My eyes go wide and I tip my head toward Aunt Poppy, hoping to remind Lucy that our eighty-year-old aunt can also speak the language. But Poppy only laughs.
“Luciana, you slay me!” She sits up straight. “I’m so pleased you’re both fluent in Italian. Your mother would be proud, Emilia.”
I perk up. “Really? She wanted me to speak Italian? Why?”
Poppy gazes out at the water, as if time is calling to her. “Rico struggled with Italian, but he eventually mastered it.”
“And my mom?” I say, clutching her hand, trying to keep my frustration in check. “What else do you know about her?”
She looks up at us. “Have I gotten to the part of the story where Rico plays his violin?”
“Nope,” Lucy says, and she gives an exaggerated yawn. “But feel free to skip ahead.”
Chapter 16
Poppy
1959–60
Florence
Monday through Saturday, from eight until four, I worked at the Uffizi Gallery. But the bus back to Fiesole didn’t leave until six thirty. Mr. Blue Eyes worked nights, stretching gloves at a leather factory from seven until four in the morning. Which meant that six days a week, for two and a half glorious hours, I was free, and so was Rico. We’d stroll the streets of Firenze, speaking in Italian and German, laughing at our silly mistakes, soaking in everything we could learn about each other.
One day, about a week after we’d met, he brought along a weathered leather case. We sat on a bench in front of the Duomo, and to my surprise, he lifted a violin from the case and began to play. It was thrilling, watching the bow travel up and down the strings, creating the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. I couldn’t believe it! He was a violinist!
He explained that his father, who was a prisoner in a Russian war camp during World War II, learned to play music so he could be part of the troupe that entertained the Russian soldiers. When he returned home to Germany, he taught his young son to play the accordion, the guitar, and the violin. Young Erich was a natural, and soon he was teaching his father new songs.
Rico stood before me, his foot propped on the bench, his chin tucked into the violin’s body. It was mesmerizing, the sound that he created, as if by magic. An old man passing by took notice. Then a smartly dressed couple.
In no time, we were surrounded by thirty, maybe forty people—local merchants and children and English tourists. The energy from the crowd seemed to ignite Rico. He walked among the people, the ballad merging into a chirpy melody. The bow swept over the strings, faster and faster at a dizzying speed. People cheered and laughed and clapped. Rico didn’t miss a note! He finished with a flourish of the bow. The applause and whoops and whistles were deafening.
When the admirers finally disappeared, we couldn’t believe what they’d left behind. Coins … so many of them! More than he made in an entire day at the factory.
“You are a star!” I told him as I helped gather the coins.
He gently closed my fist when I tried to hand him the money. “It is all yours, Poppy. I was only trying to impress you.”
He leaned down and kissed me for the first time. It was slow and gentle and exceedingly provocative. My heart erupted like Mount Vesuvius. Make no mistake, I’d been kissed by a boy before. But not by a man, and never with love.
“You accomplished your goal,” I told him, my head still spinning. “I am impressed.”
“All my life I’ve dreamed of being a musician. Thank you for making me feel like one today.”
“You must quit that job at the factory,” I said calmly. “You must spend your time making music.”
“People may grow tired of my violin. The leather factory is solid work.”
I shrugged. “Failure is an option. A far better outcome than not trying at all. This instrument, Rico, it is your gift, your passion. You must not deny the universe of your music.”
And that was the start of his new career.
He carved out a little spot in Piazza della Signoria, in front of the Fountain of Neptune. And just as I predicted, he became quite a figure. The crowds went bananas over the happy yellow-haired man who could make his violin weep. He performed three, sometimes four times a day. But between the hours of four and six thirty, Rico was mine.
At this point, we’d been secretly meeting for four weeks. I knew all about my Rico, how he was a young boy at the time of the war and how his home on the edge of Dresden had been bombed beyond recognition. How his family escaped to another village, called Clausnitz, and found shelter in a sawmill. How memories of Jewish prisoners being marched down the icy road, and shot when they fell, still gave him nightmares. How he and his sister would sneak bread to the American soldiers who were imprisoned across the street. How he loved sausages and cheese.
It was Rico’s father, the owner of a small auto repair shop, who encouraged Rico to leave the Communist-controlled German Democratic Republic. His older sister was in love with a man who worked at a waffle factory, and refused to leave. His mother would go nowhere without her daughter. The family was stuck … but not Rico.
“You must go,” his father had told him eighteen months earlier. “Opportunities in East Germany will only get worse. Escape, without a word to anyone. Take three things: your temporary travel permit, your bicycle, and some marks to pay for the train. When you reach the station, purchase a round-trip ticket to Munich. The guards must think you are returning. But take nothing else, not even a change of clothing. If the guards catch you with so much as a toothbrush, they will know you are trying to escape.
“When you reach Munich, transfer trains to Mindelheim, a small Bavarian town in the Allgäu. Present yourself to the West German authorities. You will be welcomed and given a West German travel permit, along with voucher stamps to use for food and lodging at the youth hostels. The East German mark is nearly worthless. Then, with your bicycle, you will travel to Austria. From there, you will be free, Erich, free to go wherever you choose.”
His father’s eyes glistened with tears.
“Tell no one of your plan. When you fail to return to East Germany, the authorities will grow suspicious. They will come here and question us. You will be considered a Republikflucht—an escapee. The punishment would be brutal, should you be caught. Do you understand?”
Rico nodded, the gravity of his decision bearing down on him. “And what about Mother? And Karin? Surely I must tell them good-bye.”
His father grabbed his face and held it in his calloused hands. “No, my boy. Not even them.”
“But they will think I deserted them.”
“I will take care of this.”
Rico turned to me then, his beautiful eyes misty. “I pray one day my mother will understand.” He looked down, hesitating a moment. “And Karin, too.”
“Your sister?” I asked.
He shook his head. “My fiancée.”
My heart plummeted. All spirit drained from me. The blessed curse had caught me at last. All along, I was certain the family myth was nonsense. But here I was, the second daughter, in love—yes, in love—with a man who was engaged to be married.
Chapter 17
Emilia
I clutch Poppy’s hand. “Oh, Aunt Poppy, I’m so sorry. Rico married someone else?”
She pats my knee. “I’ll continue the story later.”
“So we really are cursed,” Lucy says. “But you’re going to break it, right? Aside from your plan to meet this two-timing turd, you have some other way, right?”
“Curse?” Poppy says. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
I keep my gaze on her, hoping—willing—her to say something, something to ease Lucy’s anxiety. Her thin face is drawn, and dark circles hollow out her eyes. Break the curse, damn it.
Poppy calls to the gondolier, “We’re ready to get off now.” The gondolier slows the boat, steering it toward a bridge. “It’s time for me to lie down,” she says. “Tonight at dinner, I will tell you more about Rico.”
“No!” Lucy’s voi
ce is angry now, and I can’t blame her. “We’ve heard enough of your sorry-ass story.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “If you think your Rico is going to show up after all these years and marry you, you’re as batshit crazy as everybody says.”
“Lucy!” I say, but Poppy only shakes her head.
“It seems you take pleasure in painting storm clouds, Luciana.”
“You promised you’d break the curse,” I remind Poppy, emotion rising in my voice. “Lucy believed you. She’s counting on you.”
“Hello?” Lucy says. “It’s the only reason I’m here!”
Aunt Poppy bats a hand. “Pfft! All this time you’ve been told what to believe. Imagine the power in deciding what it is you hold to be true.”
“Easy for you to say,” Lucy says, as the boat slows to a stop. “You’re older than the pyramids. What about me? I’ve got a lifetime ahead of me being cursed.”
Poppy places a hand on Lucy’s cheek. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it, how, when someone tells us something about ourselves—good or bad—we try so desperately to prove them right.”
Lucy drags me into the first trattoria along the calle. A group of old men sit at a table drinking Peroni beer, their eyes glued to a flat-screen television, where they cheer for the soccer players dressed in orange and black. “Leoni Alati!” they shout, declaring their loyalty for Venezia’s Winged Lions.
We settle in at a table and my cousin orders a liter of wine. From our spot by the window, we watch Poppy’s slim figure disappear down the cobblestone street. My good angel tells me I should get up, walk her back to the hotel, and tuck her into bed. This city is impossible to navigate and she may get lost. But my bad angel is too angry. She’s been here before. She can manage.
“What the hell?” Lucy says. She plants her elbows on the table and rakes her fingers through her hair.
“I know,” I say, shaking my head. “She’s trying to weasel out of this deal. I’m losing faith, big-time. She just wants to relive old memories.”
“Poppy has no pride. That little prick was engaged, and still she pines for him.”
The waiter arrives with the wine. While he fills our glasses, I share the story Uncle Dolphie told me, about Poppy and the baby she lost and her mental breakdown.
“Jesus,” she says, lifting her glass. “And she claims we’re not cursed?”
I wait until Lucy takes a long drink before I ask, “When did you first start believing in it?”
Her eyes lock on the television behind the bar, where the Winged Lions have fallen behind. “I was eight,” she says. The little muscle in her jaw twitches. “Eight fucking years old when my parents told me I was cursed.” She shakes her head, still focused on the television. “The only curses I knew were in fairy tales, when some sorry-ass victim was sentenced to years of sleep, or death, or made to live as a beast. So that’s what I thought—that I’d be forever ruined if I didn’t marry.” Finally, she turns and meets my eyes.
“I was down the block, playing in the street, kicking a soccer ball around with Giulia, my bestie.” She smiles. “I pretended not to hear my mom when she called from the door, ‘Lu-cy! Lu-cy!’
“Even as an eight-year-old, I found that humiliating. I wasn’t a goddamn cocker spaniel, was I? So I ignored her. And the longer I ignored her, the more pissed off she got.
“‘Luciana Maria Fontana, you get home now!’
“I figured she wanted me to come practice my piano, or the dance steps she was making me memorize. She hated it when I played ball with Giulia. But I couldn’t give it up. I loved soccer.
“I whispered to Giulia to help me hide. She grabbed my sweaty hand and we ran behind her house.
“We giggled like, well, like little girls.” She grins. “We found a kick-ass hiding place, in the shrubs by her back shed. We burrowed side by side, a couple of toads trying to blend into the green space.
“Sure enough, ol’ Carol appeared in her floral skirt and pink pumps, searching for me. Giulia covered my mouth with her dirty hand to keep me from bursting into hysterics. We sat huddled together, trying not to laugh, watching my mother wander the yard, calling, ‘Luciana? Lu-cy?’
“All at once, the bushes parted like a scene in a horror flick. Even though we knew it was coming, we screamed bloody murder and clung to each other. The afternoon sun practically blinded me. But then I saw it. My mom’s red-blotched mug staring down at us. And I’ll never forget. It wasn’t anger, exactly. It was more like panic. She grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet.
“As she dragged me from the yard, I looked back at Giulia. She sat there in the bushes, still as a stick. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mouthed.
“‘Me, too,’ I mouthed back, though I wasn’t sure why.”
Lucy lifts her glass and takes a long drink.
“That night after my dad got home, he and my mom sat me on the couch. I could tell it was something serious because Dad made Carmella leave the room.
“‘Go on, tell her,’ my mom said, her voice flat.
“I remember thinking that someone must have died. Or that maybe my mom and dad were getting a divorce, like Francie Falcone’s parents.
“‘You have a curse,’ my dad told me, cutting through the bullshit.
“My mom freaked. ‘Vinnie! Be kind.’ She looked at me. ‘Your dad is right,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry, amore. You are going to break the curse.’
“My heart was seriously banging against my ribs. What kind of curse?
“My dad stood up then. He went to the hallway and took an old family picture from the wall, taken eons ago back in Italy. I’d seen the ratty-ass photo a thousand and two times, but I’d never really looked at it. He plopped down beside me.
“‘You see these women, Luciana?’ One by one, he pointed to his great-aunts and great-great-aunts, a dozen or so leather-faced ol’ bags I’d never met.
“‘Yes, Daddy.’
“‘Not one of them has married. Ever.’
“Well, no shit. Who’d want to hook up with these hairy-chinned biddies?” Lucy looks over at me. “’Course, I didn’t say this, but that’s exactly what I thought—more or less.” She looks down at the table and gives a sad little smile.
“My mom took over then. She placed her hands in mine, all serious-like. ‘In your dad’s family,’ she said, shooting him a look of superiority, ‘the second-born daughter does not marry. The women in this photo, these Fontana women, are all second-born daughters.’ She paused for a sec, probably hoping I’d pick up on the gist of her message. But I didn’t. I swear, I didn’t have a damn clue what she was getting at. Finally she said, ‘Just like you.’”
Lucy pinches the stem of her wineglass and shakes her head.
“I sat staring at the picture, taking in the ol’ nanny goats, with their lifeless faces and hollow eyes. ‘They don’t look very happy,’ I said.
“‘Oh, they’re not,’ my mom agreed. ‘They’re miserable. And eventually they become bitter and mean. They’ll never know the joy of children, or a house of their own with a warm kitchen to cook in, or a man to love them.’
“I seriously thought I was going to puke. This really was a fairy tale—a bad fairy tale where the cursed second daughter turns into a wicked old witch. I swallowed hard. ‘Am—am I going to be like them?’
“My mom smiled and smoothed my hair. ‘No, mia dolce. You are beautiful. You will break the curse, and spare all of the future second daughters from this horrible fate.’
“I nodded. O-kay. Right. Sure. I would be the princess who saved the village. But c’mon, Carol, let’s be real. How the hell could an eight-year-old kid possibly break the curse?
“‘How?’ I croaked.
“‘Listen to your mamma. I will teach you. First rule. No balls.’”
Chapter 18
Emilia
A nother,” Lucy calls to the waiter, pointing to our nearly empty carafe. Her hand trembles when she pours the last drops into her glass. I don’t know what to say. My poor cousin has tried
nearly her entire life to become someone she’s not, so she doesn’t turn into a wicked old witch—no, worse: a wicked old single witch.
Poppy’s words return to me. It’s fascinating, isn’t it, how, when someone tells us something about ourselves—good or bad—we try so desperately to prove them right.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you.” I take hold of her hand. “But Poppy’s right. This Fontana curse is nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy, an old-world myth that’s been perpetuated for years, devaluing us single women, making us feel subordinate. And you’re just living up to your expectations.”
Lucy scowls and pulls her hand from mine. “I haven’t a fucking clue what you just said. All I know is that for generations, second daughters have been screwed.”
“Or have not been screwed, as the case may be.”
She grins. “Well, what do you know? The girl made a funny.”
The waiter arrives with our second liter. Lucy goes to fill my glass, and I cover the rim with my hand. She shoots me a look.
“C’mon, Em. Can you, like, try to be cool for one afternoon?”
Like a wimpy teen caving to peer pressure, I remove my hand, allowing her to fill my glass.
“I’m sorry I got your hopes up, Luce. It’s obvious Poppy only wants to talk about Rico.”
“Right?” Lucy says. “It’s like we’re her captive audience. We’re only here so she can relive the one and only love the old coot’s ever had—and now we learn he was a player.”
“It’s so sad. He could be dead for all we know.”
“Sad? It’s pathetic. And manipulative.” Lucy leans in. “She bribed us, Em. She lied to us. And we fell for it. How friggin’ stupid were we? This trip is a total waste.”
“Not necessarily.” I run a finger over the rim of my glass. “Uncle Dolphie thought maybe we could help reunite Poppy and Nonna.”
One Italian Summer: The perfect romantic fiction read for summer 2020 Page 10
