We’d almost reached the end of the bar when I saw Margo a few feet beyond, sitting at a table, not by herself but having an animated conversation with none other than Bernardo Cozzani. Seeing me, she waved with enthusiasm, as if I might otherwise think twice about joining her.
Nano seconds later we were hugging and crying, clinging to each other like we hadn’t done since our grade school years at Holy Angels.
“Don’t go crazy with the splish-splash,” I said. “Those tears will mess up your mascara.”
“Forget the mascara, what about my eye.”
She stepped back an arm’s length, showing me globs of hair pulled in all directions, blood caked around her nostrils, and what promised to become a spectacular shiner. I pulled out a tissue from pocket and told her to spit on it. While I wiped her nose clean, another round of tears splashed from her eyes as well as mine. Good tears, tears of joy.
Bernardo tapped me on the arm and opened his arms. As soon as we finished our Italian hug, a waiter appeared. White shirt, black tie, embroidered vest: if not a gypsy in this lifetime then the one before. He brought wine in a bottle like those used for candle holders and four glasses. My legs were shaking when I sat down with every expectation of Lorenzo joining our table. Where was he? I got up, retraced my footsteps to a circle of gypsies, and pulled him away from the center.
“Not one more word,” I said, “unless it begins the explanation you owe Margo and me.”
This time Lorenzo followed me. More greetings the Italian way: nephew to uncle, Lorenzo to Margo, uncle to me again. Margo and I, no way, enough was enough. After we sat, Lorenzo poured the wine. With a click of our glasses we said our salute. And tasted vino with an earthiness like none I’d tasted before.
Bernardo must’ve approved, given the smack of his lips and enthusiastic, “Bene, bene.”
Lorenzo cleared his throat and was about to speak when I stopped him with a finger to his lips, and said, “Not another word.”
To which he raised his arm and motioned Fonso to join us.
“The story is not mine to tell,” Lorenzo said. “Better you should hear it from Fonso.”
While we waited for Fonso to greet every man and woman and wild child on his way to our table, I asked Margo about Jonathan.
“Jonathan, sweet Jonathan; if not for him I wouldn’t be here.”
“Jonathan from Iowa?”
“Who else but. Give him some credit, El. And me, since, as you well know, I do not associate with losers.”
“Who would’ve thought.”
Margo told me about her being on the phone with Jonathan when another taxi happened by and she hopped in, how Jonathan became concerned and must’ve called the police. Before she got any further with her rundown of events, Fonso showed up. It’s about time, I thought, but didn’t say. He grabbed a chair from the neighboring table, slung one leg over the seat, and sat facing the backrest, his arms positioned along the top rail.
“Is good,” he said, “right, signorini?”
“Maybe so, maybe not, you tell us.”
“What’s to tell? Signorina Margo is alive. Those who detained her will never detain again. All is well with the world of Monterosso El Mare.”
“About those … those …”
“Criminals, El,” Margo said, “your gypsies from the Autogrille.”
Bernardo murmured something in Italian that I didn’t catch but Margo did. “That’s right,” she said. “The man had a gold tooth.”
“Yes, for sure Tas and Lila,” Fonso said. “Without a doubt they were the two agitators.”
“But why me,” Margo said. “I had nothing to do with El’s offensive behavior.”
“Now wait a minute. I did nothing more than protect myself, same as you would’ve done.”
“But that is my point,” Margo said. “Until today I had no interaction with either of them. So, why would they want to harm me? And what about the two women who had their throats slit?”
“First things first,” Fonso said. “As I mentioned before, Tas and Lila were just playing with Signorina Elena, two harmless incidents and nothing more. On the other hand, it seems that you, Signorina Margo, have provoked a certain Florentine.”
“Good grief, the only person I know in Florence is Giorgio Molina.”
“A local mime,” I said.
“Giorgio prefers performance artist. Although we may have parted over a silly misunderstanding, I can’t imagine him going bonkers over pasta not being al dente.”
“Nor can I,” Fonso said. “But when it comes to the Italiani and their pasta, there’s no accounting for what they might do.”
“I take exception to that,” Lorenzo said.
“Only kidding, my friend,” Fonso said. “However, pasta aside, the prominent Lucia Molina may have been otherwise motivated. It was Signora Molina who saw fit to put a curse on you.”
“Giorgio’s Mama from Hell, no way,” Margo said.
“The woman had connections with Lila and Tas that go back many years. Tas let it be known to members of my tribe that Signora Molina hired him to make sure you never returned to Italy, let alone Firenze. After one failed attempt, he convinced Lila to help him, according to her best friend who never lies but shall remain nameless.”
“Good grief,” Margo said. “So, Mama wanted to protect her precious son from me of all people.”
Fonso shrugged. “Hearsay, signorini, knowing the carabinieri, they will give Signora Molina a stern warning and nothing more.”
“But that doesn’t explain the two women who had their throats slit.”
“Another matter,” Lorenzo said. “One not involving the Roma, of that we are almost though not totally certain.”
We, no way would I let that pass. “What about you, Lorenzo. Just who are we in this scenario?”
“My head wears many hats,” he said, “Most often that of a liaison, in this case between the Roma and the carabinieri.”
“Okay, I’ll give you a pass, anyway for now.”
Margo’s eyes were about to close, but not before I resolved a few issues with her. “You-hoo, Margo.”
She responded to my nudge with a jerk of her head. “Sorry, what was the question?”
“Jonathan, where is he?”
Margo wrinkled her brow. “Maybe in Portofino, you think?”
“Or waiting to hear from you,” Lorenzo said. “Perhaps you should call him.”
“Bingo!” She leaned across the table and surprised Lorenzo with a mouth-to-mouth kiss that went beyond a peck between new friends. “Grazie, Lorenzo. Thank you for sending the gypsies and whatever else you did to get me away from that horrible accident. As for those horrible people who tried to kill me, may every single one of them get their just cannoli.”
“Justice has already been served,” Lorenzo said. “Both of them died at the scene of the accident.”
“Accident, what accident?”
“Margo, are you all right?” I waved my hand in front of her face, only then realizing her eyes were dilated, the irises taking up more space than the amber surrounding them.
She leaned one elbow on the table and dropped her head to the palm of her hand. “I don’t feel so good. Maybe you should call Mom and tell her we’ll be late.”
Chapter 34
One More Rub
Ow-w and double ow-w, my brain woke up with the most god-awful headache and El’s words fanning my face.
“Margo … Margo … please. Say something, anything.”
Putting my words together took more time than it should have, which I blame on being confined to a hospital bed and not having the energy to wave my hands. After some effort I mumbled, “How about this: get out of my face.”
Hearing those words made me think they came from a mouth other than mine. Slowly, ever so slowly, I forced one eye to open and then the other. I blinked, and blinked again. First objects that came into focus were El’s dark eyes, brimming with tears and smeared with mascara.
“Waterproof, how
many times have I told you.”
“Thank god, you’re back,” she said.
“How long have I been gone?”
“Six hours, you’re in Sant’ Andrea Ospedale at La Spezia.”
“No way, how’d I get there … here.”
“By ambulance, the doctor in Monterosso insisted but only as a precautionary measure.”
“Which still doesn’t explain why I’m here.” Rubbing my forehead didn’t help so I stopped.
“Don’t you remember the accident … the gypsies?”
Okay, one more rub for good measure. “It’s coming back to me, that noisy bar and Fonso.”
“Right, we’ll talk about that later. As for now, the hospital already did a head scan which came back negative.”
“Negative, does that mean bye-bye or hello, world?”
“Hello, world sounds about right.”
“Good. Let’s get out of here.” I started to sit up, had second thoughts, and lay down again. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“That’s what the doctor said.”
“And then what?”
“Lorenzo has invited us to return to his villa here in La Spezia.”
“Whatever works for you, works for me.” Did I actually say that?
“The villa works best,” El said. “Besides, Lorenzo brought all of our things back from Monterosso.”
“Whatever.” I could’ve argued the point but didn’t have the energy to spit out my words. Besides, this knot on the back of my head was giving me fits. Sleep, that’s what I needed. Sleep.
***
The next morning I felt one-hundred per cent better and couldn’t wait to leave the hospital, even though my brain was still kind of foggy. By ten o’clock all the paper work was in order. Me too, four fingers drumming the utility tray, one foot tapping the floor. The door swung open and in walked El and Lorenzo—mustn’t forget Lorenzo. They were starting to look like a couple and El’s cheeks had the rosy effect of morning sex that I knew all too well.
“All set?” she asked.
“One more meal and I might decide to stay here.”
“You mean the food’s that good.”
“Please, we may be in Italy but this is still a hospital. There’s only so much la cucina ospedale can do with an Italian breakfast consisting of coffee, juice, and packaged bread.”
“Wait until we get to Lorenzo’s villa,” El said. “The food will be to die for … oops. Forget what I just said.”
“About what,” I said and when El’s face dropped, I added, “just kidding. Right, Lorenzo.”
His ears flushed pink, at his age, how charming.
***
Lorenzo’s villa was charming too, considering how little I’d seen of it during my previous overnighter, one that ended almost before it began with me taking off for the lure of Cinque Terre. Let me be honest, to escape the humiliation of Firenze. So much had happened since then—goofballs Franz and Max on the boat, that idiot Trevor Connor in Monterosso, Nicco Rizzi (sigh), the murder-for-hire gypsies, and best of all, Jonathan from Iowa who came into my life on a whim and went out … but when and to where. How weird was that. One minute we were about to take a train and boat to Portofino; the next minute: poof. Just like that, our plan had disappeared, along with Jonathan. Minus me, two bright yellow dandelions gone to seed, their fluffy orbs bursting into the air before floating into nothingness. In a matter of three days I’d been dumped not once but twice. Me, Margo Savino, dumpstress extraordinaire, how could I have been so screwed. Two lower-than-low classic dumps, yes, two.
This morning, more like late forenoon, time had slowed down and given me a perfect excuse to do nothing, just as the doctor had ordered. After settling into a lounge chair on the terrace, I drank in the warm sun without applying sunscreen. And yes, my floppy straw hat was upstairs where it would just have to stay. I didn’t feel like moving so much as my little finger, especially with El beside me, sans the sunscreen too but still wringing her hands over the past twenty-four hours.
Wanting to get El’s mind off herself, the big sister in me asked a simple question. “Should I leave another message for Jonathan?”
“That would make ten if you did. I hate saying this but it’s over.”
“Yeah, before it even got started. You’d think he would’ve called.”
“He didn’t; get over it.”
“Mom always did like you best.”
“Not true and you know it.”
Right, but it always gets a rise out of El. I, on the other hand, was working my way up to a basket case. “For all we know Jonathan could be laying in a hospital, unconscious and without his passport or I.D., worse yet in a coma.”
“How many times must I tell you: Lorenzo checked the hospitals—no Jonathan Ballister.”
“What about Jonathan from Iowa?”
“Shut up,” El said. She would’ve said more but switched to her sweet self with a pleasant, “Ah-h, look who’s here.”
Zia Octavia, one thing was for sure: although the old gal wasn’t good ol’ Mom, it was obvious that she liked El better than me. That, however, didn’t stop me from wiggling my butt out of the chaise lounge and following her and El into the dining room. Zia gestured to the far end of the table and with a second gesture put El and me across from each other, leaving space for Lorenzo to my left and El’s right. He came in carrying the first course: three plates of melon wrapped in prosciutto which he placed at each setting. In a well-practiced motion of one, two, three he filled our goblets with wine, took off his apron, and sat down.
After a three-way click and a three-way cin-cin, we sipped our wine and ate our melon, the first decent food my mouth had received since breakfast the day before at Lorenzo’s apartment in Monterosso. Only twenty-eight hours ago and yet it seemed eons longer.
“You’re feeling better?” he asked me.
“Almost back to normal, other than this knot,” I said with a rub to the back of my head.
“Rubbing it won’t help,” El said.
“Not you, but it makes me feel better.”
“Elena … Margo, please. The table is no place to argue.”
“Who’s arguing? Why, where we come from … never mind, my apologies.” I blew Lorenzo a fingertip kiss and wondered at what point he’d hop up and hurry back to his chef duties. “About the next course …” I started to say only to be interrupted by commotion in the kitchen—an ear-piercing shriek, a pot or multiple pots crashing to the floor and rattling pictures on the walls surrounding our table.
Glory be, holy cow, and what the shit. Who should come running out, none other than the mysterious garden lady wearing her usual summer white gauze … hair a bit on the wild side … face a bit out of sorts … but oh so movie-star beautiful. On her heels was Zia Octavia, waving a wood spoon and sputtering an apology warped by anger and frustration. I glanced across the table. The pained expression on El’s face said more than any words could have and had I been a genuine woos, would’ve been enough to make me weep on her behalf.
Chapter 35
Not Enough Leftover
I didn’t have to look at Margo to know what she must’ve been thinking: poor El, got herself mixed up with the wrong man, a married man at that, one with a deranged wife still in the picture regardless of what he otherwise might’ve claimed.
As for Lorenzo, the red-rimmed ears were no longer an issue since the blood had drained from them and his face. He jumped up, knocking over his chair in the process. Two long strides brought him to the woman I now knew as his wife. He put his arms around her in the way he’d put them around me, smoothed down her hair with one hand just as he’d done with mine. And when he spoke to her it was in a soothing voice filled with so much love I realized there’d never be enough left over for me.
It didn’t take long for Anita who wasn’t dead to wiggle out of the arms of Lorenzo who wasn’t a widower. In a matter of seconds she whirled around and pushed Zia, almost knocking her over. Zia raised her spoon, thought better, and
lowered it. What followed was a heated exchange as only the Italians can do, and one I hadn’t expected from Lorenzo who always seemed so reserved. At least from my perspective which covered less than a week … pass the bucket of common sense, please.
Margo squeezed her eyes tight as if the absurdity of this whole scene was more than she could bear. Was I ever mistaken; the old Margo soon emerged, whispering as much as she could translate from their conversation without missing what new words were being said.
“Zia forgot to lock the kitchen door for which she could now throw herself off the terrace … Anita came looking for milk … for the gatti … you know, the cats … Lorenzo told Anita she must rest … he wants to take her … home. Anita says this is her home. No, no … Zia told her she belongs next door. Anita told Lorenzo she loves him more than life and that she’d rather die than live one more day without him.”
Anita paused, giving Margo a chance to catch her breath and me to accidently knock over my goblet, which didn’t contain much wine but got a rise from Anita. The poor woman jerked her head in our direction and opened her eyes even wider than they already were. Letting out a long wailing scream, she raised her fists and started pounding Lorenzo’s chest.
It didn’t take rocket science to figure out Margo was enjoying this way more than I was. Still I let her carry on the translation.
“Oops. Anita hates us … we are le puttane Americane … you know, the American whores.”
“Not me.”
“Excuse me? I didn’t sleep with her husband.”
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