Now his deep voice filled the space of her ribcage. She imagined his firm and gentle fingers. From above a deep well she heard him say, “I told her about you. She can’t wait to meet you.”
Isotta startled. “I’m sorry. Who can’t wait to meet me?”
She could hear him bristling in the silence. “Massimo? I’m sorry, the phone, um. The connection isn’t great.”
“I said my mother can’t wait to meet you.”
“Oh!” Isotta tapped her teeth while she considered what to say. Really, what can one say when suddenly confronted with the reality that their lover has a mother?
Massimo sighed and added, “So when are you coming?”
“You’re not coming here? I thought you wanted to meet my family?”
“Yes, I do.” A pause. “But it is important that my mother meet you as soon as possible. Next Saturday, there is a train from Firenze to Perugia at 8:45, where you can change for the train to Girona, arriving at the station at 13:05. I can meet you then. You can spend the night, and I’ll put you on the first Sunday train.”
Isotta’s thoughts swept into a cycling eddy of confusion. Only one thing was clear—her desire to see Massimo again. “I would love to.”
Massimo intoned, “Excellent,” as Isotta rushed on, “But I’m not sure how I would explain this to my parents.”
Isotta was sure Massimo’s exhale was the tonal version of an eye roll. “What do you mean?” He asked.
“I don’t think they would take well to the idea of their youngest daughter traveling across Italy to spend the night with a man they’ve never met.” Isotta gagged out an awkward laugh.
“I see your point. But it is imperative that you come soon. I cannot wait any longer.”
“Is there a hurry?” Isotta wondered why they couldn’t conduct their courtship like other couples, talk by phone and send texts, visits planned and anticipated.
“I am not like other men.” He seemed to have read her mind. “We cannot be like other couples. The sooner this is clear between us the better. I don’t waste time. I know what I want. I want you. I want you in my bed. I want to hold you in the darkness, to run my lips down your collarbone, and run my hands down your body.”
Isotta fought back a moan. Massimo added, “Don’t you want that, too?”
Isotta was ashamed of how quickly she felt flames of desire licking from the base of her spine. “Yes.”
“Then come.”
In Isotta’s hesitation, Massimo added, “I have an idea, tell your parents you have a training at the Perugia branch. You are new, this is plausible.”
She closed her eyes, imagining being in Massimo’s arms again. He hadn’t mentioned getting married. Had he forgotten? Changed his mind? Realized it was foolish? Realized she was foolish? Was she just a fling after all? She needed to see him, she needed to know.
“Sì. Okay. I’ll try,” Isotta paused. “But I’m not good at lying. They may not let me come.”
“You’re an adult, Isotta. Nobody can tell you what to do.”
“I know. But you know how parents can be. With the church, and the family—”
“Yes, that’s true.” Massimo considered. “But you’ll be fine.” His voice grew softer, more playful. “Now, tell me what you’re wearing.”
Elisa rubbed her eyes until yellow splotches exploded against her darkened lids. Then she blinked rapidly to regain her vision. Nope, it didn’t work. She couldn’t focus. She rubbed her scratchy sweater against her thin arms vigorously. But the burn subsided quickly, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion.
She caught Fatima watching her from across the classroom as she pinched herself all over her arms and wrists. Her friend frowned in concern. Elisa just shook her head, and redoubled her effort to crowd all the thoughts out of her mind. Her teacher’s voice strengthened, as if she had aimed an antenna at him. But she caught no more than a sentence or two about decimals before the voice faded back out.
And the ugly sounds took over.
Her father, barking at her mother, his voice deep and rasping.
Her mother’s voice high in apology and pleading.
The sound of a belt withdrawing from belt loops like a snake loosed from its skin.
Then banging on her parents’ bedroom door as her brother demanded their father stop, STOP!
The sound of leather, slicing through the air and landing with a sickening wet sound.
Her brothers, sobbing, sliding their backs down the door to huddle on the floor.
Her thrashing bedclothes as she tossed furiously on the bed, trying to muffle the rhythmic cries of pain interspersed with rough moans from her parents’ bedroom. Her name muttered in anger, and then shouted, once.
“Elisa!”
Her attention snapped into place.
“Sì, Maestro.”
“I asked you to demonstrate this problem on the board. Didn’t you hear me the first time I asked you?”
Elisa hung her head, “No, Professore, mi dispiace.”
“Huh. And how about the second, third, and fourth times I asked you?”
“Mi dispiace, Maestro. I’ll try to do better.”
“You’ll try! You’ll try!” the teacher jeered in a mocking voice. “Elisa, if I had a euro for every time you’ve tried and failed.” He mugged to the rest of the class while rubbing his thumb against his fingertips to indicate riches, encouraging the laughter of his students. Most stared at him, eyes round, but some managed to laugh weakly, hoping the sound would protect them.
Elisa just hung her head and closed her eyes, willing the tears not to fall. If she started crying, she wouldn’t be able to stop. She couldn’t dissolve in front of the class. She just couldn’t.
“Maestro!” Mario’s voice rang out from across the classroom. “Maestro, quick! Something’s wrong with Fatima!”
All heads whipped to stare at the new girl, who was shaking and flapping. Her dark eyes rolled back into her head as her body went suddenly rigid, arched out of the seat and flung onto the floor with a bang.
The teacher paled and raced to her side, placing his hands against her face. Elisa stood on her chair to see over Maestro’s head to her friend lying limp on the floor.
“Fatima!” Maestro yelled, trying to shake her. “Fatima!”
A girl at the front of the class screamed and Maestro yelled, “Shut up!”
Elisa’s fingers moved to her mouth involuntarily. She noticed her hands were shaking so much she was jerking.
Fatima moved a little, as if waking up. She opened her eyes, “I . . . I think I’m sick.”
Maestro laughed in relief. “Yes, yes you are! But you’re awake. Thank the Madonna.” His eyes found the crucifix above the door. He whispered a prayer of gratitude.
Fatima rose to sitting and croaked out, “I think I need to go to the office.”
Elisa jumped down from the chair and took Fatima’s arm, guiding her to standing.
“Yes, yes,” Maestro repeated, distractedly. “Yes, take her to the office.”
Fatima nodded solemnly and shot a wink at Elisa.
Looking up from brushing her skirt, Fatima considered her teacher. “Thank you, Maestro. You’re very . . . kind.”
The light shifted and swayed as it filtered through the olive trees, tossing filigreed shadows over the lines of Luciano’s face. His eyes twitched open a crack and he moaned, throwing an arm over his dusty glasses to block out the invasive sunlight.
How did he get here? What time was it? What day?
Rolling onto his back, Luciano forced his eyes to peer into the endless sky. Bright, it was so bright. Midmorning perhaps?
Luciano pushed himself toward sitting and rested his head against his crooked knees. It wasn’t the first time he wound up in the uliveto, though he never remembered exactly how he got here. Something seemed to pull
him like a trout on a line. His brain sludged forward.
His mind was clearing.
The pain was back.
Giulia.
It was Giulia who beckoned him here, among the trees that she’d cared for since she was old enough to grasp the shears. Her fingers would run over the knobs of the trees, gliding over the velvety softness of the silver leaves. How she cried when they hard-pruned the trees so that their gnarled forms were unrecognizable. And how she sagged in relief when he told her that olive trees were warriors. They thrived on stress. The jolt of deep pruning would bolster the tree to produce marvelous oil. She’d wiped her tears and nodded, her face shining. After that, he’d often find her in the kitchen with a teaspoon, savoring a little touch of the oil. She claimed she could taste the wind in the sleek peppery gold.
Yes, the groves were full of his daughter. Full of his family’s laughter as the three of them cared for the trees, surrounded by neighbors calling out invitations to stop for a meal of beans cooked in crockery settled in ashes.
But now the groves were empty, empty. There was nothing for him here. Someone kept the weeds down. Probably Ava. She’d been particularly solicitous of him since his daughter died. And in the corner by the oldest tree, someone collected the amethyst heads of boragine, likely less out of kindness and more to top their sausage sandwiches with the silky, slightly bitter greens.
Luciano stood, desperate to quell the memories, to block out the image of his wife handing down bunches of olives to his daughter. Both with their hair held back in kerchiefs, the same ones that his wife’s grandmother had used. He saw their faces, hair working out from the fabric in loose tendrils, turn toward him—jeering. Mocking him for his traitorous adherence to life. They were there, beyond the veil, out of reach. And now they were sneering, cursing him for living while they were cold and buried on the other side of Santa Lucia.
Carosello passed Luciano, brushing against his knees. Startled, Luciano flung out an arm for balance, and the dog cowered, loosing an eggshell from the scruff of his fur. The one-eyed dog gazed up at Luciano reproachfully before jogging away without a backward glance.
Luciano shook his head to free it from the shadows, and stumbled toward the town walls. Once at his doorway he fumbled for his keys before remembering he’d lost them long ago. He jiggled the bar of the doorknob until it released, and he flung himself inside. The house was musty and smelled of dead flowers. It would always smell of dead flowers—the cosmic pile-up of funerals impossible to erase.
He reached toward the light switch to banish the webs of darkness clogging the rancid air. Though there was an obliging click of the switch, there was no answering light.
Magda squeezed a heavy, thick-skinned lemon before scowling and selecting another. Four lemons later, she found one with the right amount of give and nestled it in her red basket. She rummaged in the white cardboard box for another lemon and began the process again. This time she was luckier. She only had to glower at two lemons before finding one that met her standards. She placed the lemon beside the first, and then moved on to onions with fat white bulbs and shoots so green and springy they seemed aquatic. As she scanned the shelves for the least expensive kind of prunes, she realized that there were several customers engaged with the vendor at the register. She couldn’t make out their words—was her hearing going?—but could tell they were leaning toward each other to speak with more ease than anyone ever spoke with her.
It was frustrating, frankly.
She worked hard to be a useful member of her community, attending town meetings to offer the wisdom of her more global experience. She was always ready to share her extensive business acumen with local vendors. She wanted nothing more than to put Santa Lucia on the tourist map. And yet she was never included in anything. Not really. Her advice was laughed off. Attempts at intimacy with townspeople were met with awkward discomfort.
Such small-minded xenophobes. They just couldn’t stand that she was an outsider, succeeding in their community when so many of them lacked the creature comforts she provided to her guests. Yes, they were jealous xenophobes. And, she thought, placing the bag of prunes in her basket, they probably still held it against her that she was from a wealthy country. Small-minded, jealous xenophobes. She should have settled in Rome. That was a city with an open mind. But no, her stupid husband insisted on a stupid small town. Said it would be easier to integrate with the locals. Ha! How many locals did they befriend?
If she was going to be honest, Gustav befriended a few. But that was obviously because he threw his money around like an obnoxious American. Everyone likes the guy who never haggles and always buys the priciest bottle of wine. She had been able to control her husband in many ways, but never when it came to finances. He had insisted that his family money was to be managed by him alone, which meant settling in this dusty village, and overspending. Overspending, that is, until he wandered off in Thailand. Who knew what he was doing for money now.
Magda turned toward the potatoes and tried to find three with dry, curling peels. She wondered if Gustav was dead. Time was, that thought sent a shiver of horror through her heart. Now, it did nothing but raise her curiosity. If he wasn’t dead, what was he doing? Was he still in Thailand? Had he spent years funneling money into an account that she didn’t know about so he could disappear and live off savings without her being the wiser? After all, when she’d gone to investigate the contents of his trust, it had been empty. Well, if he wanted to live among people who ate dog (they all denied it, but she knew better—poor people would stop at nothing for a bit of protein and didn’t have the sense to be disgusted by it) and bathed in stagnant bays of algae-filled water then more power to him.
Magda’s fists clutched around the basket handles as she remembered walking into her in-laws kitchen after Gustav’s “funeral”. Her mother-in-law, in a carrying whisper, was telling her friends that Gustav’s bank account was empty thanks to the purchase of the property in Italy, a purchase made to accommodate Magda’s need to get out of Germany. And it was that empty bank account, coupled with his sour wife, that drove him to escape. Kill himself or wander off, Magda was never sure of her mother-in-law’s meaning. She could hardly ask for clarification after she walked into the kitchen to fetch a bottle of what Germans pass off as wine, scattering their gossip.
She tossed the last potato in her basket with enough force that all eyes turned to her. Throwing her shoulders back, she strode toward the counter and lofted her basket beside the register. Paola began ringing up her produce, and Magda bit back a remark about the poor quality of the lemons. Instead she attempted to crack a joke about how stupid Giuseppe was to not put a sign in his window advertising panini. Magda looked around with a broad smile, but everyone’s faces registered mute annoyance. One by one, their eyes began looking in other directions.
Handing her money to Paola, Magda defiantly snatched up her bag of produce and stalked to the door.
But her disdainful exit was marred by her own released gas. Magda paused. As she pushed through the door, she told herself that it wasn’t laughter she heard, just a rising up of more stupid, irrelevant chatter.
Arturo paused before paying for his coffee, ready to evaluate the next patrons for their likelihood of having some gossip, or a willing ear to listen to his newest proof that his wife was lying with another man. But there was just Magda hurtling by with her bag of produce as two vigili drifted into the bar. Arturo nodded at the officers with a resentful smile, and continued out the door. He paused momentarily when he noticed that Fabio, who worked at the hardware store, accompanied the police officers. Fabio was usually good for a few tales. But Fabio was looking stern today. Arturo sighed and left the bar.
Chiara wiped her hands on the soft white cloth as she greeted the men. The officers were looking particularly dapper in their creased pants with the red stripe down the side matching the trim on their jackets, their shined shoes, and their jaunty
caps. Chiara grinned. She knew people in other towns that resented their police officers, but she had always felt affection for the vigili of Santa Lucia. The old, crusty ones that waved their sticks when an Ape drove by at too fast a clip as well as the young ones with their springy beards that seemed surprised to be on cheeks still rounded with the remnants of babyhood. These were the two young ones. Chiara leaned forward with a grin.
“What can I get you gentlemen?”
The smile faded from her face as she noted the mens’ somber expressions.
Fabio stepped to the bar and said in a carrying whisper, “Marcello’s coffee is on me, Chiara. I’ll leave a five with you for whatever he wants.” He pushed the money toward Chiara before turning to pat Marcello’s shoulder and stepping out of the bar, down the street to the hardware shop.
Marcello sighed. “Solo un caffè, Chiara, grazie.”
Chiara hesitated, before she turned to prepare the espresso.
When she turned back with their jots of coffee, she saw that the shorter one, Alessandro, was holding Marcello’s hand like they were boys in grade school again. Marcello was wiping his eyes on the thin waxy napkins from the bar’s dispenser.
Chiara reached for her purse which always held a packet of tissues. She wordlessly offered the packet to Marcello.
“Grazie, Chiara,” murmured Marcello, while Alessandro smiled weakly at her.
“Non fa niente, it’s nothing.”
“I’m sorry, Chiara, I shouldn’t be crying, especially on the job, but Mamma . . . Mamma is in the hospital, and I’m so worried.” Marcello’s voice sank into a whisper and he pulled another tissue from the pack and wiped his eyes angrily. “I’m sorry.”
Book One of the Santa Lucia Series Page 8