“A dopo!” he called, dashing out into the darkness.
Massimo softly closed Margherita’s bedroom door. He whispered to Isotta, “She’s asleep. Let’s go to dinner.”
“But what if she needs you while you’re gone?”
“She knows to get her grandmother in the night. It has always been this way. Well, at least since . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Oh, I’m sorry Massimo. I didn’t mean to . . .”
Massimo shook his head and replaced his surly expression with a light one. “No matter. Shall we?” He crooked his arm toward her and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Isotta laughed and took his arm. She was glad that his wife’s memory caused not more than a blip in his mood.
They bid Anna, who was watching TV while her dinner reheated in the oven, goodnight.
As they closed the door, Isotta asked, “Does she mind that I’m staying here? Before we’re married, I mean?” She felt her cheeks warm a bit at the word “married.” She could hardly believe this was serious. Not a pretend wedding like she and her sisters staged as children.
“Of course not. Why would she?”
“I don’t know. If we did this at my parents’ house, they’d need to debate whether to first kill me or disown me.” Massimo squeezed Isotta’s hand. She continued, “Which is strange, now that I think about it. It’s not like they think my sisters are chaste. All of them have had . . . have had . . .” Her voice trailed, shyly.
Massimo offered Isotta his broad grin, the one that jellied her legs, “If you can do it, you should be able to say it, darling.”
Isotta nodded. “Sex,” she whispered. “They’ve had sex,” she added, more strongly. The words rang out between the stones of the ancient buildings, ricocheting until they landed into the alley where a group of old women were seated, each with a bowl of greens in her lap. The women cackled merrily at the unexpected plop of ribaldry. They ducked their heads together as they continued sorting their leaves into piles for salad, piles for frittata, and a wilted pile for Bea’s chickens.
Massimo’s laugh boomed over the top of her embarrassment. He pulled Isotta to him and hugged her with one arm as he directed her steps to the piazza.
“I’m sorry for laughing, cara mia. You were saying?”
Isotta, warm with Massimo’s arm wrapped around her, said, “Well, you know. They are all active. That way. Our parents must know. My sisters’ excuses border on the ridiculous. Who spends all night cleaning the train station as a public service? Sometimes I think my sisters vie for who can tell the most outlandish story to explain their absence. But my parents just turn a blind eye and pretend they are raising virgins.”
Massimo thought about this. “I suppose it’s a parent’s prerogative to ignore what can’t be helped and would only aggravate.”
They walked for a few moments in silence.
Then Massimo continued, “Soon you won’t have to worry about your parents’ displeasure, Isotta. I promise to make an honest woman out of you. And which of your sisters can say that? Now look, see here? That is the macelleria, where Giuseppe the butcher cuts the most perfect pork chop and has a secret for making chicken sausages more flavorful than you can imagine.”
Isotta peered into the window, still lit against the gathering darkness. “It’s so busy!”
“Yes, the population of Santa Lucia may not break a thousand people, but since this is the only butcher shop, and thank the Madonna Giuseppe doesn’t take advantage of this as he might, everyone comes here. You will too.”
Isotta tried to imagine standing with these locals, leaning over the counter to chat with the butcher about how the beef was raised. She was struck with gratitude that she knew how to cook. Her mother’s fascination with dressing up her more beautiful daughters and parading them down the banks of the Arno had left her little time for cookery. Through trial and error and the internet, and watching her grandmother who lived in the countryside outside of Greve in Chianti, Isotta had learned to roll pasta, simmer a ragù, and pound a pesto. It wasn’t fancy, but it was serviceable enough for her family. She shivered at the thought that she’d be cooking for a new family soon.
Smitten as she was, it didn’t occur to her to wonder about Anna’s proprietary control over her domain. Those further removed from Massimo’s magnetic smile will more easily guess the truth—Isotta would never cook in that kitchen.
“Now, over here,” Massimo continued, breaking her reverie, “is the forno. It has been in this spot since before my family arrived in Santa Lucia in the late 1800’s. The cornetti are not quite sweet enough for me, so I get plain ones and fill them with my mother’s jam. My mother’s jam is simply the best.”
Isotta smiled at how boyish Massimo sounded, praising his mother’s cooking. “I’m sure it is, if her torta is any indication.”
Massimo kissed her hand, still wrapped in his own. “Her secret is that she always knows what’s missing. Always.” He leaned down to brush his lips over Isotta’s, before tugging her forward, down the street.
Isotta found his enthusiasm infectious, a change from his usual imposing air. “And here on the left is Bar Birbo. Aspetta, let’s go through. I must show you the falls.”
She followed him, laughing, until she caught sight of the Madonna in her azure niche. Isotta stopped, her hand slipping from Massimo’s to step closer to the glowing figure. Florence had instilled an appreciation for religious iconography, but this Madonna invited observation for more than artistic reasons. There was an expression of consummate adoration and tender compassion on Mary’s face.
Long ago, Isotta had lost her childhood upswell of warmth at the sight of Mary, the mother of God. The Madonna had become more of an intellectual figure, to compare the talent of artists and the depth of art historians. But this Mary . . . Perhaps she lacked the sophistication of her later Renaissance cousins, but she utterly captured the purity, the simplicity of Mary’s love. Her love for her son and her love for the world. Her hands reached out in gentle blessing, and Isotta wanted to answer the unspoken call, to touch the ethereal figure, but Massimo pulled her hand. Isotta cast one last glance at the Madonna before allowing herself to be catapulted into the bar. Immediately, the burble of voices stalled.
Massimo called out, “Chiara! Edoardo! I’m just going to show her the falls!”
Chiara was startled out of pouring a glass of wine for a man with a burgundy velvet smoking jacket. The man was paused mid-gesture. Isotta noticed Chiara’s eyes widen as she took a step back, bumping into a thin young man, who must be Edoardo, behind her. The younger man didn’t react to the contact. He was standing stock still, staring.
Isotta squeezed Massimo’s hand in confusion, but he was focused on striding out the back door and ignored her mute entreaty. Once outside, he drew her to the end of the terrazza, where there was a clear view to the falls.
“Isn’t it beautiful? Its hard to appreciate its full impact at night, of course, but the lights they have inset between the boulders allow you to get a sense of the falls at least.”
Isotta was momentarily distracted from the scene at the bar by the enchanting play of light over the dancing water, the music made by eddies tapping and rustling around the rocks. The water sprang free about 20 meters below them into a free-fall down to the bottom of the mountain. She inhaled the scent of the water, like a frozen forest floor. She felt Massimo wrap his arms around her, his chin on the crown of her head. “Beautiful isn’t it?”
“Sì,” Isotta sighed. She relaxed against Massimo’s chest and breathed in both the light and the airy play of the water cascading where it was loosed from spaces in the stones at the level of Bar Birbo, and the crashing power of the falls as they struck shelves of boulders on their rush down the mountain. After a few moments of companionable silence, Isotta whispered, “Massimo?”
“Hmm?”
“When we walked into the bar, the people
looked . . . surprised.”
“They did?”
“Sì. Why would that be?”
Massimo thought for a moment. “I guess they aren’t used to seeing me with anyone. They probably thought I’d be single forever. I know I did. Until I met you.” Gently, Massimo turned Isotta until she faced him. He lifted her chin up and leaned to press his full lips against hers. He whispered again, “Until I met you.”
October
“Your teacher called.”
Elisa froze at the sound of Concetta’s voice from the kitchen. Her mother was rarely up when she got home from school. But there she was, sitting at the table. A stream of smoke sailed toward the dusty light fixture. Elisa suddenly noticed that only one of the four bulbs was giving light. The rest were dull, without even the memory of warmth.
“Elisa!”
“Sì, Mamma?”
“I said your teacher called.”
“Which one?”
Her mother snorted. “You expect me to remember the names of your teachers? The man, the math teacher.”
“Oh.”
“Oh? Is that all you can say? Oh?” Her mother stood and moved toward her. Elisa backed away. “Where are you going? You stay right here! Sit down!”
Elisa scuttled around her mother to the kitchen chair and dropped into it, hugging her backpack to her chest. Her head dropped to the heavy nylon that still smelled a little musty from the last rain.
“Your teacher says you are failing. Failing! Do you know what your father will do if he finds out? What am I supposed to do?” Her mother’s voice quavered and she dropped into the seat across from Elisa. “What am I supposed to do? He’ll blame me.”
Elisa’s voice was tight, “I’m trying, Mamma. I really am. I just can’t . . .”
Her mother’s voice hardened again. “So this is my fault?”
“What? No!”
“You are trying and failing, so it must be that I’m not providing enough ‘parental support’?”
“What do you mean?”
“Because that’s what your teacher said, Elisa. That I should be looking over your shoulder. Double checking your work. Apparently you are making too much work for him, and so I’m supposed to pick up his slack? Believe me, Elisa, your brothers’ teachers never told me I had to provide more ‘parental support’. So this is not my fault!”
“No, of course it’s not. I . . . I can’t make my brain work right.”
“Oh, I see. And that’s my fault too, is it? Well, I can tell you, Elisa, your waste of a brain didn’t come from me—”
“No! I didn’t mean, I didn’t . . .”
Elisa’s mother leaned forward. “Well, you better figure it out. I don’t have time to coddle you like a two year old.”
Elisa quickly wondered if her mother ever coddled her when she was two. She did have a dim memory of spooning tomatoes on bruschetta to the sound of her mother’s singing. Did she make this up? See it in a movie? Or did that happen? She blinked hard, trying to focus.
“I will, Mamma. I’ll do better.”
“You better. Because if your report card comes and you fail a class, your father . . .” Once again, her voice shook.
Elisa reached for her mother’s hand. “I know. I will. I promise.”
Isotta gripped the phone. Finally!
She hesitated, and then typed:
Isotta swallowed her sigh of relief.
Isotta briefly wondered if she should call him instead. His tone was so hard to read. But then her sisters would hear her, and it would draw attention to the fact that she was locked in the closet.
Isotta paused, thinking.
When Massimo didn’t respond, Isotta added
Isotta tried not to read an edge of threat into Massimo’s words:
Isotta’s fingers slipped as she tried to explain:
Isotta drew in a shaking breath. No dots from Massimo, so she went on:
A pause.
Isotta tapped her fingers on her teeth and exhaled as the three rolling circles indicated Massimo typing his response:
Isotta waited, without what? Without what?
Massimo typed again:
Isotta typed before she could talk herself out of it:
Isotta, her daring increasing, typed:
A pause.
A longer pause.
Something about this seemed wrong to Isotta. She typed dully:
“Zia? Can you hear me?”
Chiara clutched the phone with both hands and turned from the bar. “Edo? What is it? Where are you? I thought you would be home hours ago.”
“I . . . there’s been an, an accident.” Edo’s voice was slurred, but careful. “I don’t know what happened. Can you get me?”
Breathless, Chiara asked, “Where are you?”
Silence.
“Edo? Edo? Are you there?” Chiara was having a hard time containing the panic in her voice so that it didn’t spill out over the bar.
A crackle and then, “Yeah, sorry, I was looking at the signs. I’m close to . . . I think the Autogrill outside of Terni?”
“Why is your voice so strange?”
“Zia? Please, just come get me? Before the cops do?”
“I’m on my way.”
Magda propelled her guest by the arm as townspeople hugged the side of the street, avoiding eye contact. She stopped outside the alimentari and gestured toward the cinghiali heads perched on either side of the doorway, like porcine gaslights. “Now this is our famous grocery store. It’s the best in the region. Truly, people come from Rome just to shop here!”
At the tourist’s incredulous expression, Magda went on, “It’s true! There are special salumi here that you just can’t find anywhere else, even Norcia. Giovanni, the owner, goes to little farms to get the very best, most particular kinds of foods. My guests always tell me this is their favorite shop in all of Umbria. Maybe all of Italy!”
The tourist peeked her head into the darkened shop. It didn’t look like much. It’s true that the shop is a bit on the underwhelming side at first blush, but those who take their time to root through the crowded shelves are amply rewarded by finds almost deserving of Magda’s hyperbole.
Before the tourist could discover for herself the gems tucked alongside the oil-packed tuna, she was pulled out by Magda who had likewise grabbed the arm of a man walking by in an apron. “Oh! Now this is Giuseppe! We call Giuseppe the mayor of Santa Lucia! He’s not the mayor, of course. The mayor is too busy to talk to the people who live and pay taxes in this community. Giuseppe is the butcher. The best in Umbria or Le Marche.”
Giuseppe offered a watery smile and nodded at the tourist, who nodded faintly back. To which Giuseppe grinned more broadly.
“It’s true! People are always sending me postcards from around the world to tell me how much they love Giuseppe’s pork stuffed with sausage, mortadella, and cheese. It’s one of the advantages of renting my apartment, you get to cook with all of our famous local specialties. It is too bad you won’t be here for the sagra next month.” Magda pursed her lips as she launched into her contribution to the tourist’s education. “Sagra means sacred, you see, so ours is a sacred festival celebrating wild boar. You won’t have had boar, of course, as Germans have such limited palates. At the sagra, Giuseppe will roast many cinghiali, plus oversee the making of a stew that is famous throughout this region. You should come back! Better yet, you can write about it on the internet.”
Giuseppe gently removed his arm from Magda’s grip, murmuring that he needed to pick up arugula and get back to the shop.
“Okay, ciao, Giuseppe! Ciao! Salutami a Patrizia, send my greetings to your wife!” Magda turned back to the tourist and added with a chuckle, “His wife is very adorable. I don’t get to see them as much as I’d like because, you know, I’m always so busy, but whenever I do, s
he tells me about how grateful she is for all the business I bring to Santa Lucia and to their shop. She sometimes works in the shop, of course, but she’s often gone visiting her daughter. Her daughter’s son is retarded or something. I can’t remember.”
The tourist flinched at the word. Magda shot a worried glance at her and asked, “Wait, am I speaking Italian or German? Sometimes I can’t tell anymore.”
“Italian, but that’s fine, I studied in Italy and my sister married an Italian.”
“She did! From where?”
“From Bologna.”
“Ach. Terrible city. So much traffic. Do your sister and her husband live there?”
“She does. They’re not married anymore.”
“Then why doesn’t she go back to Germany? Your family is from Berlin, isn’t that what your documentation said? That’s a rather grim city, but it has plenty of attractions for a young divorcée.”
The tourist pulled her arm away from Magda and wrinkled her nose at a sudden foul odor. She began walking back to the apartment, muttering that she wanted to get her camera.
Magda followed. “Well? Why is she still here?”
“If you must know, they had a son, and the court won’t let her take him out of Italy, so she’s stuck here.”
Magda’s face went white. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Well, there’s nothing to be done.”
“Do you need the name of a lawyer? I know several famous ones in both Italy and Germany that owe me favors.”
“No, but thank you.” The tourist gave Magda a more genuine smile. But kept walking.
Book One of the Santa Lucia Series Page 12