  “It seems you like Italian music.” The man, who introduced himself as Ernesto, smiles at me. Embarrassed, I stop tapping the beat of “Siamo Soli” on the dashboard. I can’t help it—the seat is pushed forward so far that my arms don’t fit in my lap. With my feet tucked up on my suitcase, which Ernesto crammed between the seat and the dash, I feel like a canned sardine.

  I nod and check out the back of the truck. Envelopes and packages fill the Ford from top to bottom.

  “I am the mailman of Montesimo,” Ernesto says when I look at him questioningly, and pride tinges his voice. That explains a lot. I smile politely when Ernesto fishes a dark-blue cap from the side panel and points to its sewed-on logo. “It’s my favorite job. I do it three times a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. I’m late today because we had a funeral this morning and then the testament was read in the community hall. Such public proclamations don’t happen often.” He grins as if it had been deliciously funny.

  “How interesting,” I lie. We rumble over a pothole and pass a direction sign that says “Montesimo 10 km.” What? I start to perspire. Did Ernesto make a turn that I didn’t notice? Why wasn’t I paying attention?

  “Trust me, signora. We are taking a shortcut.” The mailman steps on the gas, and, although the van replies with a scary noise, it does accelerate obediently on the dirt road. I slump down. So I’m going to end up as a coat—or dead in a ditch.

  “This way is longer, but Carlo won’t take snapshots of us with his new toy. We can drive faster, so it’s shorter.” Ernesto pats the steering wheel as if the postal van were a Ferrari.

  “Who’s Carlo?” My tongue feels furry.

  “Our village policeman.”

  “You only have one policeman?”

  “Montesimo is a small place.” Ernesto shrugs. “But we have lots of good pasta.”

  “Oh.” I look at him, confused.

  “Do you like pasta?”

  “If it’s cooked correctly . . .”

  “We’re in Italy, signora. The only pasta you’ll taste here is good pasta or better pasta.”

  The conversation is telling me I still have a lot to learn about this country and its inhabitants. Ernesto seems to be an especially weird specimen.

  “And what’s the difference? I mean, between good pasta and better pasta?”

  The mailman snorts as if I just asked the difference between a fast-food joint and a Michelin-starred restaurant. He watches the road silently for a while, pondering his answer. He comes up with, “If you like it, it’s a good one. With the better one, you can’t stop eating.” He grins mischievously and adds, “Gotcha! Your eyes are as big as a cow’s—a very pretty cow.” His giggling is infectious, and I laugh out loud.

  “And what was the very best pasta you’ve ever eaten?”

  “That’s easy. I eat it every Sunday at Salvi’s.”

  Sighing, I ask, “Who is Salvi?”

  “He’s the village innkeeper.”

  “The only innkeeper, I assume.”

  “You learn fast. Salvi makes pasta alla Zanolla, like Ernesto Zanolla.” Ernesto points to his chest. “That’s me.”

  “That’s nice of Salvi to name a pasta after you.”

  “Nice of me to share my recipe with him,” he grumbles.

  “So tell me—what’s so special about your pasta?”

  “Something unexpected.” Ernesto smiles mysteriously and smacks his lips. “But you know what, signora? Why don’t you find out for yourself? My invitation. You’re probably staying in our beautiful Montesimo for a few days.”

  God, I hope not.

  “That’s nice of you. But actually I didn’t—” I evade his curious look by staring out the window. “I just have to take care of something quick.”

  “And where do you have to take care of it?” he asks. “Not because I’m curious—but I have to drive you there. It’s still raining, you know.”

  Some people are hard to contradict—I didn’t expect Ernesto Zanolla to be so persistent. Besides, I’d rather hang dead from one of these fences than walk one more step in the rain. So I rummage in my purse for the address. “Do you know how to get to Via Carega, number ten?”

  “I’m the mailman, signora.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after driving along a hair-raisingly narrow winding road, Ernesto stops in front of a low stone wall with an open iron gate. It seems vaguely familiar. The mailman cuts the engine and scrutinizes me.

  “We’re here?” I ask.

  My new friend answers with a smile. While I’m partly relieved to be here alive, I also regret that I have to get out. I boldly plant a kiss on Ernesto’s closely shaven cheek and then untangle myself from my seat.

  “That’s a nice vase,” Ernesto says casually.

  “I agree,” I say. I swear that I don’t for one second consider leaving the urn on the passenger seat, as a thank-you—an elegant solution if all I needed to do were to return the urn. “Thank you for everything, Ernesto. It was a thrill to meet you.”

  I really mean it. He hands me the bundle of mail to deliver to the trattoria. Holding the letters against my chest, I slam the truck door.

  “Give my regards to Fabrizio.” He winks. “And if you change your mind, my dinner invitation stands.”

  I wave at the dirty yellow van until it disappears, honking, behind a curve. Then I turn around slowly to face the cypress-lined driveway. An army of tiny fists drums inside my chest. I don’t know what I’m more afraid of: the people at Tre Camini or returning to Berlin. What happens in between will decide everything.

  Chapter Four

  Fabrizio

  I must have dozed off in the armchair, with the folder of balance sheets on my chest and Nonna’s letter—which I’ve read at least a dozen times—on top of it. When I wake up, the rock inside my chest has shrunk to fist size, but I feel even more confused. I can’t decide whether I should be furious, sad, or disappointed.

  I hear dishes clatter downstairs and squint at the old grandfather clock. Five o’clock. I struggle to get up, and the folder drops to the floor, spilling out a few sheets of paper. Why the hell did nobody wake me up?

  As I head down the stairs, I smell roasted meat, apricots, and wine, a scent I could pick out from a thousand others. The recipe is as old as the steps under me, steps that quite a few Caminis have run up and down, or staggered up, and a few have been carried down. I hear Nonna say, “Death has been ever-present in this house, my boy, as has life.”

  And you orchestrate whatever happens here even after your death. I swallow back my indignation and listen to the voices in the kitchen below. Rosa-Maria’s grumbling mixes with Lucia’s singsong, which I can hear clearly even though the kitchen, part of the main building, is separated from the annex by thick stone walls. I tiptoe down the stairs, skipping the next-to-last one with the squeaky board. The kitchen door is slightly open.

  “Shouldn’t we wake him? He always gets upset when we let him sleep in.”

  “I don’t care if it makes him mad as hell. He needs his sleep.”

  “He looked horrible when I last saw him. Ashen.”

  “It’s a miracle he hasn’t collapsed. The worries about the farm, Nonna’s death, the lost urn—and now this last will. Did you hear the mayor’s wife? The village really has something to gossip about now. What in the world did Nonna think she was doing?”

  “It’s not just Fabrizio,” Lucia says. “Marco hasn’t said one word since we heard the testament, and he’s been jogging around the outer apricot field for two hours.”

  “What can you do? They can rant and rave and run around, but she’s still dead. And
she left more heartache than is good for all of us.”

  I picture them: Rosa-Maria crossing herself and Lucia biting her lips. I shuffle my feet outside the door, clear my throat, and count to three. When I enter the kitchen, I don’t wait for them to answer my hoarse “Ciao,” but bend down to fetch the pasta maker from under the stove. “Is the pasta dough ready?”

  Lucia, her back to me, is shredding Parmesan powerfully, putting her entire body into it. She’s small but as strong as a farmworker. She needs every ounce of it—after all, the poor thing is married to my brother. Rosa-Maria doesn’t look up from the rabbit-and-apricot stew.

  “Of course the dough’s ready.” She points with her chin to the counter near the window. I bite back a smile. Ever since I can remember, the trattoria has been closed Mondays, and the extended family gathers to cook and eat together. It seems that, despite the funeral, no one is prepared to give up this tradition—a comforting thought.

  I set the pasta roller next to the bowl of dough. Nobody remembers who came up with the Monday dinner menu, but it never changes. Before the main course, there’s a pasta dish, the primo piatto. Foes of carbohydrates—non-Italians—try to leave it out, but it’s impossible to imagine or justify the meal without pasta. For us Italians, good pasta is far more than just a starchy side dish. It embodies what we mean when we talk about home.

  I reach for an onion and a knife. Even though the kitchen is the women’s realm, one of my Monday tasks is making the pasta—another custom nobody is giving up. Rosa-Maria has already put out the ground meat, carrots, tomatoes, and olive oil. A good ragù doesn’t have many ingredients, but they must be fresh and top quality. Besides that, all you need is concentration, some skill, and time. Especially time. Evading Lucia’s gaze, I start to cut the onion. We’ll talk later, and I’m not looking forward to it.

  Hanna

  I want to turn on my heels and get out of here. I made it this far, but let’s be serious. It’s impossible to right everything that’s gone wrong in my life recently. So why am I risking a bloody nose when I could get away with just a slightly blackened eye?

  Best-case scenario: the magazine and Camini’s lawyer settle, and all I lose is my job. Every fourteenth person in Germany goes through that. My apartment is too big for one person anyway; I don’t even have to pack, since I never unpacked; and until I find another job in my field, I could work at Sabine’s breakfast café. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.

  So instead of walking up the driveway like a humble pilgrim, I could simply drop the grandmother into the mail at the local post office, and Ernesto could deliver—

  Whoa! I jump, startled.

  Less than two feet away, a chicken is looking at me with murder in its eyes. “Bloodthirsty” might be an exaggeration, but I had a traumatic fowl experience as a kid. I step to the side cautiously. To my complete horror, the chicken puffs its white breast, waves its little wings, and makes a terrible sound. A screech, really.

  My reaction is predictable. I let go of the mail, and letters scatter across the driveway and flutter into its puddles. The chicken hops onto the dirt road outside the gate, blocking my escape to the village. I dive to my knees to gather up the letters within reach—abandoning envelopes that landed too close to the beast’s beak and claws—and then run up the cypress-lined driveway.

  Soon I’m standing in front of the stately stone manor house, next to the covered parking spots. I don’t have to read the plaque out front to know what it says: Trattoria Tre Camini. And I thought I’d never come back. Wrong again.

  Not sure what to do, I put down my suitcase, which suffered damage on the long dash: one of the wheels broke, and the expensive exterior is full of dirt. I slide the urn into its huge side pocket, wipe my face, and look at the trattoria. Maybe it’s the weather—or is it my aversion that dims my view? It looks shabbier than last time. Rain runs down its flaking plaster. There are holes in the masonry, as if someone came along and picked stones out of the wall. Puddles fill the front yard, and moss covers the planters flanking the door. The palms in them look as bedraggled as I feel. The rain has managed to soak through my clothes, and now a small brook runs down between my breasts. My shoes squeak as I step forward and then back again. Is God doing this on purpose?

  “All right, I made a mess of things,” I say aloud. “But does that mean I have to throw the champagne out with the cork?” As expected, there’s no answer from above.

  Instead I hear Claire speak from my conscience’s headquarters. “Ooh, Hanna. Why do you look like that?”

  Just be quiet, I tell her. You’re the one who got me into this mess.

  “No, no, chérie. You can thank yourself. Don’t chicken out now! You can try to pretend it wouldn’t be that bad to lose your job, but it would be bad. So show some backbone!”

  My stomach flutters as if I just swallowed a little bird. I can’t. I just can’t.

  “Coward,” Claire says.

  I raise my chin defiantly into the rain. It’s true. I’m a coward, and you are far away. So I will sneak around the back and stash this ugly porcelain vase on one of the windowsills. That will show, at least partly, that I’m sorry. And then I’ll write a letter of apology to this Signor Camini, and I’ll write it far away from this unsightly place—somewhere with my feet in warm sand, somewhere where Italy delivers what it promises in its brochures.

  Fabrizio

  “I can’t stand this any longer.”

  Lucia’s Parmesan shredder clunks onto the counter. My sister-in-law leans against the sink and crosses her arms. I stir the ragù one last time and put the lid on the pot.

  “Could I have a dish towel?” I ask evenly. Lucia throws the rag at my feet.

  “I’m going to have a coffee in the bar,” Rosa-Maria announces, taking off her apron. She smooths her skirt, and I reach for the rag with a sigh.

  “Fine, Rosa-Maria,” I say. Just disappear and leave me alone with the little witch. When the door slams shut behind Rosa-Maria’s generous behind, Lucia’s eyes flash licorice-colored sparks at me. Intimidating sparks. “What can’t you take any more, Lucia?”

  She must have expected more resistance, but her surprise lasts only seconds. She straightens her shoulders, trudges over to me in her slippers, and drills her finger into my shoulder blade.

  “You aren’t the only one who’s mourning in this house,” she says.

  “I know that.”

  “Then why are you behaving like a rabid dog, Fabrizio?”

  “Weren’t you listening when the notary read Nonna’s testament?”

  “So that’s what all this is about?” I can see in the way Lucia hugs herself—as if she would otherwise melt away, like pancake batter containing too much milk—that she’s not only angry but hurt. It moves me. But not that much.

  “For right now, that’s all.”

  “We are a family,” she says. “It doesn’t matter at all who owns the estate, as long as we’re here for each other.”

  “You don’t understand, Lucia. And it’s also none of your business.”

  She is silent, and I see that I hurt her again. I glance at the clock on the wall. At dinnertime, the ragù will be perfectly done. It will taste of meat and herbs, earthy and spicy, with a touch of sweetness from the tomatoes—just right.

  With no warning, Lucia throws her arms around me. They are doughy, and her hair smells of almond cake and tickles my chin. She sobs into the crook of my neck, soaking my shirt collar. I clumsily stroke her back and feel awkward. It has been a while since I’ve been this close to a woman. Fortunately she disengages herself after a few seconds, wipes her eyes with the hem of her apron, and with one step separates her sorrow from mine.

  “Paolo was looking for you earlier. He’s hired the Poles for the harvest,” she says, sounding halting but businesslike. Women are confusing. One minute they’re blubbering and the next they’re pretendin
g the whole uproar never happened.

  “I know. I was at the stables this morning chopping wood.” I show her my hand. The burst blister, now a pink scar, is proof of my self-punishment. Lucia raises an eyebrow.

  “You should talk to Marco.”

  “I should?” I’m not fast enough to follow her leaps from thought to thought.

  “He finished the semiannual report.”

  I was afraid of that. My brother, the bean counter, finds every little flaw. He loves to rub every negative number under my nose. “I don’t care what the numbers say. We are not going to sell the apricot orchards as long as I have something to say about it. Nonna didn’t want that and neither do I.” Well, she didn’t want it before she came up with this damn testament.

  “Nobody is talking about selling.”

  Oh, you naïve woman, I think. Don’t you see that some things don’t need to be said? Why am I the only one around here who knows exactly what that dry-as-dust bookkeeper is planning? But Lucia doesn’t deserve to always be the buffer between two brothers who can’t stand each other. Better change the subject.

  “Have we heard from the employment agency? Are they going to send us the girl?” At the end of last year, we decided to hire a kitchen assistant since the work has become too much for Rosa-Maria. The agency has only suggested a single applicant so far, and that was weeks ago. Montesimo is not exactly a dream location. My sister-in-law gives me a suspicious look. “Well? Did they write or didn’t they?” I repeat in a friendly tone.

  “All right, go ahead and change the subject. You’re impossible!” Lucia snorts like a stubborn donkey and turns her back to me. I’m not a smoker, but I suddenly feel like having a cigarette. Nonna’s pack of Marlboros, which she hid behind a box of cereal in the cupboard, is almost full. Everyone knew that Nonna smoked, but she enjoyed her secret so much that we just nodded whenever she lectured us on how unhealthy it was.