Book One of the Santa Lucia Series

by Michelle Damiani

  From her seat, Elisa watched the sky clot with clouds, tremble with a steely grayness, and then begin pelting rain down like a recrimination. She loved rain. Everyone slowed down in the rain, and she was less likely to attract attention. She felt enveloped in a protective shroud, distant from trouble.

  The class, however, groaned in unison as the fat raindrops flung themselves faster at the windows. Elisa heard someone mutter, “There goes recess. Again!”

  “Silence!” commanded Maestra, smiling. She knew how restless the children were, how hard it was to focus on geography when the sudden downpour threatened their short burst of free time. She pretended to finish the lesson early to give the students a bit of extra time to grouse before they shoved their desks together.

  At the release, Elisa avoided Fatima’s eye contact and slipped out to the bathroom. Once outside the classroom, she quickly crept her hands into jacket pockets, closing her fingers around each found coin. She hesitated at Fatima’s puffy purple jacket, but the promise of those coins she’d seen when Fatima bought gelato pushed her to dip her fingers into the lip of the pocket. An image of her mother standing over her shouting about her poor school performance hastened her hand, and she closed her fist around the cool and welcoming metal. Withdrawing her hand at the sound of voices approaching the hallway, Elisa dashed to the bathroom. She whipped around to lock the door. Holding her breath as much to avoid the vapors from the open hole in the floor as to slow her heartbeat, she opened her hand. She’d stolen a total of six coins, though only five looked to be euros. One didn’t look familiar, and bending to look more closely at it, Elisa noticed the back had a star made out of double lines. Could this be Fatima’s? A Moroccan coin, maybe? She couldn’t use that, and even if she could, she was still far short of what she needed. If she didn’t get twenty euros together soon—she shuddered at the thought of what might happen.

  Shoving the coins deep into her jeans pocket, she unlatched the door to admit two giggling girls.

  Elisa chewed her lip as she walked back to the classroom. How much did she have at home? Almost five euros she was sure. Today’s catch would bring her to six. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

  If only she could do better in school. She had been so sure this year she’d focus for real. But if anything, this year was proving to be harder than last. It seemed like the more she tried, the more her thoughts slid away like wet ribbons down a stream.

  She fought back aggravation. And what was she supposed to do with a Moroccan coin? It was useless, and Fatima was sure to notice it was missing. Her new friend missed nothing. Elisa had to figure out a way to get it back into Fatima’s pocket, but the hallway was now filled with students pulling snacks from their backpacks.

  There was nothing in her backpack, save papers that induced panic. She walked into the classroom, trying to swallow her irritation, when she saw Fatima waving at her and pointing at an empty seat beside her. She liked Fatima, she really did. She supposed that if she asked Fatima for money, Fatima might willingly hand it over. For some reason, this annoyed Elisa.

  She waved back at Fatima and the grin that spread across her friend’s face soothed some of Elisa’s jangled nerves. She snaked through the classroom, through the hodgepodge arrangement of desks and around the boys surreptitiously playing soccer with a water bottle. As she picked her way around girls perched around the ancient boombox, arguing over radio stations, one of the boys, Mario, trapped the water bottle with his feet. He peeked over to see if Fatima was watching. She was. He thwacked the makeshift ball with decided strength. Mario cast a shy smile at Fatima. Who suddenly found the floor impossibly interesting. Can anyone quite forget the exquisite pain of young love?

  Elisa plopped into her seat. “Boys,” she sighed. “My brothers are just the same.”

  Fatima stammered. “Mine too.” She cleared her throat. “In Morocco it was handball, but now they kick anything not stuck down.”

  The girls giggled.

  Fatima unfolded the wax paper wrapped around her focaccia. She gestured at Elisa’s shirt. “I like that.”

  Elisa looked down, surprised. “What? This shirt?”

  “Yes, it’s a pretty color.” Fatima took a bite of her bread spangled with rosemary and chewed thoughtfully.

  Elisa looked down again, sure they must be talking about different things. “Oh. I don’t remember where I got it.”

  Fatima swallowed and hesitated before saying, “I wish I could wear short sleeves.”

  Elisa furrowed her brows. “Why can’t you?”

  Fatima tucked her hair behind her ears and said, “Girls don’t wear short sleeves in Morocco.”

  Elisa said, “Oh! So you don’t have any.”

  Fatima answered, “Right.”

  Elisa drummed her fingers on the desk for a minute, trying to ignore the rumbling in her belly. “You could make your own, you know. Just cut the sleeves off.”

  Fatima hesitated. “Maybe.”

  Elisa smiled. “It’s easy! Bring a shirt tomorrow, and we can cut it together!”

  Fatima repeated, “Maybe.”

  Elisa bounced a little at the prospect of a project. “That would be fun. Actually I have a bunch of shirts my brothers don’t wear anymore. We can cut one of those. So you don’t have to spoil one of your shirts.”

  Fatima nodded slowly. “We could try.”

  Elisa said, “I’ll look for a good one when I get home. Also, after school, can you do that thing where we make a list of all my homework so I don’t forget any?”

  Fatima smiled, “Certo!”

  Elisa smiled, “Thanks. That really helped.”

  “No more zeroes.”

  “No more zeroes!”

  Fatima tore her focaccia offered half to Elisa. “Want some?”

  “Oh, thanks,” said Elisa. “I forgot to pack mine.”

  Fatima didn’t look like she believed her. But she smiled and said nothing.

  Chiara stepped down the final step, opened the door to the bar, and rubbed the tops of her arms. Yes, it was definitely autumn. She slipped on the sweater she kept downstairs.

  She switched on the radio and hummed as she put away the dishes from the small round dishwasher. She stopped, listening as the pipes squeaked to life. Was that Edo? He’d gotten home so late she figured he would lag getting up.

  At the rumble of the Ape, she unlocked the door and accepted her box of pastries and tramezzini, scrawling her signature across the form. She unpacked the delivery then stacked the last of the cups and saucers next to the La Pavoni. Switching it on to make herself a coffee, she wrapped her sweater more fully across her chest.

  As the bell over the door chimed, she started to say hello to her neighbor until she realized it wasn’t a neighbor. It was a stranger. A stranger with a full head of salt and pepper hair brushed back from his forehead to fall in soft waves to below his ears. Longer than men in Santa Lucia wore their hair. She wasn’t totally convinced he was Italian until his voice lilted in a fluid, “Buongiorno signora, un caffè lungo, per favore.” He had an accent, difficult to place. It had the blurriness of the east of Italy, with some of the bitten-off quality of the south and the muted cadence of the north. Chiara realized she had yet to respond to his request, so she nodded and stepped to the La Pavoni to pull the shot that she’d intended as her own.

  The stranger tucked his newspaper under his arm as he flipped through the sugar packets, pulling out the tan raw sugar. He silently watched Chiara as she turned the handle of the espresso cup and set the saucer in front of him. She smiled at him curiously, but he said nothing as he carried his coffee to the table.

  This was unusual. Italians never sat down in the bar. Unless they were tourists, in which case they always sat on the terrazza. The price of sitting was only worth it for a view. The man smoothed his fingers across his eyebrows before sitting back, dropping his newspaper on the table
. Chiara got the sense that he was waiting.

  But waiting for what?

  Normally she would strike up conversation, but she was uncharacteristically tongue-tied in the face of this stranger. Yes, he was attractive, with his deep-set eyes and square jaw. But that wasn’t it. Something about him made her want to check in the mirror to assure herself that she didn’t carry the vestiges of her restless night.

  The bell over the door chimed again and Stella rushed in, trailing the scent of woodsmoke curled into fog. Before Chiara could alert her friend to the presence of the newcomer, Stella was overflowing with words.

  “Chiara, you are not going to believe this. Last night, not only did Dante not say a single word to me—what? What is it?”

  Chiara was raising her eyebrows and gesturing with her chin toward the table, where the stranger was watching, jaw cocked to the side. Stella turned quickly to stare at him. He tipped his head in greeting before assuming a sleepy expression and snapping his paper open. Stella turned back to Chiara, a questioning expression on her face. Chiara shrugged.

  “Well,” Stella stammered. “Anyway, um. Oh! There’s Vale, I needed to talk to him about something. I’ll see you later, Chiara.”

  As she hurried out, Stella shot a final accusatory glance at the stranger. He blithely turned the page of the newspaper while taking an infinitesimal sip of his coffee.

  Chiara watched Stella catch up with Vale, the town handyman. She started to prepare her own coffee when her attention was caught by the warm smile creasing Vale’s thin, sun-lined face. Stella was gesturing up the street, her hands fluttering even more than usual, and Vale followed her movements, nodding once in awhile. Finally he put his hand on Stella’s shoulder and her hands fell to her side. He leaned down and spoke, softly it seemed. Stella nodded seriously. Vale’s hand fell from her shoulder and they spoke for a few moments before turning toward the piazza, walking in step, arms almost brushing.

  Chiara peered after them, chewing her cheek. Vale seemed the same age as Stella, but he must be closer to Chiara’s age. He had always been quiet, a bit detached. Perhaps it was this that made him seem older. Chiara turned to pull her coffee and noticed that the stranger’s eyes darted quickly down to his paper.

  Elisa and Fatima held hands as they walked out of school. “Do you want to come over?” Elisa impulsively asked.

  “Right now?”

  “Or another time.”

  “Oh, Elisa, I’d love to, but my parents would not let me.”

  “They don’t like me?”

  Fatima smiled at her friend’s ludicrousness. “I can’t go to houses that they don’t know.”

  “Oh.”

  Fatima stopped walking and rubbed her bottom lip with her teeth.

  “I have an idea.”

  “For what?”

  “So we can see each other after school.”

  “Oh! Really? What is it?”

  “Well, do you know Maestro Luciano?”

  “The drunk?”

  “Elisa! Che maleducata, that’s so mean!”

  Elisa threw up her hands to shield her face. She yelped, “Well, it’s true! It’s not mean if it’s true!”

  Fatima glared at Elisa, who looked away, scowling. Elisa wondered, was it mean? If Fatima said so, it must be. A moment’s reflection convinced her that she wouldn’t want one of her brothers called a name, even if it were true. “I’m sorry, Fatima, I don’t know him. It’s what my parents say. And doesn’t he smell like old wine?”

  “Well, maybe,” Fatima conceded. “But he wasn’t always like that. You don’t remember?”

  Elisa screwed her face up in concentration. “Yes, that’s right. It’s been so long I thought he’d always been this way, but he used to be different.”

  Fatima nodded. “Maestro Luciano taught my family Italian when we moved here. But then all these bad things happened, and since then he’s been like sink water going in a circle. I don’t know how to say that in Italian.” Fatima made a slow circular motion with her finger and then made the circle faster and tighter.

  Elisa nodded that she knew what Fatima meant.

  Fatima shrugged, “I want everyone to be nice to him.”

  Elisa thought about this, imagining that shuffling old man patiently teaching Fatima Italian, which, now that she thought of it, was really good compared to Elisa’s English that she’d been learning in school for years. She felt sad for him. And for Fatima. She wondered what the bad thing was that happened to him but supposed it didn’t matter.

  Goodness, children can be aggravatingly non-curious. An adult would have rabidly pushed for details and then nodded over this juicy bit of backstory.

  Elisa said, “I’m really sorry.”

  The girls stood against the damp wall of the school. The rain had lightened, and eased away over the course of the day, and now the blue-tinged afternoon light warmed their upturned faces.

  “Fatima?” Elisa ventured, “Why are we talking about Maestro Luciano?”

  “Oh! Right, I forgot.”

  Elisa grinned, “That’s okay. I know all about that.”

  Fatima gently shoved Elisa’s shoulder. “Basta!” She laughed. “Anyway, I like to visit him after school. He has a house with a garden. Sometimes I pull up the bad plants. He loves it when I bring sweets.” Her rough little laugh rang out. “Maybe you can come with me. If it’s okay with your parents. We could cut the shirt you brought me!”

  Elisa scrunched her eyes at the sun that was hiding again behind a navy rimmed cloud. “Maybe. Sometimes my mom notices and sometimes she doesn’t. I guess I could tell her I was getting tutored. She’d definitely believe that.”

  “Yes! Great idea. Actually, I bet he can tutor you. He’s a great teacher and that way it won’t be lying.”

  “I don’t mind lying to my parents.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. Why? Do you?”

  Fatima stared at her feet. “Well, yes. My family is always honest. Always. My parents say that without honesty we can never believe each other or trust each other. Or love each other. “

  “Oh. So you tell them everything?”

  “No.”

  “No? But—”

  “I don’t lie to them. But there are some things I don’t tell them.” Fatima flushed, wondering if her friend could read the secrets written across her face—the hours logged beside the hushed radio memorizing pop song lyrics, the catch in her chest when she caught Mario looking at her, the longing to one day belong to a band of young adults who gathered around the tables of l’Ora Dorata to eat whatever they wanted while sipping currant-red wine, the dreams of one day breakfasting on pastries as the sun rose over the Seine and at sunset gazing out over a Japanese temple, like the one she saw in a book at Luciano’s.

  “There are some things I don’t tell my parents either.” Elisa hoped Fatima wouldn’t ask what. That coin burned in her pocket still, a reminder of the bundle of euros in her underwear drawer. Not enough, still not enough. Stefano would start hounding her soon if she didn’t give him the money. If only she could pass her classes, maybe it would be okay. If Luciano could really help . . .

  She ventured, “Fatima, do you really think Maestro Luciano could help me? I mean, whenever I see him, he looks so . . . well, foggier than me.”

  “He has good days and bad days,” Fatima said, firmly. “He is so nice, and he has the best stories. He knows everything. Plus, he talks to me like I’m a grown up.”

  “Do you think he’ll actually be okay with you bringing me? I don’t want to be mean, but he doesn’t look very friendly.”

  “I know what you mean.” Her face wrinkled in thought. “But it’ll be okay. I think he’d really like you. I bet he’ll be glad to help! This could really be good for him.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do. Anyway, just in cas
e, I’ll bring sweets.”

  Hundreds of rolling hills away, Florentines scoff at the Roman belief that Rome is the unassailable birthplace of the civilized world. What is a crumbling, glorified fighting pit in comparison with Dante and the creation of the world’s most beautiful language?

  Unfortunately, Isotta could take no solace in the fact that her footsteps might well be treading in the same arc as Michelangelo’s and the breath she drew could well be laced with the same dust as Brunelleschi’s. She was simply a young woman waiting for the phone to ring. When it did, she startled violently, which seems at odds with how fervently she’d been wishing for this call. But then, Isotta was not used to getting what she wanted.

  She ran into the bathroom before answering with a breathless, “Pronto.”

  “Buona sera, cara.”

  Isotta’s hand gripped the phone, and she involuntarily double checked to make sure the bathroom door was firmly locked.

  She whispered, “Buona sera.”

  On the train, she had convinced herself that her encounter with the tall, brooding stranger was a delusion, born out of her desire for a love interest of her own. She hadn’t breathed a word about Massimo to anybody, just told them that yes, she was feeling better, the food poisoning had passed. No more than that. Partly because she knew that her parents would backhand her if they found out she’d spent the night with a man in a hotel. Also, she couldn’t risk shattering the image of her interlude by demeaning it with something as casual as conversation.

  Massimo’s inviting voice tugged her back into that dream state. There wasn’t a hint of the cool remove he demonstrated in the board room, or the following morning. Isotta stopped herself. Better not to think of that. He was just tired from their night, she was sure. Anyway, the dominance he exhibited was not only justified, it was passing. Far outstripped by the pleasure of his fingertips stroking her face and neck, his warm kiss on her lips when he said goodbye. That canceled out the pluck of worry at his aloofness as they sipped their espresso, him flipping the pink pages of the sports news while she looked around casually and tried not to care.