Book One of the Santa Lucia Series

by Michelle Damiani

  “Massimo, I’m sorry, but . . . why shouldn’t I work here?”

  “Are you serious? Can you imagine the speculation if you worked? The gossip about how I can’t support my wife? Besides, how can you be Margherita’s mother if you are gone eight hours a day?”

  Isotta bit her lip. “I hadn’t considered that.”

  “Isotta . . . you are going to have to start thinking like a mother.”

  “But, I’m not her mother, Massimo.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Luciano pulled his rolling cart up the street. It was heavy, not with bottles of wine, but with cans of tomatoes and packages of yogurt and pasta and a few links of Giuseppe’s chicken salsiccia. He found himself looking forward to eating a Saturday dinner he took time to prepare. It felt good to hunger for something, and feel capable of providing it for himself. He waved at Edo serving coffee to Patrizia, while Chiara stood beside her friend. Edo grinned, and, waving, called out, “Ciao! Maestro!”

  Luciano smiled. He knew what Edo must have thought about him, what they all thought about him. That he was a drunk, an embarrassment to the town. It was a point of pride among his countrymen that they never became the gibbering drunks they saw in so many American films. That shame and ridicule at his fall into drink, none of it had touched him. There had been an ocean of pain between him and the rest of the world and everything that mattered to him lay within that ocean.

  Well, almost everything. Once in awhile something had seemed to glide over the vastness into his heart. Like Fatima. Her uncomplicated trust and curiosity somehow reminded him of who he was even when the wine obliterated everything else. Many times the thought of Fatima’s expression if she saw him stumbling in the street kept him from reaching for the bottle until past dark. Some of those days he saw her, and some of those days he didn’t. But the times when he resisted the siren call of the wine and then saw her, and they shared a few moments of gentle conversation, those times made it easier and easier to wait longer and longer periods before popping open a bottle. Once it was popped, he would leave it dry. That was a surety.

  Now there was also Elisa. His heart moved in pain. She was a quicksilver—sometimes her eyes were wide and earnest as she followed his pencil scribing formulas. Sometimes they were shuttered. He knew from teaching children for more than thirty years that skittishness was often a sign of trauma. Probably constant trauma.

  He heard a car squeal into the parking lot at the edge of town, just past his house. He chuckled. Teenagers. Always in a hurry. They’d pass him in a few moments, shoving each other while making sure their hair remained meticulously styled. Unless they were headed into the groves for a spot of unsupervised fun. He hoped they avoided his plot. He hated finding the leavings of revelry in the form of trampled grass and crippled boughs.

  His thoughts drifted back to Elisa. Whenever he saw her now, his eyes scanned her limbs for bruises. He never found any. Whoever was hurting the child was either calculated in the injury or left internal scars. Probably the latter. From talking to Elisa, it was clear that she saw herself as stupid. But she wasn’t. Math wasn’t her gift, but she made leaps of logic and connection when he spoke of the Via Flaminia that were advanced for a child much older than herself. Plus, there was her artistic talent. He wondered how to get her to trust him enough to let him keep one of her sketches. He wanted to show it to old friends who worked at a gallery in Spoleto. Of course, that would necessitate calling people he hadn’t spoken to in more than a year. But he was sure to get his phone turned back on within a month or so, and the thought of dialing now caused no more than a ripple of discomfort.

  Lost in his thoughts, he was brought up short by shadows coming toward him. Probably those teenagers. He squinted into the streaming light and realized that two people were approaching in a more reserved fashion than adolescents prone to careening and swaggering. He moved to the side of the street to allow the couple to pass unimpeded.

  As they came nearer, they were no longer silhouetted. He realized it was Massimo. Massimo with Giulia.

  His breath caught. It was Giulia! It was! His girl! With her head glowing like an angel!

  His hand went to his heart and then tentatively reached for the apparition.

  But as she neared, he realized it wasn’t his daughter. Of course not, only a foolish old man would imagine it. This woman was blond, hence the crown of light he confused with a halo. And her features were watery, only her luminous eyes stood out from her plain face. Not Giulia. Who was she?

  Her eyes met his as she passed him. He stepped back further, aghast. No, she wasn’t his beloved, but what was this faded copy of his daughter doing with Massimo? Their gaze broke, and he heard the woman murmur a question to Massimo, who responded, his voices ringing clearly through the dissolving sunshine, “Don’t mind him. Just the town drunk.”

  Elisa shifted restlessly at the rickety table in her room. She was supposed to be doing her math homework. Not what was assigned for Monday—that she had already completed with Maestro. These were extra problems, written out in Luciano’s precise plumed handwriting. When he pulled out the sheet, she had shuddered, but grew easier when Luciano assured her that she knew how to work each problem, and the extra practice at home would be like armor going into the next week’s lessons.

  Now she smiled to see large boxes of whitespace where Maestro had noted that she was to doodle something for him. A quick glance at the problems comforted her too. Not only were they manageable after Maestro’s lesson, but included questions about how to divide cookies. The work came more fluidly than she could ever remember.

  Then her father came home.

  She tensed when she heard the door slam and the tight sound of something small crashing in the kitchen. Her hands flew to her ears, but then she couldn’t write, which left her mind too free to imagine what was happening outside her door. She tried covering only one ear so she could still write, or even filling in the doodle box with her other hand, but she couldn’t focus enough to work the fractions and the drawing that had begun as a dancing pomegranate tree was quickly crosshatched into unrecognizability. Her pen tore a hole in the paper, and she startled and threw the pen across the room. It’s a shame, it would have been a lovely drawing.

  Her older brother, Guido, popped his head into her room. “We’re going to the park, do you want to come?”

  Elisa leapt up, “Yes!”

  The three children slid past their parents’ bedroom door, out of which they heard the too familiar sounds of barking insults, and the sickening sound of skin being struck. Grabbing their coats from the pole by the door, they quietly opened the door and stepped into the brisk evening air.

  Guido closed the door behind them. The shouts muted. He put his hand against the door and muttered, “I hate leaving her like this.”

  Matteo answered, “You say that every time.”

  Guido sighed while Elisa turned her gaze to follow this conversation, the first time she’d been allowed in. “I mean it every time.”

  Matteo started walking down the road. “Bastard. He clearly hates her. Why doesn’t he go? For good?”

  Guido nodded curtly and said nothing.

  Elisa ventured, her hands shoved deep into her pocket, “But . . . I don’t understand.”

  Matteo rolled his eyes, “Well, that’s a surprise.”

  Guido shoved Matteo’s shoulder, “Hey, c’mon. Don’t take it out on her.”

  “Please. She never knows what’s going on. She’s in her own world, like, all the time. You know how ridiculous she is, she—”

  Elisa’s hands flung up to cover her ears. “Shut up! Just shut the hell up!”

  Matteo stopped and stared at his sister. “What?”

  Elisa forced herself to pull her arms back down. “I thought you finally included me because you care about me, but you don’t! I don’t belong in that house. I don’t belong anywhere
! Just leave me alone!”

  She stormed down the street, away from the park, desperately hoping the tears wouldn’t break before she got out of hearing range.

  Matteo’s voice softened and he ran to catch his sister. “Hey, I’m sorry, Elisa. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Elisa pulled away. “Leave me alone! You sound just like them.”

  Guido nodded, “She’s right, Matteo. They are always on her. Is it any wonder she’s dreamy?” He put his arm around his sister, “I bet the world in your head is better than the one you wake up to each day.”

  Elisa looked up at her brother, stunned. She nodded.

  Guido went on, “We were so busy trying to protect Mamma, we sort of forgot about protecting you.”

  Matteo bit his lip and added, “Okay, okay. That wasn’t fair, Elisa. At all. I am sorry, really sorry. I didn’t realize I was talking like Papà. He doesn’t see us at all.”

  Elisa’s words escaped her before she could pull them back, “He sees you plenty. Both of you.”

  Guido and Matteo looked at each other. Guido hesitated before saying, “Yes, that’s true. At least he sees our grades and how many goals we save or score.”

  Matteo thought for a moment. “Why is he so hard on Elisa?”

  Guido shrugged. “Maybe he just doesn’t like women. I mean, he’s horrible to Mamma, right?”

  Elisa whispered, “He told me I was a mistake.”

  Guido’s head whipped toward her. “What?”

  “Once, when he was yelling at me because I failed a test and he had to sign it. He said I was a mistake.”

  Matteo asked, “You must have misunderstood.”

  Silence.

  Matteo said, “I’m sorry. Of course you didn’t misunderstand.”

  Guido wondered aloud, “What a strange thing to say.”

  Elisa just sighed. “Well, it’s probably true. I’m so much younger than you two. Mamma got upset and tried to shush him, but you know how he is when she tries to step in.”

  Matteo hugged his sister and asked, “What are we going to do?”

  Guido sighed. “I don’t know. It’s not like any of us have an instruction manual to tell us how to fix this toaster. All I know is that we can’t let Elisa bear the brunt of our father’s cruelty and our mother’s fear anymore. That ends now.”

  As Chiara caught the last of the sugar granules scattered across the bar with her damp towel, she spotted Stella outside, talking to Vale. Again. Chiara wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, or if Stella’s hand bumped against Vale’s side a bit more often than strictly necessary, even with the uneven terrain of the ancient cobblestones to discombobulate a walker. Certainly Vale’s hand lingered a little long on Stella’s arm or back as he reached to steady her. As Chiara watched, Stella smiled up into Vale’s face. No, this was not her imagination. Stella’s expression was awestruck, rapt, full of wonder. Not the way one looks at one’s handyman, no matter what plumbing or electric service he’s sorted. And Vale was looking at Stella in a way that Dante never did.

  Chiara bit her lip. Part of her was relieved to see her oldest friend’s face rinsed of the aggrieved lines that had taken up shop around her eyes. But more of her was worried. The mayor’s wife couldn’t play around. Shenanigans would be too easily spotted. Especially in a town as small as Santa Lucia. True, the children were grown and safe from the mud that would no doubt be splattered if Stella wasn’t more careful. But Chiara knew that being the subject of waggling tongues would kill Stella. She was already self-conscious of her position and her weight.

  Though now, as Stella spoke earnestly to Vale while he steadily regarded her, Chiara could see that the weight settled around her friend differently. Rather than being an anchor of heaviness, it seemed a conduit to glow in a round, luscious sort of way. Certainly, Vale’s eyes moved appreciatively from Stella’s animated face to the curves moving intriguingly under her dress.

  As Chiara watched, Vale plucked a loose strand of hair from the front of Stella’s dress, his fingers brushing and lingering for a scant moment before he twined the hair in his fingers and tucked it into his breast pocket. Stella laughed and placed her hand on Vale’s chest. Playfully, Chiara thought, but also familiarly. The two ducked their heads in conference for a moment before they straightened and adopted a pose of nonchalance. They kissed each other’s cheeks perfunctorily, then separated with just the barest suggestion of lingering hands. Vale called out “Ciao!” and then walked away, catching Chiara’s eye to wave before sauntering to the piazza.

  Stella walked into the bar. She noted Chiara considering her before hurriedly moving to make coffee. Stella swallowed and said good morning with determined cheerfulness. Chiara knew her “buongiorno” was on the muted side.

  Silence.

  Chiara cleared her throat and asked, “Un caffè o un cappuccino stamattina?”

  “I don’t know, Chiara. If you are going to be strange, I’ll just have un caffè. But if you’ll be normal, then I’d like to have un cappuccino and talk. It’s been awhile.”

  “I’m sorry, Stella. I was just caught off guard. I’ll make your cappuccino. I’d like to catch up.”

  Stella scraped her top lip against her bottom teeth and thought for a minute. Finally she said, “How’s Edo?”

  “Okay, I think. He’s not going out anymore. Well, he goes out, but just to run or bike. So he looks healthy, getting a lot of exercise and fresh air, which makes him eat more. You know I like that. But I don’t know . . . he still looks like he’s about to cave in on himself.” Chiara set the cappuccino in front of Stella.

  Stella reached for a sugar packet, “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Something is troubling him. He seems like a fruit with a small bruise, and that bruise is darkening and spreading. I’m probably making too much of it. But before when he was partying, he at least had some joy. He’s really quiet.”

  Stella stirred her coffee thoughtfully. “Strange that he won’t talk to you.”

  “That part doesn’t surprise me. He never really talks to anybody. I think he used to talk to Luciano, before Luciano went off the rails.”

  “Oh! That reminds me. Have you seen Luciano lately? He was looking sober for awhile, but now he’s as deep as he’s ever been.”

  Chiara nodded. “I know. I think he saw Isotta, Massimo’s fiancée. Earlier this week I saw him leave the macelleria looking normal. Then a few minutes later, I saw Massimo with Isotta. It stopped my heart, I can only imagine what it did to Luciano. They must have passed in the street.”

  “That situation is so weird. Do you think the girl knows?”

  “That she’s a dead woman’s doppelgänger? I doubt it.”

  Stella sipped her coffee while Chiara emptied the tiny dishwasher.

  “Stella?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You know I love you.”

  “Yes, of course. I love you, too.”

  “So, please hear this in the right spirit. Be careful.”

  Stella furrowed her brow. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Just that. Be careful.”

  Luciano stumbled toward the door. The rapping was like a knife digging into the area behind his eyes. He had to make the rapping stop. He flung open the door.

  In front of him were two strange little people. Not so little, maybe. And no, they weren’t strangers. An insistent voice within him assured him that they were his friends. Sources of happiness. But how could sources of happiness make such a racket and cause him so much pain?

  “What?” he bellowed at them, and tried to ignore the twisting of his heart as the fairer girl cringed. The darker one—why couldn’t he remember her name?—reached for the other one’s hand to stay her.

  That same one murmured, “Maestro? It’s Fatima. Remember? And here is Elisa. We were supposed to come today. Elisa finally ag
reed to show us her whole collection of drawings.” Fatima peered around Luciano into the dimness of the house. She could see chairs tumbled over and papers scattered across the floor. A photograph that usually had pride of place in the entryway was smashed against the corner.

  Luciano muttered incomprehensibly.

  Elisa pleaded, “Fatima, let’s go. Maestro isn’t . . . well.”

  Fatima reached a hand to touch Luciano’s arm. He flinched and made a low growling sound in his throat. She withdrew her hand but took a small step toward him to whisper, her voice settling into a receptive part of his brain, quiet and soothing like a cat’s purr. Come to think of it, where was his cat? He wasn’t sure he had seen it. A dim memory of an angry moment. Did he swipe at Degas? Throw something at him when he meowed for food? Luciano groaned and tripped backward.

  “Maestro!” Fatima clutched his arm. She steadied him and started to lead him to the couch. “Elisa! Help me! He’s too heavy!”

  “I . . . I can’t . . .”

  “Elisa! Maestro needs our help!” Elisa swallowed and rubbed her arms to quell the trembling. As Luciano’s knees began to give out, she darted forward and took his other arm. He put his weight on the girls, who helped him walk to the couch, and then lowered him down. “Elisa, go get a bowl of cool water and a towel.”

  “But, is it okay if—”

  “Go! And put on water for coffee.”

  Elisa nodded tightly and sprinted into the kitchen.

  It was a disaster. Ants surrounded crumbs on the table, the dishes look like they hadn’t been done since their last visit. Yes, there were bits of Fatima’s Moroccan cookies growing green and sodden in the sink. Elisa focused on the task at hand. Pay attention! She ordered herself. She flung open cabinets until she found a green plastic bowl. She turned the knob on the faucet with a creak, but nothing happened. She tried the other knob. Still nothing.

  But she did spy a half-bottle of mineral water on the table. She poured it into a bowl, and then opened drawers, looking for a clean towel. There weren’t any, but she found a napkin shoved in the back of the utensil drawer. She fluttered it open by waving it jerkily, then folded it into crisp lines. She brought the bowl and napkin to the living room, preparing her apologies for not finding a towel. But Fatima simply accepted the offering with a nod, turning her attention to Luciano.