Beautiful Secret

by Dana Faletti

  “Tatiana,” Michel whispered. “We should go now.”

  She reached out and placed a flat hand against Michel’s belly. “Wait,” she said, fixing her eyes on the raven.

  “Sono Arturo.” The man said, approaching Michel and offering him an open hand to shake.

  “Ciao, Arturo.” Michel exchanged a wary handshake with the stranger. “Sono Michel, e lei è Tatiana.”

  Arturo nodded at Tate, still smiling. “Watch,” he ordered, and focused his attention on the cage. “Bella donna,” he said to the bird, exaggerating his words.

  Tate raised her eyebrows and glanced at Michel, who shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes.

  “Bella donna,” Arturo repeated, and suddenly the bird screeched and sidestepped across its perch so that its body was pressed up against the side of the cage, its blue-black head feathers pushing through the gaps in the wires.

  “Questa donna è molto bella,” the bird squawked, and Arturo laughed at the shock that fell over Tate’s face.

  “I told you this bird is intelligent,” he said.

  Michel shook his head, smiling widely now. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out the address that Tate had given him earlier. “Do you know this address, signore?”

  “Yes, it’s just along this path to the left and up the stone steps,” Arturo told them, pointing them in the direction he spoke of. “Do you know Signore Nigro, who lives there?”

  “No, not yet,” Tate said, glad because now she had a name to go with the address: Signore Nigro. “But I have a package for him.”

  Arturo raised his arm and gestured to the road ahead. “I will take you, but I think he is not at home now. He works in the city most days.”

  They followed Arturo down the street into an alleyway and then turned, ducking under a brick archway. Michel had to bend his knees so as not to bang his head on the broken brick above them. They walked up three cracked cement steps and stood in a wildly unkempt yard full of high grasses, patches of tangled flowers, and odd pieces of junk that were strewn here and there. When Tate knocked on the dilapidated door, she expected a wizard or alchemist to answer it.

  No one did, though.

  “Signore is at Reggio, I think,” Arturo said again. “I can deliver this package for you if you would like, signora.” The warmth of Arturo’s smile bled onto Tate, and she trusted him, knowing somehow that his intentions were honest. Tate had learned, though, that in Italy, circumstances change with the wind, and although there wasn’t much breeze in this part of the world, she couldn’t take any chances with Zia’s package.

  She took the older man’s hands into her own. “Thank you, Arturo,” she said. “But I’m going to come back another time. I also want to meet Signore Nigro.”

  “Okay,” he said, rubbing his black-stubbled chin and nodding. He turned to lead the way out of the neglected yard.

  Tate squeezed Michel’s hand and bit her lip, an unexplainable intuition coursing through her. “Wait,” she said to Arturo, her heart beating wildly in her chest.

  The man turned slowly around, a serene friendliness on his face. “Yes, Signora Tatiana, what can I do for you?”

  “Do you know the name…” she paused, glancing into Michel’s eyes for courage and calm. “The name of Saccone?”

  Arturo chuckled softly, a yellow-stained smile stretching across his cheeks. “Yes, Tatiana, I know the name Saccone.” Standing directly across from her, the tall grasses reaching almost to his wrinkled knees, he placed his hands in his pockets and tilted his head to the side. “I am Saccone, bella. Arturo Saccone.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Michel pulled the Vespa into a narrow space in front of Zio Nino’s house. Tate felt dizzy, spinning inside the dreamlike buzz of having found her cousin Arturo on the streets of Trunca. That she’d coincidentally discovered the son of Concetta’s brother Alfonso… It was astounding to her.

  “I still can’t believe it,” she said to Michel as she undid the helmet buckle from her chin and shook her hair loose. “What an amazing coincidence.”

  “Not so much in this part of Italy, Tatiana,” Michel told her, bending to tighten the laces of his loafers. “This kind of thing…it happens often here.”

  “So, people just arrive in the town of their ancestors and stumble upon their family?”

  Tate wasn’t sure if her circumstances were amazing or if she just wanted to believe that they were. That Arturo had taken her into his home, introduced her to his wife and grandchildren, entertained her and Michel with coffee and pastries…it was stranger than fiction.

  “I never expected to discover her family,” Tate said, a woozy high settling over her as she reflected on the golden afternoon. “Nana’s home, her past, yes, but not her family.” Tate stared into the distance, her eyes resting on the seascape at the foot of the mountain.

  Michel’s arms encircled her then, and he murmured into her hair. “Here, Tatiana, people stay in small villages their whole lives, especially in a little place like Trunca.”

  “I just feel so lucky,” she said softly, settling her eyes on Michel’s serene face.

  He touched her cheek with the back of his hand and sighed as he stood an inch back from her. “Me, too.”

  “Michel, che cosa fai?” Zio Nino’s voice rumbled from somewhere above them, asking Michel what he was doing.

  Tate stepped back and looked up to see her great-uncle leaning out of an open upstairs window, grinning down at the two of them. She reached up to finger one of the sterling hoops that hung from her ear, feeling the need to do something with her hands.

  “Ciao, Tatiana,” Zio said, waving at her.

  She waved back, still fidgeting with her earring and shuffling back and forth on tingly feet. “Ciao, Zio.”

  “Andiamo mangiare.” Come and eat.

  Tate’s abs clenched and then released as Zio’s bald brown head disappeared from view. Feeling like a red-handed preteen who’d been caught in the act, she blew a gust of breath from her cheeks. Michel shot her a Cheshire cat look and grabbed her waist.

  “Don’t look so terrified, cousine. I told my grandfather that I took you shopping all day yesterday,” he said. “I complained that you dragged me up and down the streets of Reggio, in and out of every shop, and that I was very fatigued after having to spend the day with such a vigorous woman.” He reached out, smirking, and stroked her side from just beneath her breast to below her hip. “It wasn’t a lie, Tatiana. I am tired,” he chuckled. “A little bit sore, too.”

  Michel’s tone did nothing to sweeten the dose of reality Zio’s voice had forced her to swallow. Now, standing in the dusty humidity of mid-afternoon, on this mountain where she’d made such unexpected discoveries, Tate trembled. She didn’t feel remorse over having broken her marital vows, and she was no longer ashamed at the depth of feelings she had for her second cousin. These circumstances were as unstoppable as gravity, once set into motion. If Tate was totally honest with herself, she had to admit she’d known all along. The moment she’d met Michel’s needy blue eyes, back in Zia Luisa’s smoky basement kitchen in Revin, it had all been clear to her. As clear as the water she’d fearlessly flung herself into at Saline—clear and just a little scary.

  Back then, she’d been repulsed by her fear, disgusted by the thought of such tainted love or lust or whatever her feelings for Michel were. She’d shoved her attraction, her hunger for him, into that somewhere place where she locked away all the uncomfortable emotions she was loath to face.

  Loss, anguish, desolation, loneliness.

  Bit by bit, this journey had peeled away her layers. Stripped her down until that somewhere place, where sensation alone ruled, was the only place she needed to be. The unforeseen tender moments she’d shared with Zio Nino had unhinged the door that her emotions hid behind. Olivia’s natural sensuality, which snuck in and out of her eyes at random moments, had somehow given Tate both permission and urgency to be freer with her body than she’d been in a long ti
me. The happenstance of stumbling upon Arturo’s quiet charm along a cobblestone street, in the presence of a gifted blackbird had reminded her to welcome the unexpected, even when it seemed foreboding. All of these and, of course, Michel. Every moment, both charged and muted, that she’d spent in his presence had unraveled her to the core. And…now what?

  “Tatiana,” Michel said, reaching out a hand for her to hold. “A tavola.” To the table.

  She slipped her hand into his and followed him across the gravel road to the house, an undercurrent of dread suddenly drifting beneath her thoughts.

  “Michel, wait.” Tate stopped before they reached the rickety metal gate that led to the patio behind the house.

  “I don’t know—” she began.

  “Don’t,” he said, gently squeezing the tops of her arms and imploring her with his eyes. “We do not need to talk about anything now, cousine. We are here…” He paused. “Together. Today.” He kissed her on the temple and whispered. “This is enough, no?”

  Tate looked down at her feet, her shoulders warm in the afternoon sun, sweat gathering under her arms. After a sigh, she met his gaze again and nodded. He started once more toward the house, reaching to unlatch the lever and open the gate.

  “But if we’re ever not.” Tate spoke to his back, squeezing her eyes shut and forcing herself to say the words.

  “Stop,” he said, his feet freezing in their steps. He didn’t turn to face her but stood, still as a statue, gripping the steel handle.

  But there had been too many times when Tate had stopped, leaving too much unsaid. This moment of her life was just too precious to her to leave it unfinished on any level. No matter what happened tomorrow, he had to know.

  “After today, Michel, after here, after all of this,” Tate gestured wildly to their surroundings, her eyes stretched wide and wet with the threat of tears. She reached inside herself, expecting to have to dig deep for the courage she needed, but she quickly realized it was right at the surface. The words came easy. “You will be here.” Tate edged close to him, taking his hand from the gate and placing it over her leaping heart. “It will always belong to you.”

  Michel’s breath landed hot on her shoulder as he leaned heavily into her, hanging his head low.

  “I had to tell you,” she said, her body absorbing the weight of him.

  “No, you didn’t.” Michel stood back from her, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger. His lips skated lightly across hers, and she closed her eyes.

  “I know, cousine,” he whispered into the sensitive skin of her earlobe. She shuddered as the words danced into her. “Of course I know.”

  Chapter 33

  Tate

  Ciccio played the guitar and Ludovico played the accordion while Zio Nino slurred the words of the Italian folk song into Tate’s ears. Zio waltzed her around the terrace at his house in Valanidi, weaving in and out of the pockets of people who stood with their whiskeys or grappas, as his two childhood friends sat at the end of the dinner table like two wrinkled olives. They picked out the well-known tunes on their instruments, smiling as they played.

  Tate had counted more than two dozen at tonight’s dinner table, including Zia Mimma’s trio of girls and a flock of distant cousins from the nearby town of Pellaro. There was also an endless stream of family friends who came and went through the same gate where Tate and Michel had earlier shared their weighted moment.

  “Calabrisella mia, Calabrisella mia,” Zio sang off-key, his wide smile blessing Tate with grandfatherly charm.

  “You smell like too much grappa, Zio.” Tate giggled and followed her uncle’s lead. Everyone but Tate knew all the words of this song. It reminded her of something Nana used to sing to her.

  At the end of the rectangular outdoor space, Michel stood leaning against a stone wall that separated the terrace from the garden. Glare from the streetlights fell upon one side of his face, casting a yellow glow over his hooded eyes.

  Tate couldn’t help thinking just how beautiful he was. She tried to keep her glancing to a minimum, not wanting to call attention to the number of times her eyes wandered to Michel, but it was hard not to look at him. His presence demanded her attention, pulled at her like a magnet. With a pensive half-smile on his lips and his arms crossed over his chest, his stare was frank and forward and fixed on Tate.

  Still keeping up with Zio’s triple-time glide, Tate watched as Michel sipped at his glass of Frangelico. She imagined how kissing him would taste like roasted hazelnuts and sugar, how his dry lips would part onto hers and the sweet wet of his tongue would play along the bottom edge of her teeth. A heavy ache opened at her core and she looked away, the force of her yearning scalding her cheeks.

  “Trallallaleru llalleru llalelru llalla. Sta Calabrisella muriri mi fa.”

  The voices of her cousins singing together overpowered the sound of the accompanying music. Some of them swayed, their arms wrapped around each other at this drunken midnight festival of family. Some stood still and raised their glasses in a toast and caterwauled their very best. Olivia nodded, tipping her glass in Tate’s direction, the lyrics of the song spilling forth from her lovely full lips.

  “What does the song mean?” Tate asked Zio as the music slowed and stopped. The words were sung in deep dialect, and she couldn’t decipher much of it.

  “The man in the song is singing about his Calabrisella, a Calabrese woman he saw from afar. She was hanging laundry on a line, and he snuck close and secretly stole her handkerchief.” Zio paused.

  “Strange song.”

  “No, Tatiana, listen. Later, when the man is far from her, he cries into her handkerchief for comfort and imagines kissing her. He says he wants so much to be with her that his desire for this Calabrisella is killing him.” Zio shrugged. “It is a love song.”

  Tate’s eyes once again darted to Michel, the desire that lined her belly only intensifying with Zio’s translation.

  “That’s beautiful,” she said to Zio.

  “Yes,” Zio agreed, nodding. Leaning into her, he whispered, “The Calabrese are a passionate people. When we fight, our blood boils with rage. But when we love,” he said, edging back so her could face her. “When we love, our blood boils too, no?” He turned his head in the direction of his grandson and placed a hand on Tate’s hot shoulder. “What can we do, though, but be who our hearts tell us we are?”

  Tate said nothing but tried to resist the urge to study her feet. Flames jumped to her face and neck as she washed down the taste of scandal with a healthy swallow of shock at Zio’s unexpected soliloquy.

  “Buon Ferragosto!” Giuliana exclaimed, grabbing Tate suddenly by the waist and whisking her away from Zio’s arms, away from the tense moment and back into the lively atmosphere around her. “Come and see the traveling performers, Tatiana.”

  Tate joined the stampede of cousins to the street in front of the house, where a parade of sorts was taking place. Young men and women dressed in traditional garb were marching, singing, and playing instruments through the streets, clapping their hands and stomping their feet to a buoyant music that seemed just as alive as they were.

  “What is this?” Tate asked loudly, leaning toward Giuliana’s fair face in the hope that her question could be heard over the song.

  “This is Ferragosto,” Giuliana explained, her tiny black eyes shining like happy onyx, her hands and feet in motion to the music. “A special holiday during the harvest season.”

  Tate watched, clapping her hands, as old Ludovico took Olivia by the hand, spinning her into the mix of celebration. A minute later, a nameless neighbor boy rushed to Giuliana, knocking Tate gently to the side and pushing her cousin onto the street, which had suddenly morphed into a dance floor.

  Taking a deep breath of the joy that was thick enough to catch from the air, Tate closed her eyes. She wanted to hold onto this moment forever, to sear it into her memory so that years from now, she could access it, hear the music, see the colors and lights.

  When Michel�
�s bright laughter coursed over her from somewhere in the crowd, she thought of Zio’s all-too-true words. She couldn’t deny the magic of this place, these people, this unforeseen man who was, without a doubt, the love of her life. Couldn’t argue with the truth to which her heart was testifying.

  Michel took her hand then, still laughing, and her blood began its climb toward that distinct boiling point her uncle had mentioned. Without a word, he led her into the dancing. Their feet skipped and stuttered to a rhythm that was familiar only because it was sewn into the blood of her soul—a soul that was altogether Calabrese.

  * * *

  Later that night—or rather, early the next morning—a group of five of them were left, sitting around the outdoor table on the terrace, drinking wine and eating leftover slices of Zio’s famous brick oven pizza.

  Tate picked at an oregano-laced pepperoncini and popped it into her mouth, its salty brine bursting on her tongue.

  “This pizza is delicious, even when it’s cold,” she said to Olivia, who was perched next to her with a Scopa deck, attempting to teach Tate the Italian card game.

  “My grandfather’s pizza is famous here in Reggio,” Michel said. “All of the shop owners will happily trade their wares for a pizza in these parts. Right, Nattina?”

  Nattina shook her head and laughed quietly, a yawn curling onto her lips.

  Michel looked to Olivia then. “You take one of my grandfather’s pizzas to the discotheque, and they let you in for free, no?”

  “Oh, Michel,” Olivia groaned then tossed her thick head of curls backward with a chortle. “Sei troppo.” You’re too much.

  Giuliana stood, her sleepy mascara-streaked eyes looking ready to close, and placed an urging hand on Nattina’s shoulder. “A casa, sorella?” she asked. “We should get into our beds before the sun comes up and keeps us awake.”

  “Si,” Nattina replied. She wished everyone a good sleep and left the table.