This time we kiss cautiously, almost awkwardly—a kiss between heaven and earth, tasting of fear and redemption. Random images float through my mind: Dr. Buhlfort’s waiting room, the lost urn, the funeral, Lucia in the kitchen, Marco running away, the last will, my apricot orchards, the vanished recipe for apricot liqueur, Nonna’s frail voice talking about growing and thriving. But then Hanna opens her lips to mine, and everything that was or will be stops mattering.
Hanna
Without saying anything out loud, we agree to go back. I walk down the gravel path behind Fabrizio in a daze, my hand firm and warm in his. I have no idea how long we stood there lost in that incredible kiss before we reluctantly pulled apart with embarrassed grins. Blood still gushes through my ears, I feel faint, and my lips are stuck in a silly smile.
I’m completely flustered and out of control—and I don’t even care. Fabrizio guides me around a rock the size of a soccer ball. I scratched my leg on that one on the way up. Then, and I don’t know if it’s minutes or an hour later, we reach the unpaved road leading to the car. It’s wide enough for us to walk next to each other. We still say nothing, as if we’re afraid words would destroy the magic that cocoons us like a shimmering bubble.
Fabrizio stops a few steps away from the truck and lets go of my hand. I look up at him. He’s smiling and serious at the same time. I almost regret that he breaks the silence.
“Now that’s almost eerie,” he says.
“What exactly do you mean?” I ask.
“We’ve got a flat tire.”
“A flat tire,” I say, not quite getting it. He points, and I see that the truck is leaning to one side. “Oh, a flat tire,” I mumble, quite happy, and in my mind Claire shakes her head with a knowing smile. I don’t care at all. Fortunately Fabrizio doesn’t notice that I’m behaving like a love-struck teenager. He kneels in front of the truck and inspects the deflated tire—my chance to check out his jeans-clad butt. Unfortunately, the delightful sight lasts only a minute, since he gets up and walks around the truck. It seems that everything else is in order. He wipes his hands on his T-shirt.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to be towed. There’s a nail in the tire, and we don’t have a spare.” He pulls me to him and buries his face in my hair, his unshaven chin scratching my temple. His heart beats strong and steady, maybe a little too fast, but it calms me. I give in to temptation and slide my hands under his shirt. His back is sweaty and warm, and the muscles underneath contract when I touch him. “I’m going to call Tre Camini,” he whispers. “Do you think you can survive one more hour out here with me until Paolo comes with the tow truck?”
“You really ask stupid questions.” Desire shoots through me so suddenly that I gasp. Holy shit. I want Fabrizio more than I’ve ever wanted a man before.
“Nobody says we have to wait outside,” he says throatily. And then he slides his hand under my blouse and guides me gently to the truck.
No. We don’t have to wait outside.
I once knew a woman who claimed, as we drank coffee together at the university coffee shop, that the right song during sex is like an elevator carrying you straight to heaven. I laughed so loud you could probably hear me outside, and she never sought my company after that. I desperately try to remember her name. Birgit? Bianca? I was a condescending, stupid cow.
I’m flying—at supersonic speed. The hoarse voice on the radio sings of the simplicity of love, and I believe every single word. Everything is easy. We don’t take our eyes away from each other for one second—not when Fabrizio takes off his shirt and unbuttons mine; not when he tenderly strokes my belly, which I forget to pull in; not when I undo his belt; and not when he unzips my shorts and slides his hand between my thighs. His face seems transfigured. God, I want him! I claw into the soft skin above his waist. Fabrizio reacts immediately, grabbing my hips and pulling me in. And then . . . our bodies become one, moving in unison. I’m drowning in him, only to burn in his arms a moment later. And then there’s nothing but endless satisfaction.
When the radio announcer returns to his chatter, I grudgingly open my eyes and look straight through the side window at Marco.
Startled, I push Fabrizio off me and scramble for my blouse. I find my panties and one sock and start giggling as Fabrizio slides into the driver’s seat. He turns down the radio and calmly zips up.
“Ciao, Marco. What are you doing here?” he asks, as if his brother just walked in on a harmless chat over coffee.
“Who called, me or you?” is the biting reply. “Paolo had to help Alberto with the bees, so Lucia sent me.”
I wish the ground would open up and swallow me, but Fabrizio doesn’t give me time to be embarrassed. After I put on my blouse backward, he pulls me toward him and gives me a good, long kiss that tastes a little of stubbornness and defiance. I sense that Marco’s holding his breath and I can’t suppress some gloating, even though I know Fabrizio is using me as a ball to slam into Marco’s gut.
“Hi, brother-in-law,” I say casually and exchange a glance with Fabrizio. He grins and pushes a strand of hair away from my flushed forehead. Marco whirls around, strides back to his car, and returns with a towrope.
“What are you waiting for? Do you plan to stay here overnight?” he says.
“I’m afraid you wouldn’t like the answer,” Fabrizio says, stepping out.
It’s silent on the hour-and-a-half trip back. After a fierce argument—Marco hadn’t brought a spare tire and accused Fabrizio of not making it clear what was wrong with the pickup—we towed the truck to the nearest garage. Since it was Sunday, the garage was, of course, closed, and we had to leave it there.
Sitting between the two brothers on the old Ford’s front bench, like a living wall, I realize just how muddy their relationship is. Marco stares at the street, his hands clutching the steering wheel of his vintage Oldtimer so tightly that his knuckles are white. Fabrizio absentmindedly strokes my arm and looks out the side window. The scene is rather uncomfortable, but it gives me time to reflect. I steal a glance at Fabrizio. My heart beats faster.
So I did fall in love . . .
With the man I’m supposed to marry.
An enchanting story so far.
But the rest isn’t as movie-perfect. The marriage is a business deal based on lies and ending with divorce.
Claire whispers in my head, “Who says it has to end that way?”
Maybe I’m more of a romantic than I let on. I have no idea if Fabrizio is thinking the same thing or if it’s all part of the game for him. Besides, what would I do in Italy? My life is in Berlin.
Claire again, “What life, Hanna?”
Fabrizio reaches for my hand. I look at his fingers, long with straight-cut nails, and I tremble.
Yes. What life? I think of my empty apartment and all the unopened boxes; of the office, quiet at night; of my desk at the window and the lit windows across the street full of people enjoying themselves instead of working; of spending Sundays on a bench in the company of meerkats and a zookeeper whom I know only by his first name. I grip Fabrizio’s hand more tightly.
Fabrizio
She’s pretty, the way she sits there with closed eyes—even though her smeared eyeliner makes her look like a panda. I almost regret that I have to wake her.
“We’re here,” I whisper in her ear. Hanna responds immediately, and my heart leaps when she looks at me. I’ve known many women in many different ways, and they’ve all looked at me with different expressions. But even Sofia never looked at me this way. I can’t explain it, and I honestly don’t care what the explanation is. All I know is that I have to be alone with her as soon as possible.
Marco parks the Ford in the garage and gets out without saying a word, slamming the door. He unloads the tool kit, moving slowly and hanging around the truck longer than necessary.
“Would you go out with me tonight?” I say quickly, voice ra
ised. Hanna’s gaze rests on Marco, who’s stopped to fidget with the gas cap, expressionless.
“I’d love to go out with you,” she says. There’s something in her tone that I don’t get—but at least she didn’t say no.
“That’s great,” I say, wishing Marco would go to hell so I could kiss her and do exactly what we did just a while ago—for hours.
Hanna helps me along: “What do you have in mind?”
“There’s a nice little osteria in Montesimo. Well, it’s the only osteria, but . . . it’s a good one.”
She smiles and kisses my cheek. It smacks too much of friendship for my taste. “Good, let’s go out to eat.”
Then Lucia saves me from my it’s-been-a-decade-since-my-last-date embarrassment. She rushes toward us, her dress waving in the wind, and embraces Hanna.
“What has this horrible man done to you? Were you in an accident? Are you all right? Are you hurt?” She shoots me a vicious look. “This jerk didn’t tell us anything. Calls, stutters about needing to be towed, and hangs up as if he’s late for the bus.”
“Everything is fine, Lucia.” Hanna gently removes herself from the hug. If Lucia weren’t my sister-in-law, I’d be embarrassed. But Lucia is Lucia, and her “bus” comment isn’t far off.
“Don’t just stand there and grin, Fabrizio. Tell me. What happened?”
Marco slams the trunk. “Calm down, stellina. We’re all here and nobody got hurt,” he says evenly. “At least not as far as we can see. Excuse me. I have to make a phone call.”
Lucia frowns and follows Marco’s head-down shuffle with her eyes. Then she examines me and Hanna, who lowers her eyes and blushes. Lucia takes a deep breath to say something, but seems to think better of it and crosses her arms in front of her chest.
“Signora I-Have-Better-Things-to-Do, are you growing roots over there, or do you want to learn how to make real pasta? Then get your bony ass into the kitchen.” I never thought Rosa-Maria’s voice would make me so happy.
“I believe she’s talking about me,” Hanna says with a smile, and fishes her handbag out of the truck. She hesitates, nods to me, and then dashes across the yard, giving the chickens plenty of room. Lucia squints.
“Hanna,” she shouts. “Your blouse is on backward.”
Hanna stops and turns around. She’s beaming.
“I know.”
Hanna
The kitchen is a haven for me this afternoon. Rosa-Maria’s strict regimen allows no time for brooding, and I plunge gratefully into the work. I wash the breakfast dishes without being asked and listen attentively when Rosa-Maria explains in what order to mix the pasta-dough ingredients. I learn how to knead air out and love in, and how to recognize when the dough is smooth enough to be pressed, in portions as large as the palm of your hand, through the pasta machine. Then I clean and quarter two cases of plum tomatoes, slice garlic so thinly that Rosa-Maria nods in satisfaction, and make a tomato sauce—a real pomarola—under her close supervision. It’s the first time I haven’t been in her way, despite the small size of the room. If Rosa-Maria is astonished that I’ve mutated into a submissive apprentice, she hides it well. But when I take off my apron in the early evening, she presses the tenth and final installment of Propelled by Hope in my hands, which are pruney from dishwater.
I’m still smiling when I dry my hands in my dwarfish bathroom. I’ve grown so fond of Prudence and Hugh by now that I can hardly wait to witness their decidedly X-rated reunion. I’m contemplating starting to read before my date with Fabrizio, when I notice my phone. I haven’t touched it since I called Claire.
I suddenly long for my mother’s chatty voice. I’d like to tell her about Fabrizio, and about other things as well. She might have some advice for me.
My heart beats faster as I listen to the phone ring. It clicks, and I take a deep breath. “Mamma, it’s me, Hanna. I wanted to tell you—”
“. . . not home right now. In case of an emergency, you can reach me at . . .”
Disappointed, I exhale and end the call without leaving a message. I cross to the little desk under the window.
Paolo is pushing a wheelbarrow of manure across the yard—straight through a flock of chickens, to Vittoria’s great displeasure. I see Lucia walking to the herb garden with her little basket to pick wildflowers for the dessert plates. Men’s voices drift up from the barn, and then I see Fabrizio head toward the distillery. I need to ask him tonight if he’s discovered the secret of Nonna’s liqueur.
Tonight. Some butterflies flit in my stomach as I sit down in my bathrobe on the wooden chair, my knees pushing against the desk. While I boot up my computer, I stare at the letterhead on the writing pad—a curved T framed by a C, and an address in cursive. It’s simple and elegant at the same time, like Tre Camini itself. I glance at the wardrobe that hides my suitcase. My heart pounds. I imagine that I hear an encouraging whisper from behind the door.
I open a new document as soon as my computer’s awake and put my fingers on the keyboard. The sooner I start to set things right, the better. Then I close my eyes, tie an imaginary apron around my waist, and mentally rush back to Rosa-Maria’s kitchen in Lucia’s slippers. I’m going to write the most unusual restaurant review of my career.
I’m so engrossed in typing that I look up only when I feel a draft on my naked legs. Lucia is standing beside me. I manage to quickly press “Save” and close the laptop.
“Sorry to disturb you . . . but I knocked three times, and when you didn’t answer I thought—I want to talk about the flower arrangements for the community hall.” Lucia waves a notebook that I recognize—it’s her wedding bible. She’s been carrying it with her for days, looking very serious, as if planning a wedding were rocket science. And I’m the explosive particle that will whiz around her ears, I think and immediately feel guilty.
“You’re not disturbing me. I was just . . . working.” Shoot. Wrong answer. Lucia looks at the writing pad and the notes I’ve scribbled on it for the article.
“What exactly are you working on?”
I lean back in my chair and look up at her. Her hair has come loose from under her barrette, and it curls over her shoulders like a waterfall. Her sweet and trusting face is the epitome of innocence. I’ve suddenly had enough of all the lies. I’m fine with deceiving strangers, but Lucia is the first person, since I met Claire, whom I can call “friend” without hesitation. I get up and lead an astonished Lucia to my narrow bed and ask her to sit down next to me. She looks at me expectantly but also patiently, as if she knew it’s not easy for me to say what I’m about to say.
“I’m writing, Lucia. It’s my profession,” I say slowly.
“How beautiful. Do you write books, novels? Maybe love stories? I love romance novels.” She smiles.
Man, this is harder than a final exam. I shake my head. “I’m a restaurant critic, Lucia. I write articles about restaurants, good and bad. To be honest, more about the bad ones.”
“I don’t understand.”
I take a deep breath and take her hand. “Fabrizio and I didn’t tell you the truth. We don’t know each other from years ago, and we didn’t meet again by chance recently. I was here a few weeks ago, as a restaurant reviewer.”
“You mean here, at Tre Camini? But I didn’t see you.”
“I was just here for a quick dinner,” I say. “It happened to be the day when Carlo was the ruler of the kitchen.”
“Carlo, that . . .” Lucia snorts, but I press her hand.
“I wrote an article—not very complimentary. It was an unhappy coincidence. And then your grandmother died, and I . . . found her urn in an airport restaurant. That’s why I came to Montesimo, to return Nonna. But Fabrizio demanded that I stay here to form a second opinion about your restaurant.”
“You’re making fun of me.” Her face is pale. She jumps up and paces back and forth. Then she stops and points to my laptop. �
��I want to read the article. I mean the bad one.”
“It’s in German,” I say.
“Then translate it for me.”
Fifteen minutes later, Lucia is sitting silently in the wooden chair. I shut the computer and wait while she stares at the ceiling, her lips pressed together, for a long time. Then she begins to laugh. “That’s Fabrizio for you. He makes a reporter slave away in Rosa-Maria’s kitchen because he’s mad about a bad review.”
“You aren’t upset about the article?”
“We’re in Europe, Hanna. People aren’t stoned for voicing their opinion. Besides, Carlo is an abominable cook.”
My relief lasts only a few seconds. Lucia continues, “But before we discuss you and Fabrizio, I’d like to find out more about Nonna.”
I explain about my meeting with Hellwig at the airport, and how I ended up with the urn, and how Fabrizio made me agree to kitchen duty. I skip the part about the wedding deal so that my future husband doesn’t get into more trouble than necessary. She doesn’t interrupt me once. Then I end by liberating Giuseppa from her suitcase prison.
Lucia solemnly accepts the striped urn. She stands very still for a moment before carefully putting the container on the desk and taking a step back. “Hello, Nonna,” she says quietly.
I feel like a criminal. I should have returned the urn long ago, never mind Fabrizio’s stupid terms. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. You can take her with you, of course,” I say.
“I could.” Lucia’s still looking at the urn. “But I’m not sure it would be the right thing.”
Not again! I almost cry out. Lucia sizes me up and clicks her tongue. “Do you know that Giuseppa and Alberto were in love their entire lives, but they were never together?”
I shake my head. What does Nonna and Alberto’s sad love story have to do with the urn? But Lucia doesn’t seem to be finished. So I sit down on the bed, happy that she’s still my friend.
“When Nonna was young, she had everything a woman can have. She was beautiful, smart, the daughter of a rich businessman who sold cheap olive oil. Giuseppa could have chosen an equally wealthy husband and spent the rest of her life in a palazzo. But la dolce vita, as we Italians call it, meant nothing to her. Actually, it bored her. So she started to criticize everything. Her anger was mainly directed against her old-fashioned parents. And since her fight needed more than just words, she married a simple farmer just to spite her father. What she didn’t count on was that she would fall in love—only not with her husband, Eduardo Camini, but—”
Apricot Kisses Page 21