by Gail Mencini
“This wine is the best,” Vincenzo said. “It is DOCG and one of Italy’s most important wines. I will sell you one from our special collection.”
“I’d like to visit a store,” Sophie said. “I want to learn more about the different varieties of local wine.”
“The wines of Tuscany are the best.” Vincenzo shrugged. “Of course. You wish to purchase vino from a tasting room.” He approached their table. “Let me draw you a map to the excellent establishment owned by my cousin.”
Sophie smiled. “That would be lovely.”
Vincenzo drew the way to his cousin’s business, which was farther than they previously walked. Today’s search took Sophie and Will past several wine shops and tasting rooms. Of course, he wants to give his cousin our business, regardless of whether it is out of our way.
Sophie convinced Will to rest while she went shopping. He objected at first, but when she promised to suspend the Francesca search until he rejoined her, he agreed.
The first shop Sophie passed looked pretty but too expensive. The racks inside were constructed of wood, and on the plate glass window gold lettering declared the store’s name and hours.
Too fancy and too pricey.
Sophie walked farther. This street off the Piazza Grande continued for the distance of several city blocks without visible crossroads intersecting it.
The cobblestone street was barely broad enough for two vehicles to pass. The narrow lane was reduced even more by the vendors’ displays outside their shops, parked motorcycles and scooters, and the cars that people set down anywhere, ignoring the signs forbidding parking.
On her right, Sophie slowed beside a leather goods store she hadn’t noticed earlier. The colors of the leather caught her eye. Montepulciano was a small village off the interstate highway, yet these hues were ones she hadn’t seen in the States.
One in particular made her peer closer.
The wallet, fastened by a snap closure, mirrored the coloring of Bangor’s collar—red, green, white, and blue. Sophie fell in love with the braided neckband, which showcased the colors of the Italian flag, for her mother’s ancestry, combined with the Union Jack, for her father’s heritage.
How is Bangor? It’s about time for the lab to send me an update. What does it mean that I haven’t heard anything? I’ll email them when I get back to the hotel.
Sophie pulled her eyes from the attractive display and spotted another wine store a short distance ahead.
The door was open. Inside, the bottles stood upright on open wooden shelves. The room occupied a smaller space than the shop she passed earlier.
A thin man in his fifties with hair more gray than black sat in the back watching a small television. He stood when Sophie entered.
“Buongiorno,” he said.
“Buongiorno.”
“May I help you find something?”
“Yes, please.”
He walked close to her. “Red? White?”
“I would like a ...” Sophie had practiced the name so she wouldn’t have to look at the paper in her pocket. “Vino Nobile di Montepulciano.”
“You’re asking for the best, you know. Very famous. The grapes are all grown in this area. You know about it?”
“Only that.”
“It is made with a minimum of seventy percent Sangiovese grapes and up to thirty percent from other varieties authorized for the Tuscany Region.
“Vino Nobile di Montepulciano was the first wine in Italy to receive the DOCG designation.” His pride was evident. He explained what DOCG stood for and the prestige of the honor. “Our wine is controlled by the government, you see. The law requires a maximum yield per hectare of 80 quintals.”
“Maximum yield?”
“Oh yes. This ensures quality. Let me show you what to look for.”
He pulled a bottle from the shelf and pointed out the official-looking neck strip with the initials “DOCG.”
“This wine must be aged for two years to be labeled DOCG as well as meet all the other requirements. For a Riserva, it must be aged for three years. This,” he pointed to the word on the label, “is a Riserva.”
He returned the bottle to the shelf. “How much would you like to spend?”
“Would you please recommend bottles in a range of prices?”
He pulled three bottles down from the shelf and stood them on the counter in front of her.
Sophie did the euro-to-dollar conversion in her head. The prices surprised Sophie, as she expected their gift to cost more.
Her main exposure to wine was the expensive bottles Russ had ordered in restaurants. One of several things he did to impress me when we first dated. It was empowering to learn something about wine. See, Russ, I’m not as unsophisticated as you thought.
She purchased the middle-priced bottle and hoped her gift would be sufficient to enlist Joe’s help.
47
Sophie hoped Joe would not only be their interpreter in the Montepulciano shops but in the surrounding towns as well.
Joe sat outside in front of the cooking school. Through the doorway, Sophie saw Margherita sweeping the kitchen floor.
“May I join you?” Sophie said.
Joe nodded.
Sophie sat on the far end of the bench and shifted on the seat, allowing her to turn to face him.
“Are the classes for the next week all booked?” A deceptive question, she knew, but after his banter earlier, it was fair.
He stroked his chin. “You’re in luck. They are, but let me try to persuade Margherita to work you into a class or two.”
He clapped his hands together. “Tell you what. I’ll find a spot for you in one each day. By the time you leave Montepulciano, you’ll be a gourmet cook.”
Sophie forced a smile. “Well, I might learn a thing or two about the regional cuisine, but I fear they would be too basic for me.”
An utter lie, but I have no time for lessons.
Sophie spoke each word distinctly. “I came to ask you for help.”
“Margherita is a better teacher than me.”
“No, I’m not asking for lessons. I need an interpreter and someone familiar with Montepulciano and the surrounding area.”
“A tour guide?”
“Not exactly.”
She explained their search for the long-lost Francesca. She gave Joe the Vino Nobile di Montepulciano. He nodded in appreciation.
Without saying anything else, he rose and walked inside.
Sophie peeked into the kitchen.
Joe held the bottle behind his back with one hand and circled Margherita’s waist with the other.
Margherita laughed. Joe slid around Margherita and presented the bottle of wine to her.
She responded with a kiss. He murmured something in Italian.
Joe strolled back outside with the walk of a lazy lord grudgingly going to speak to a serf. He sighed, demonstrating that the mere conversation with Sophie took effort.
“I might, for a small fee,” he said, “be able to help you as a guide and interpreter. Margherita has a car we can use.
“I need to help run things in the school, though. Tomorrow I shop. I’ll be in and out of Montepulciano. The day after may be possible.”
“Of course. I understand. Thank you.”
“Here is my info,” he said, handing her a business card from his wallet. “It lists my mobile number. You can figure out when you’d like to book me, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Sophie thanked him. Printed on it were the name, address, and website of the cooking school and Margherita’s full name. On the back in crooked handwriting, it read “Joseph Able” and a phone number.
To say Joe was of lesser importance to the school than Margherita was an understatement.
I’m pinning my hopes on him?
48
Sophie dragged her feet up the two flights of stairs. Her tired legs felt like someone had strapped ten-pound weights to her ankles. All this walking up and down hills and stairs counts as exercise
, doesn’t it? Russ repeatedly said she needed to lose weight. Was it true, or merely another of Russ’s lies?
Don’t think about Russ. Memories of him only demoralize me.
She headed directly for the breakfast room and found Will chatting with Vincenzo, who stood behind the bar wiping the counter. An empty espresso cup sat in front of Will.
Sophie greeted them both, then asked Vincenzo for a glass of wine.
“You are tired, no?” Vincenzo said.
Sophie’s flushed cheeks deepened in color with embarrassment.
“Sit, please, Miss Sophie.” Will stood and pulled out a chair at his table.
Sophie slumped down on the chair.
Will patted her hand. “We might have luck tomorrow.”
“Joe might be able to help us, but not tomorrow. We’re on our own again.” Sophie fought to keep her discouraging thoughts to herself.
Vincenzo appeared beside them with a carafe and two glasses.
Sophie gave Vincenzo a weak smile and murmured her thanks. I feel like I need more than one glass of wine, so it’s good he brought a carafe.
He stood beside the table for a minute or two and then drifted back to his position behind the counter, picking up his cloth to wipe it clean. The countertop, however, couldn’t be soiled in the five minutes since he last ran a rag over the smooth surface. He wanted to eavesdrop.
She spoke in a lowered voice to Will. “What makes you think we might be more successful?”
“I’ve been trying to remember everything about Francesca.”
Sophie waited. She’d discovered in their brief time together that pressing Will to reveal his thoughts didn’t speed him up.
“Francesca’s a gritty one.”
Sophie took a big swallow from the goblet. This producer’s vino seemed lighter and thinner than what they drank at dinner the night before. She should find out from Vincenzo what he served them, so she could avoid it.
Sophie nodded at Will, encouraging him to continue.
“After the men went off to war, the women here coped alone.”
“American women did the same.”
Will’s lips pressed together, and his eyes narrowed. “The difference is that the war was fought here. In the Italians’ hometowns and over their farms and in their forests. Not some foreign place an ocean away.”
Will tapped out a rhythm with his fingertips against the underside of the table. Sophie couldn’t identify the song, but the tune was fast-paced. He gazed out the window while his fingers drummed to the music playing in his head.
“Will,” Sophie said, “please tell me how Francesca was ‘gritty.’ ”
Will’s head pivoted back to face Sophie. “Her older brother got drafted as soon as Italy entered the war. Her father ran a butcher shop here in Montepulciano before the war started.”
His voice hardened. “The Nazis rolled through here. Even though the countries sided together, the Germans took whatever they wanted from the Italians. They emptied the butcher store of everything of value.
“Her father taught Francesca how to cut meat and she helped run the business. The two of them went at night to the woods. They’d hunted before, of course, but now the wild boar, rabbits, and birds they shot were all that they had to sell.”
Sophie sat forward in her chair. “Francesca and her father worked here during the war?” Why didn’t you tell me this before?
Will nodded. “They closed their shop in 1943. Damn Nazis swept through here, again and again, each time taking everything as provisions for the troops.”
Emotion streaked Will’s face. “She told me what happened after her father gave up the store. He fell ill and couldn’t get out of bed. She had to hunt alone. She went for several days, freezing and sleeping on the ground in the forest.”
Will shivered.
“When she killed something more massive than she could carry, she hid the game and ran back into town. Her family owned a cart for the heavy loads, but no horse to pull it. Francesca and her mother loaded the kill and pushed the wagon to town.
“She, a little wisp of a girl, skinned and butchered her kill and delivered the meat in the wee hours to the starving people of Montepulciano.
“No one could pay her, except with vegetables they had canned, or olive oil harvested from trees outside of town.”
He shook his head and gazed at Sophie with wet eyes. “She was a hero in Montepulciano.” His voice trembled. “They should know her.”
Sophie squeezed his hand. “Of course they should. They must.” She tried to control her excitement. “Now we have a place to start. Butcher shops. Maybe a relative runs the place now, or the owner is someone who bought it from her family.”
She jumped up and rushed over to speak to Vincenzo. She invited him to join them for a glass of wine at their table and signed for a new bottle on her tab.
Once their glasses, including one for Vincenzo, had been filled, Sophie explained that Francesca worked in town during the war. She pelted Vincenzo with questions.
“How many butcher shops in town are operating in the same location as they were during the war? Did you know the families who owned them before the war?”
Vincenzo pushed his glass toward the center of the table. He stood and crossed his arms over his chest. “I know these things you ask, but I will not help you. These people did not butcher only animals and fowl. They butchered people, too.”
49
“You lie!” Will sprang to his feet.
Sophie grabbed his arm. Will balled his hands into fists.
Vincenzo slammed both palms on the table and sneered at them. “I speak the truth. Ask the people of this town if you wish. No one will help you. No one.”
The hotelier stomped out of the room.
“What the hell does he know?” Will said.
Shaken but not about to discard their only lead, Sophie agreed. “Tomorrow we’ll go up and down the streets and ask questions at every store that sells fresh meat. I can do it alone if it’s too taxing for you.”
“Hell no, you’re not! Tomorrow I’ll beat you walking up and down these streets. This is my girl you’re talking about.”
Sophie disagreed with him. Will would tire quicker than she would. She only hoped he wouldn’t exhaust himself for nothing.
The next morning before she showered, Sophie sent a quick email to the lab at CSU and asked about Bangor’s reactions to the trial medication. Bangor’s a fighter. He must be OK.
Will knocked on Sophie’s door fifteen minutes early. Thankfully, she was dressed, but she hadn’t finished putting on her makeup. Sophie opened the door. Will had pressed his collared shirt and, by the looks of it, buffed his shoes until they glistened.
“Good morning, Will. You’re early. I’m not quite ready yet.”
“I want us out of here before that lying S.O.B. opens the breakfast room. You’re beautiful as you are.”
He gazed at her. His voice softened. “Marie always hated to go out without her eyes done.” He nodded. “Put on your mascara, and then we’re hitting the road. I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Right. Mascara and downstairs. I’ll be there.” She couldn’t agree more. Sophie had no desire to see Vincenzo this morning.
She shuddered. Did the beautiful young woman in Will’s photographs dismember a man?
Sophie dashed to the bathroom for the fastest application of mascara ever. No time for moisturizer, foundation, blush, or eyebrow pencil. Good thing she didn’t know a soul in Italy, other than Will, Margherita, and Joe.
They stood at the counter in the small bar across the piazza to drink their espresso, which was half the price that Vincenzo charged them. They each ordered a ciabatta roll with thin slices of mozzarella and tomato inside.
“A meal to go,” Will said to her as they munched on their sandwiches. “Beats American fast food all to hell, doesn’t it?”
Sophie tucked two extra bottles of water in her shoulder bag. They would likely be walking farther today. She did
n’t remember any meat markets close to the Duomo.
“Let’s start down this way,” Sophie said, and gestured in the direction they had entered the city. Near the Teatro Poliziano, next to its colorful posters, they turned to follow Via di Cagnano.
A few steps along the cobblestone street, a stone stairwell sloped down under an arch built into the ancient bastion on the left. It was a shortcut from an outer side road to the Piazza Grande.
She would watch for it on the way back. Will would need every shortcut they could find.
Will walked down the street with an energetic bounce in his step and his arms pumping. “We’re going to prove that lying bastard wrong. Oops, sorry about the swearing, Miss Sophie.”
She fell in beside him. “Don’t worry. Some nasty things came to my mind about him, too.”
Will quipped about the businesses they passed.
The street continued to run downhill from the piazza, which troubled Sophie. Eventually, they’d have to work their way back uphill.
Sophie pointed out a charming trattoria next to a small bed and breakfast hotel. She stopped to look at the posted menu. It listed pizza and half a dozen pasta dishes. The tiny restaurant looked clean and welcoming. “We can walk here later and stop for dinner.”
They agreed that the weather that day, warm and mid-70s, was perfect for their walk. What Sophie and Will didn’t talk about was that they had yet to see one meat market.
After they walked awhile in silence, Sophie could hear sounds of a busier road nearby. Beyond a curve in the street, slow-moving vehicles and scooters crossed the street on a wider, intersecting road.
Awnings and picture windows of tasting rooms, restaurants, and bars lined the sides of the street.
Sophie’s heart ached with disappointment. No markets selling fresh meat here.
50
An invisible rope pulled Sophie and Will to the colorful window of a gelato store on the corner.
The colors alone beckoned them—pale green pistacchio, white limone, blush fragola, chip-flecked stracciatella, deep brown cioccolato, and many beautiful hues with names that Sophie couldn’t decipher.
