Lucia breaks the silence. “Could you say that again, please?”
“I said that we’ll sell the apricot orchards and put the money into the hotel after paying off the debts.” I reach for the pasta bowl. The more I say it out loud, the less I care.
“But why?” Lucia’s voice is shrill. “For years, you’ve put all the money into these fields, and now you suddenly want to give it all up? What about the distillery? What about the apricots? Nonna’s liqueur . . . your grandmother sacrificed her entire life to—”
“Nonna is dead. And since I can’t keep the estate going like before, I won’t accept the inheritance. I don’t want to be responsible for losing everything in a year.” I nod at Marco, whose mouth still hangs open. “If Marco’s numbers are correct, we have no other choice.”
“Fabrizio is right, Lucia.” Alberto dabs his mouth with his napkin and looks at me. “I’ve seen the books.”
Marco clears his throat. “The present situation is that the apricot orchards have been in the red since last summer, and they get in deeper every single month. Best-case scenario, we have two years until our obligations—”
“Oh, shut up, Marco!” Lucia interrupts. “A lot can happen in two years. Nonna’s liqueur is worth any risk. If we sell it abroad, we’ll be swimming in money. That’s what Nonna said.”
“We lost the recipe, Lucia.” I shrug and robotically pour spinach sauce over my tagliatelle. I haven’t had an appetite since Hanna left two days ago.
“What do you mean, it’s lost?” Lucia’s eyes narrow. “That green notebook you were looking for the other day?”
I say nothing. Marco reaches for Lucia’s hand, but she snatches it away as if he had an infectious disease.
“How can it simply disappear? Nothing gets lost in this house. It’s somewhere.”
“Believe me, it’s gone.”
“Then . . . we make our own liqueur.” Lucia’s eyes spark. She reminds me more of Nonna than I can handle.
“What do you think I’ve been trying to do in the distillery these past few weeks? It’s useless, believe me. It’s over.” The pasta is flavorless, but I force myself to swallow another forkful and wash it down with some wine. Marco tilts his chair and again looks so full of himself that I want to throw him, headfirst, into chicken manure.
“We have to recognize when a dream is over,” he says. “The new distillery machine was a bad investment from the start. I said that.”
Lucia raises her chin and sizes up her husband. “You did indeed. More than once.”
“Exactly. But nobody listened to me.” His left eye twitches. I’m not sure if Lucia is having the same premonition as I have.
“Fabrizio, tell me, where did Nonna keep the notebook?” Lucia says. “I’m sure it wasn’t with the other cookbooks. Something so valuable—she’d have left it in a safe place.”
“Probably,” I say, and Lucia nods without taking her eyes off Marco.
“In the office, for example.”
“I looked everywhere there, too.”
“What does it matter now?” Marco waves his arm. His forehead looks red. Lucia’s eyes darken.
“I’d like to talk with you, Marco. In private.”
Hanna
“Hanna?”
Panting, I stop but can’t turn around, afraid that I will fall down the stairs or simply collapse right here if I make one more move.
That’s what I get for ducking into the tiny flower shop on my way to work—I’d never noticed it before. But I was early this morning. All I wanted was to inquire about an easy-care indoor plant that even a novice like me could handle. Who’d have thought the colors and fragrance would overwhelm me? And then there was the salesperson, an incredibly warm-hearted woman in her midforties, who almost talked me into a cactus. I really thought about it for a moment, but then decided it was too prickly for me.
So I arrived at work with a palmlike plant—named Eve, since it’s the first plant I’ve ever had—in my arms. I also bought a bunch each of sunflowers, gerbera daisies, lilies, roses . . . and lilac-colored blossoms whose name I forget. It’s definitely too much for one person to carry.
“Hanna,” the voice calls again. “Is it really you?”
I peer over the bunched-up wrapping paper. My intern, standing next to me on the staircase, looks at me in astonishment.
“Sasha! Great to see you,” I say, pushing aside a meddlesome lily that tries to tickle my nose. Like she is every morning, Sasha is carrying coffee. That’s sweet of her.
“Are you all right?”
The lily persists. I sneeze and have to laugh. Sasha looks at me with even more suspicion. “Could we continue the conversation in my office? My arms are almost falling off,” I say. I just barely catch the pink gerbera before it drops to the floor. Pink! I must be crazy.
Sasha doesn’t seem to know what to do or say. “Should I . . . can I help you carry . . . ?” She looks like she’s expecting me to reprimand her for daring to ask such an impertinent question.
“That would be great!”
Sasha takes Eve from me just before my left arm gives out. I rub the muscles with a groan. At that moment, the door to our offices flies open and Claire appears in front of us with crossed arms.
“We aren’t buying anything.”
I hand her the sunflowers. “Good—since I only give things away.” But Claire just tilts her head and stares at me as skeptically as Sasha did a moment ago.
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in Italy?” she asks sternly and straightens herself up in the doorway—ridiculous, for someone less than five feet tall. I smile—an indulgent smile, I hope. Claire measures me from top to bottom. She must notice the state of my eyelids. Lovesickness is strenuous—you sob all the time and can’t sleep, and it affects your skin, no doubt. Finally her gaze lands on the sunflowers. “Those are pretty.”
“Pretty enough that you’ll let me come in?”
“You crazy girl! But before I start dancing with joy, I have to tell you,” she whispers. “Hellwig is beside himself.”
“He is?” I swallow. I’ve been afraid of that. There are only two reasons the boss could be mad at me, and each qualifies as a midsize catastrophe. Either Fabrizio didn’t drop the suit, in which case I’ll have to clear out my desk today, or Hellwig hates my article and wants me to change it. But I won’t do that—I made a promise. In either situation, my career as a food journalist will be over. I follow Claire somewhat sheepishly into the office and put the flowers on my desk.
Claire snaps her fingers. “Sasha, bring vases.” With a look at the desk, she adds, “Many vases.”
Sasha rolls her eyes and stalks toward the staff kitchenette, mumbling something about Girl Friday. Then Claire pushes me down into my swivel chair and perches on my desk, her knees only inches from my chest. I stop her just in time from crushing my peach-colored roses.
“Now then! Who are you and what have you done to Hanna?” A paper smacks on my lap, the new Italy issue. I try not to look at it and focus on a brown spot on Claire’s blouse. I bet it’s Nutella. I grin, even though fists barrage the inside of my chest.
“Did Hellwig accept my article?”
Claire stares at me. “I already told you, he was beside himself.”
“Okay, but did he still include it in the special issue?” I clench my fists and try to breathe evenly. Please say yes. Please! I won’t be able to look myself in the mirror until the truth about Tre Camini is in print—I don’t care if it’s black on white or blue on pink.
“Look at me, Hanna.”
I blink. Don’t cry now. Then again, why not? I’ve wept so much these past few days that one more tear won’t make a difference.
“He was beside himself—with enthusiasm! As we all were. Your article is formidable, absolutely brilliant. It’s the title story.”
My t
houghts tumble like dice, and I have no idea what number comes up. Claire picks up the paper from my lap and holds it in front of my nose. When I recognize the picture on the cover—a winding, cypress-lined road leading up to a yellow-stone house—I almost start to bawl. I’m relieved, but my broken heart is acting up again, too.
“But just between the two of us, Hanna, what made you write such a damn sentimental declaration of love?”
And finally tears flood my eyes.
Fabrizio
It’s a hot midday under a perfect summer sky, and the burning disk of the sun chases everyone into the shade. Vittoria is the only exception. Completely unruffled by humans, she scratches doggedly for worms among the fruit trees. She probably senses that nobody will do her any harm, as the throat of every animal at Tre Camini, including the rabbits, is safe.
I puff on the cigarette I’m smoking instead of eating dessert and grin. Everyone knows that Paolo buys all chickens and rabbits needed in the kitchen in the neighboring village because it would break Alberto’s heart if one of his beasts were killed. If the two of them continue with this practice, we’ll have to enlarge the stables and run a chicken farm. Maybe that’s not a bad idea, since I’ll have to find another job for our loyal Paolo when our orchards are bulldozed.
I wait for this thought to cause pain in my chest, but I feel only emptiness. I look toward the house and Hanna’s window—no different from the other windows now. After stomping out the stub, I light another cigarette. When I inhale, I welcome the pain in my lungs. It’s the only pain I feel right now.
Alberto settles himself heavily next to me on the bench and lifts his cup. “You have no idea how awful espresso tastes with artificial sweetener.” He spits out a mouthful after swirling it around. I force myself to stop staring at Hanna’s window. “You made a wise decision, son,” Alberto mutters and awkwardly pats my arm.
“I made a logical decision.”
“Not everyone can do that.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “It wasn’t something I wanted. If I had my choice, I’d keep the fields.”
Alberto laughs hoarsely. “Does that go for the pretty German signora, too?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. Yes, you do, son.”
“She left. That’s all I have to say about her,” I snap—gruffly enough, I hope, to make the old guy shut up. But Alberto is a stubborn old devil who will have his say, no matter what.
“And you did nothing about it.”
“Why should I have?”
“Do I really have to answer that, you dumbbell?” Alberto gets up and shuffles toward the house. At the door, he turns around. “Your grandmother made a wrong decision with the girl’s mother—and didn’t forgive herself to her dying day. Don’t make the same mistake.”
“What are you talking about, old man?” I stare at him. He waves away my question with an indignant gesture.
“Your little signora was part of this place before you ever lost your simple heart to her. So you better go and get her back!”
Hanna
“Then I unpacked all the boxes, even the ones full of stuff I was going to donate. Now it actually looks like someone lives here. Well, there are no plants, and maybe the balcony could use some furniture . . . and some more things inside, maybe a few decorative items. Maybe you should come shopping with me one of these days. Where did you buy your colorful pillows? Wasn’t it that store in Steglitz, the one you always talk about?”
I lean forward. Claire laughs, shakes her head, and raises her hands.
“Hanna, you’ve really changed.”
“Have I?” I say slowly.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it yourself.”
I shrug. Claire lifts her hand and counts on her fingers. “First of all, you’re in jeans and ballerina flats. I didn’t even know until now that you owned any flats. Second, you’ve furnished your apartment and bought flowers. You hate flowers.”
“That’s not true at all.”
“Don’t interrupt me.” She frowns and lifts a third finger—the middle one, ironically. “You’ve struck up a friendship with a complete stranger, and the eeriest thing of all—”
“Now I’m really curious.”
Claire looks at me expectantly. “Where are your souvenirs?”
I feel myself blush. “I don’t have any.”
“Are you sure?”
I roll my eyes.
A tiny smile appears on her red mouth. “There you go. No mementoes!” Claire jumps off the desk and does a silly dance around it. It slowly dawns on me what my words mean. After telling Fabrizio about it in the Osteria Maria, I didn’t steal anything, didn’t feel the tingling in my fingertips, no panic that I would die unless . . . I beam. I didn’t bring home anything.
We hear a mocking voice from the kitchen—“Good god, she’s cured!”—and, a few moments later, a desperate one—“What in the world am I going to do with all the shoe boxes I collected for returning Hanna’s stuff?”
“Shut up, Sasha,” we shout at the same time, and start to laugh. But Claire turns serious again fast.
“Are you sure you did the right thing?” she asks in a low voice, pointing to the yellow house on the magazine cover. A lump fills my throat, but I nod. “And what are you going to do with the grandmother? You know you have to return her.”
“Could I think about it later?” I whisper. This constant pain of lovesickness in my chest is really wearing me out.
Claire sighs. “Let me tell you, Hanna, there’s only one medicine for lovesickness. It’s sweet and chocolaty, and you’ll find it in a large screw-top jar.
Fabrizio
It takes my brother the whole afternoon to finally talk to me. He’s always found it difficult to admit that he did something wrong. And that he’s done something wrong is as clear as Rosa-Maria’s chicken broth after she’s strained it twice through cheesecloth. Lucia must have wrung the truth out of him by whatever means she has at her disposal—in other words, many. Honestly, I don’t even want to hear the truth, and so I escaped to the outer apricot field to help Paolo and his men. But at last Marco catches up with me.
I hit the brake when Marco appears out of nowhere in front of the tractor. He’s wearing work pants, to my surprise.
“Is there a hole in your running tights?” I shout. But Marco ignores me and looks to Paolo, who has put down his basket to listen to our conversation.
“Could I talk to you for a minute, Fabrizio? Alone?”
I exchange a glance with Paolo and climb down from the tractor. Paolo heaves his basket onto the trailer and takes my seat. Tapping the brim of his hat, he slowly putters away.
“Let’s walk,” I say curtly, indulging in the spontaneous hostility of turning off the main path.
As I anticipated, Marco soon falls behind on the donkey path. It’s muddy, despite the heat. The memory of Hanna striding ahead of me with dirty legs and just one slipper, but her head raised high, weighs heavily on me. Huffing and puffing, I walk even faster to chase away the vision. But my brother’s sneakered feet can’t keep up with me.
“Man, Fabrizio, don’t run like that!” he shouts, and he mumbles to himself. I don’t even turn around.
“Don’t tell me you’re already out of steam, superstar.” I hear swearing, cracking sounds, and more swearing. “Step on the roots. That makes it easier.” I shake my head and wait with arms crossed until Marco catches up.
“Why do you always do that?” His fists are so tight that his knuckles are white. His eyes glitter with anger.
“What am I doing?”
“You . . . You . . .”
Marco’s stutter and the expression that accompanies it have changed little since he was four. His lower lip trembles, and an A-shaped wrinkle appears on his forehead. Nonna called it “the anger barometer” and assigned
levels to Marco’s temper tantrums—from one to ten. Today it’s definitely a nine, even though I’m the one who should be furious.
“You always make me feel like I’m the loser,” he gasps.
“Is that why you want to talk with me?”
“No . . . Yes! I—Lucia told me to start at the beginning.”
“She did?” I roll my eyes. Women.
“She also told me not to make myself small in front of you.”
“But you are smaller than I am.”
“She wasn’t talking about our heights,” Marco says stiffly. He still can’t tell when I’m joking, and suddenly I feel sorry for him—and guilty, because once again it’s my fault that he’s feeling bad. The only difference is that now he’s not sobbing in Nonna’s armoire. I pat his shoulder and turn right.
“Let’s go back to the main path. And then, with all due respect to Lucia, forget her brainwashing, and let’s talk like men.”
Fifteen minutes later, Marco is still searching for words while we walk the main path toward the manor house.
Finally I lie to get him to spit it out. “Whatever it is, Marco, just assume that I already know it.” He hesitates but then looks straight at me for the first time in months.
“I put Nonna’s recipe book through the shredder.”
I look at the house in silence for a while. I actually imagined it would be something like this, and I’ve even contemplated how I should react—unsuccessfully. I couldn’t decide whether I would beat the living daylights out of Marco or drown him in the well. But now that I know, I feel just as empty as before—and it’s because that damn woman stuffed my heart into her suitcase two days ago and took off with it. She also took my grandmother. That’s another problem I need to deal with.
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