As Arturo entered the bar, unbuttoning his jacket, he was pushed out of the way by Luciano, lurching up to the counter. He waved his arm wildly, his voice harsh and guttural. “Let alone, pedestrian wingbats! There’s nothing—nothing!—and I don’t propagate the garden with loam or salt. No! I don’t! Whatever the chattering monkeys say. They portend evil, as everyone knows.”
The words made no sense, but Edo knew what Luciano wanted. Nodding, Edo placed a cup under the La Pavoni to catch the thick drops of espresso, while reaching for the bottle of grappa.
Arturo minced his steps to the end of the bar and shot a look of revulsion at Luciano. “Honestly, Chiara,” he whispered, “He just gets worse and worse. He was blind drunk this morning, trying to attack Massimo. Don’t shake your head, I saw it myself! Luckily, Patrizia stepped in, probably offered him food like always. Really, how much longer are we supposed to pretend this is normal?”
Chiara bit the corner of her lip and watched as Edo placed the cup on the saucer, handle pointed to his left before he poured a generous slug of the distilled liquor into the cup. Replacing the grappa, he set the cup in front of Luciano, ignoring the rumpled odor of unwashed tweed.
“Here you go, Maestro Luciano,” he said gently.
Luciano blinked at the honorific and for an instant his eyes seemed to see Edo as if through a veil. The moment passed and he grunted before setting his cane to hang on the bar while he blew delicately into his coffee.
Isotta and Massimo walked out of the hotel into Rome’s clean, early morning air. Isotta inhaled deeply. She felt different, somehow. More awake, more solid. It was because of this man. Impossible that less than 24 hours ago she had been walking to the bank meeting, nervous about her new position, nervous about meeting new people, nervous about getting lost and being late. Now her insides felt so fluid, so warm, she couldn’t imagine ever feeling nervous again. Not with Massimo beside her.
She turned toward him, craving his arm around her again. Smiling, she stretched on her tiptoes for a kiss.
Massimo squinted at his watch and patted her shoulder, “Un caffè before we head to the train station?”
Isotta’s smile dissolved. “Um, okay. Sure. Un caffè.”
“Allora, there’s a bar on the corner. I want to check the paper, see how Inter Milan did in last night’s game.” He grumbled and began walking, leaving her standing outside the hotel.
Ouch. That had to sting. The last thing you want after a night of passion is to realize that your lover sums it up by regretting not watching a soccer game.
Isotta’s legs started to give out. Was Massimo already regretting their night together? She ran her fingertips over her lips, still tender from pressing against Massimo’s, her cheek still abraded from his morning stubble rubbing against her as he breathed in her ear. She had planned to close her eyes on the train and remember every moment of their lovemaking. Her bruised lips and raw cheek were talismans she had planned to treasure. In the shower this morning, she’d even imagined bringing Massimo home to her family and seeing their looks of surprise that she could attract a such a man. Those thoughts had been interrupted by Massimo opening the steamed shower door and joining her. The next hour had been a foggy blur of sensation, of passion rising and passion spent and passion rising again.
And now.
She was still standing outside the hotel, watching Massimo’s broad shoulders recede down the street.
Was he expecting her to catch up? Did he notice she wasn’t beside him? Or was he hoping she would stay behind and let the connection between them, the memories of last night, fade away like the heat from stone walls at the end of the day?
Massimo turned, “Isotta? Are you coming? You have a train to catch and I need to get back to Santa Lucia before traffic gets heavy. If we want coffee we’d better hustle.”
Isotta’s legs moved as if pulled by marionette strings. Jerkily, and without her input.
When she was standing beside him again, he smiled down at her and touched her chin with his forefinger. Was it her imagination, or was that smile colder, almost forbidding? “I apologize for my distraction, darling. My head is already in the car, away from you, missing you. I know I should enjoy our last few moments together before we head home, but I can’t help feeling how lonely I’ll be in less than an hour.”
Relief flooded Isotta. That was it. It wasn’t that he was ready to toss her aside. Her eyes filled with tears, and she ducked her head so Massimo wouldn’t see and think her a fool. But he lifted her chin and used his thumbs to stroke the tears from her cheeks before kissing each of her eyes in turn. “Isotta? What is it, tesoro mio, my treasure?”
A cry escaped Isotta’s throat and she clapped her hand over her mouth and shook her head, finally whispering, “Nothing, nothing, Massimo. It’s just that I will miss you.” Her voice gained strength. “When can we see each other again?”
His broad smile took her breath away. “How about next weekend? When I come to Florence and ask for your hand in marriage?”
Morning dawned fresh in Santa Lucia. The edges of leaves on trees across the valley were in clear relief, and the landscape absorbed the shadows, leaving the air rinsed and pure. Chiara yawned as she flicked on the lights of Bar Birbo, switching on the radio on her way to warm up the La Pavoni. The shop filled with a distant music.
Brushing chestnut-colored bangs off her forehead, she walked to the door to greet Roberto, arriving in his three-wheeled truck with a box of pastries, focaccia, and tramezzini, little crustless sandwiches so popular at lunch time. Chiara checked to make sure the tuna and artichoke tramezzini were included, since she had just changed her order from tuna and olive, once Edo confessed a fondness for artichokes. Yes, all good, she nodded, signed the proffered form, and bid Roberto goodbye. He leapt back into his Ape to deliver a box to Luigi, the owner of l’Ora Dorata, Santa Lucia’s lone trattoria. Chiara’s ears briefly filled with the rattling engine noise, before quiet again descended over the gleaming surfaces of the bar. The song playing was one of her favorites from her youth, and she swayed and hummed as she filled her display case with the freshly arrived baked goods. Every once in a while, a piece of the song bubbled out and she sang, sending her resonant alto across the still air.
It was her favorite time of day. The empty bar spoke of possibility. The light washed away the difficult feelings that often slithered in at night. She was alone with her morning thoughts, and those thoughts were simple, manageable. Edo was moving in today, and she was already looking forward to sharing dinner with him. There was a clean, new-day smell in the air.
Chiara looked up when the door opened, and Stella, the mayor’s wife, entered.
“Un cappuccino, Stella?”
“Sì, grazie.”
“Why the long face?”
Stella bit her lip and waved her hand, as if batting away irritating insects.
Chiara chewed her cheek and continued preparing the coffee, waiting for Stella to gather herself.
“Eccolo.”
Stella nodded, then burst out, “It’s Dante.”
Chiara nodded, “Sì?”
“Well, I just don’t think he’s into me anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Chiara tried not to laugh at the phrasing. Stella must’ve been watching American romantic comedies again.
“I don’t know. He ignores me. I make him dinner, he takes it to eat in front of the TV. Says after a day of hobnobbing with big and important people and being the big and important mayor,” Stella puffed our her chest and mimed swaggering with her shoulders before collapsing over the cup and stirring disconsolately, “he just wants to be entertained in peace. I cut my hair, he doesn’t notice. If I point it out, he’ll nod, but it’s almost like he resents my making him look at me.”
At Chiara’s skeptical expression, Stella added, “Seriously, Chiara! It’s like it’s painful to look at me.” Stella
drew her face up like a prune to demonstrate. Chiara reached for Stella’s hand and held it.
Stella blinked back tears. “And I can hardly blame him. Look at me! Who has seven children anymore? Nobody! And this is why! Look what it does to a woman’s body! I don’t know why I had to be the only woman who obeyed the church’s teachings on birth control. Damn church.” Stella looked aghast at her own words. “Oh, I didn’t mean that Chiara, you know I love the church.”
“I know, cara, I know.”
“And I love my children.”
“Of course.”
“But I don’t love what seven births have done to my body.” Stella held out her hands and stepped back from the bar, looking down at herself with revulsion. She shivered and whispered, “Well, it can’t be helped. What sags can’t be made tight. It’s no wonder Dante won’t sleep with me. I’m hideous.”
“Stella! That’s enough! You are absolutely not hideous. No, you aren’t a nubile young girl anymore, but who among us is?” Chiara held out her own arms, forcing Stella to regard her rounded figure.
“Oh, Chiara, you’ll always be beautiful. You have those grey eyes everyone is bewitched by.”
Chiara snorted with laughter. “Now you are just being ridiculous. I’m fairly certain I haven’t bewitched anybody in at least, oh, 20 or 30 years.”
“Well, you could, you know. If you were interested.”
“Maybe,” Chiara mused. “It feels like I’m related to everyone in Santa Lucia, whether I actually am or not, and when do I ever leave?”
The women stood silent on either side of the bar, Stella sipping her cappuccino, Chiara with her elbow on the bar to rest her chin in thought.
She broke free of her ruminations. “Anyway, this isn’t about me. What I meant to say is that you are still an attractive woman. Striking. I can’t imagine Dante finds you repulsive.”
“Well, you could have fooled me. When I was young, I thought men were so desperate for constant sex that I’d have to beat my husband back with a wooden spoon at my time of the month. Now? I’d give anything to have him touch me. I don’t know, Chiara. Maybe he looks at dirty magazines or that pornography on the computer, and who am I to compete with that?”
“You think he does that?”
“Maybe. How would I know? I’m not allowed in his office. All I know is he barely acknowledges me now that the children are out of the house and there is nothing to talk about.”
“I’m sorry, Stella.”
“Me too.” Stella spooned up the last of the sugar in her cup and licked it from her spoon like a lollipop. “But thanks for listening.”
Chiara reached again to hold Stella’s hand for a moment.
“No problem. And the coffee is on me.”
“What? Marriage?” a strangled cry escaped Isotta’s lips. “You can’t be serious.”
Massimo’s expression darkened. “Oh, I’m very serious. I thought you were, too. Otherwise what was all this for?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the elegant hotel behind them. Suddenly Isotta was conscious of the people hurrying past them with briefcases and luggage. She felt an ironic spotlight around her conversation with Massimo. Like they each had the wrong part in a play. What was happening? Was this how relationships progressed? She’d never heard of anything like this, but her sphere of experience was admittedly limited.
She did not know how to answer the man who suddenly felt like a stranger, despite the fact that she had kissed every mole on his body and knew the exact direction that his chest hair whorled. Images from last night smacked into the confusion of the moment to leave her mute. It is understandable, the images from last night are indeed quite distracting.
“Look, Isotta, I’m not the kind of man to mess around. Once I make a decision, I never vary. I’ve decided that I want to be with you. If that’s not what you want, then last night clearly didn’t mean to you what it meant to me.”
“It did! Oh, Massimo, it did! I just . . . I’m just surprised.”
“How can you be surprised? Do you imagine I do what we did together last night without thinking of marriage?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t know how these things work! It’s not like I’ve been . . . it’s not like I’ve been with others,” Isotta stammered.
Massimo’s face lightened. “Really? I was your first? Oh, how sweet.” He moved closer to her until his body was so close she could feel his heat. He continued stepping forward, forcing Isotta backward until she felt the hardness of the rose-colored stucco wall behind her. Massimo pressed against her, his arm above her head, smoothing her hair. He murmured, “This does explain some things.”
“Explain some things? Bad things? You mean I wasn’t . . . good?”
“Oh, you were wonderful, but the beginning did feel a little, well, how can I say this delicately? A bit bound.”
Isotta felt her cheeks redden.
He murmured, “Tesoro, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It only makes me want you more. Again. Now.” Isotta darted a glance at his face, to see if he was mocking her. But his eyes were inviting, like they were last night. He stroked her cheek and let his hand drift down her body as he pressed more snugly against her, until she could feel him, firm and insistent. She hated herself for wanting him again. Massimo rested his warm lips against her ear and whispered, “I wish you didn’t have a train to catch.”
He pulled away. Taking her hand he led her down the street and said, “So let’s talk about the wedding.”
Magda tried to burrow back under the covers, ignoring the sunlight piling on her windowsill. But sleep eluded her, no matter how much she chased it through the blind alleys of her mind. She sighed and heaved herself up, stretching her arms above her and yawning loudly. As her feet searched for her slippers, she pushed one under the bed. Sighing in resignation, Magda got down on the floor to find her slipper, now shrouded in shadows. Her hand swept the space, and her outstretched fingers brushed against a cardboard box.
She snapped her hand away as if burned. She pressed that hand against her mouth and sat up on her knees, her body a dark smudge ensconced in a voluminous white nightgown. Gingerly she reached again under the bed and found her slipper. Not bothering to perch back on her tousled blankets, she swung her feet around and placed each in its own warm and woolly slipper.
A wave of sound began crescendoing from the base of her skull, threatening to overwhelm her. She forced down the mental static and tried to slow her heart rate.
Don’t think of the box.
Don’t think of the box.
Blast.
All she could do was think of that damned box.
She stood and strode purposely into the bathroom. She hadn’t shared a home with anyone since her husband had wandered off like an idiot during their trip to Thailand ten years ago, never to be heard from again. And yet she still locked the bathroom door with a satisfying click. Magda turned on the faucet to full capacity and hummed loudly as she ran a line of toothpaste over the bristles of her toothbrush. Vigorously she scoured her teeth, delighting in the foam and the ensuing need to concentrate on not letting a dribble of toothpaste ruin her nightgown.
She swished water as if it was full of pixies she had to stun by tossing them roughly in her mouth. Then she spat. Stepping to the shower, she turned on the water as hot as possible. If she were lucky, by the time she exited the shower the memory of the box brushing against her fingertips would have receded. She would be ready to face another day.
Fatima paused in the piazza to take in the view of the distant hills. She inhaled. The air smelled of flowers pulling into themselves, concentrating before they began to wither. She watched the burnished light leap and play across the hills. Fatima noticed all of this without joy or interest.
A grumble from her stomach reminded her that she needed to get a cornetto at the forno before school. Her mother hadn’t made t
heir customary breakfast of fried eggs with cumin this morning. When Fatima had raised her hand to knock on her parents’ bedroom door, she’d heard hushed voices and crying. Instead of knocking, Fatima had stroked the door and offered up a prayer for her family. Then she’d taken coins out of the scuffed bowl and closed the front door softly behind her.
Outside the bakery, Fatima noticed Maestro Luciano. He was shuffling a little with his cane, staring intently at the summertime baked-dough display. Silently, Fatima sidled past him through the strings of brown and blue beads hung to keep out the flies. She waited behind the butcher, who was choosing loaves for his shop’s panini. Fatima’s eyes roamed between the shelves full of crusty loaves and the faded pictures of Italy’s coastline torn from calendars. When Sauro was finished ringing up the butcher’s bread order, Fatima stepped to the register and asked for due cornetti con crema. She realized that she had not only pointed at the cornetti, she had also lofted her thumb and forefinger high into the baker’s vision. A holdover from when she was new to town and worried about not being understood.
Sauro nodded as he put the cream-filled pastries in a brown wax bag. Fatima noticed that he slipped an almond biscotti alongside the cornetti before placing the bag on the counter. The baker lofted a finger over his lips with a genial smile. Fatima grinned in thanks. She pushed the euros across the glass display case, exact change, just like the baker preferred. He dropped the coins in the register and wished her buona giornata.
Fatima tilted her body sidewise as she left the bakery, as usual calculating how many fewer bead strands she displaced than when she entered. She was relieved to notice Maestro still outside gazing up—seemingly without seeing—at the Madonna, safe in her heavenly niche in the stone wall. Fatima approached him and put a hand on his arm. He startled. The haze in his eyes lifted a bit, and before it could crash back, Fatima reached into her bag and drew out a cornetto, handing it to Luciano.
Book One of the Santa Lucia Series Page 5