The Knotty Bride

by Julie Sarff

  “In Italy, we value our homes and our investments, and we don’t squander them,” Ada continues. “Your culture knows nothing but the mean streets. Here in Italy, we are more gentrified. We don’t have millions of people living in squalor. I suppose you married my son to escape the poverty of New Delhi. Tell the truth, you used him to get out of India, didn’t you?”

  “Mother!” Dario’s voice cuts in loud and forceful. “That’s completely inappropriate!”

  I stand rooted to the spot with one hand wrapped around the leash of the burly dog. In my mind, I try to comprehend how anybody could say such horrible things to their own daughter-in-law. At times like this, it seems obvious to me that there are two kinds of people in this world, the xenophobes and the non-xenophobes. Xenophobia, of course, is an irrational fear of all things foreign. Back home in America, we know all about this. People who migrate across our southern border seem to be the subject of constant ridicule, despite the fact that they generally take jobs that Americans don’t want, like picking lettuce or meatpacking. In Italy, it’s no different. In a country constantly trying to adapt to its new place in the world as a receiver of mass immigration there are a lot of people like Ada. People who love to blame others for their troubles.

  For the true xenophobe, having a daughter-in-law from a different country provides for a never-ending source of conflict.

  Unable to contain my indignation, I turn to deliver a rant about how Ada doesn’t know the first thing about the Indian culture, as if I, myself, am some kind of expert– when I see Rupa striding towards her house in tears. Rupa is a strong woman, not one prone to demonstrating her feelings. She glances in our direction with a flash of embarrassment.

  Right then. Time to move on. Brusquely, Francesca and I herd the big dog to an empty kennel with a small white board on it that says “Kennel 14. Welcome home _____.” Here at the rescue, Rupa has certain protocols in place, and we are supposed to write the name of any incoming animal in the provided blank with an erasable marker. I pick up a green marker to write a name but can’t think of anything. Slowly, I write P-h-i-l in the blank. It’s the only name that comes to mind.

  “There you go, Phil. I think you’ll find the accommodations and food at this establishment superb. Not to worry, the time will fly by, and soon you’ll be in a permanent home of your own.” Tuckered beyond belief, Phil curls up on his bed in the corner and shuts his eyes. I glance down at him and wonder what will happen to all the animals if Dario decides to proceed with the divorce. And what will happen to Rupa? She won’t have any money. Will she have to return to New Delhi?

  Afraid of witnessing any more ugliness, Francesca and I crouch down by Phil’s bed and give him a heap of adoration. With a slam of a car door and a rev of the motor, we hear Ada and Dario drive away. After a few rounds of “Who’s a good dog?” I say a fond farewell to Phil who, despite the adoration, looks so beaten down by life that he doesn’t even wag a tail. He keeps his eyes shut tightly as if to keep out the cruel world.

  “Your world is going to change, Phil.” I try my best to sound positive. “No more scrounging for scraps. Like I said, soon you’ll have a home of your own with a wonderful, loving owner.” Phil doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t even bother to look up as Francesca and I close his kennel door behind us.

  When we circle back around the front part of the main house, we find Rupa sitting on the front steps. She looks terrible, as if she has just lost her best friend. She stands up, dusts off her trousers and then helps us unload the other three cats. All the while she pretends as if we haven’t overheard what must have been one of the most embarrassing moments in her life.

  By the time I swing into the driver’s seat of my own ugly Punto the sky turns jet black. I pull out of Rupa’s driveway with a feeling of dread. Dario and Rupa can’t get divorced, they just can’t. They are two people who belong together. Somehow I need to put things right. Somehow I need to remind them of how much they mean to each other. Somehow I need to get Rupa and Dario back together. All they need is a fresh start, much like Phil.

  But how to get the two of them back together? And how to get Ada Brunetti to finally accept Rupa?

  A wedding might do it. A really romantic Catholic one. Somehow I need to engineer a second wedding, one in a Catholic church, one that will please Ada and remind Dario and Rupa how much they love each other.

  What a brilliant plan! But how do I get Rupa and Dario to their own surprise Catholic wedding without them knowing?

  Somehow I have to figure it out. I will get Rupa and Dario back together. I will throw them a surprise wedding. I know I can do it. And I also, absolutely, positively must find a good home for Phil. He deserves it. If only my own apartment weren’t so ridiculously small.

  Chapter 5

  As soon as I arrive home that evening, my cell phone rings. Strange –it’s another number with an L.A. prefix. I pick up the phone and answer it with a suspicious, “Hello?”

  “Lily!” a voice thunders from the other side, “It’s me, Matt. How the heck are you? So sorry, I’ve been meaning to call for ages. Been making this film in the Antarctic. Livin’ on a frikin’ iceberg practically. It’s no excuse though; I’ve gotten so far behind on returning personal emails. And I did love all the pictures of geese with toupees that you sent. Clever what they do with Photoshop! One of them looked exactly like my dentist.”

  Matt? Matt Z? My long lost soul brother? Suddenly I am flooded with happiness. How long has it been since I last saw him? It was over a year ago, at my children’s fourth birthday. How wonderful to hear his voice. I have so many questions. Namely, I wonder how his wife is, and how the movie business is. I read in a magazine that he’s been very busy making two films in the past nine months. I am just about to purr a “Well, it’s so great to finally hear from you” into the phone when I pause. Wait a minute, why is he calling me now?

  After all, this man is Brandon’s wingman. Is he on a reconnaissance mission? Is he seeking retribution on behalf of Brandon? Will he be telling me that Brandon has changed his mind and decided to sue me over hoarding the cats in his villa? It’s all very curious timing. Very curious, indeed.

  Exactly who does he think he’s kidding? Does he think I am a fool? Is he going to try to pump me for information about my feelings? Does he think I still have feelings for Brandon? Does he think I blindly worship his every move?

  The truth is I don’t worship Brandon’s every move. I don’t even think about him. I haven’t thought about him for the last two or three days. Except when I went to the bank about ten minutes ago on the way home from Rupa’s. I thought about him then and about how much I miss my Ca’Buschi paycheck. That, of course, led me to think about how much I miss the grand old villa of Ca’Buschi itself. And of course, that got me thinking about how I was going to stage my glorious wedding to Brandon Logan on the north lawn. It would have been an amazing affair, and I was going to send an invite to all of Arona. I was going to serve a delicious Italian spread for all my guests featured on thirteen round banquet tables with an enormous narwhal carved out of ice in the middle.

  “Lily? You there?”

  Gar, I can’t talk to Matt. He’ll make casual conversation. He’ll ask, “How is the weather?” He’ll ask, “How are the boys?” He’ll ask, “What is your favorite snack?” He’ll tell me inane things like he hates his director, or that the cold in Antarctica made his jaw ache, or that once he went to school with a woman who looked like a much younger version of Marilyn Monroe.

  I don’t have time for idle chitchat. And what’s worse is it won’t be idle chitchat because what he will really be asking is, “So how do you still feel about Brandon?” That’s it. That’s what he’ll do. He’ll try to read between the lines, pump me for information or cast a spell. There’s only one thing I can do at this point: for the second time in my life, I must hang up on Matt the movie star.

  With my index finger I quickly hit the “end call” button on my phone. Then I lean back on my love seat
and cover my face with my hands.

  October

  (The rain returns.)

  Chapter 6

  The scene between Ada and Dario has got me thinking a lot about the relationships between Italian mothers and their sons. I, for one, do not think it is healthy to cling to your sons and interfere with their adult lives.

  “You know, it doesn’t matter who you marry. I will absolutely, wholeheartedly love whatever woman you choose. I will leave you alone. I swear,” I pontificate and move my red playing piece triumphantly three spaces ahead.

  The boys look at me wide-eyed. Marriage is not a discussion you expect to have when you are playing Candy Land.

  “What?” Matteo asks before smashing his yellow playing piece into Luca’s purple one. Luca doesn’t seem to care about the brutal assault. He’s thinking deeply about what I’ve said. “I want to marry Antonella Travelli, who lives in the apartment downstairs. But she wants to own a horse ranch and I want to live on a submarine.”

  I know, I know, I want to tell him, love is so complicated!

  Matteo stops attacking his brother’s playing piece long enough to add, “You could build a horse arena onto your submarine. That way she could come visit you.”

  Content to have found a solution to his marriage problem, Luca decides he wants a celebratory cup of hot chocolate. I climb to my feet and head off to make some in my Playskool-sized kitchen. Luca’s right; it does seem like the perfect afternoon for hot chocolate. Outside the rain falls in thick dark sheets, accompanied by an ever-growing fog.

  “The mist is so mysterious,” I mumble profoundly, picking up the kettle and filling it with water. Suddenly, I feel lost in the sea of Buschi mysteries. I feel overwhelmed. Who will help me? I cannot find the Buschi heir. I have no idea who’s in Buschi’s tomb. And what was up with Beatta Cavale? She seems like a very honest, forthright person; a very honest forthright person who was forced to tell a lie, or a half-truth or something. Why else did she look so discomfited at all our questions?

  “Bring, bring, bring,” goes my cell phone. I plop the kettle down on the stove and head off to search for it.

  “Bring, bring, bring,” continues the phone as I dig through my handbag, feeling a twinge of reluctance. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times, nothing good ever comes from answering my phone. Reluctantly, I pull it out by its pink plastic Hello Kitty cover and scan the incoming number. Today it’s not Matt the movie star. It’s Enrico. It’s my recalcitrant ex-husband from whom I have not heard in months— except, of course, at the divorce hearing where he swept in, signed the papers and swept out. With a great ‘harrumph’ of a noise, I push the blinking answer button, anxious to give him a piece of my mind.

  “It’s about time you called, Enrico. There are a million things we need to discuss regarding the children,” I say, simultaneously tsk-tsking at Luca and Matteo who are fighting in the living room.

  “Lily!” Enrico thunders into his end of the phone. “Grab the boys and hurry down to City Hall. I’m getting married in thirty minutes.”

  My mouth becomes a tight line. What?

  “Hurry, Lily, she wants to get the wedding over with. We’re waiting on the judge right now,” he roars before the line goes dead.

  I stand stock-still. A scream, as if a mouse has just scurried across my feet, escapes me. Immediately Luca stops trying to force-feed Matteo the Candy Land playing cards.

  “Cosa c’e?” he asks, thoroughly spooked. I don’t answer. I cannot believe how inconsiderate my ex-husband is. He gives me thirty minutes notice, and I am magically supposed to round up his children so that they can make it to the ceremony on time?

  In two angry steps, I stalk across my miniscule kitchen. I fling open the window and scream again, even louder this time, as if a horde of mice are scurrying across my feet. People on the street peek out from underneath their umbrellas and stare up at me with alarm. I don’t care. I continue.

  “Per favore, mama, cosa c’e?” Please, mama, what is it? The boys ask over and over.

  What choice do I have but to spring into action? I grab my cell and dial Uncle Tommaso. There’s no answer. Where is he? Does he know about this wedding? His cell phone emits a long beep, and I leave a message punctuated with screams. Poor Uncle Tommaso, he won’t be able to understand a word. Finished, I click off my cell phone, grab my bag, my keys and everyone’s coats. Then I scream all the way down the steps to my ugly second-hand Punto, yelling at the frightened little boys who trail behind me.

  “Hurry up or we’re going to be late!”

  I am just buckling them into their seats when I abruptly stop. I will not do this. I will not drag the boys to their father’s impromptu wedding. I don’t care if Federica and Enrico are immensely disappointed that the boys are not in attendance. If they truly cared about the boys, they would have let me know days in advance.

  “Honestly, I have no idea what they’re thinking. Ma cosa stanno pensando?” I mutter to myself.

  I swivel on a sensibly-clad heel and march the boys back into the building. The very pretty little horsewoman-to-be, Antonella Tavelli, is standing in the stairwell with a tiara on her head.

  “Antonella,” I call, “is your mother at home? Do you think I could ask her a favor? How would you like a playdate with my boys at your place?”

  Five minutes later I exit the building alone.

  *****

  For some reason, there is a complete traffic jam at two in the afternoon. The streets of Arona are a parking lot. I would have made better time if I had walked the ten blocks between my house and City Hall. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to arrive within the hour.

  I sit ramrod straight, every muscle in my body twitching with anger, when suddenly I catch a glimpse of a red Fiat Spider; it’s an old thing, a collector’s item, and it’s snaking its way through the fog and the rain.

  “Hooray!” I shout because I recognize the car as that of Federica. Obviously, she’s stuck in traffic too, and there can’t be a wedding without a bride.

  I am doing a little happy dance in the driver’s seat of my Fiat, as much as my seatbelt will allow, when all of a sudden Federica opens her car door and hops out. It’s an odd thing to do, leaving one’s car in traffic, but it’s even stranger because the woman who jumps out of the car and right into the middle of the traffic does not look like a bride-to-be. No, dear reader, this woman who has jumped out of her car looks like a murderer-to-be; she is absolutely bedraggled. She is wearing some sort of dumpy tracksuit, and her hair is all stringy. In her hand, she clutches an object, shiny and black.

  For a mere second, she stands in the middle of the street and looks around furtively. Then she heads north, right through the middle of all the cars.

  Well, I’ll be. Federica isn’t the bride. Then that means…

  I should have known. I should have known by the manic tone of Enrico’s voice on the phone that he didn’t mean he was marrying Federica. I should have known he meant he was marrying Lidia Cerchi, Francesca’s nineteen-year-old cousin!

  Like a shot put flung by a hefty weightlifter, I fly out of the car. I’m under no illusions about what’s going to happen. Federica has been pushed to her limit. I know that desperate, hungry look that I saw in her eyes. I’ve been in her shoes. I know what it’s like to lose all hope when it comes to love.

  Out in the street, I race between cars. There are honks here and catcalls there, and an angry, “Hey, what do you think you’re doing running in the middle of the street?” I don’t care. I speed by small European car after small European car, moving as quickly and nimbly as possible. I have to catch Federica before she does the unthinkable.

  A moment later, I catch sight of her. She has reached the steps of city hall. I hear her open her mouth and begin shouting. Up ahead, at the top of the steps, stand Enrico and Lidia. Enrico is holding a large red umbrella, shielding his wife-to-be, who is wearing the shortest, tightest, see-throughiest white suit I’ve ever seen.

  Federica ram
ps up the volume, but Enrico doesn’t appear to notice. He seems oblivious to everything as he reaches out a hand to open the door to city hall. Federica shrieks louder. Enrico turns to look, and a second later, she raises a shaky hand, pointing the gun in his direction. A shot goes off, and Enrico falls to the ground.

  “Nooo…” I yell.

  Hearing my cry, Federica shoots me a desperate look. Incredibly she turns away from me and raises her gun again— as if to shoot Enrico once more. Wham! I tackle her from the side. We roll around on the steps, a tangle of arms and legs, both of us trying to grab for the gun that has fallen out of her hands. A bear-sized man beats both of us. He reaches down and grabs the pistol with one hand before reaching down again and frantically grabbing for Federica with the other. I jump to my feet, trying to understand what’s happening. The man who is pulling Federica to her feet is wearing a police uniform. He must be a guard here at City Hall.

  The guard moves deftly, subduing Federica completely. This allows me to turn my attention to Enrico. He’s wailing something awful and rolling around on the ground. In two steps, I bound up the stairs.

  “Enrico, what is it? Let’s see.” He sits up slowly, holding his hurt hand. Beside us, a frantic Lidia Cerchi sirens so loudly it’s as though she’s announcing the arrival of a typhoon.

  “Let me see; let me see,” I demand. Reluctantly Enrico unclenches his fist.

  “My goodness, it looks like you’ve been shot by a BB gun,” I say, staring down at an impossibly tiny flesh wound.

  I take my ratty scarf off my neck and wrap it around his hand.

  “There, you should be just fine.” I say and turn my attention to the bride. “Guarda, Lidia. Sta bene. Non c’e male.” I tell Lidia to look at Enrico— he is okay. She eyes his tiny, bloodless wound and immediately ceases her yelling. Then she blows her top and issues a thousand curse words in Enrico’s direction. I ignore their lover’s spat and turn back to look at Federica, trapped in the arms of the burly poliziotto. My goodness, it is Federica, but it isn’t. The woman standing in front of me is wild. She is a woman who looks like she hasn’t eaten, or bathed or showered in days. Her hair is so oily it sticks straight out of her head.