by Gail Mencini
The distant, dusty-blue hills rose above the horizon. It reminded Sophie of the Colorado Rockies’ foothills in the golden period of twilight, her favorite time of day.
Sophie heard Isabella’s voice grow near. She’s bringing her companions out here. Why couldn’t they have gone to an upper floor? Sophie refused to subject herself to another confrontation. She dashed to the outer pathway and followed it around until she found an exit.
Sophie gazed over her shoulder at the mansion tied to her memories.
At the end of the path, Niccolò stood by himself. His fiancée’s voice grew louder. Isabella is coming this way.
Niccolò lifted one hand to his lips and blew Sophie an air kiss.
What is that about? Sophie didn’t wait to find out.
Joe and Will sat at an outdoor bistro table on the perimeter of the piazza. They had espressos in front of them and appeared to be people-watching more than visiting.
Joe’s face bore an easy-going smile.
Will’s face told her more than that his customary scowl had melted. He faced the piazza with glassy eyes and lips that drooped at the corners.
Is Will doubting the success of our mission, or is his disengagement caused by something else?
61
After they returned to Montepulciano, Sophie and Will rested in their rooms until dinner. Tonight, they wanted to try the new trattoria Joe recommended. They walked by Margherita’s school on the way back to their hotel after dinner.
Two women with British accents wandered out of the school and up the street toward the central piazza. Margherita stood in the doorway, thanking them and wishing them a good evening.
“Ciao, Margherita,” Sophie said.
“Buonasera,” Margherita said. “You visited Pienza today. Did you enjoy it?”
Will straightened his shoulders. “Yes, we did. A pretty little town, but no leads, unfortunately.”
Margherita nodded. “Tomorrow you may have better luck. Joe will take you to Montalcino. After the war, some people moved between the cities.”
Margherita gave a firm nod, with her arms crossed over her ample chest. “You can purchase my supplies.” She reached into her pocket, retrieved a folded piece of paper, and handed it to Sophie.
Sophie looked at the list. “Coffee and prosciutto? Can’t you buy these here?”
“Of course.” Margherita threw up her hands to emphasize the point. “This coffee is a special blend that one of my return students particularly requests. It is stocked by the bar next to the piazza in Montalcino. I called to make sure they have some. My butcher friend received a shipment of a special prosciutto from Parma. It is made in limited quantities and will sell out quickly.”
She pointed to the paper. “Here is the address for my friend. Don’t shop from another store or my friend will be angry. Joe will drop you off and then go to a winery to pick up bottles for a big dinner here.”
Sophie agreed but was not happy about using her time for Margherita’s tasks.
They were being used as pawns. Margherita dangled the news about people moving between the two cities to entice them to go to Montalcino.
What Margherita wanted was for Sophie and Will to do her shopping.
The only positive thing about running errands was that they could ask Montalcino storekeepers about Francesca. Those queries, however, seemed doomed. The farther they traveled from Montepulciano, the less likely they would uncover clues about Francesca.
The next day, the warm, brilliant morning and the smile on Will’s face buoyed Sophie’s spirits. They joined Joe at his table near the piazza.
“Will,” Joe said, gesturing to a chair, “wait here. I have something to show Sophie.”
He took Sophie’s arm and walked her across the piazza toward the Duomo. “I forgot to tell you something about this place.
“Here,” he swept his arm out, “this piazza was where they filmed the crowd scene for The Twilight Saga: New Moon.” He bobbed his head with a self-satisfied grin.
“I read the books but didn’t see the film.”
“All those movie stars gathered right here.”
Sophie listened to the sounds of the morning.
She watched an elderly woman walk past them, chattering in Italian to a young boy. Tourists discussed directions and sites in multiple languages.
A waiter from the market carried out a cappuccino to a patron. The saucer clinked against the table when he set it down. Friends called out to each other in passing.
Sophie liked the Piazza Grande as it was, with centuries of history behind it, and its present-day and future place in the workings of a city.
The Piazza Grande doesn’t need a movie to make it a memorable place.
Joe’s grinning face redirected her thoughts. She took the gracious route. “Thanks, Joe.”
Joe described today’s plan. “We will go by Pienza again, and then through the charming city of San Quirico d’Orcia. We can stop for a coffee before heading on to Montalcino.”
“How long will the drive to Montalcino take?” Sophie asked.
“Only forty-five minutes, plus however long we’re in San Quirico d’Orcia.”
Sophie knew she needed to control their schedule as much as she could. “Let’s not stop on the way. If we have energy after our shopping, perhaps we can on the way back.”
Sophie glanced left and right as the tree-lined road wound uphill toward Montalcino. The city’s walls of pale yellow, mustard, and burnt orange contrasted with the orange-gray of the corner towers’ upper reaches.
The need to protect themselves drove Etruscans to build these ancient cities on hilltops. The strategic position gave them a military advantage.
Their road suddenly converged with several streets into a crowded switchback intersection of massive trucks and autos with scooters that darted in between. Sophie caught her breath.
How can people ride motorcycles and Vespas through these tight intersections with vehicles going every which way around them?
Joe pulled off the road. A skinny street ran uphill from where he parked.
“OK,” Joe said. “You’ve got the list for Margherita, right?”
“Sure do.” Will tapped the chest pocket on his shirt.
“Walk up,” Joe pointed to the cobblestone street, “and you’ll reach the Piazza del Popolo, by the Duomo. You’ll see a place near the piazza to purchase an espresso. They have Margherita’s coffee. No need to pay for it, she’s got an account. They’ll speak English and can direct you where to go for the prosciutto.”
Will got out of the car. “Let’s go. Time’s a-wasting, Missy.”
They agreed to meet back in the same location in three hours. Joe eased his car into traffic and drove away to pick up the wine for Margherita’s dinner.
Sophie and Will strolled up the cobblestone street.
Several windows caught Sophie’s eye, but she was on a mission: Pick up Margherita’s supplies, check out all the meat markets, and, if they were lucky, grab a quick lunch.
She saw a tall, narrow stone building with a bell tower on one side. A round-faced working clock adorned the tower.
Retail establishments lined both sides of the street.
Archways marked many of the doors and openings. Ahead on the right, Sophie noticed a cafe, with small metal outdoor tables and chairs.
“Here’s our coffee spot,” Will said, pointing to the cups in front of a young couple outside. “Right where Joe said it’d be.”
Will stepped back to allow Sophie to enter the store first.
Ebony and white tiles covered the floor. A long, beautiful, polished wooden counter, topped with white and gray marble, spanned almost the entire length of the business. Wooden open cabinets at the rear were filled with bottled wines, candies in large glass jars, boxes of sweets, small packages of coffee, and flavored syrups.
“Buongiorno,” said the solid-looking brunette woman inside. “May I help you? Would you like a coffee or something to eat?”
They learned the store had not only drinks but also panini sandwiches and small salads. Will and Sophie placed their order and then sat at a bistro table outside.
The woman came with their espressos. Will thrust the photo of Francesca under her nose.
“Do you recognize this woman? She’s older now. In her eighties or nineties.”
The woman shook her head, looking surprised at his question.
Sophie asked how long the storekeeper had been in Montalcino.
“I come from Austria, and am here only for the summer.”
“We are to pick up coffee beans for Margherita Baggi, who runs a cooking school in Montepulciano.”
The Austrian shook her head. “I can’t help you. The owner’s granddaughter will return soon.” The Austrian smiled. “She may know.”
Sophie thanked her and said they would wait. The Austrian walked inside.
“Sheesh,” Will said. “She’s no help.”
Sophie patted his arm. “She is only here for the summer. You practically accosted her with the picture. A gentle approach might be better.”
“Fine.” Will crossed his arms over his chest. “You talk to the butchers. I’ll wait here. We don’t want to miss the granddaughter.”
Sophie ate most of her salad. Will devoured his small sandwich.
She offered him the remainder of her meal and went into the bar to learn the locations of the butcher shops. There were only two in the city center.
Back out in the sunlit street, she found Will with his head tilted down on his chest, asleep.
It’s all on me. The errands, looking for Francesca, and getting Will back to the U.S. healthy.
Life has been that way for a long time. It’s my responsibility to take care of myself and make all the decisions. Mine alone.
62
One meat market was close to the Duomo, but the other was on the outer rim of the walled city. Sophie rushed to the farther one first only to find the business closed for the day.
I walked all this way hoping for information about Francesca. It was all for nothing.
Sweat beads dotted her forehead as she trekked back up the cobblestone streets. She prayed the next store—the one that had Margherita’s prosciutto—was open.
Surely, Margherita knows the hours of her friend’s shop. She wouldn’t send us to pick it up if the store might be closed, right?
Anything seems possible in Italy. Anything that can go wrong, that is.
She sighed with relief at the open door. Rows of prosciutto shanks hung from the ceiling. Two middle-aged men in white aprons stood behind a refrigerated case.
“Buongiorno,” one called out as she walked toward them.
The other man gazed at her in silence.
Sophie smiled and asked if either of them spoke English.
“Of course. In Montalcino, we almost all speak English, Spanish, and German.”
“That’s a relief. We certainly wouldn’t have much of a conversation with my Italian.”
Both men laughed.
Sophie explained about the errand for Margherita, and thankfully, they nodded their heads.
The older man grabbed a prosciutto shank that hung off to the side in the back. He secured the meat in a giant slicer on the rear counter. A thick wooden block formed the base of the cutter, with a tall, curved arm and metal pin to hold the shank in place. A tiny wire shaved the prosciutto off in thin, delicate slices.
The apparatus reminded Sophie of the old Victrola record player her mother had inherited from her parents.
The older man spoke. “This prosciutto is very special. We only get one or two of these each year. They come from Parma, but are aged longer than most, with a particular method of cure.”
The second man meticulously layered the prosciutto between coated papers. The sizable stack, which weighed only 500 grams, was then wrapped in a white paper.
The man who ran the slicer wrote something into a ledger by the cash register. “This will cost our friend, Margherita, but she will pay us. She always does.”
“Are you the owner?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you owned this business?”
“My family started here before the war.” His eyes looked off to the side. “Those were hard years. Germans came into Montalcino. They demanded we feed them.”
He shrugged. “After the war was over, the hard times didn’t end. No one in Italy had money.” He rubbed his nose. “We,” he tapped his chest with his palm, “our family, we survived. My father kept the business going until people had money again to purchase food.”
Sophie played his words over in her head.
Were they German sympathizers? They had been allowed to remain open during the war, which, at a minimum, gave the appearance of aiding the Germans. Perhaps that was why the townspeople hesitated to frequent this place after the war.
She nodded in response to the man and pushed away her thoughts. I need to stop suspecting people of aiding the Germans. It was wartime and people did what they needed to do to survive.
The man puffed up in pride. “The visitors that rent expensive villas, they all come here for our meats. They are our best customers.”
“The other store like yours in town—how long have they been open?”
“Not long. Twenty years.”
Sophie showed the man the photograph of Francesca. “This woman worked in a butcher shop in Montepulciano at the start of the war. Her name is Francesca Polvani. She may have moved to Montalcino after the war was over. She would be in her eighties or nineties now. Do you know her?”
He studied the picture. “No. I don’t know anyone by that name. I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
Sophie nodded a farewell and left. She walked back to the coffee shop.
A striking Italian woman in her twenties sat next to Will with an espresso cup in front of her.
Sophie pulled a chair from the next table and sat beside Will. She extended a hand to the woman. “Hello. I’m Sophie.”
The beauty’s dark eyes sparkled. She clasped Sophie’s hand between both of hers. “Mr. Mills spoke of you. I am Luisa. My pleasure.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Luisa jumped up from the table. “Scuzi. I am sorry. Let me get you a drink. A refreshing glass of Vermentino? This lovely white wine from Tuscany comes from the coastal area.”
“Grazie,” Sophie said.
Luisa disappeared inside.
Will turned to Sophie. “She’s pretty, isn’t she? Her grandmother owns this place, and she runs the business.”
Luisa brought out three stemmed glasses of white wine and a small dish of potato chips. She joined them at the table and lifted her glass in a toast. “Salute.”
“I was telling Luisa, here, about Francesca,” Will said. “She loved the story.”
Luisa leaned forward. “So romantic. An American soldier coming back to Italy to find his love from long ago.”
Sophie wondered if he shared the rest of the story. The part about him fathering a child.
“I wish I could help.” Luisa shook her head. “I’ll tell my mother and grandmother your story. My nonna is Francesca, too.”
Will’s head spun to face Luisa. “Your grandmother is named Francesca?”
Luisa smiled. “Yes, but she is not your woman from the war. Nonna moved here after my grandfather died. In the 1950s, I think. They came from Pisa, not from around here.”
Will’s crestfallen face said it all.
Luisa patted Will’s arm. “I will ask them if they know of your Francesca. How shall I reach you?”
Sophie exchanged mobile numbers with Luisa and gave her Joe’s cell number, too, as he would be a local call. She thanked the young woman and asked for the check.
“Margherita’s coffee will go on the school’s account.” Luisa stood and walked inside.
Sophie followed her and offered her credit card to pay for their drinks and food.
Luisa declined Sophie’s attempt to pay. �
�Put away your card. I’m afraid finding his Francesca will be difficult. I admire him, though, for his determination. This small gesture is all I can do to help him.”
Sophie hugged Luisa. “Thank you.”
A Francesca did live in this area, but she was not Will’s love. Luisa, while well-meaning, only underscored the futility of their search. Luisa told them the name “Francesca” was one of the most popular female names in Italy.
63
It’s fortunate the route out of here is downhill. Sophie looped her arm through Will’s to walk to their meeting place with Joe.
The road curved at the base, and to her relief, Joe’s car was parked in the “no parking” spot where he had dropped them off.
“Ciao,” Joe said. “Did you get Margherita’s prosciutto and coffee?”
Sophie held up the bag. “Absolutely.”
Luisa, not Sophie, remembered the coffee. She gave Sophie a crisp green and white bag, into which Luisa tucked the coffee and the prosciutto. The bag was tied with a matching green ribbon.
Joe grinned. “I managed to not drink all the wine he offered at the vineyard, only one bottle.” He winked.
Sophie studied Joe’s face. He looks sober.
“Would you like to drive by a distinguished estate on the way home?”
“We’re tired,” Sophie said. “Perhaps another day.”
“Speak for yourself.” Will’s grumpy persona had returned. “What’s the name of this place?”
Sophie’s eyes darted to Will. It’s not like him to opt for more sightseeing. Had he visited something similar during the war?
“Villa La Foce. It’s only a short distance. We needn’t stay long, but the property is quite lovely.”
Sophie started to object, but Joe silenced her with a wave of his hand. “We’re going there. You’ll thank me after.”
Joe shared its history.
“The villa itself was constructed in the late 15th century as a hospice for merchants and pilgrims. Iris and Antonio Origo purchased the land and buildings in the early 1920s. They updated the operations and brought modern agriculture methods. The garden is pleasant if you like that sort of thing.”
