Book One of the Santa Lucia Series

by Michelle Damiani

  He started to hesitate, but then hunger took over. “Grazie,” he whispered before gingerly taking the pastry from Fatima’s hands. She nodded and gently guided him to the benches in the piazza. Once they were seated, she pulled out her own cornetto from the bag as well as the napkins she’d remembered to bring from the bakery. These cornetti were always overflowing with cream.

  Fatima concentrated on eating her own pastry to give Maestro an opportunity to devour his. She worried about how long it had been since he’d eaten. She hid her concern by swinging her legs and chatting. She wanted to tell him what happened to her cousins in Perugia, the ones who owned the kebab shop, the way she would have confided in him before. No, she needed to keep it light. She prattled on about a new pop song she’d heard on the radio. Time was, Luciano would have raise an eyebrow, knowing how her parents disapproved of Western influences. She and Luciano would have engaged in a long-ranging conversation about variations in culture, perhaps touching on her fear of both immersing herself in her new home and leaving the old behind. But this time he said nothing. She spoke about how the song reminded her of a book she’d read years ago, so she’d started reading the Italian version. She confessed she still struggled with the passato remoto tense. It used to be a joke between them, but now Luciano’s eyes simply grew unfocused and soft. Fatima patted his hand, which made him blink and sit up. “Okay, time for school. Ciao, Maestro!” She lifted her heavy backpack over her thin shoulders and ducked nimbly out of the piazza, startling Carosello who had been deep into his project of driving an empty plastic tub lined with dried cat food along the stones of the piazza with his nose.

  Luciano watched Fatima’s receding back.. His insides quickly twisted again into their customary clenched shape. He doubled over, desperate to numb the pain.

  He rose, shambling toward the alimentari. Wine, he needed wine. As grateful as he’d just been for the nourishment in his stomach, now he railed. All that cream would impede the buzz from silencing his brain, from untangling his heartstrings.

  Plunging his hands into his pockets, he felt nothing. Nothing except a withered olive still attached to its stem and leaves. Luciano turned the leaves over, from the light green side to the dark green side.

  You should know that an olive leaf is a remarkable thing. Amazing, in fact, how the two shades of green translate to the silver halos that float around the trees. There was a time when Luciano would have marveled at those slightly dried out leaves, even though he’d had the identical admiration of the green-to-silver scores of times in his life. Now, he merely thrust the debris deep into his pocket without noting its color at all.

  Wine, he needed wine.

  There were ways to get liquor, even with no money. He had done it before—slip in with a group of customers, and when Giovanni was ringing up purchases he’d pluck a bottle of wine and step out.

  The odds of getting caught were slim. What would Giovanni do if he caught him anyway?

  He needed to slow his racing heart first.

  A challenge, when the promise of sweet oblivion was jostling his temples.

  Edoardo watched the little girl dash into school. He had seen her slip a pastry to Maestro, and his heart warmed. He wondered at the connection between them, and then remembered that for years Luciano had made it his mission to teach foreigners Italian. There had been an influx of Moroccan families settling around Santa Lucia in the last five or ten years and Luciano had always cushioned their adjustment, usually by volunteering to teach them Italian. Edo remembered Luciano telling him that fathers and sons were his usual takers, but sometimes he was allowed to work with the mothers. Rarely the daughters.

  Reaching back in his memory, Edo remembered now having a conversation with Luciano before everything went dim for his old teacher. They had stood in the streaming sunlight, Luciano had laughingly told him about a family he was tutoring. The father, he’d said, was a bit less stringent in his religious doctrine than other Moroccan men. He’d sigh in exasperation, but accepted his daughter and wife learning alongside the males at the kitchen table.

  It was that girl that Luciano spoke about animatedly, his eyes glimmering with fondness. The girl who was quicker than anyone in the family. Luciano said, affection warming his voice, that the parents and brothers didn’t seem to mind being outshone by the girl. In fact, they took pride in her quick mastery of difficult concepts.

  More than her facility for learning, Luciano relished her questions. Moving from Morocco had made her insatiably curious about how many more ways there were of living in the world. When she’d heard that Luciano had once visited Vietnam as part of a tour group, she’d wanted to understand how the Vietnamese prayed, what communism was, what people ate for breakfast, was pork forbidden? As Luciano relayed the story to Edo, he’d guffawed, mimicking how wide the girl’s eyes had grown.

  This must be that same girl.

  Rubbing at the bar to remove streaks in the buffed stone, Edo thought about when Luciano was his own teacher. It was painful for Edo remember his childhood. The children had been merciless, treating him like the wounded member of the pack. He was teased and rejected, and didn’t know how to understand it beyond his stupid beak-like nose and forehead like a dumb shelf over his eyes. He knew he looked weird, but was he monstrous?

  It was Luciano who noticed Edo shuffling on the edge of the playground and asked him to stay after school. Luciano sat Edo down on the child-size seat beside his sturdy teacher’s chair. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a glass jar of candy and set it carefully on the desk. “You mustn’t tell the others, Edo, but I have a fondness for caramelle. I always indulge in a piece or two after school. Would you care for one?”

  “Or two.” Edo smiled at him through his lashes, still dewy with tears.

  Luciano roared his approval.

  “Or two, my child.”

  Off came the lid and Luciano offered the jar to Edo who rooted around until he found a strawberry chew and a lemon hard candy. As Edoardo removed the wrapper from his strawberry candy, Luciano foraged through the crinkling sweets and asked, “So tell me, Edo. What happened today?”

  “I don’t know, Maestro. The same thing that happens every day, I guess. The kids chose me last for soccer during ginnastica. Then made crude jokes that I can’t say out loud.”

  “Why not?” Luciano asked, considering the cherry drop he pulled out of the jar.

  “Because then I’d have to tell the priest I said bad words.”

  Luciano fought a grin. “Fair enough. What does Maestro Andrea do when the children mock you?”

  “Nothing. Laughs. And then knocks me on the shoulder and says a little ribbing is just what I need to make me a man.”

  Luciano chewed his candy thoughtfully. “I wonder, why do the children say these things to you?”

  “I don’t know!” Little Edo’s voice quivered. “I’m not mean or anything. I know I play more with the girls, but that’s because they are nice to me. Mamma says I need to eat more tagliatelle so I’m not so skinny and weak. Then they won’t pick on me. And anyway, I don’t even like soccer. I don’t see why we have to play.”

  “Yes, well, not all foods can be caramelle.”

  Edo’s brow bent as he asked, “What does that mean?”

  “Just that sometimes in our day we get caramelle and sometimes we get liver. It is the way of the world. This is easy to understand when we are eating caramelle, harder when we are eating liver.”

  “But Maestro, I like liver.”

  “Then you are a truly exceptional child.” Luciano said, his eyes dancing. “So, what to do about this teasing. I believe I’ll have a talk with your Maestro Andrea. He may need to remember how children once teased him for wearing his big brother’s far-too-large hand-me-downs.”

  Edo smiled tenuously. Luciano went on, “But let’s let that stay between you and me. Safeguarding the wounds of others is the purview and pract
ice of real men. Will you honor that?”

  Edo nodded and to this day he’d never divulged a word.

  He never knew what Luciano had done behind the scenes, but the teasing stopped. He wasn’t popular, at least until high school when he grew into his nose and his feet. Even then, he never seemed to shake off the perception of being awkward, gangly, weak. Older villagers still saw him that way.

  He wondered now what Luciano had said to his ginnastica teacher. It almost didn’t matter, actually. The magic of that afternoon was in Luciano’s kindness. Edo had carried that with him for years.

  Edoardo angrily wiped at the tears that leapt unbidden into his eyes. His maestro deserved better.

  Massimo gently opened the front door.

  His mother clicked off the television and looked up expectantly, “Well?”

  “Where’s Margherita?”

  “Asleep. I expected you home an hour ago.”

  “I stopped at the Autogrill for lunch. It was a long night,” Massimo smirked.

  Anna held up a hand to forestall him. “I don’t need details. But tell me the rest.” She gestured for him to sit beside her.

  “Mamma, I just got home.” The schoolboy whine was at odds with his knowing grin.

  “Ma dai, Massimo. This is important. And once Margherita wakes up, you know we can hardly have this conversation.”

  Massimo dropped his briefcase on the chair and stepped over his mother’s outstretched legs to drop onto the couch. “What do you want to know?”

  “What do you mean what do I want to know? Everything!”

  “Let’s see.” He stretched out, considering. “She’s beautiful.” Anna’s sharp intake of breath prompted Massimo to reach toward her and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You know what I mean.”

  Anna gripped her hands in her lap and nodded. “Really beautiful?”

  “Well, not exactly,” Massimo conceded. His equivocation was justified, if a touch unkind to his betrothed. After all, Isotta was easily overlooked, but you’ll remember there were those moments of radiance. Massimo considered, “Her hair is blond for one thing.”

  “Blond? How odd. Is that her natural color?”

  Massimo gave an easy laugh and leaned back a bit. “How should I know? But she doesn’t seem the type to dye it. She’s an innocent. Pure, or she was until last night.” Massimo gave a dramatic wink.

  Anna shoved his leg in annoyance. “Really, Massimo.”

  Massimo snickered. “Anyway, I think that’s what makes her so beautiful. She’s hungry to be loved.”

  “That’s what you said in February. And July.”

  “No, those looked right. Isotta is right. That’s the difference. Anyway, July wasn’t my fault. Her parents interfered.”

  “But February.”

  “Yes, I was wrong about Veronica. But this time I was careful.”

  Anna furrowed her brow. “Isotta? That’s a strange name.”

  Massimo smiled. “She’s from Florence.”

  “Ah.” Anna paused. “And you’re sure.”

  “Very sure.”

  “Because Margherita . . .”

  “I know, Mamma, I know.

  “Buongiorno, Chiara!”

  “Buongiorno, Patrizia! Come stai?”

  “Pretty well. Edo watching the bar?”

  “Yes, but our walk shouldn’t be too long today, he looks exhausted from moving in last night. I’d like to get back before the morning rush. Let him unpack and get settled.”

  “Sure, that’s no problem. I need to do the shopping before this rain comes.”

  Chiara tipped her head back, squinting against the sun. “Rain?”

  “I know, there’s not that many clouds. But the sunrise was pink, so.”

  “Oh, Patrizia, you believe that?”

  “Well, funziona!” Patrizia retorted defensively. “It works at least as well as the news.”

  “Which is to say, not at all.” Chiara linked her arm through her friend’s. “I’m just teasing, cara. I’m sure you are right. Now, which path today?”

  “Let’s do the one with the statue of St. Francis. It’ll take us past both of our uliveti, and I want to check my olive trees for that blasted bacteria making its way up from Puglia. I can’t bear to think what will happen if our trees get hit. I’m already worried that the drought this summer is going to decrease oil production.”

  Chiara nodded, “Sure. Remember, though, the trees have stood for centuries. They’ll be okay.”

  Patrizia answered, “I want to be optimistic, too, but my cousin’s grove in Salento was hit and it was a disaster.”

  As they began walking, Patrizia went on, “Anyway, that way is flatter and my legs are tired from walking to Girona yesterday.”

  “All that way? Why in the name of the Madonna would you do that?”

  “Well, Giuseppe needed the car to pick up supplies for the macelleria.”

  “He’s not carting pig carcasses in your Fiat again is he?”

  Patrizia laughed, her snorting cackle bringing the twitch of a smile to Chiara’s lips. “No, no. He hasn’t done that in ten years—since I threatened him with sleeping in that damned display case he’s so proud of.” Patrizia took a breath to slow her laughing, “No, he had to get eggs since Bea’s chickens won’t be laying so much with the cooler weather, and also a few crates of wine and boxes of pasta. You know, the small stuff.”

  “Okay, so Giuseppe had the car. But where did you have to go that couldn’t wait?”

  “Ai, Chiara. I didn’t want to burden you with this.”

  Chiara stopped along the path, and placed her hand on her friend’s arm. They stood, through this touch connected to a friendship that had carried them their whole lives, since they were schoolgirls in pinafores. The olive trees surrounding them like a rolling quilt shimmered dully now in a light that was growing progressively stonier. Heavy clouds threatened to spill over the surrounding mountains.

  “Patrizia? What is it?”

  Patrizia blinked furiously and looked away, “I swore to myself I wouldn’t talk about this with you.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s Filamena.”

  Chiara’s hand on Patrizia’s arm tightened. “Is she okay? Please tell me she’s okay.”

  “Yes, she’s okay. I mean, she’s physically well enough, I suppose. She’s worried about little Marco. Frankly, I am too.”

  “What’s happening?”

  Patrizia sighed. “You know he was never really a normal baby. We kept waiting for him to catch up, but he’s only falling more behind. His teachers at the asilo, his preschool, keep calling Filamena and . . . oh, Chiara, they are saying there is something wrong with him. That he’s special, and not in a good way. He makes strange noises and rocks while waving his hands in front of his face and runs on his tiptoes.” Patrizia took in a shaky breath. “We knew all that, I guess. We hoped he’d grow out of it. But now, the teachers say he doesn’t get along well with the other children. He hits them when they have something he wants, and then he doesn’t seem to understand why he’s in trouble. He howls. It’s too much for Filamena, and to hear that pain in the voice of my own daughter. Oh, Chiara, I’m so sorry! That was thoughtless of me.”

  “Patrizia, stop. I love Filamena like she’s blood, I’ve been part of her life since she was born. I’m her godmother, for heaven’s sake! To own the truth, I’ve been worried about Marco, too. I feel like there’s a piece that struggles to be a regular baby, but that part is buried under so much else.”

  “Exactly. You understand,” Patrizia assented, before they began walking again. “So yesterday, Filamena called me hysterical. Marco wouldn’t go to school, he couldn’t say why. You know he doesn’t have all that many words anyway. Paolo is on another trip, so she has no help. I had to go.” The rustle of the wind thr
ough the olive branches stalled the women for a moment before Patrizia said, “Here let’s speed up, the sky is looking brutto.” She started moving along the path, Chiara beside her so she could continue to touch her friend’s arm from time to time.

  “Marco had calmed down by the time my train arrived. Once he knew he wouldn’t have to go to school, he settled right down. And there was this moment, Chiara, I don’t know how to explain it. But there was this moment where I just felt like he clicked. I had pricked my finger on the embroidery I was doing, and he brought me a washcloth, and then he kept coming over and checking my finger. Even one time, resting my finger against his cheek. And I thought, he’s in there! There’s a loving little boy lost in there.” Her words turned jagged, and she pulled a tissue out from her sleeve to wipe her eyes as she walked.

  “Oh, Patrizia. Of course there is. How is Filamena?”

  “She was glad I came, of course. Made a big deal of my bringing her mortadella from Giuseppe’s shop. I know she misses seeing us every day, but it did make sense for them to move to Rieti. So much closer to Rome for Paolo’s work. But I worry about her, there with no family.”

  “I wish she could come here when Paolo is traveling, have some help.”

  “I know. Me too. But with Marco and school.”

  “Did he go back today?”

  “He did, actually. Like nothing ever happened. It’s a good school. They are just worried about him. I am too, but Filamena—I’m more worried about her. Who takes care of the mother, except her own mother?”

  Chiara laughed and then watched her footing over the spot where the stones were loose. “That’s true. I miss my mother every day.”

  “So do I, Chiara. So do I.”

  They paused in front of the statue of St. Francis.

  Chiara sent up a prayer that the saint of small creatures would ease Marco’s way.

  A large drop of rain plopped onto Chiara’s nose, and her eyes flew open. She and Patrizia stared at each other, as the large drops began falling faster. The dusty path quickly polka-dotted with splatters of rain. Chiara and Patrizia held hands and tipped their heads back to feel the drops of water explode against their cheeks. And in their sudden joy, the years fell away from them, lightening their faces as they laughed like girls and raced back to Santa Lucia.