“Right now,” I say quietly. It’s obvious that Carlo doesn’t like my commanding tone. But because everyone’s watching, he grudgingly puts Fabrizio’s other arm around his shoulder.
“Go home, signore. The party is over,” he says through clenched teeth. Fabrizio hangs between the two men like a sack of wet flour. Lucia and a flock of women follow as they drag the drunk Fabrizio out.
A little later, Fabrizio is propped against the outside of the Amalfi bar and, as the saying goes, puking his guts out. I’m not sure whether I read compassion or disgust in Lucia’s expression, but I decide on compassion, since I wouldn’t like it if she felt disgust. Salvi beat a pale-faced retreat back to the bar as soon as the retching noises began, mumbling “Gotta clean up,” and now Carlo, the blond guy, and the priest are quarreling in the street.
“Sssure I can drive, Carlo,” the blond guy slurs. “Nnno problem . . . Where isss Lorenzo’s car?”
“You can’t see straight, cretino,” Carlo replies. “Do you think I’d trust a drunken moron with my life?”
“Don’t you—don’t insult my mother . . .”
“What does anything have to do with your mother?”
“Well then . . . I’ll walk . . . that way . . . I think . . .”
“You aren’t going anywhere, Stefano. The padre—Lorenzo! Unbelievable! He’s asleep standing up.” I hear giggling and knee slapping.
“I don’t think those three can be left alone,” I say, looking at Lucia. She’s just standing there motionless, hugging herself. Only her dress moves with the breeze.
“You shouldn’t drive, yourself,” she whispers. I nod but then realize that she can’t see it in the dark.
“I know,” I say.
“Do you think you can find the way home on foot? Fabrizio might benefit from some exercise.”
“Oh god,” we hear from the wall, and then more vomiting sounds.
“I’ll find Tre Camini. If I get lost, I’ll ask Fabrizio.”
Lucia smiles—briefly, but a smile, and I’m surprised at my relief. For some reason I can’t stand that she’s mad at me.
“Fine. Then I’ll drive the boys home and collect you two on my way back,” she says. I nod. She strides to the parking lot, yanks the key out of Carlo’s hand, and grabs the blond one by the collar.
“Ouch, Lucia. You’re hurting me.”
“Don’t be such a girl, Stefano. Carlo, wake up the Father. We’re taking my car—but I dare you to puke on my seat covers.”
I almost feel sorry for the three. Grinning, I stroll over to Fabrizio. He seems to have emptied his stomach by now, because he’s sitting upright, his back against the wall, staring straight ahead. His face, above his three-day beard, is unnaturally pale in the moonlight.
“Can you get up, Signor Camini?” I ask in a cool voice, trying to ignore the foul-smelling puddle a few feet away. His eyes wander around as if he doesn’t know where my voice is coming from. His gaze finally stops at my bare legs. A grin creates the familiar dimple in his cheek. “Ah. Signora Phi . . . Phil . . .” He stops. “Can’t pronounce it.”
“Kind of embarrassing, since we’re supposedly engaged.” It slips out. He takes my arm and stands up, groaning, his face only inches from mine. An incredibly potent alcoholic cloud escapes his mouth and makes me turn my head away.
“Uppsala,” he mumbles into my hair. Oopsy-daisy.
“Uppsala? Where did you come across that term?” I grab his waist just before he keels over, and my arm becomes the sole support for his entire weight. He’s much brawnier than he looks.
“Germany. Studied there . . . That was . . .” He seems to be thinking intensely. “Forgot when.”
“Signor Camini, we’re going to walk home. Do you think you can manage that?”
“Sssure.” He staggers forward a few steps and pulls me along. “Let’s go. This way. Just always follow the street.”
After a few hundred yards, my shoulder aches and I’m covered in sweat from being his walking stick. “This won’t work. You have to walk on your own,” I pant. I extricate myself from his tight grip. Fabrizio sways but stays on his feet, resembling a floating buoy.
I look at the sky. The night is completely dark, since clouds hide the moon. I can’t see a single star. No house lights, no street lamps, not even the headlights of a distant car. There’s no human noise, either, only the rustling of leaves and the chirping of crickets somewhere in the fields out there. An urge to run barefoot suddenly overcomes me, so I strip off my heels—a decision I immediately regret as sharp little stones cut into my feet. Swearing, I pad over to the grassy edge of the path.
“You better put on your shoes again. Dirt paths aren’t made for spoiled city girls,” an amused voice says behind me. It already sounds slightly more sober. The beneficial effects of fresh air.
“Just like rum isn’t made for hardheaded hicks?”
He forces a laugh. A moment later I hear a cry followed by loud rustling and crashing, as if an animal were breaking through the undergrowth. I anxiously hold my breath.
“Signor Camini?” No reply. Except for the clattering of cicadas, there’s absolute silence. “Fabrizio?”
“Here.” The muffled sound comes from my left, not next to me but below. “Down the slope.”
“What are you doing down there?”
“I thought I’d take a shortcut” is the laconic reply, accompanied by a hoarse chuckle. With a sigh, I cautiously make my way down the slope until my foot pushes against something. I stop. Just then the clouds break up and a bright moon lights the meadow. I see Fabrizio lying in the tall grass with his arms outstretched and a blissful smile on his face. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him totally relaxed. I bend down and awkwardly tap his shoulder.
“We have to go back to the road.”
He shakes his head. “The road’s too dangerous in the dark. We have to stay here until dawn.”
“That’s not going to happen.” I nudge him, and he grumbles.
“Why not? Do you have an appointment, Frau Journalist?”
“I’m not a—” A car approaches on the road above. Lucia! Straightening, I try to climb up the hill on all fours, but Fabrizio grabs my ankle, and my hands find nothing to hold on to in the dewy grass.
“Where are you running, Signora Phi . . . ?”
“Let go of me! Lucia will drive by if she doesn’t see us.” I kick—a reflex response. Unfortunately, the alcohol doesn’t seem to impede his reaction time. A second hand now grasps my other leg.
“That’s what’s wrong with you Germans. You’re always hurrying somewhere.”
“I’m not a German, damn it. Half of one at most, you dumbass,” I scream at him. Light sweeps above us, and I struggle to escape his grip. The car’s headlights, then taillights, briefly shine over our heads. When the sound of the engine fades away, I stretch out in the wet grass in defeat. I wonder who hands out the shitty cards up above.
“Now that isss much better,” Fabrizio mumbles. “Patience bears fruit; that’s what my Nonna used to say.”
“I am sick and tired of your Nonna! It’s her fault that I’m sitting in a ditch with a stinking-drunk Italian,” I say, sitting up. “Would you kindly remove your hands from my ankles?”
“I’m not stinking drunk. Slightly tipsy at most.”
“Sure, and you can call me Christina Aguilera,” I say, rubbing my ankles. They’ll probably be black and blue.
“Why do you then insist that your name’s Signora Philipp?”
“It was a joke.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You know what? Forget it.” Sighing, I stretch out my legs. Why not? I obviously can’t talk sense into this guy.
We lie silently in the grass for a while. It’s actually not unpleasant. The milky-white moonlight is spectacular. I even see some stars now. Out of habit,
I scan the skies for the only constellation I know. There it is: the Big Dipper. The grass is a little scratchy and I don’t even want to think about all the insects crawling over me, but . . .
“We can go now,” Fabrizio whispers, close to my ear.
I start up. “Why? A minute ago you wanted to spend the night here.”
“I thought you needed a break. But now you’re ready to walk home. So, signora—after you.”
I feel like I’ve been had.
After a good hour of silent walking, I in my shoes again and he barefoot, Fabrizio stops.
“What is it?” I ask, in less than a good mood. I left my romantic musings about the starry sky and clucking cicadas back in the ditch. A blister on my foot is burning like hell. That’s what you get when your half-size feet mean your shoes are always too small or too big. All I want right now is to be far away from here, far from this thing called nature.
“Pssst.” Fabrizio puts a finger to his mouth and motions at the darkness in front of us. I recognize the silhouette of a wall and an archway. It’s Tre Camini’s driveway. Thank god, we’re here. I clench my teeth to limp ahead for the next hundred yards, but Fabrizio holds me back.
“We should—”
“Let go,” I hiss. “No way are we taking another break.”
Fabrizio drops his arm and shrugs. “As you wish. I just thought we—”
A bloodcurdling cry splits the night—shrill, deafening, right out of a horror movie. Something scurries in front of my feet, and an unexpected sharp pain shoots through my leg. Crying out, I jump aside. The thing hops up and down . . . and flaps its wings. The screeching turns into angry clucking.
I don’t think I’ve ever run faster. When I finally collapse on Tre Camini’s steps, a cramp is stitching my right side and my heart is pounding. So that’s what it’s like to bid your life good-bye. That stupid chicken! Fabrizio saunters into the dim circle of porch light a few moments later.
“I tried to warn you.” He drops down next to me on the stairs. His sleeve touches my arm. “Everything all right?”
“What do you think?” I grumble and move a few inches away from him. “That beast had it out for me the minute I got here. Don’t chickens sleep at night?”
“Usually.” Fabrizio smiles. “But Vittoria thinks she’s a guard dog.”
“Whoop de doo.”
“She’s just a little chicken.”
“Your little chicken bit my leg.”
“Let me have a look.” Before I can protest, Fabrizio props my leg on his knee and squints at it. I suddenly feel like I’m twelve. Or not. While he strokes my shinbone, I stare at the back of his neck, at all his little black curls of hair, and suddenly I want to touch them. Things are not going the way they’re supposed to.
“Hm.”
“What?”
“I’m afraid there’s not much left to be done.” He shakes his head regretfully. I jerk my leg off his knee.
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ve heard that before. Do you know that you smell like oranges?”
“Do I?” I say sheepishly.
“I like oranges.”
He’s drunk and he’s flirting with me. He’s flirting with me? My throat lumps up and an alarming tingling invades my stomach.
“You like oranges,” I say. It’s much easier to talk to him when he isn’t being nice.
“Yes, I do, signora.” He gets up with difficulty and brushes soil and dust from his pants. I don’t even want to think how I look after our childish wrestling in the ditch. I touch my hair. “We’re home, by the way,” he adds. I nod and try to smile.
“Don’t you want to go in, Signora Philipp?” He reaches for the door but misses the knob. At least he can fully pronounce my name again. He looks at me so intently that I feel naked.
“I’ll be in in a moment. Just go ahead,” I whisper, not looking at him. Fabrizio hesitates, but then the alcohol in his system seems to win out over his sense of chivalry. I wonder if he even remembers what happened in the bar. I should confront him about the engagement mess, but his dead-tired face tells me to postpone what will definitely turn out to be a verbal slap in the face—or maybe I should even forget it. It was probably a bad joke that one of his drinking pals started.
“Thanks for bringing me home,” he says sluggishly and pushes the door open.
“Glad to do it. Buona notte.”
“Buona notte, Sofia.”
I sit on the steps for almost an hour and watch the clouds turn pink. When I finally go in, I still don’t know why it bothers me that he called me by his ex-girlfriend’s name.
Chapter Eight
Hanna
There’s no coffee in my bedroom when I wake up later that morning. I stare at the ceiling, the blanket pulled up to my chin, and ponder whether that’s a good sign or a bad sign. Rosa-Maria did put an installment of a serial novel on my nightstand, under the mistaken assumption that I am interested in pulp fiction. More out of boredom than interest, I pick it up.
La Spinta di Speranza—Propelled by Hope. Who the hell comes up with these titles? I inspect the cover model’s impressive abs and then leaf through the booklet. Words and phrases that make me blush jump out from the yellowed pages. So what. For lack of other reading matter, or perhaps just to refresh my Italian, I begin to read.
I toss away the blanket an hour and a half later, flushed, and dash to my tiny bathroom. After a bit, I make my way down the staircase in Lucia’s flowered apron dress, carrying the slippers in my hand.
I’m welcomed by the song “Con Me Anche Tu”—“You‘re with Me, Too”—playing on the portable radio above the kitchen sink. A lone place setting—a cup and a golden-brown cornetto—waits on the table for a late breakfaster. I assume that’s me. No sign of the guardian of the kitchen, but the old estate manager is sitting hunched over on the corner bench. He inspects me carefully, and his eyes come to rest on my bare feet. I offer a shy “Buon giorno” and pick up the tin espresso maker from the stove. Alberto clicks his tongue a few times, sounding like a gas lighter, and when I look at him, he points to his nose and winks conspiratorially.
“Hanna! There you are.” Lucia comes in through the back door. She puts a basket with eggs on the counter and hugs me. A little too tightly for my taste. Hot coffee splashes over my hand. Lucia holds me at arm’s length and looks at me intently. I’m immediately on guard.
“Lucia, what happened yesterday—”
“I already know everything. Fabrizio explained it to me this morning. I’m so happy for the two of you.” She lets go and claps her hands, as blissful as if she just had a vision of the Virgin Mary. This can’t be good.
“Fabrizio did—”
“I admit it, I was mad at first because of your little game—I mean, kitchen help and everything. And you made a real effort to make it seem like you couldn’t stand each other. Honestly, though, I knew you liked him. You couldn’t hide that.”
“Hm . . . yes” is all I can manage in reply.
“But fate has a way of reuniting two people who are meant for each other,” she says, giddy with excitement. “For you to meet each other again in Berlin, after all those years—it’s so incredibly romantic.”
Someone must be playing a huge prank on me right now. I glance over to Alberto, who, taking advantage of the commotion, is spooning real sugar into his coffee.
“Berlin . . . yes, really. An amazing coincidence.” I come up for air. “Do you happen to know where Fabrizio is? I need to discuss something with him,” I say. Lucia beams.
“He’s in the outer apricot field.” She points outside and blinks. “I was actually about to bring him and the workers coffee and some tramezzini. They could use some sandwiches right about now. Would you like to do that for me?”
“Absolutely,” I say, louder than necessary, and quickly lower my voice. “That way I
can talk with Fabrizio.”
And wring his neck at the same time.
“By the way, Hanna . . .”
I’m going to draw and quarter him—yes. And then feed him to that nasty chicken.
Lucia’s face flushes slightly. “You obviously won’t sleep in that little staff room anymore. Rosa-Maria will bring your stuff up to Fabrizio’s apartment.”
“No!” I shout. Lucia looks confused. “I mean . . .” I search for words, but only come up with expletives for men in general and Italian machos specifically. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say. My fingers twitch, and not just because I’m thinking of the kitchen dragon discovering Giuseppa’s sleeping place among my underwear. Just the thought of sharing a bed with that—I clutch my cup and swallow some burning-hot coffee. Lucia watches me with a tilted head, obviously wondering how to interpret my reaction. Suddenly she seems to understand.
“You want to save yourself for marriage! Dio, how sweet,” she says, enchanted. I nod, relieved, and pick up the brimming tote bag and huge thermos. Claire would be dying of laughter if she were here. It would never cross my mind to take a vow of chastity before marriage. With some effort, I produce a pure and chaste smile.
“Exactly. We’re waiting until after the wedding.”
That’ll never happen, not as long as I breathe.
After a final grin of blissful anticipation, I turn my back on Lucia and rush through the back door.
Fabrizio
I distinctly remember my first apricot. It was hard and tasted horrible. And I got my face slapped for it, one of the many slaps my father used to teach me respect for the fruit of our orchards. The principale, as workers and family members alike called him, was convinced that picking an unripe apricot was bad luck.
Today I understand what he meant. Apricots are a difficult business and cost time and nerves. The slender trees are as temperamental as divas, vulnerable to pests, wind, and wetness; a late frost can destroy the entire year’s crop. But as soon as the year’s first apricot lies in your hand like a velvety little creature, all troubles are forgotten. It breaks apart easily and the pit falls away by itself. Sweet and sour explode in your mouth—and, today, that explosion takes my mind off my throbbing head and heartburn.
Apricot Kisses Page 14
