“Really? Because sometimes . . .”
“Really. I promise. Why do you think it’s so hard to find one we like? Because they are different Monday than they were Thursday. Seriously, if they didn’t have all the right equipment for getting me off, I’m not sure they’d be worth the bother.”
Isotta looked quickly at her sister, worried she was having her leg pulled.
“Yes, I’m joking, but just a little. Relax. Massimo loves you. Mamma and Papà would never let you marry him otherwise. And they know. Remember they wouldn’t allow Ilaria to marry that foot doctor? The guy seemed nice enough, but then he ended up getting busted for embezzlement. They are our clearer minds. And they approve.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Of course it is. Now put on a happy face, you’re getting married! I can’t wait to meet your step-daughter.”
Isotta smiled at the thought of Margherita. “You’ll love her.”
“I already do.” The eight cars filed into the parking lot and out poured Isotta’s family—sisters, father, mother, aunts, grandparents. She blinked back tears. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was getting married, becoming a mother, and here was her family, beautifully dressed and arrayed, here to support her, surround her.
Her mother hurried over. “Too fast! Isabella, you drove too fast! We almost lost you. You could have gotten in an accident!”
Isabella sighed. Then she took Isotta’s hand. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
“That’s my girl.”
A voice called from the farther car. “Isotta! Do we go straight to the church? We have an hour before the wedding. Should we get a coffee?”
Isotta laughed, “I can’t, Zio, I need to get to church. But if you want to stop on the way, there’s time.”
Her uncle nodded and conferred with his wife.
The group began making its way through town, filling the quiet streets with their excited chatter. Isotta’s grandmother took her arm, “It’s so peaceful here, cara, but is there enough for a young woman to do? You’ve been raised at the heartbeat of the world, will you be okay here?”
“Sì, Nonna. I like it. And I can’t be bored, I’ll have Margherita.”
“Sì, sì,” her nonna muttered.
“What?” Isotta asked, yanking her arm back a bit.
“Nothing, dear. Just . . . so much has changed so quickly.”
“Yes, that is definitely true.”
They walked amicably, nodding at the townspeople they passed.
“Isotta? Why is everyone staring at you?”
Isabella had just joined them, “Ai, Nonna, what do you think? She’s a bride!”
Isotta nodded, slowly. It was surely that. Soon she’d be a regular fixture in Santa Lucia and wouldn’t get such disarming stares. After a lifetime spent shrugging away from notice, it was oddly disquieting to be the focus of so many intent eyes.
Isotta pointed out Bar Birbo to her uncle, and the men stopped with him, while the women continued to the church. They stepped through the giant wooden doors, pausing to allow their eyes to adjust. The smell of incense filled their bodies, a scent of familiarity in an unfamiliar place. From an alcove a priest bustled toward them.
“Isotta! How lovely you look!” He caught her hands and beamed at her. She blushed and nodded her thanks before introducing her family. Don Alfonso greeted each of them before turning back to Isotta, “Dear one, let’s get you settled, I have a room prepared.”
Isotta took his proffered elbow and allowed herself to be led deeper into the shadows of the church.
Magda stalked out of the alimentari, her bag heavy with pasta, packages of Ementhal and würstel to make rice salad for her supper, and a tin of the olive oil that was cheaper than the one locals tried to pass off as superior just because it was pressed in their precious mill, but wasn’t all that special. As she stepped outside, she sneered at the two women arguing by the salumi. They were debating if Laura should take one or two tablespoons of olive oil a day to ward off another heart attack. Such superstitious fools.
In the piazza she stopped to gawk at Patrizia on her knees by the bushes.
Patrizia didn’t see her. She was focused on her grandson. Magda could never remember his name. The boy was sitting on the ground, calling one of the cats who resided permanently under the bushes.
Magda stopped and watched Patrizia try to cajole her grandson, wheedling him to get up off the ground, pointing at the bakery, no doubt offering the child a treat for doing what he should be doing anyway, which was minding his grandmother.
Not for the first time, Magda regretted that she never had offspring. She saw so many children growing up without a tight rein. She was sure she would have made an excellent mother. The best, really. Because what did children need more in life than strict adherence to guiding principles? An image blew across the canvas of her mind—a girl huddled behind the couch while her mother smacked a ruler impatiently against her palm. Magda shook it away. Never mind, never mind. Anyway, children had never been in the cards for her. By the time she had been at a point in her marriage where she considered bringing an unruly baby into her ordered world, her marriage had become sexless.
Magda repeatedly tucked her hair behind her ears, lost in thought. Was it Gustav who decided that he no longer wanted to share a bed with her, or had that come from her? It seemed to just happen, and she couldn’t remember what had been the catalyst. Perhaps there hadn’t been one. She remembered her wedding night—it hadn’t hurt as much as she’d expected, but she just couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. It seemed like smelly, sticky calisthenics.
Gustav had seemed to enjoy it, though. At least at first. But when he attempted to stretch out their lovemaking, to include caressing and lingering, she just got impatient.
No, she never could see what all the fuss was about.
In any case, that brief spate of sex at the start of their marriage never did lead to children. If it had, she would no doubt be more capable than Patrizia, now trying to distract her grandson with a fan, to no avail. The boy determinedly crouched, peering under the bushes.
Patrizia sighed and looked heavenward, the pleading etched in her eyes.
That was enough. Magda stormed over to the boy and yanked him up by his arm. His mingled shriek of surprise coiled into Patrizia’s yelp of protest. Above their raised voices, Magda shouted, “Your nonna told you to get up!”
Patrizia snatched her grandson’s forearm out of Magda’s grip. “Magda! Stop! What are you doing?”
“I’m teaching your grandson some manners.”
Over the child’s wailing, Patrizia glared and said bitingly, “This is none of your business. He is on his own timetable. It is not your concern.”
“Well, if you don’t make him mind you, how will he ever mind his teacher or his boss? He’ll assume that the world will bend to his will.”
Patrizia paused and caressed her grandson’s head, smoothing his hair. Her eyes narrowed at Magda. “Traumatizing him won’t teach him anything, Magda, except how to fear adults.”
Magda recoiled. Traumatizing?
She regarded the boy hiccuping and using his grandmother’s dress to wipe his tears.
“Well, I didn’t mean to scare him. I just wanted him to listen to you. He does need to listen to you. He can’t assume that he can do whatever he wants, always.”
Patrizia shook her head and then got down on her knees. “Marco? Are you ready for your biscotto now?”
Marco sniffled and nodded. Docilely, he took his grandmother’s hand and followed her out of the piazza. Patrizia threw a glance over her shoulder at Magda as if to say, “See? Kindness works.”
Magda wasn’t convinced. She muttered, “If I hadn’t come along, she’d still be trying to get him off the ground. I made him mind her. It’s the only reason he is being good
now.”
She grumbled to herself, “Not sure why I bother. No one is ever grateful.” Insight was never Magda’s strong suit.
Picking up her bag she walked up the hill and into Bar Birbo.
That stranger was in the corner, with his newspaper and now a little notebook. Magda got the distinct feeling that there had been conversation the moment before she walked in, but now the man was furiously writing, and Chiara was polishing the display case glass with more than usual attention. As Magda approached the bar, the sight of a crumpled sugar packet on the floor cued her memory. She started peering around the edges of the bar, where it met the floor.
“Magda? Can I help you with something?” Chiara asked.
“Oh, no . . . I just . . . thought I may have left something.”
“Just now?”
“No. It was . . . never mind.”
Fatima moved slowly through the street, clutching her jacket tighter around herself. She shivered and tried to think warm thoughts—for instance, how her heart had lightened when Mario described The Simpsons, an American TV show he liked. At her intrigued expression, he had offered to stay after school later in the week and bring his big sister’s iPad so they could watch it at the playground.
The memory failed to overcome her internal chilliness. Maybe because seeing Mario after school would mean outright lying to her parents about who she was with. She was able to justify her deviations from Islam in the name of allowing herself to experience her new home, but a violation of this magnitude . . . she couldn’t do it.
Fatima considered going home and pulling the magazine out from under her mattress. Reading about American singers and French fashion models often served as a delicious escape. She shook her head. She wanted to be out as long as possible before her mother came home.
She supposed she would just keep walking, and play her game of trying to notice details she had never seen before. Like the Roman inscription on that wall. Had she really missed that every time she walked past the church? What was it doing here? What did it mean? Fatima drew closer, trying to see if the remains were decipherable, and similar to modern Italian.
“Fatima!” She heard Elisa’s voice hailing her. She turned around to wait for her friend, who was running hard to catch up. Eyes bright from the quick sprint through the cold streets, Elisa panted, “Are you sick? You weren’t at school today.”
“No, I’m okay,” Fatima traced the cobblestone with her toe.
“Oh. Well, then where were you?”
Fatima hesitated.
“Fatima? What is it?”
“I’m just surprised you haven’t figured it out.”
“Figured what out?”
“You must have heard about the bombing at the French embassy in Germany yesterday.”
“Oh. Yes, I did hear about that. But why would you not be in school . . . oh, Madonna mia! Was someone in your family there? Oh, Fatima, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think—”
“No,” Fatima put a hand on Elisa’s arm, then drew her hand around her friend’s elbow and started walking to the park. “No, I didn’t know anybody there. But those bad guys who killed all those people. They were Muslim.”
Elisa looked at her friend, confused.
“Elisa. I, I’m Muslim.” Fatima waited for a sharp intake of breath at this news.
“I know that.”
“You knew I was Muslim?”
“Well, yes. You leave the room during religion class, so I knew you must not be Catholic. I looked up what religions are common in Morocco, and the book said most people are Muslim. It also said Muslims don’t eat pork, so I just figured . . .”
“But you never said anything.”
“What would I say?”
They walked in silence.
Finally Elisa ventured, “I’m sorry, Fatima, but I still don’t get why you didn’t come to school.”
“Oh, well, when something like this happens, it becomes dangerous for people like me. My brother . . .” Fatima’s voice rose an octave as she tightened her voice around her tears, “he was beat up last night.”
“What! Which brother?”
“Ahmed. He’s a dishwasher at a restaurant in Girona. Some guys saw him dumping the trash in the alley, and they . . . and they . . .”
“Madonna, I’m so, so sorry. Is he okay?”
“Well, he’s no longer the pretty one, at least until the swelling goes down. But he’ll be okay. Anyway, my parents wouldn’t let me come to school today. Mamma took Papà to work this afternoon, so I left. I know I shouldn’t, but I had to get out.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you!”
Fatima smiled weakly. “I don’t think anyone would hurt me here. This happens every time. They keep me out of school until people forget. And they do. So far anyway.”
Elisa considered Fatima’s words. “This isn’t fair.”
“I guess.” Fatima sighed. “I thought if you found out I was Muslim, you might not want to be my friend.”
“That’s weird.”
“I guess.”
“Why would it matter?”
“It doesn’t.”
“Anyway, you’ve seen how awful my family is. You’re still my friend.”
“We never talked about that—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
The girls climbed on the swings and set their legs to pumping.
Fatima said, “I wish it was easier for you.”
Elisa countered, “I wish it was easier for you, too.”
Fatima added, “And for Luciano.”
“How is he?”
Fatima shook her head.
Elisa nodded and fingered the few gathered coins in her pocket. “I hate this. It’s so unfair.”
“I know. But we can help Maestro. We can be with him and show him that the world isn’t all bad.”
“Isn’t it?”
Fatima tried to smile. “You know it’s not.”
Elisa wasn’t so sure. “I’m so mad at Massimo. What an awful man. I always knew he was awful, walking around like he owns this town, giving mean looks when I only accidentally wander into him. Acting like I’m Carosello making pee on his leg.”
Fatima smiled this time for real. “I know, he’s not exactly friendly. But we can’t know what lies beneath.”
Elisa nodded again. She looked over at her friend placidly swinging, eyes fixed on the horizon. Elisa thought about the fact that others who saw Fatima would just see darker skin, exotic eyes, no cross around her neck. If they saw her, and didn’t know her, would they miss the kindness that shone in her face? How could anyone confuse Fatima with a crazy attacker? It was impossible.
But Fatima knew, and she was scared. Was it just because of what happened to her brother, or was Fatima actually in any danger?
The door of Bar Birbo opened and Fabrizio slipped in. Stella and Patrizia, who had been laughing with Chiara, suddenly grew grave at his entrance. They silently stirred their already stirred coffee while darting looks at him.
Fabrizio raised a finger to ask for his customary coffee. Chiara nodded and blushed a little as she ground the beans. She hoped the whirring sound would prevent Fabrizio from noticing Stella and Patrizia’s whispered conferencing, but a quick glance in the mirrored wall showed her that his head was cocked in their direction.
As she handed Fabrizio the coffee, he looked into her eyes with teasing warmth. He thanked her quietly and took his coffee to the table, picking up a newspaper on a wooden spool. He laid the paper down and started shaking his sugar packet as he scanned the headlines.
Chiara stepped back to her friends, wondering if she could play it as cool as Fabrizio. He was so nonplussed, she wondered if she’d imagined the night they’d spent in the groves. But no, it had taken a quarter hour to get the dust off the seat of her pants and
the back of her jacket. And the way he’d touched her, softly, reverently, questioningly, no. She couldn’t have made that up. But now, in the cold light of day, why was he so removed?
Stella picked up where she’d left off, but now her voice had an unfamiliar hushed quality. “So anyway, I think the wedding dress looked just like Giulia’s, but Chiara said no.”
Chiara countered, “I didn’t say that. How would I remember Giulia’s wedding dress? How would you? That was a decade ago. I said I didn’t think that she looked just like Giulia.”
Patrizia nodded, “I agree.”
Stella slapped the back of her hand against the front of her other hand and then cringed as the loud smacking sound reverberating through the quiet bar. Fabrizio placidly looked up. Returning his gaze to the paper, he continued to stir sugar into his espresso. Chiara noticed a small smile playing about his lips. She slid her gaze away, back to her friends.
Stella huddled forward, “What? Do you not have eyes? Are you so totally hoodwinked by the hair? Make the new girl a brunette, and you have a carbon copy of his dead wife!”
Chiara watched as Fabrizio “read” the same headline repeatedly, his head angled toward the clutch of women. She wiped the bar and stayed silent, wishing he was less interested in their conversation.
Patrizia said, “There is a resemblance, of course, anyone can see that, but I’d never say she was identical.” She paused. “But I get it, don’t you? I mean, Giulia’s death was so sudden, so awful, don’t you think he’d be drawn to someone like the wife he adored?”
Stella snorted. “Well, ‘adored’ is too strong a word in my opinion. Remember that period of time, what was it, like five years? Ten? After they got married but before she had Margherita? He was a miserable husband to her. Treated her like some annoying zanzara, mosquito. And his mother! Giulia just couldn’t do anything right by her. At one point I thought for sure she’d move back to her parents’ house to get away from Massimo’s devotion to Anna.”
Book One of the Santa Lucia Series Page 20