Return to Umbria

by David P. Wagner

  He returned his thoughts to the “Fabrizio problem.” This would be a short initial contact with the kid, not a hard sell. I just happened to be in Orvieto with my girlfriend, heard you were here, thought I’d drop by—that sort of thing. Get the lay of the land, test the waters, give the situation the once-over, and any other clichéd phrase that might be applicable. Go easy on the lad. Save questions like “Are you out of your freakin’ mind?” for a subsequent encounter. Play the diplomat, Rick. Use those skills that must have rubbed off from your father. Certainly don’t do what your mother would do in this situation, which would likely be to throttle her nephew.

  He consulted his street map again and decided his destination should be right around the next corner. A thin slice of nearly horizontal sunlight squeezed between two buildings, painting a stripe on the pavement. Rick hoped the late afternoon would be a good time to find Fabrizio at home. The kid wants to be a writer, so he should be writing at all hours of the day and night. Isn’t that what writers do? When the number appeared on a nondescript but neatly painted door, Rick stood back and assessed the building. It had two doors and was wider by half than the palazzi that abutted it. Rick reckoned the building was two apartments, one on each floor, and he also guessed that the simple exterior did not reflect the furnishings. It was the Italian way to hide luxury behind a bland facade to discourage interest from thieves or tax assessors, who were considered one in the same. Piero mentioned that the woman was not without funds, but his uncle’s litotes didn’t give him an idea of how wealthy Tullia Aragona—or her husband—really might be. Rick walked to the door and rang the rusting brass bell. He was about to ring again when a voice crackled out of the box above the bell.

  “Who is it?”

  It was a male voice, and a young one at that. Rick was in luck. “Fabrizio?”

  “Si. Who is this?”

  “It’s your Cousin Riccardo. I was here in—” Rick heard a loud click at the other end of the line. Dammit, he thought, he’s not going to let me in. Well, I didn’t come all this way for nothing. About to press the bell again, he heard a noise inside. Feet. Definitely feet. He waited. The door unlatched and swung open. Fabrizio was dressed in a loose-fitting sweatshirt and jeans. His hair was long and he wore a spotty beard. The last time I saw him he barely had peach fuzz, Rick mused, feeling old. He opened his arms for a cousinly hug, but Fabrizio’s head jerked back, he stepped into the street, closed the door, and took Rick’s arm.

  “Why don’t we go for a walk?” He wheeled Rick around and down the street. “What a nice surprise, Cousin. It’s, uh, so good to see you.”

  “Did I interrupt something?”

  “No, no, not at all. So, how is Uncle Piero? I assume he sent you up here.”

  The kid is sharper than I expected. “I guess you have to get up pretty early to outsmart my Cousin Fabrizio,” Rick said.

  “Huh?”

  “Forget it. That’s an English expression that doesn’t translate well into Italian.”

  “So you learned that in your interpreting business? That’s still what you’re doing, isn’t it, Riccardo?”

  “It is. And you’ve become a writer?” They reached an intersection, if the meeting of two narrow streets could be called that, and forged ahead.

  “It takes a while to break into writing, but I’m working on it. In the meantime I’m getting experience in the real world.” For the first time Fabrizio turned to Rick and smiled. “So you’re supposed to talk me into going back home, right? Okay, give it your best shot.”

  Rick took in a breath before responding. “I get the clear impression that you are enjoying the arrangement, so it may not be easy to talk some sense into you.”

  “Enjoying the arrangement? Riccardo, you wouldn’t believe the things this woman—”

  Rick held up a hand. “I don’t need any details, Fabrizio.” They walked several steps before he continued. “I can also see that you are mature enough to make decisions on your own, and that you understand what your behavior is doing to your family.” Fabrizio only nodded; the family reference didn’t seem to phase him. “And you don’t seem concerned about this woman’s husband.”

  “Nah. Tullia never says anything about him.”

  “Well, then, I don’t think there’s anything else I can say to you.”

  Fabrizio stopped walking. “That’s it?”

  “Pretty much,” answered Rick. “I’m primarily up here with a friend to see the town, and I don’t want to be late for dinner.” He pulled out his business card. “Here’s my cell phone number. If you have any free time maybe we can have a coffee. Good luck with your writing.”

  “Uh, thanks, Riccardo. Good luck to you on your translating.”

  They exchanged a hug and Rick walked off, trying to figure out what his next step would be in dealing with the Fabrizio problem. He would not give up that easily. He became lost in thought as he retraced the route back to the hotel, trying to come up with some idea to convince the kid that this was a time to think about the feelings of his family rather than his own desires. Most young men rebel in some way at this age, especially if they’ve been living at home all their lives. Certainly Rick engaged in some rebellious behavior in his years at the university. But this was a bit extreme, especially for an Italian family. He was pondering family when he looked up and noticed a lone figure standing looking through the window of a coffee bar. It was the youngest of the three American women on the funicular.

  He had not paid much attention to her on the ride, mainly because he’d been observing the behavior of the one Betta had characterized as a witch. Also, he had learned from experience that checking out an attractive woman in Betta’s presence would not go over well. But Betta wasn’t with him now. The woman was about his age, perhaps a few years older. She wore her hair long, pulled back, and tied with a simple ribbon; and unlike the other two women, showed no traces of makeup. Around her neck, over a cotton sweater, she had wound a black-and-white print scarf that was vaguely Middle Eastern. The pouch of a fanny pack around her waist was turned to the front. Cargo pants completed the outfit, which clung so loosely around her body that her real figure was hard for Rick to determine. She looked up and saw him staring.

  “Oh, hi.”

  “Hi to you,” Rick answered.

  “You were on the train this morning.”

  “The funicular.”

  “Right, the funicular. Are you Italian? You said you lived in the States for a while.”

  He was standing next to her now. “My mother is Italian and my father is American. So I’m both.” She didn’t answer, so he went on. “It’s a requirement that I now have to ask you where you’re from in the States.”

  She stared at him, as if she was deciding whether she should be talking to strangers.

  “It’s not that hard a question,” he added.

  Without makeup, it was easy to see her blushing. “Oh, sorry. I live in New Mexico. Santa Fe.” Having found her tongue, she now held out her hand. “I’m Gina, by the way.”

  He took it. “I’m Rick. We have New Mexico in common, Gina. My father is from there, and I’m related to half the families in the upper Rio Grande Valley. Also, I went to UNM.”

  “Really? Wow, that is a coincidence. Is your, uh, friend, also from New Mexico?”

  “She’s Italian. Never been to the States. Where are your two friends?”

  The blank stare returned for an instant. “Oh, you mean my mother and her friend. Mom is off somewhere, she didn’t say where. She lived here many years ago, which is why we came to Orvieto. Francine, that’s the other woman, she’s drinking wine at the restaurant where we’re going to have dinner. So I’m just wandering around until I meet them for dinner. I have a good street map.” She pulled it from her pouch to prove it.

  “It’s hard to get lost in Orvieto. Pretty small place.”

  “I suppose so.
Can I ask you something, Rick?”

  “Sure.”

  She pointed at the glass. “I was thinking of getting a glass of juice, and I saw those oranges stacked in the wire basket behind the bar. They look good, but do you think they’re organic?”

  Now it was Rick’s turn to be temporarily at a loss for words. “I really don’t know, Gina. But the word is almost the same in Italian, so if you ask they’ll understand you. Listen, I have to go. It’s been nice meeting you. Give my regards to your mother and her friend.”

  She smiled brightly. “Thank you, Rick. It’s nice meeting you too. I’d better just start working my way to the restaurant.” She began to walk off but stopped and turned back. “Please don’t judge my mother by the way she was on the funicular. She’s dealing with some serious issues in her life.”

  ***

  The wood door was open only a crack, throwing a thin line of light on the sidewalk outside the shop. The lamp that normally illuminated the small sign after sunset had been turned off to discourage any after-hours visitors. In his small office in the back, the owner bent over his computer, deep in concentration over sales numbers, deliveries, and taxes. He looked up when he heard a soft chime indicating the front door opening, and muttered something to himself about not wanting to be interrupted. He got to his feet, stepped quickly to the door of his office, and pushed it open.

  “We’re closed, now, if you could come back…” He stopped in his place and stared at the face that smiled back at him. It was a smile that showed anything but affection.

  “Ciao, Amadeo. It’s been a long time.” Her eyes moved from the man’s face to a vase sitting on an illuminated shelf on the wall near the door. Her face reflected off its glazed surface as she picked it up in her hands. She blinked and took several deep breaths as she rotated the piece in her hands.

  “Rhonda? Is that you? What a pleasant surprise. I was just thinking about you the other day, wondering what had become of you.” He walked toward her, his arms preparing for a welcoming abbraccio. He froze as the vase suddenly flew across the room and crashed against the wall, scattering bright colors in a wide circle on the stone.

  “How clumsy of me, Amadeo. I’m not as agile as I used to be. You remember how I used to be, don’t you? And what a lovely work of art, such a beautiful pattern. Can you ever forgive me, Amadeo?” She ran her fingers over a ceramic piece which sat by itself on another shelf. “What unique glaze work, I love the way it winds around the entire bowl.” She picked it up and held it above her head. “And the decoration continues even on the base.”

  With both hands she flung the bowl to the ground. The man jumped to the side to avoid the flying shards. He stepped back with his hands raised, pieces of broken ceramic crunching under the soles of his designer shoes.

  “Do you see what you have done to me, Amadeo? All my life I have loved beautiful pieces like this, and seeing you has made me do this. I don’t recall ever breaking any pieces back then, do you? Do you remember anything at all from those days, Amadeo?”

  “You were my finest student, Rhonda.” He tried to remain calm.

  “And how many of your women students did you say that to?”

  She walked slowly along the line of shelves, her purse swinging dangerously close to the pieces displayed on them. “It seems that you have become quite successful now, Amadeo. You don’t need to lower yourself any more by teaching.” Her hand stroked a small vase. “Which is such a shame since you are so creative and have so much you could share with students.”

  His hands were shaking as he pressed his palms together. “Rhonda, please, please. We must talk. After so many years we have a lot to talk about.”

  He held his breath as her hand edged toward another piece of ceramic art. It stopped and she looked at his ashen face, a brittle smile still on her own, as she decided her next move.

  “That might be fun. A nice chat. Just like old times. The naive student and the experienced teacher. That’s what we were, weren’t we, Amadeo?”

  “Whatever you say, Rhonda.” His muscles finally relaxed, but his mind did not.

  ***

  When they had entered what appeared to be a simple trattoria, Rick expected that dinner would be simple as well. The owner was a close friend of one of Betta’s fellow art cops in Rome, and he lavished attention on the couple from the moment they walked through the door. He insisted that they try the lemon risotto, one of their specialties, and since it required time to prepare, why not start with some carpaccio from an excellent cut of beef he’d acquired only that afternoon? To follow the rice dish, duck breasts that had been simmering in wine much of the day would make an excellent second course. Of course the house Orvieto Classico would go perfectly with everything, unless they preferred a red. The two of them agreed to all the suggestions, and the happy owner bustled into the kitchen. There was never even a hint that the place might have a printed menu.

  Two hours later they stood in front of the restaurant, agreeing that the meal was memorable. Rick suggested that they should fare due passi—take a stroll—to help digest the meal. They linked arms and walked in the opposite direction of the hotel. The evening was clear and the thermometer had dropped to a perfect temperature for walking. Rick’s cowboy boots clicked on the stone, in contrast with the tap of Betta’s Ferragamo flats.

  After a few blocks Betta broke the silence of the night. “Rick, regarding your Cousin Fabrizio. You told me what happened, but you still haven’t said what your next move will be.”

  Rick shook his head. “I don’t know what it will be. Do you have a suggestion?”

  The street narrowed and squeezed itself under an arch flanked by a pair of Corinthian columns, above which two windows looked down from unplastered brick walls. A dozen meters later the stone walls of the tunnel ended and they emerged into a rectangular piazza. Unlike its brick posterior, the facade of this building was anything but plain. Arches held up a balcony running the length of the facade, with seven windows facing out to the square. Empty flag poles above the entrance indicated a government office, possibly city hall. The city coat of arms centered between the middle windows confirmed it. Next to the municipal building, taking up one corner of the square, an octagonal bell tower rose up like a giant chess piece next to an equally ancient church. An arched doorway and round stained-glass window decorated the plain brick facade of the church. Lighting for the piazza came from floodlights on the government office and carriage lamps attached to the buildings opposite. Rick was taking it all in when Betta spoke.

  “I’ll think of something.”

  Rick moved his eyes from the tower to her face. “What?”

  “I’ll think of something to get Fabrizio to come to his senses. Perhaps the way to do it is not with Fabrizio but through that woman. What’s her name?”

  “Tullia Aragona.”

  “Tullia. Let me think about it. Do you know where we’re going?”

  They had walked out of the plaza along the side of the church. It was a broad street, which meant it led to another square somewhere in the distance. “Not really, but Orvieto is so small we shouldn’t get lost.” He recalled that he had said the same thing to the American woman earlier. He also realized he hadn’t told Betta about the encounter. “At least we shouldn’t get lost for more than a couple hours.”

  He looked up to see a lighted window at street level just ahead. “How about a coffee?”

  “Sure. And we can ask how to get back to the hotel.”

  “I’ll buy the coffee, you ask the directions.”

  ***

  Darkness dropped into the streets of Orvieto, and with it the traffic and noise subsided. The town, as it did each evening, eased back to its medieval past, but with electric street lamps rather than torches attached to the stone buildings. Only the occasional Vespa ruined the effect. Rhonda Van Fleet was surprised that the street she walked was still familiar after
all these years. A storm sewer cover in the shape of a lion was there, as was the ironwork gate guarding the entrance to a building near the corner. Nothing changed much in Italy, which made it so fascinating, so comforting.

  Despite the familiar surroundings, she didn’t feel comfortable. Was this a good idea? Agreeing to meet tonight? She slowed her walk and almost turned back. Francine and Gina would already be at the villa, having a glass of amaretto on the patio. Perhaps she should catch the bus and join them. She shook her head. No, absolutely not—this was why she’d come back to Italy. It wasn’t just the place, the town. It was the people. And everything was going according to plan. She reviewed again their agreement to meet that evening. Rhonda had suggested the bar, one of her favorite hangouts from those days, and was pleased to find it was still there. Again, nothing changes.

  She rounded the corner and saw that something had changed. On both sides of the doorway round lights hung from metal brackets, lighting the arched entrance to the wine bar. They looked ancient, and perhaps they were, but they had not been there thirty-five years earlier. It had been a running joke with her compagni that the place was so sleazy the owners didn’t want anyone finding it. Clearly the proprietors had chosen to go more upscale. She hesitated again before reaching to open the door, but this time the unease passed quickly. It disappeared completely when she stepped inside; Enzo’s interior had not changed.

  The tables looked the same—small and round, with metal-backed stools squeezed around them. The bar lined the right side of the rectangular room, its dark wood surface showing the same nicks and circular glass marks, larger scratches at floor level thanks to years of scuffing. She didn’t see Enzo, but the present occupant of the space behind the bar looked the same, maybe a son or nephew. And the glasses stood on their same shelf, above a row of uncorked bottles. It had been the cheapest place in Orvieto for wine by the glass; perhaps it still was. There was something, though, that wasn’t the same. It came to her as she took her first deep breath just inside the door. It was the smell. Italian anti-smoking laws, which nobody back then even considered, had changed the atmosphere from hazy to clear. Gone was the acrid smell of tobacco, usually cheap tobacco, that everyone had smoked then, including Rhonda.