“Boy!” says Lauren. “Well, I can't say I'm exactly thrilled by the company either. In fact, if it helps, on a scale of one to ten then I'd rather be buried alive with George fucking W. Bush than go through this with you.”
“There's no need to swear,” says Belinda.
“Oh, fuck off,” says Lauren. She pauses. “So, do you really dislike me?”
“I do,” says Belinda.
“Oh,” says Lauren.
“You ruined my life,” says Belinda.
“I ruined your life? I ruined your life!” says Lauren. “Don't make me laugh.” She laughs. “From all accounts your life was pretty ruined before I came here.”
“Who told you about my husband being unfaithful?”
“Puh-lease!” says Lauren, flapping her hand and immediately regretting it as the pain shoots through her. She grabs her shoulder a little tighter. “It's hardly the best-kept secret in the valley.”
“I wouldn't expect you to understand.”
“Why not?” asks Lauren. “My husband was unfaithful as well.”
“I thought your husband was dead?”
“That doesn't stop him from being unfaithful.”
“Well, technically, it does,” says Belinda.
“You know what I mean,” replies Lauren, sounding a little tired.
“Does your shoulder hurt?”
“It fucking kills,” says Lauren.
“Oh.”
“How about your feet?”
“They just sting, really,” says Belinda, looking down at the ever-increasing pool of blood.
“Do you think we'll ever get out of here?”
“I don't know,” says Belinda, looking at the small dusty hole they are sitting in.
“They're bound to come,” asserts Lauren.
“Yeah.” Belinda nods. She looks up. “Help!” she shouts at the top of her voice. The noise disturbs the pile of dust above them and sends another filthy cloud crashing down. “Shit!” Belinda coughs.
“Fuck!” Lauren coughs, holding her shoulder. “Don't fucking do that again.”
“No,” agrees Belinda, hacking until her eyes water. “I won't shout another word.”
They sit in silence, Belinda's cut feet slowly seeping blood into the surrounding dust, Lauren's broken shoulder freezing and locking all the muscles down her back and side. They both sigh. They have enough oxygen to breathe. They have enough light to see each other. But both women are in pain and cannot move. They sigh again.
“So,” says Lauren.
“What?” says Belinda.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing what?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, don't do that,” huffs Belinda. “You can't start something and not finish it. So—what?”
“Okay. What did I do to ruin your life?”
“Oh, you know …”
“No.”
“Well, for a start, you moved here.”
“So my mere presence ruined your life?”
“Well, for a start, you bought the house I had my eye on,” says Belinda.
“For how long?”
“Five years.”
“Ooh.” Lauren laughs and coughs again. “You're a fast mover!”
“Oh, shut up,” says Belinda, screwing up her face. “Anyway, you moved here and you opened up a rival B-and-B.”
“My house is nothing like yours. How can it possibly be a rival to it?” asks Lauren. “Seriously, we're not even after the same clients. I'm looking for people who want to stay for a month, writing and doing yoga, having massages. You want quick in-and-out tourists.”
“You're still a rival,” mutters Belinda, “whichever way you look at it.”
“I'm your social rival.”
“No, you're not!” snaps Belinda.
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you're not!”
“Well, explain to me, why don't you, exactly why you were so unpleasant to me when I arrived in the valley?”
“I wasn't.”
“If that was pleasant, then it's a wonder you have any friends at all.”
“I don't now, thanks to you.”
“Of course you do,” says Lauren.
“You took them over and got them to vote you Big Cheese,” Belinda accuses her, exuding indignation.
“Only because you reported me to the Bell' Arti, canceled my adverts, misdirected my guests, sent me rubbish replacements.”
“The Scottish girls weren't bad,” says Belinda.
“They were a fucking nightmare and you know it. That's why you were so rude to them and got rid of them,” says Lau-ren. “Pushing their noses in where they're not wanted.”
“Well …”
“Exactly,” confirms Lauren. “So I decided that enough was enough and the cheese rolling was the only way to get you off my back.”
“So you went for it?”
“Oh, yeah.” Lauren nods. “Getting everyone to vote for me was the easy part,” she says. “You just plant the idea in some-one's head, talk around and about it, then let them come up with you as their own suggestion. It's an easy technique. I've used it in business for years. The winning was the hard bit. I spent ages looking up cheese rolling on the Internet, and then I found this video online. I bought it and studied. If I was going to take over, I had to win. There was a bit of luck involved, too. But, then, there's always a bit of luck involved when you're planning a hostile takeover.”
“What?” says Belinda, looking incredulous. “That's amazing. All I ever did when I was Big Cheese was—”
“Talk about it a lot. Make a great show of being Big Cheese, and then getting drunk on the day, throwing the cheese down the hill, and hoping for the best. Yes.” Lauren smiles. “I know— or, at least, that's what I've gathered from the people I spoke to.”
“Oh,” says Belinda.
“Oh,” imitates Lauren.
“Well, if you'd only been more pleasant when I came around to say hello right at the beginning, things might have been a little easier,” says Belinda, trying to shift around under the table.
“I was tired. We'd just arrived and you turned up drunk, knocking on our door, welcoming us to your valley when it wasn't yours to welcome us to in the first place.”
“I wasn't drunk,” insists Belinda.
“You were,” says Lauren. “You fell at my feet.”
“I tripped.”
“You were drunk,”says Lauren. “Anyway, I don't mind drunk. In fact, I like drunk. But not on my doorstep last thing at night.”
“It wasn't that late,” says Belinda.
“Whatever,” says Lauren.
They both sit in silence. Lauren leans hard on the table leg. Her shoulder is in agony. There is no comfortable position. Her legs are numb and so is her backside. She is shaking and sweating with pain, all color has drained from her lips. Belinda is beginning to feel faint. She is losing quite a lot of blood. Her mouth is dry and she feels cold. Where are the people coming to rescue them? Surely someone has noticed that Casa Mia has collapsed. Help has to be on its way.
“Where are they?” asks Belinda.
“They'll come,” says Lauren.
“They're taking their time.”
“Perhaps they're a little busy.”
“I wish they'd hurry up,” mumbles Belinda, closing her eyes.
“Don't worry, they will. I'm not going to end up dying here with you.”
“I have no desire to die with you either,” mutters Belinda. “Particularly … particularly … after you've just admitted politicizing the Festa di Formaggio. My Festa di Formaggio. ” She is mumbling, slurring, getting increasingly weak. “I've always been a firm believer in keeping politics out of sport. A firm believer. I bet you're the sort of person who supported the U.S. boycott of the Moscow Olympics?”
“What?”
“The Moscow Olympics, with Misha the bear?” continues Belinda.
“Please be quiet,” mutters Lauren out of the corner of her mouth. “I r
eally don't want my dying thoughts to be of a thirty-year-old cartoon bear.”
“Twenty-four-year-old,” says Belinda.
“Thirty, twenty, who cares?”
“Yeah, well,” says Belinda, sounding oddly contrite, “that's what comes of a rush of blood to the feet.”
“Are you displaying a British stiff upper lip?” asks Lauren, slowly.
“Possibly,” says Belinda. “I'm feeling a little odd.”
“How odd?” Lauren moves and winces. Her eyes shine with pain.
“Like I want to go to sleep,” says Belinda, eyes rolling as her head falls back.
“Don't do that.”
“It would be nice,” mutters Belinda.
“Don't! Stay awake.”
“Just a quick snooze,” suggests Belinda.
“No!” shouts Lauren.
“Sssh,” says Belinda. “Don't disturb the dust.”
“If you fall asleep now, Mary will have no one to turn to when she leaves Kyle,” says Lauren.
“Is she leaving Kyle?” asks Belinda.
“Well, he's not marrying her, that's for certain.”
“At least we agree on one thing.” Belinda smiles.
“I haven't struggled on my own to raise a son and put him through college for him to end up with a girl who cooks badly in the local B-and-B,” says Lauren. “So you can rest assured he will not be marrying Mary.”
“Hurrah!” cheers Belinda weakly, shaking her fat pale fist briefly in the air. “I can't stand your smug uptight Kevin either.”
“Kyle,” corrects Lauren.
“Kyle, Kevin, it's all the same to me,” says Belinda. “He's a ghastly man with a ghastly name. And, anyway, Mary's not a bad cook. She's a failed receptionist.”
“A failed receptionist?”
“Yup.” Belinda coughs. She rests her head on the opposite table leg. “She had a job as a receptionist and she lost it. That's why she is out here all summer.”
“Well, he's definitely not marrying her,” says Lauren.
“Good!” Belinda coughs again. “That's settled, then.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“You see, you and I can have a fairly reasonable discussion when we put our minds to it,” murmurs Lauren.
“That's only because there's no one else to talk to,” says Belinda. “I bet you could have a reasonable conversation with George W. Bush if he were in here now.”
“No, I couldn't,” says Lauren.
“I'm sure you could.”
“No.” Lauren smiles weakly. “I was lying when I said I'd prefer him in here to you.”
“Oh,” sniffs Belinda, opening one eye to look at her. “Are you paying me a compliment?”
“Do you know?” says Lauren. “I think I might be.”
“Thank you,” mumbles Belinda, and slides down the table leg.
“It's my pleasure,” says Lauren.
They both sit in silence. Lauren closes her eyes. Her face is covered in a heavy sweat that runs down her cheeks, causing the thick layer of dust to streak. The pain in her left shoulder makes her retch. She has now lost all feeling in her body except for the burning agony of her broken shoulder. Belinda is listless with dehydration and loss of blood. The corners of her mouth are dry. It is slightly open and her tongue hangs out. All she wants to do is lie down and sleep.
“Hang on in there,” says Lauren.
“Mm.”
“They will come, I promise.”
“Just a little sleep won't hurt.”
Suddenly, through the heavy silence, there is a gentle tapping noise. It sounds like a teaspoon hitting a drainpipe. It's faint, but audible.
“Did you hear that?” asks Lauren, eyes wide with excitement. She tries to sit up. “That! There! Can you hear it?”
“Mm?” says Belinda.
Lauren sits rigid, straining to hear through the silence, her heart pounding in her ears. The tapping is renewed. “There it is. Can you hear it?” she asks again.
“Mm? What?” asks Belinda, opening her glazed eyes.
“The noise?” says Lauren. “Can you hear that noise?”
The tapping gets louder.
“Oh, yes,” says Belinda, hauling herself out of her stupor. “I can hear that.”
“Hello! Helloooo!” shouts Lauren at the top of her voice. A small cloud of dust falls under the table. “Helloooo!” She coughs, then shouts some more. “In here! We're in here! Hello! Hello … in here!” Each time she shouts her shoulder burns. “Hello!”
“Hello!” Belinda coughs, as she tries to slide up the table leg, holding on with her soft white hand. “Hello! Hello!”
The noise stops, as if everyone is standing still, listening.
“Hello!” shouts Belinda.
“She is in there!” yells a voice that sounds like Howard. “In there! Belinda!” he calls. “It's Howard. Can you hear me? Belinda? Are you in there?”
“Howard?” Belinda's feeble voice drifts out through the rubble. “I'm here …”
“She's in there! Qui! Qui! La Signora è qui! ” shouts Howard, directing his voice over the top of the rubble. “Qui! Sbrigati! Quickly! Sbrigati! ”
His calls release an army of footsteps that scramble all over the rubble, causing the house to shift, releasing more dust over the two women buried beneath it.
“Watch out,” yells Lauren. “You're burying us!”
“Lauren?” says Howard's voice, sounding surprised. “What are you doing in there?”
“Having lunch,” she shouts back. “What do you think?”
“Oh,” says Howard. “There are two of them in there!” he shouts. “Due signore! Due!”
he response is rapid. A group of about twenty firemen spreads out all over the collapsed building. Orders are yelled back and forth as they form lines from the top of the mound and start picking off the rubble, stone by stone, and passing it from hand to hand down to the grass below. Howard is right in there among them, his wild hair catching the sun as he picks up stones, hurling them to the ground. For a man who is normally atrophied by indecision and rendered intellectually and physically inert by alcohol, he is rising, phoenixlike, to the occasion. The crisis releases his inner man of action, who must have been there all along.
“Derek!” he shouts at Derek, who is pacing the ground, mincing his hands. “Make yourself useful and get some water from Giovanna's. These people will need liquid. Barbara,” he adds—she is standing, open-mouthed, staring at what remains of Casa Mia, “you can help him.” Barbara walks on after her husband, pleased to be given something to do. “Lauren! Belinda!” he shouts. “Hang on. We won't be long.”
“Hurry up,” yells Lauren's voice from underneath him. “Be-linda's in a bad way. She's lost a fair amount of blood.”
“Sbrigati! Sbrigati!” He urges the firemen on. “C'è qualcuno che si è ferito!”
They work with more urgency. The stones start coming off the pile more quickly. Their tight navy blue T-shirts stick to their backs with sweat, and their brown, muscled arms glow. If only Belinda could see the army of handsome men rescuing her, she would enjoy the process a whole lot more. But as it is, she is feeling queasy, her mouth is parched, and she can barely feel her body anymore.
“I can see daylight,” shouts Lauren. “I can feel a breeze.”
“Oh, my God,” shouts Howard. “We need more help. They're here! Qui! Qui! ”Howard jumps up and down, indicating the place where Lauren's voice came from.
They focus their effort on the spot, crawling over the debris. The mound moves, the stone shifts.
“Attenzione!” shouts the lead fireman, his strong arm in the air. “Attenzione! Stop!”
Everyone stands still again, as they try not to disturb the shifting rubble. The whole process grinds to a halt as, one after another, the firemen look at what is underneath.
“What?” asks Howard, his hands bleeding, his fingernails snapped and cracked from his efforts. “Why are we stopping?”
&nbs
p; “Guarda,” says the fireman. “Look.”
Howard looks down at the fireman's feet. A huge, ancient beam is leaning right over where Lauren and Belinda are sitting. Although undoubtedly it saved their lives in the earthquake, it is now stopping the firemen and rescue workers from reaching them. The firemen look at one another. The fire engine parked outside what remains of the house will not be able to pull out the beam on such a slope. They scratch their heads, the sweat pours off their faces. No one knows what to do.
“Hurry up,” yells Lauren, from inside the rubble. “It's unbearable in here.”
“We're coming,” yells Howard.
“Why have you stopped?”
“We haven't,” says Howard.
“We can't hear you anymore,” says Lauren.
“We're coming,” yells Howard again.
Then as they all stand and stare, feeling defeated, Howard spots rotund Roberto running down the hill toward them. His body ripples as he moves. His round face is puce with effort. His eyes shine an alarming red.
“Bianchi!” he huffs. “Bianchi!” he puffs, jabbing the air with his fat fingers, indicating behind him.
The firemen on the rubble all look down the valley. Crawling up the hill on a tractor with a trailer in tow is the whole Bianchi family. The father at the wheel, the mother on the back with her three sons, their children and two others, one in a white top and a blue denim skirt, the other in a white shirt and shorts.
“Kyle and Mary?” says Howard, squinting into the sun. “What the hell—”
“Bianchi.” Roberto smiles, resting his fat hands on his fat knees, catching his breath. “Ho telefonato …”
The firemen applaud as the old man directs his tractor around the rubble and parks it next to what used to be the french windows with the view down the valley. The firemen scrabble off the pile and start attaching ropes to the beam.
“Mum!” says Mary, standing next to Kyle and the remains of what used to be her house. “Mum, it's me. Are you okay?”
“Mary,” comes Belinda's feeble voice. “I'm fine. Where have you been?”
“Don't worry about me,” says Mary. “I'm here now, and that's all that matters.”
“Mom!” calls Kyle. “Are you okay in there?”
“Kyle!” calls Lauren right back. “Where the hell have you been?”
“We spent the night at the Bianchis',” he says. “They were decent enough to offer us a place to stay in one of their barns. To make up for what happened.”
Tuscany for Beginners Page 26