Book One of the Santa Lucia Series

by Michelle Damiani

  From anyone else, this might have been welcome news, but Dante knew that Magda’s ideas of what she could do for him always involved some sacrifice on his part. He adjusted his scarf to better cover his throat and a bit of his mouth to avoid the unpleasant airs that often emanated from the German woman. He aimed for a tone of nonchalance, “Oh? What’s on your mind?”

  “The Sagra del Cinghiale. The pipe-laying begins on the piazza, what, next week?” Magda didn’t wait for Dante’s nod, but went on. “And it won’t be completed in time for the festival. I know because I’ve been calling the service authority, and after several rounds of them ignoring my calls or pretending they didn’t understand my accent, I finally spoke with a supervisor who said that they don’t expect to be finished before January. And you know Italians, that means March.”

  Magda snickered knowingly while Dante scowled. She went on, “Anyway, even in the best of circumstances, it means we can’t hold the festival in the piazza.”

  “Yes, I know. My office is looking into other options.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like roasting the cinghiali on Chiara’s terrazza and setting the tables down the street.”

  “Won’t work.”

  “What do you mean it won’t work? You may not be aware of this but towns up and down the Italian peninsula hold their feste in the street.”

  “I know that.” Magda replied, tartly. “I mean roasting the cinghiali at Bar Birbo won’t work. I talked to Chiara and she agreed that there isn’t enough room on the terrazza for the fire and all the people who like to stand around the roast. Plus, the dripping fat would stain the stones of her terrazza, and you know how much of your ‘famous’,” Magda mimed quotes around the word, “olive oil we go through that night, too. It would be a mess. Besides, the smoke would no doubt invade the bar, and her apartment. Getting out the smell of cinghiale is all but impossible.”

  Dante sighed. No doubt Magda had forced this “agreement” for her own ends. His own fault. He should have secured Chiara’s approval earlier. But every time he came in lately she looked at him with a stiff expression on her face, and it did not bode welcoming for favors.

  “And you have an alternative.”

  “I do, as a matter of fact.” Magda took a breath and smiled broadly. “The castello.”

  “The castle?”

  “Yes! Isn’t that perfect?”

  Dante chuckled, “If we could track down the owner and ask permission perhaps.”

  “Oh, pshh,” Magda said with a wave of her hand. “What does that matter?”

  “Quite a bit actually, if we want to stay within the confines of the law.”

  “Dante, how long has it been since anybody has heard anything, I mean anything, about the owners?”

  “Allora, at least thirty years, but—”

  “Esatto! What are the odds that he’ll return to Santa Lucia on that specific weekend?”

  “Low, of course, but still—”

  “Yes! And there’s no place else we can do it! We can’t lose the revenue that the festival brings in. Shops and restaurants make more that weekend than they do the rest of the winter. I myself have had tourists booked in the rental apartment for six months. What do you think will happen if they find out there is no festival?”

  “Maybe I can call the service authority again and ask them to put off the work.”

  “I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve spoken with everyone there. They have already started, they aren’t going to back out now. Especially since they say that now that they’ve exposed the line, it’s in danger of freezing. They either have to bury what they’ve done, or move forward. What do you think they’ll choose?”

  “True,” Dante bit his lip. “There’s the park, I suppose. We could do it there.”

  “What are you, insane? With all those overhanging trees? Hardly the place to build a large enough fire to roast multiple cinghiali, not to mention the fire for cooking the sausages and the one under the pot of cinghiale stew.”

  As much as he hated to admit it, Magda was probably right.

  He ventured, “I’ll consider it.”

  “Good,” Magda grinned broadly.

  “We’d have to get town approval to use the castle.”

  “Once everyone understands that it’s that or no sagra, I’m sure they’ll be on board. No, it’s not ideal, but just from an ownership standpoint. From the perspective of the festival, it is marvelous. The view from up there is top-notch, and having a ruined castle as a backdrop, well, that will be a celebration to remember.” Magda beamed, clasping her hands in front of her heart. The lines of bitterness etched in her face blurred into softness as a stray filigree of light caught the glow in her eyes.

  You must forgive Dante for the step backward he took at this shift in Magda.

  He wondered at the unpleasantness she wore like a cheap sweater. He was tempted to blame it on her husband’s disappearance, in Thailand of all places! But he actually thought she’d mellowed a bit since then. When she first arrived, she’d been thoroughly insufferable. Now she was just a nuisance. But she might very well be the nuisance that saved the sagra.

  Luciano set a cup of camomilla beside Elisa. “Having trouble?”

  “I got a little lost,” Elisa answered, tensing.

  “Do you need help finding your way?”

  Elisa looked up, startled. And then smiled. She should have remembered by now, Luciano didn’t get angry with her when she spaced out in the middle of working or couldn’t remember the next step. This was her first time here without Fatima, and perhaps she felt a little vulnerable without her anchor.

  Elisa shook her head. “No, let me just look at the beginning and see if I can retrace my steps.”

  “That’s right, Elisa. If you can’t, what’s your strategy?”

  “To say it out loud.”

  “Good girl. Your words are your riches. Talk yourself through it to streamline your thinking.”

  Elisa nodded and chewed the end of her pen while she avoided looking at the russet grapevines whispering across the valley. She stared instead at the problem. Whispering under her breath she ran her pen under the words as Maestro had taught her to keep her focused. A light crept into her mind, and the answer gradually illuminated. Suddenly, Elisa cried, “Oh!” and her pen flew across the page. She held the paper out to Maestro with a smile.

  Luciano took the page and nodded as he followed her work. He laughed aloud as he wrote, “10 e lode,” Ten and praise, across the top of the paper. Elisa’s breath caught.

  “Davvero, Maestro?”

  “Davvero. Nicely done. Now you are all ready for class tomorrow.”

  “Grazie, mille grazie!”

  “It is my pleasure, Elisa. You are a smart girl, you merely lack faith in yourself.”

  “That’s because I can’t do anything right.”

  “But Elisa, do you not see? Your brain merely works in a slightly different way. Your teachers at school are too busy, and possibly uninterested, to teach you to how to use your skills. That poor mind of yours has been lying dormant, ready for action. Now look what it can do.”

  Elisa blushed and grinned.

  Luciano went on, “Did you get your paper back yet? The one on The Great Schism?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Elisa ran her fingers over the grooves in the wooden table. She hesitated before saying, “Maestra read it aloud to the class. She told the class my work was well-reasoned and made good connections.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yes, I know you said the same thing, Maestro. But it’s hard to believe it. And besides, you helped me with that paper.”

  “Just in organizing, Elisa. The ideas were all yours. Next time, you will require even less of my help. Soon you will fly.”

  Elisa took a sip of her tea to hide her
embarrassment.

  Luciano said, “Okay! And now it is my turn.”

  “Your turn for what?”

  “I want you to teach me.”

  Elisa sputtered. “Teach you what?”

  “Art.”

  “Art? What do you mean?”

  “Elisa,” Luciano continued, gently, “I’ve seen your drawings. On the backs of your schoolwork, and on the sides of your papers when you are thinking. You’ve been hiding a gift from me, and it’s time you share it.”

  “What? My doodles? My doodles are nothing special. My art teacher says I’m terrible.”

  “Isn’t your art teacher the same as your math teacher?”

  “Yes.”

  “And haven’t we already established that perhaps he isn’t particularly suited to seeing your strengths?”

  “He’s strict, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Allora, Elisa. He’s not simply strict. He completely misses your abilities and lacks the skills to bring them forward. From what I’ve seen, your drawings are unusual and I can see that he would dismiss them. But to me they seem unusual in a way that indicates talent and a mind freed from conventional norms and ideas.”

  Elisa furrowed her brow in concentration before asking, “What?”

  “I’m sorry, I was thinking aloud. He’s wrong, Elisa. I know this. Here, show me a drawing.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I . . . I can’t, Maestro.”

  “But why ever not?”

  Elisa hung her head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Can we just do math?”

  “Absolutely. But I would like to understand this resistance.”

  Elisa said nothing.

  “Elisa?” Luciano ached at how the child cringed at the sound of her name.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Elisa, this isn’t a test and you aren’t in trouble.”

  “But you are angry with me.”

  “Do I look angry with you?”

  Elisa hesitated before looking up into her teacher’s warm eyes. “No.”

  “Elisa, you don’t have to show me your drawings. Of course you don’t. But I want you to remember one thing. I’m your friend. And I’m asking to see your drawings because I think they are important to you, and thus, they are important to me. I hope one day you’ll feel comfortable enough with me, to trust me enough to share them.”

  Elisa blinked, unsure of what to say. “You won’t laugh?”

  “Not for the wide world.”

  “Okay. Maybe I can show you one today. If you promise not to laugh.”

  “No promise has been so easily granted.”

  “Which one?”

  “No matter, any from that stack of papers from your backpack. I see Fatima has not succeeded in getting you to keep your papers organized.”

  “It’s Friday! I do well at the beginning of the week, and then . . .”

  “Perfectly understandable. Once in a while I enjoy taking the liberty of teasing a bit. Ah, here we are.” Luciano sat back as Elisa pulled out her geography worksheet and flipped it over to reveal the back.

  In sure strokes, Elisa had drawn a bird flying high over terraced olive groves. With delicate and meticulous crosshatching, Elisa had suggested that the bird’s shadow darkened roughly half the trees. Luciano’s heartbeat quickened as his eyes raked over the drawing. He murmured, “Look at how alive, how vital, your olive trees are. With just variations in how you cluster lines, you’ve somehow managed to suggest the contorted quality of ancient trunks, and you’ve used the darkness as a foil to illuminate the olive leaves out of reach of the bird’s shadow, while suggesting that the leaves themselves embody both darkness on one side, and light on the other. All at once your drawing celebrates contrasts—dark and light, rigid and flexible, mourning and joy.” He brought the drawing closer to his eyes and then held it at arm’s length.

  Elisa peered over Luciano’s shoulder and appraised the drawing with eyes squinted in effort. “But it doesn’t look like a real olive grove, or a real bird, or even a real shadow. Shadows aren’t that big.”

  “Exactly, Elisa. It is not a realist drawing, it’s surrealist. Do you know that what means?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a style of art that moves beyond the real to express the world in distorted and discordant ways.”

  “I don’t understand.” But she did. Or at least, she was beginning to. She had considered this drawing garbage because it failed to accurately represent what she saw. But the drawing of it had pleased her. Every crosshatch calmed her as she filled the paper, because it captured the slightly askew way she saw the world.

  “I think you do. Elisa, I don’t want to praise you, because I know that makes you uncomfortable. You have had far too little acknowledgment in your life, but I have to tell you—this drawing flirts with brilliance.”

  Isotta was surprised by how much more comfortable she felt rounding up the mountain to Santa Lucia this time. Maybe because she knew what to expect. Also, the last time she made this trip, she didn’t know that Massimo was gearing up to introduce her to his daughter. She had very likely picked up on his secrecy. Or maybe her new increased comfort was due to the ring on her finger. A ring he’d given her in front of her family, who had been utterly charmed by him. Indeed her sisters had cast her sidelong glances and made remarks under their breath about how she must be a wildcat in bed to have landed a man like Massimo. The fact that he had been married before, that he had a daughter, paled next to his insistence on setting the table, his speaking knowledgeably on the euro crisis, and his asking protective questions about her sisters’ boyfriends. Charmed was probably not a strong enough word.

  In any case, with all the secrets out, Isotta felt, for the first time, at ease. Not completely, she wouldn’t lie to herself. But truly, she couldn’t imagine ever being completely relaxed around Massimo. He set her insides fluttering in a way that didn’t feel entirely safe. In fact, it sometimes seemed almost dangerous. And thrilling. Her skin was constantly alert for the brush of his fingers. Her soul was ever hungering for a soft word. Wasn’t that titillating feeling the stuff of romance? Didn’t she want the opposite of her parent’s marriage, the way her mother bossed Isotta’s father around, nagging him incessantly about his ragged bedroom slippers? That wasn’t romance.

  So no, she wasn’t completely relaxed, as she peeped over at Massimo’s eyes trained to the road. There was a slight trill of danger. But rather than be scared of that, now she relished it, as part of a relationship that she couldn’t believe she was lucky enough to have.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” she said, breaking the silence. Massimo gave her a slight glance and raised his eyebrows above the rims of his sunglasses before turning his attention back to the hairpin turn ahead of him. Isotta gestured out to the undulating hills all around them, Santa Lucia sitting above like a crown. Or a like a queen. Indeed, the town pulsated with a rather human emotion. Maybe it was that afternoon light that seemed effervescent when tossed about in the arms of the olive branches, and heavy when bent under the evergreens.

  Massimo said nothing.

  The tires of the Fiat screeched as they turned into the parking lot, rending the quiet of a sleepy Saturday afternoon. Remembering her last visit, Isotta took her time gathering her sunglasses and purse, smiling in anticipation of Massimo’s opening her door and holding out his hand. But even after she gathered all of her belongings, the door remained closed. She peered out from lowered lashes, and realized he was standing outside the driver side door, his back to her. She gingerly opened her door and stepped out. He glanced over, “Ready?”

  He began walking.

  “Massimo?”

  “Sì.”

  “Is anything wrong? You’re not . . . you’re not saying much.”

  “Why sho
uld anything be wrong?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Okay. I . . . I’m sorry.”

  Massimo said nothing, and Isotta jogged to keep up with his long stride.

  Desperate to fill a silence that was rapidly passing awkward, she began chattering about her assistant at the bank.

  He cut her off. “That won’t matter for much longer.”

  “Oh! Wait. What? Why won’t it matter?”

  “C’mon, it’s not like you’ll have that assistant a month from now.”

  “Why? Is she moving branches? How could you know that and I wouldn’t know that?” Isotta frowned, her right eyebrow tilting downward. “Though come to think of it, that does explain why she’s so scattered in scheduling my December meetings. I suppose she doesn’t feel like she has a stake in them.”

  Massimo snorted, “No, that’s not it. How would I know if your assistant is transferring, and indeed, why should I care?”

  “Oh. I don’t know. Then what do you mean?”

  “Please, Isotta. Don’t be dense. It’s not like you’ll be working there in two weeks.”

  “I won’t? Why won’t I?”

  Massimo stopped and faced her, drawing his sunglasses to rest on his head so that he could study her face. He gentled his voice as if speaking to a child, “Because you’re quitting when we get married. Don’t tell me you haven’t yet given your notice? That’s hardly professional.”

  “I’m quitting? Why am I quitting? I hadn’t planned on quitting.”

  “You really plan to commute across Umbria on a daily basis?”

  “Well, no, of course not, but I thought I’d transfer to your branch. I’ve already talked to my boss, I mean I know it’ll mean a demotion . . .”

  Massimo shoved his hands in his pockets and glared down at Isotta. Her heart chilled. He frowned and said, “That was presumptuous.”

  “I . . . I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

  Massimo rubbed his forehead and tipped his head back as if to gain sustenance from the sky.