Book One of the Santa Lucia Series

by Michelle Damiani

  “Nobody apologizes for crying in my bar. Now, what happened to Laura? I saw her yesterday, and she seemed fine.”

  “Sì, when I went home for dinner last night, too. But my father called me at 2:00 in the morning to say that she had heart pain and he was taking her to the hospital. I met him there, and the doctors admitted her. They think it was a heart attack. A mild one, but you know Mamma has never been strong.”

  Chiara closed her hand over Marcello’s fist, which was gripping the tissue.

  “How is she now?”

  “I don’t know.” He sniffed, “I had to leave to go to work.”

  “You could’ve taken the day off.”

  “I know, that’s what Alessandro was just telling me. But the doctors are doing tests, and I can’t be in there. If I was sitting in the waiting room, I’d be a mess. Which I guess isn’t any different from how I am now, eh?”

  Marcello looked up at Chiara with blurry eyes. He offered her a half smile, and Chiara remembered how thin he’d been as a child. How Laura was always trying to get him to finish his cornetto or panino, how she fussed over the crumbs and made sure he drank the last drop of his latte caldo, warm milk, which she sprinkled liberally with cocoa powder, believing the chocolate to be salubrious. She’d fussed over her daughter too, but once Marcello was born, he’d been the child she wrung her hands over. And then she took a mother’s pride in his tallness once he reached adolescence and filled out. He’d never been as smart as his sister, but his family didn’t care. He was smart enough to pass the exams to become a poliziotto, and how pleased they had been when he’d been able to find work in Santa Lucia.

  Chiara remembered how Laura had been saddened when Marcello decided to move out, citing his late hours and not wanting to inconvenience the family. But even while Laura sniffled at the thought of her baby leaving home, she also swelled with pride. This was her little Marcello striding through the town, his baton swinging at his side.

  Alessandro patted Marcello’s back again, and then sipped his coffee. Chiara asked, “Does your sister know?”

  “No. Damn! I should call her. But she hasn’t spoken to Mamma in almost a year. Since she moved to Brussels, I think. And what can she do from there?”

  “Probably nothing. But she needs to know.”

  “After the words she and Mamma exchanged before she moved, I’m not sure.”

  “Ma dai, Marcello, come on. You know how hard it was for her, always being in your shadow. She’d been the center of your mom’s world for six years before you were born. Maybe she didn’t handle it well, but to work as hard as she did, getting a doctorate in linguistics at such a young age, and yet never making her mother feel a tenth the pride she felt for you . . .”

  Marcello’s face clouded and he pulled his hand away from Chiara. “You shouldn’t say bad things about my Mamma. Especially when she’s sick.”

  Chiara leaned forward to catch his eye, “I’m not, Marcé, I promise. I love Laura, and I’ll go visit her tonight. I’m just saying, maybe try to understand that your sister’s anger at your mom is probably hurt. Because she loves her mother. She just wants to feel loved, too.”

  Marcello nodded and wiped his eyes. “Okay. Okay, yes, you’re right. I’ll call her.”

  “Good. Now, I’ll bring a bottle of water and some pastries to Laura later today, but let me go upstairs to get the book I was telling her about last time. You can bring it to her this afternoon, and let her know I’m coming.”

  “Okay, Chiara. Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing, Marcé. Your mom will be okay. She loves you too much to go anywhere.”

  After school, Fatima and Elisa parted ways at the piazza with a wave.

  As she watched Elisa stroll down the sunlit street, Fatima felt a pang of gratitude. The last year had been lonely. People were nice in Santa Lucia, friendly even. Friendlier than she expected, and far more so than her own classmates in Morocco had been to the Palestinian kid who had moved to her neighborhood. Fatima wondered, not for the first time, what on earth could have prompted a Palestinian family to move to Morocco? Were they an Embassy family? But those kids tended to go to the International School. Were they displaced by the fighting with Israel? Or did their family just crave adventure? Fatima never found out because she wasn’t allowed to speak to boys. He was ignored, as far as she could tell. She remembered seeing him alone much of the time. Just sitting and staring at his shoes, which were so different from her classmates’ shoes. Maybe he knew that. Maybe it bothered him.

  During their entire move to Europe she had thought about that boy, panicked that her experience would mirror his. What a surprise when her fellow students spoke to her, asked her questions, pulled her hand to join their playground games. When she mumbled that she couldn’t speak Italian, they laughed and tugged her hand all the more insistently. With Luciano’s lessons, and working to open her mind during school to allow the language to sink in, her Italian progressed far more quickly than she expected.

  She had thought this would lead to greater intimacy with the Santa Lucia girls. But in fact, they seemed to tire of her once she was no longer novel. Fatima admitted to herself that her initial uneasiness at their fast gestures and loud words probably didn’t help. Nor did the fact that she was never allowed to visit anyone’s house. In fact, it was just since she started fifth grade that she was allowed to walk the five minutes to and from school on her own.

  It was no wonder she and Elisa had found each other. Yes, Elisa was Italian and of average appearance and she had lived in the town for probably her whole life, but she was . . . what was the word? Spacey. Dreamy. And that set her apart. While Fatima felt pushed out of the margins, Elisa floated around them. People seemed friendly with her, as they did with Fatima, but they both had been wandering out of school alone while the rest of the students clustered outside the door to make afternoon plans.

  Fatima paused in the piazza and breathed in the thinning sunshine. Her days felt entirely different now. She had somebody to sing pop songs with at recess, rolled up paper serving as impromptu microphones. Someone to flip through magazines with and scrutinize the outfits celebrities wore. Someone to make her her first short sleeve shirt. Playing hopscotch on the playground with her arms bare was the most free Fatima had ever felt. Suddenly, the view of her world that had been prized open by the move across the ocean was nudged a little wider. There was so much more to see and experience. She hadn’t realized how much she’d craved having a friend to share that with.

  Movement outside the alimentari on the piazza caught her notice. Giovanni, the grocer, was leading Luciano out of the store firmly, his arm tight around Luciano’s shoulders. Fatima frowned and moved toward them.

  “Maestro, are you okay?”

  Luciano shook his fist at Giovanni, shouting gibberish, “How dare you! Your stench, like a walnut rotted from the core. Acid. Infecting me! You are that poison, you! Your words, vile! Cheating, lying . . . For years I suffered, watching your jars, you evil, shatter—you took her! You took her away from me, and now I’ve got nothing, nothing, and now you have the . . . the . . .” Luciano paused to hunt through his addled brain for words as Giovanni continued to murmur and aim the old man into the center of the piazza, “the consummate venom! Yes, to pack me out of this meat! Where is the . . . the . . . approbation for the aged? Where is the benevolence for the fallen?”

  Giovanni turned to Patrizia, who had swiftly appeared behind Fatima, “There are wine bottles everywhere.”

  Patrizia nodded, “I’ll take him home. Do you need help cleaning up?”

  Giovanni shook his head. “No, Papà’s already got the mop out. You can really take him home? I don’t want to leave him here and have him turn around and come back in.”

  Patrizia said, “We were just closing the macelleria for pranzo, but I can get Luciano home first.”

  Giovanni sighed, “I tried not to let
him near the wine, but . . .”

  Luciano stumbled again and yelled at the men gathered on the benches. The pigeons bolted away into the wash-worn sky. Carosello peered up from his tour of the piazza to watch them arc overhead.

  Fatima tore at her hangnail. She ventured, “I can take him home.”

  Patrizia regarded the child, frowning. “Are you sure, Fatima? He’s not in great shape.”

  Fatima reached for Luciano’s elbow to help him balance. “I can do it.”

  Patrizia and Giovanni exchanged looks over her head. Patrizia said, “Tell you what, we’ll walk him together.”

  Chiara yawned as she entered Bar Birbo. Edoardo glanced up at her and smiled. “Nice pausa?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Did you sleep?”

  “Surprisingly, yes. I must have needed it. Thanks for handling the lunch rush.”

  “No problem, now the bar is ready for you to receive the post-pausa rush.” Edoardo grinned, and started sweeping up the stray sugar packets on the ground. Something bright glinted among the dust and debris. Edoardo stopped and plucked the gold shape into his palm and held it out to Chiara. “Look at this. Does it look familiar?”

  Chiara took what looked to be some sort of a jewelry charm and studied it. “Hmm, I don’t think so. Does it mean anything? I’ve never seen this shape before.”

  “It looks like a letter, but also not.”

  “A ‘Y’ maybe? With an extra prong in the middle? I haven’t seen it either. The gold is heavy though. Looks valuable. Look, the circle at the top is open. Must have fallen off a chain or something.”

  Chiara smoothed down her hair. “Who was in while I was upstairs? It would have to be one of those customers who lost it, right? Or I would have seen it when I cleaned up before lunch.”

  Edo leaned against the broom while he thought. “Right. Hmm, let’s see. Luciano, but he just barged in and then lumbered out. Looks like he’s in the same state he was yesterday when he busted up Giovanni’s shop. Who else? Giuseppe, Patrizia, Luciano, Magda, Ava, a few tourists—I don’t think they are staying in town—Dante, a couple of vigili, I don’t remember which ones. Oh! And the principal, I can never remember her name.”

  “Rosetta. Of course you don’t remember her name, she’s only lived here for five years.” Chiara smiled.

  “Well, it was after my time,” Edoardo responded airily, assuming a posture of profound exhaustion at the pace of the world.

  Chiara grinned.

  Edo looked down at the trinket still in his palm. “Should I put it in the left-behind box?”

  Chiara shook her head. “It’ll get lost. Put it in the register, someone will come looking for it.”

  Edo nodded and moved around the counter to open the register with a sprightly bing!

  Chiara looked up as a man entered the bar. It was the stranger from, what was it? Yesterday? The day before? Frankly, in a town like Santa Lucia when everything and nothing always seem to be happening in concert, it can be hard to keep track.

  “Buona sera,” she said, taking the gold trinket from Edoardo and dropping it into the register.

  “Buona sera, signora, signore. I see you found something curious?”

  “Nothing, just a trinket somebody dropped.”

  The man’s forehead creased in interest.

  Chiara asked, “What can I get for you?” as she firmly closed the register.

  “Un caffè lungo, per favore.”

  Chiara nodded and began clicking the grinds into the filter basket to prepare the shot of espresso pulled extra slowly to make a fuller cup. The newcomer sat down at the table to wait, nudging the newspaper toward himself.

  Edoardo shot Chiara a confused stare mouthing, “Chi é? Who is he?” Chiara shrugged. Edoardo wiped down the bar, studying the stranger, taking in his light green button down shirt. The jeans were crisp, almost as if they had been ironed, but the leather shoes were scuffed, and one was missing a tassel. The man glanced up and caught Edoardo studying him. Edoardo assiduously rubbed a stubborn spot on the bar.

  Chiara smiled. She placed the cup on the saucer and impulsively decided to walk the coffee to the table, rather than leaving it for him on the counter.

  “Eccolo,” she offered.

  The man looked at her, a little surprised, but a slow grin softened his expression. He looked directly into her eyes and softly said, “Grazie.” At the simple word, Chiara felt her heart lurch to the right.

  “Prego,” she answered, wanting to add something, but not knowing what. She ordered herself to look away, even as she found herself fascinated by the green and gold flecks cavorting in his hazel eyes. There was an expression in them that she couldn’t read. And Chiara was used to reading everyone’s expressions. She was surprised to feel herself beginning to blush.

  Edoardo’s voice asking her where she’d put the ginseng syrup fractured the delicate moment. She blinked and walked to the bar, pointing wordlessly at the bottle hidden behind the new delivery of wine. When she surreptitiously darted her eyes at the man again, he was sipping his coffee and reading the newspaper. Chiara sighed, not sure if she wanted the moment to have been a figment of her imagination, or if she wanted it to be real.

  She washed dishes and hummed sporadically, debating if she could expect enough people to keep Edo at the bar, or if she should release him.

  The door opened, and Dante strode in. “Un caffè, Chiara! And quickly please, sono in fretta, I’m in a hurry.”

  Chiara nodded and said, “Subito, right away.”

  She tapped the grinds flat into the filter basket and slipped it into the La Pavoni. Edoardo asked if Dante wanted anything to eat, but Dante just shook his head, annoyed at the question. Edoardo turned and grinned at Chiara, rolling his eyes a touch.

  Chiara placed the coffee in front of Dante and couldn’t resist asking, “How is Stella?”

  “Stella? She’s fine. Why wouldn’t she be?” Dante narrowed his eyes as he stirred his sugar into his espresso.

  “Just wondering. I haven’t seen her lately.”

  Dante waved the question away. “She’s busy. Last night she had a meeting.”

  “A meeting?”

  “Yes, the women’s bocce league.”

  Chiara was pretty sure there wasn’t a women’s bocce league.

  She straightened the napkins on the bar, deep in thought. When she glanced up, she found the newcomer observing Dante.

  Feeling Chiara’s eyes on him, the man looked at her and smiled, a slow and slightly crooked smile. Again, Chiara felt her heart lurch. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t some schoolgirl. She was a grown woman with a bar to manage, a nephew to worry over, and a town to look after. What were these quivery feelings when there was so much to occupy her? Still. She couldn’t help but be aware of nerve endings she thought had died long ago.

  Darting a glance at him, she noticed the stranger watching her, the smile still playing around his sensitive lips. This time she held his gaze.

  Luciano winced and opened his eyes. His vision was blurry, pained, and he reached for his glasses. His hand stumbled over the coffee table and then he felt his glasses slide into his hand. He looked up into Fatima’s worried, brown eyes.

  “What time is it?” he croaked, then coughed, clearing what felt like a week’s worth of debris out of his throat.

  “I’m not sure. Almost dinner time.”

  “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home?”

  “It’s okay. After Patrizia and I brought you home from the alimentari, I went home and told Mamma you were sick, and she sent me back to you with this bottle of broth. It’s still warm, do you want some?”

  Luciano wasn’t really hungry. It felt like he’d never be hungry again, but he nodded.

  Fatima rose, “Let me get a glass of water for you.”

  Luciano’s thoug
hts pinwheeled, and then he remembered that he couldn’t let Fatima turn on the water, she’d notice, she’d see. But before he could formulate the right words, Fatima was back with a glass. “I brought some water with gas, that always helps me when I don’t feel well.”

  The fizzing and popping of the water made Luciano wince anew, but he endeavored to smile and nod before taking an experimental sip. Fatima handed him a cup of warm broth with unusual spices that reminded him of Christmas. He took tentative taste, surprised at how easily the broth slid into his stomach, gilding his insides. “This is delicious, Fatima. Please thank your mother for me.”

  Her thin face lit up as she sat on the coffee table.

  “Maestro?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I wish you weren’t . . . sick . . . so often.”

  “Allora, Fatima.” He patted her hand and then returned to sipping his broth.

  “I know you are sad.” Fatima said quickly, as if not wanting to lose her nerve. “I know you’re sad and you miss them, but I don’t think they’d want you . . . like this.”

  Luciano looked up at Fatima’s abrupt speech. He sighed and looked down at the dust clotting the lines of his hands. “Sometimes I wonder. I don’t know, Fatima. I simply don’t know how to wake up into a world that doesn’t have them in it.” His speech turned ragged and he choked back a sob.

  Fatima moved next to him and patted his shoulder.

  “I think you do know, Maestro. It’s like you told me about learning Italian. You said I had to trust myself to understand one day and not get tangled into how hard it was. Remember? You said that I had to let the words and the music of the language surround me, and not fight it, but trust that one day the pieces would fall into place. And they did. Remember?”

  Luciano fought back tears.

  Fatima went on, “Maestro, you need to put one foot in front of the other. And you don’t expect perfection, you just expect to move a little. Just a little. Piano, piano.”