“Why?” I ask, not because I’m interested, really, but because I don’t want to think about how to get Nonna back to Italy.
“Are you aware that it’s hell to be your brother?” Marco blurts out. He tries to clean his shoes in the grass on the shoulder of the road. I blink. I knew Marco had a problem, but I thought it had more to do with him.
“That comes as a surprise to you, doesn’t it? I understand. If you get a halo as a child, it’s not likely you’ll take it off. Why should you? I can still hear her today”—he taps his forehead and rolls his eyes—“‘No, not like that, Marco. Look how Fabrizio does it.’ ‘Marco, leave that to your older brother.’ ‘Why can’t you be just a little like Fabrizio?’ ‘We’ll only let you play with us because Fabrizio is the leader of the gang.’ ‘Stop bothering me, Marco.’ ‘Watch your brother—he can drive a tractor already.’ ‘Fabrizio is stronger, funnier, faster, bolder.’ What good are good grades against such competition? I was just the Camini who’d rather sit in the library than help in the fields—a deal breaker for our father. And Nonna, she beamed whenever your name was mentioned.” He kicks a stone. “Whatever I did, it was never as cool as what you came up with. I was never good enough.”
“Marco, you’re four years younger. Obviously there were things you weren’t allowed to do, but not because people thought you couldn’t do them. Everybody was protecting you. I was, too.”
“But I didn’t want to be protected. I wanted to . . .” He gasps in a breath and then looks at me defiantly. “I wanted to be like you. There, I said it.”
“Believe me, you shouldn’t have wished for that,” I say, thinking of Father’s motorcycle. I wish I hadn’t convinced myself Father would come back if I just kept slaving away in the fields. I might have read some books, too.
“I realized that eventually—fortunately,” Marco says. “I doubt Lucia would have fallen for me otherwise.”
“How witty. But I still don’t know what all this has to do with Nonna’s liqueur recipe.”
“It was wrong to destroy the notebook, but I thought I had no other choice,” Marco says. “When Nonna gave me the estate’s books to keep, I could finally prove that I was good at what I do. No bookkeeping in all of Italy is as clean as ours.”
“We all know that, Marco.”
“But not one of you ever said so. I could live with that—I can still live with it today. But that nobody listened to me—that was unbearable. Our business has gone downhill constantly these past few years, but nobody wanted to hear the truth, and I didn’t want to trouble Lucia with it. Instead, you and Nonna and Alberto became obsessed with this apricot pipe dream. And I was supposed to find the money to fund it, siphoning from the hotel and the restaurant. We haven’t been able to pay our suppliers for months. And when Nonna’s will was read . . . I just didn’t know what to do anymore.”
“And so you—”
“So I made sure that this apricot dream would come to an end, once and for all. I did it for the family—so Tre Camini will continue to exist, for my kids and yours. I realize now that I chose the wrong way to do it. Lucia came down hard on me today until I told her everything. Then she slapped my face, and she was right to do so. All I can do now is apologize to you.”
“No, I’m the one who should apologize. I was a selfish idiot.”
We look at each other. Marco scratches his head.
“We messed that up, didn’t we?” he says.
“We definitely did.”
“I’m afraid it’s also my fault that your little German ran away.”
“Her name is Hanna,” I say. “And that has nothing to do with you.”
“But I talked her into believing that she means nothing to you. I even tried to bribe her. And I sent Sofia to the osteria.”
I shake my head. “I meant nothing to Hanna from the start. That’s all that matters.”
“So your marriage was really only a business deal?”
“You were right as always, you old pessimist.”
“For some strange reason that gives me little satisfaction now,” Marco says. “She’s a tough cookie, but I sort of liked her. And I wouldn’t be so certain about her feelings for you, if I were you.”
“She’s gone, Marco. That’s proof enough for me. It’s all history now.”
“Meaning?”
“We look forward and do what your numbers tell us to do. Our apricot orchards go to your golfing friends, even though I might puke on the contract when I sign it. We pay our debts and work on the new plan—to make Tre Camini the most famous hotel and restaurant in the region. And since I’m definitely not getting married, everything will be in your able bookkeeping hands starting next year. You’ve earned it, even if you are a real son of a bitch sometimes. But maybe that’s the kind of boss we need here.”
“Do you really mean it?”
“You should know by now that I always mean what I say. Let’s shake on it, little brother.” I lift five fingers. Marco tilts his head, and then does what I would do when we were kids: instead of shaking my hand, he punches it.
At the house, we sit in the sun in front of the woodshed for a long time, enjoying being silent together. A smiling Lucia brings us two bottles of beer and then leaves us alone. Amazing how things work out. I hope the same rule will apply to the emptiness I feel inside. We open the bottles with our teeth, a trick that cost Marco a piece of incisor when he was sixteen. We grin at each other and clink our bottles.
Mine is almost empty when Alberto strides by in his beekeeping gear. He reaches the other side of the yard, but then turns and comes back. Marco smirks and I have to suppress a grin, too. Alberto’s gear makes him look like an astronaut.
“This is the last time I will say this, Fabrizio.” His words sound hollow from under the beekeeper’s hat, which Alberto made himself out of an old motorbike helmet and mosquito netting. “Bring Isabella’s daughter home!” Then he shuffles off looking at the ground. Marco looks at me.
“Who is Isabella?”
I shake my head. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, the name rings a bell, but I can’t make the connection. “I’d like to know that, too.”
Hanna
When I put the key in the lock that evening, I get a jolt—the door to my apartment door is slightly open. I remember for sure that I locked it when I left—twice, as is my habit. My heart pounds as I stare from the eerie opening—wondering if I should escape at once—to my new doormat, which shouts a bright-yellow “Welcome.”
My unwillingness to haul the armful of foliage back down the stairs again finally defeats my fear. Cautiously, I tap the door, listen with bated breath, and take one step inside. The aroma I thought I smelled outside intensifies, and within seconds I recognize it. My fear evaporates. Annoyed, I squat down, put Eve on the floor, and storm into the kitchen.
“Ah, carissima! There you are!” My mother is standing barefoot on my expensive leather stool, rummaging in a cupboard. “Don’t tell me you have no dried beans in this house.” She sniffs at an open bag of nacho chips in disgust. “You shouldn’t eat this junk,” she scolds, and throws the bag into the sink. “Salt, pepper, and olive oil—that’s all you need on potato chips.”
“They’re corn chips,” I say, trying hard not to lose it. “What are you doing here? And how did you get in?”
“I’m cooking ribollita for you . . . if you have beans somewhere, that is.” Now she turns around for the first time and exclaims, “Oh no, you cut your beautiful hair.”
“Mamma! You can’t just break into other people’s apartments to cook soup.”
“It’s not ‘other people’s apartments’ I broke into—it’s my daughter’s. And it’s not breaking in if you have a key, is it?” She seems pensive for a moment but then waves the thought away. “Anyway, your new landlord is a nice man. Maybe a little lazy, and I don’t like his limp handshake. But he promised to
take care of the damaged blinds in the guest bathroom first thing tomorrow—”
“Mamma!”
“You know, you could help me instead of standing around.” As she climbs down from the stool it wobbles dangerously, but I stubbornly stay at the door. Fine with me if she falls on her nose.
But she doesn’t fall. Instead Mamma lands elegantly on the linoleum with both feet, steps into her killer stiletto heels, and smooths her pleated skirt—for no particular reason. That’s the only sign that she’s nervous.
“Happy Birthday, principessa.”
I exhale sharply. “It’s not my birthday.”
“You were put in my arms on April 12, 1983, at seven nineteen in the morning. Every day since then has been your birthday for me,” she says quietly. Then she comes toward me, her arms extended.
She only reaches my chin, and her arms look like a twelve-year-old’s, but her embrace feels like an enormous fluffy blanket on a chilly autumn day. I try to stiffen, but my resistance melts away. And then the floodgates open and I sink, sobbing, to the ground—Mamma with me, since she doesn’t let go.
“Oh, my darling,” she whispers, and caresses my back. I hate myself for collapsing into a sniveling picture of misery, but I can’t change it.
“I’m sorry that I was so mean to you,” I say.
“I’m sorry that I was such a bad mother.”
“You weren’t a bad mother.”
“Oh yes, I was.” She releases me from her embrace and holds me in front of her. “But I’ll make it up to you. I’ll stay with you as long as you want—today, tomorrow, the day after. And we’ll make up for what I missed these past few years.” She traces my wet cheeks with her thumb.
“But you’ve got to go in to—to your people. Isadora will be desperate without you—”
“Who is Isadora?” Mamma says calmly. I just look at her.
“Right. Who in the world is she?”
We start to laugh at the same time. Well, Mamma laughs. Mine is something between a giggle and a sob.
“I could use a drink now,” she finally says with a smile. She helps me up. “And then you’re going to tell me the name of the guy who broke your heart.”
Startled, I stop crying. “How do you know?”
My mother smiles serenely. “Child, there are only two reasons for tears like those: death and love. And since I hope that nobody died, there’s only one answer.”
“Mamma?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
She brushes a strand of hair off from my forehead. “Forget about soup. Let’s have a drink and talk.”
I snap my fingers. “I think I have exactly the right drink for us.” In the bathroom, I splash cold water over my puffy face for a few minutes. When I look in the mirror, I still see sadness in my eyes, but also something else. I turn away with a smile and get the small, slender bottle from my suitcase.
Liquore di Albicocche della Nonna. I gently touch the label and Lucia’s handwriting. I’ll write her a long letter tonight. Then I go back out to the kitchen.
“This is a very special liqueur,” I say. “You’ll love it. I brought it from Ita—” I stop short. My mother has turned deathly pale, staring at the bottle as if I’m holding a grenade. “Mamma? Are you all right?”
She opens her mouth, but what comes out is eerie—the sound of a hurt little animal.
“Where did you get that?” she asks, barely loudly enough to hear, her eyes wide open. And then something unimaginable happens: she cries.
Chapter Fifteen
Hanna
My mother is still totally flustered. She’s been turning the little bottle in her hands for twenty minutes, staring at it as if it were Pandora’s box—something to be both revered and feared.
I sit next to her on the couch, waiting for her to be able to speak again. Other than some incoherent stammering—I make out the words Tre Camini repeated a few times, like a mantra—she hasn’t said anything. So I tell her a cleaned-up version of my Italy trip, leaving out the parts about the urn and the marriage deal, since I still feel ashamed about both.
As I finish recounting my hasty escape from the estate, her tears finally subside. She blows her nose noisily.
“I believe that some things we call coincidences are actually no such thing.” She wipes her nose again and crumples the tissue into a little ball in her hand. “Here I’ve been trying to forget Tre Camini for half my life, and then my daughter falls in love with none other than Giuseppa’s grandson.”
“I wish it had turned out differently, too.” Thinking of Fabrizio, I almost start crying again—and wonder when I’ll run out of tears.
Mamma scrutinizes me. “The Caminis were always very likable. If the young man takes just a little after Giuseppa, I can understand how you feel.” She clicks her tongue. “But before I bombard you with questions, I owe you a story, too. After all, you asked me more than once about Italy and I never gave you an answer.”
“I never understood why I never got an answer,” I say, which makes Mamma stare off into space.
“Homesickness is an awful feeling, especially if you know you’ll never go home again. So you try everything to avoid reopening old wounds—including silence.”
“Go home? Does that mean—”My eyes fly wide open with a sudden suspicion. “Am I—I’m not related to Fabrizio, am I?”
“No, no, Hanna.” My mother smiles. “Blood is not the only thing you need to make a home. Giuseppa was . . . I don’t know the right word for it. We met when I was nine, a Sunday in church, and I wore a black dress because—it was my mother’s funeral. Her name was Matilda Colei, and she was only thirty-nine when she died of lung disease. I was hiding in a corner of the choir loft, and I was only going to come out when Mamma came to fetch me with her angel’s wings. She didn’t, of course. Instead someone else came up the stairs, a very beautiful woman in a glittering dress and heels. She sat down at the organ and looked up at the sky like she was asking permission. Then she started to play like an angel—and I suddenly knew that Mamma had sent me this woman. I crawled from my hiding place, and she made room on the bench so I could watch her flying fingers. When the song was over, she asked if she should show me how to play. I said yes.”
I take a deep breath, suddenly realizing that I’ve been listening without breathing the whole time. “And then?” I gasp.
“Giuseppa Camini came to our house that very evening and talked with Papa . . .” My mother’s voice trembles. “The next day after school, I ran to the yellow house on the hill to practice scales and chords. Soon two days a week turned into three and then four. In half a year, I could play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata with my eyes closed. You probably don’t remember, but I used to play it to you when you couldn’t fall asleep.
I nod silently. How could I have forgotten? Mamma played the piano beautifully, and I always loved listening to her.
“Then Giuseppa began to teach me other things: cooking, baking, how to make beds and apricot jam, clean out chicken coops . . . everything that needs to be done on such an estate. I became friends with Giuseppa’s son Frederico—he was only a few years older than I. I helped with the garden and the apricot harvest, and I spent every single day with the Caminis. I even had my own tiny room next to the kitchen.”
“The Cinderella chamber!” I shake my head. “But what about your father and the rest of your relatives? I’m sure the Coleis weren’t too happy that you took up with a new family.”
Mamma looks sad. “People assume that every Italian family has countless siblings, cousins, uncles, and aunts. It’s nonsense. After my mother died, it was just me and my father, and my father started to drink because he wanted to forget. Eventually he forgot that he had a daughter. The sad thing was that I didn’t miss him. After all, I had Giuseppa.”
I grab her hand, but she shakes her head. “When I was
sixteen, he fell down the stairs—and didn’t get up again.”
“I’m so sorry for you, Mamma.”
“There’s a lot of that stubborn know-it-all man in you. You would have liked your grandfather.”
I hide a smile. “Well, thanks.”
“You didn’t get those traits from me, that’s for sure.” She winks at me but then turns serious. “I have a box of photos at home. When you come to visit Papa and me one of these days, I’ll give it to you.”
“And I thought that I’d turned the entire house upside down.”
“Did you think I hadn’t noticed?”
We smile at each other.
“But it doesn’t sound like it ended happily. Why did you leave Italy, Mamma? Did you have a fight with Giuseppa?”
Mamma’s face hardens. “I fell in love with the wrong man.”
I lift an eyebrow.
“Giuseppa Camini was a wonderful woman,” my mother continues. “She was kind, warm, and compassionate. But I got to know her other side the summer I met your father. Back then, it was all the rage to take hiking tours through Europe, especially for students who financed their trips by taking on odd jobs—such as harvesting apricots. What can I say . . . Günther was different from the men I had met before. He knew so much and expressed himself in a way I wasn’t used to from Italian men. For him it was love at first sight, and I fell in love with him, too. It soon went beyond innocent kissing . . . and since Giuseppa watched us like a hawk . . .” She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear and lowers her eyes.
“She found out,” I say. “Ouch. I’m sure she didn’t like that.” The image of arch-Catholic Giuseppa’s indignation makes me giggle.
“She was beside herself! After all, I was only seventeen, unmarried, and sleeping with a penniless student. She saw me burning in purgatory.”
“What did she do?”
“The obvious, of course. She threw Günther out.”
Apricot Kisses Page 27