I woke up this morning thinking about Sofia’s flowing hair, and gradually, more and more frightening scenes filled in the gaps in my memory. The pencil-thin girl. Carlo punching the spot between my ribs, turning me black and blue. The fourth rum-and-Coke, and then the ones that I stopped counting. Sofia’s tanned legs. Her lips that I kissed a thousand times in a previous life. Signora Philipp’s cool mermaid eyes that did not seem so cold in the moonlight.
Now I think about Lucia’s barrage of questions before my first espresso, and my garbled answers, attempts to escape my lovely sister-in-law to whom I can’t tell the truth—ever. What shit I’m in.
I morosely toss the apricot pit into a furrow and cover it with soil. Then I pull my straw hat over my face. The midday sun burns my back. I’d rather be in bed in a dark, cool room.
“You seem to have enjoyed yourself last night, judging from how shitty you look this morning,” says someone behind me. I turn. Marco is sitting on the bed of the pickup truck, in his running duds, as usual, and covered in sweat. He bites into an apricot with relish. I lift the harvesting basket and lug it to the truck. Unfortunately, Marco jumps aside before I can push him down with it.
“What do you want?” Everything goes black for a second, but I manage to hold on to the truck. A few apricots roll out of the truck bed and land at my feet.
“Hey! What happened to your top physical condition? Or are you still feeling the effects of the alcohol?” Marco grins and spits the pit on the ground.
“Don’t you have to count some rolls of toilet paper?” I say and reach for my water bottle. Fighting the temptation to pour it over my head, I drink in gulps.
“Are you in any condition to listen to me, or should I wait until you’ve had a cold shower?”
“Spit it out and then beat it.”
“The golf club sent us another offer. They’ll add another fifteen thousand if we make a decision by the end of the year.
“What decision?” I say in a flat voice.
“They’re offering twenty percent above market value. The money would solve all our troubles, Fabrizio. We could pay our debts and expand the hotel.”
“You had the land appraised without telling me?” My fist itches to land in his smug face; I hold on to my belt buckle to keep it under control.
“Would you have listened if I’d told you about it?” Marco snorts.
“Your snotty friends from the golf club could never offer as much as the land is worth. You still don’t get that? It should mean more to you, anyway. But then, your sense of family has always been underdeveloped.”
“You’re an idiot, Fabrizio. Tell me what a sense of family will do when your dearly beloved fields rob our family of our livelihood any day now. Fortunately, Nonna came to her senses, and I have to say that her insight surprised me. I think she wanted to pass on Tre Camini all along to someone who’s reasonable, but she just couldn’t bypass her favorite grandson. She knew, though, that you’d rather be rolled over by a tractor than let a girl put a ring on your finger. I, for one, do have a wife—and the sweet grandkids our old lady was so set on are only a matter of time. As for a flourishing business, I’ll show it to you as soon as I sign the inheritance transfer naming me as the legitimate heir.”
The idea strikes me like a lightning bolt. I listen to Marco’s monologue with only half an ear as the solution unfolds in front of me like a signed legal document—with a very special seal.
“I’m getting married,” I hear myself say, not very loud, but loud enough to make Marco interrupt his lecture.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what you heard, little brother,” I say matter-of-factly, still sorting out my thoughts.
Point one: I need a woman. That can’t be changed—but the choice is mine.
“I know you,” Marco says with an arrogant smile. “You’d never chain yourself to a village nag just to do what Nonna wanted. And you won’t find a woman in Montesimo who’d let a fat fish like you escape again.”
Point two: Signora Philipp owes me big-time.
“Who says she’s from Montesimo?” I ask.
Point three: she’s a foreigner—a pretty foreigner who can’t stand me, and therefore will disappear as fast as she appeared. I can marry her, take over the estate, and then get a divorce. No drama in the village, and no danger of an old matron tearing me to pieces because I don’t agree till the day I die with everything her daughter, cousin, or whoever says.
Marco stares at me. “Are you thinking about Hanna, the kitchen help? I thought Lucia was joking. Are you still drunk?”
Point four: everyone gets what he or she wants, including Nonna, even though she probably had something else in mind.
I can’t suppress a self-satisfied smile. I almost feel sorry for my little brother, who looks as if I’ve just swiped the last piece of panettone off his plate at Christmas.
“You should know by now that I don’t do things halfheartedly. It’s been that way since we were kids,” I say pleasantly.
“But Nonna wanted—Hanna isn’t even a real Italian. And you’ve only known her since, when—day before yesterday? You’re playing games.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Marco. You’re a true-blue Italian—you should know there are no rules in love.” I shrug. “What can I do? Signora Philipp is a beautiful woman, and I’m a man, after all.”
“And she shows up just in time. By chance, right?”
Marco’s anger makes it easier for me not to feel like a complete fool. I’m a man, after all. Did I really just say that? God, I must truly love this estate.
“It’s gratifying to see that you’re happy for me.” I watch the redness on Marco’s face spread all the way to his bald spot.
“Your plan won’t work, Fabrizio. Maybe you didn’t listen closely when the testament was read. Nonna demands a real marriage, not a business deal. I can smell a rat, and the notary will be grateful for any hint that something is wrong with your engagement.”
And he won’t be able to do anything about it, I think.
I step so close to Marco that I can smell his aftershave and sweat. “My compliments to the notaio when you phone him. And since you’ll already have him on the line, invite him to the wedding next week,” I whisper. I look him straight in the eye. “Anything else?”
My little brother doesn’t answer but takes a step away from me.
“Good. Then hop on home in your sneakers and take care of any overdue business on your desk. I’m busy here.”
Hanna
Half an hour after my hasty departure, I realize that the term “outer apricot orchard” is a flexible one, distance-wise but also topographically.
I’m struggling down a muddy path—a furrow, really—overgrown with roots. Even though I’ve been walking in one direction, I’ve still lost my sense of orientation because of the dense trees lining the way. On top of it, my shoes are completely wrong for this excursion. I’ve already pulled my right slipper out of the mud twice, and not much is left of its original color, let alone its fluffy white lining. The straps of the bag cut into my shoulders, and the thermos keeps slipping out of my sweaty hands. The helplessness I feel in this jungle fuels my rage. Serene Tuscany. Idyllic fruit orchards. Yeah, great! But only if you stay in your damn convertible on a damn asphalt road and avoid these arrogant, narcissistic Italians.
Huffing, I stop and push aside a tree branch that grabs at my hair. Unfortunately it lashes back like a whip, and I rub my cheek, groaning. I’m about to give up and turn around. How did I end up in this shivering hole of sh—
Suddenly I hear agitated voices through the screen of trees. It takes me a moment to understand the burst of Italian.
“I’m disappointed in you, Marco. You’re a true-blue Italian—you should know there are no rules in love. What can I do? Signora Philipp is a beautiful woman, and I’m a man, after all.”<
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My pulse quickens as I remember Fabrizio in the moonlight and feel that same strange tingling sensation as last night. I put down the bag and thermos carefully, take off my slippers, and duck under a low branch. My toes sink into the soil as I sneak closer to the two men.
“Your plan won’t work, Fabrizio,” Marco says. “Maybe you didn’t listen closely when the testament was read. Nonna demands a real marriage, not a business deal. I can smell a rat, and the notary will be grateful for any hint that something is wrong with your engagement.”
“My compliments to the notaio when you phone him. And since you’ll already have him on the line, invite him to the wedding next week—”
I stop suddenly. Did he just say “wedding”?
Something rustles about two yards from me and I automatically hunker down, hand over my mouth. I watch a pair of muscular legs sprint away. The other legs are clothed in dirty jeans and seem stuck to the ground. I beat a crouching retreat through the trees. Back on my marshy trail, I stop and contemplate my mud-encrusted feet.
First the matter of the kitchen job, and now a wedding? There are only two explanations for this absurd soap opera: either the whole thing is a hair-raising but harmless nightmare that will come to an end with the ringing of my alarm clock any moment now—or God is a quarrelsome woman and this is her punishment for sins I committed these past twenty years. Unfortunately that’s the more likely explanation.
I might have gotten myself into this unbearable mess because I stole Giuseppa’s urn, and I’m willing to face the music for that—but only to a degree.
I seize the lunch bag, stick the thermos under my arm, pick a couple of reddish-yellow apricots from the nearest branch, and then resume my march, head raised high. I’m determined to teach this self-absorbed chauvinist that he can’t do whatever he wants, least of all with Hanna Philipp.
But I’ve underestimated both the soil around here and the apricot trees. Their claw-like branches let me go only after I’ve lost one shoe (I stumbled somewhere), gotten scratched in the face (it’s not always a good idea to walk upright), suffered a blister on my upper arm from the leaky thermos, dropped the lunch bag, and sworn like a fishwife.
Just a few yards down the path, I find him leaning against his olive-green pickup truck. Well, at least part of my plan will work. I drop the bag and thermos and wind up my arm.
I’ve never been a good thrower—the art of arcing a ball elegantly and landing the damn thing where I want it has remained a mystery to me. Flat pitches that succumb to gravity after two seconds and habitually miss their target are my forte.
But this time I have a hit.
“Lunch, dear!” I shout. “Just a little taste of what awaits you during married life, Signor Camini.”
Fabrizio winces, touches the back of his head, and turns around in surprise. I pluck some more apricots from the closest branch and continue to fire. Successful again! I nail his chest.
“Hey! Stop!”
“I don’t think so,” I scream back. My hand circles another apricot, light yellow and hard. My victim retreats behind the door of his truck.
“This is totally childish, Signora Philipp.”
“Is it?” It is, but it’s also extremely liberating.
To my irritation, Fabrizio seems amused, not angry, after he recovers from his surprise. “There’s more Italian in you than I suspected. But didn’t your parents teach you not to play with food? You’re wasting my apricots. You’ll have to spend an extra day in the kitchen to pay for it.”
“Bite me!”
“Not a very proper way to express yourself.”
“But it’s proper to schedule a wedding without asking the bride if that’s what she wants?”
It’s quiet behind the car door for a moment, which gives me the opportunity to collect more ammunition. Freed from its load, the branch bobs up and down. I briefly weigh an apricot in my hand, and then throw it against the truck door. Squinting, I follow up with another. I wonder if my insurance will cover the dents. I doubt it.
“I can explain,” he shouts.
“I’m listening.”
“First you have to stop trying to kill me.”
The next apricot whooshes past the door and smashes into a tree trunk. My beginner’s luck is running out. Gasping, I drop my hand.
“You have two minutes.”
“That’s not enough.”
“All right, three.”
His curly head appears through the car window. “That’s unexpected. You’re funny.” He’s grinning, and, even though I’m still mad, I can’t help it—I grin back.
“Don’t tempt fate,” I say.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
He comes out with hands raised and stops half a yard in front of me, his head tilted. The corners of his mouth twitch when he sees my muddy feet. “Were you on a jungle mission?”
“I was in a hurry and took a shortcut,” I say, trying not to let on that I’m embarrassed by my deficient sense of direction.
“Let me guess. You found the pack-animal path, the one the donkeys take along the edge of the orchard. It’s narrow and usually muddy. Quite strenuous for two-legged creatures,” he says with a smile.
So that’s why there were fist-size holes in the mud—hoofprints. I should have guessed. I push my chin forward. “I’m still waiting for your three-minute explanation.”
“First I’d like to show you something.” He bends down to pick up the lunch bag and motions to the old pickup. “How about breakfast?”
I shake my head, but my stomach growls, contradicting me.
“I take that as a yes.” Fabrizio strolls to his truck and opens the passenger door with an inviting bow. “After you, signora.”
That’s three minutes for you.
Fabrizio
It’s unusual to have a woman in my car who isn’t related by blood or marriage. Signora Philipp holds the worn armrest stiffly, her knees pressed together, while I rest my elbow on the frame of the open window.
We’ve barely talked since we took off. The potholed road demands my full attention, and neither of us wants to scream over the Nissan’s six-cylinder engine. Signora Philipp looks out the side window with half-closed eyes. She doesn’t seem to notice the rocking and jolting.
I make a quick stop at the tractor, where Paolo, Bartek, and two other workers are taking their lunch break, talking and smoking. The Polish workers lift their hats and call out, “Buon giorno, principale!” as I hand Lucia’s sandwich packages through the window, after having fished out the one marked for me. They crane their necks to get a glimpse of my pretty passenger.
When we reach the gravel path that leads up to Rabbit Hill, I sneak a peek at Signora Philipp’s white legs. Her feet are sprinkled with brown, and one is stuck in a dirt-encrusted slipper. I’m astonished that she doesn’t seem to mind. Sofia would have demanded I bring her home immediately so she could clean up. I step on the gas, and the truck shoots up the hill with a grinding noise.
I park a few yards away from the covered benches at the top. Signora Philipp gets out before I kill the motor. She stops abruptly, her hand still on the door handle. Her lungs seem to forget their function for a moment—she’s holding her breath. I smile. Nobody’s unaffected by the view. The arrow-straight lines of trees undulating in all four directions—as if God had tamed the hill with a gigantic comb and liked it so much he couldn’t stop—enchant even me.
“Does all this belong to Tre Camini?” she asks quietly when I step up next to her.
“This is Tre Camini,” I say proudly.
“It’s breathtaking. And now you’re going to tell me a story about it, aren’t you?”
There is no flippancy in her gaze. Instead, her mermaid eyes look at me with such intensity that I have to turn away. It’s been too long since I’ve had a woman in my bed—that’s the only explana
tion for my attraction to even a cold fish like Signora Philipp.
“You don’t like stories?”
“I’m a journalist—did you forget? Stories are my job.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It does. You might remember that I love my job.”
“How could I forget?” I say drily.
She straightens her shoulders. “So?”
I have to laugh. She’s curious and doesn’t want to admit it. I decide to keep her in suspense. “Right now I’m hungry,” I say and turn around to get Lucia’s coffee and sandwiches from the pickup. Always considerate, my sister-in-law packed two tramezzini for me and an extra-generous portion of her pâté, which everyone is crazy about. She even added some tiny cherry tomatoes from her sacred kitchen garden. Every meal at Tre Camini is planned carefully.
We eat in silence as we look out over the hills. I gulp it down while she eats like a little bird, seemingly more interested in the view. Lucia’s coffee is just the way I like it: black, strong, and sugary. Signora Philipp grimaces when she takes a sip. Her body language is so clear, as clear as her words; she seems to be an open book, until you realize after a few pages that the author’s intentions are completely unclear. Confusing. When I finish my food, I ask for the rest of hers and she gives it to me.
“Why don’t you like your brother?” she suddenly asks.
“What makes you think that I don’t?” I reply to buy time. I don’t want to let on that I saw her eavesdropping before—or, rather, heard her crashing through the underbrush like a wild boar.
“I just have a feeling. You seem to avoid each other, and you made a remark at dinner on Monday that made me wonder.” She lies without blushing.
“Not so, Signora Philipp. Of course I like him. He’s my brother. I just don’t think highly of him.”
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