Apricot Kisses

by Winter, Claudia

  “Fabrizio? May I ask you something else?” Lucia’s voice softens.

  “I have to hang up, Lucia.” I almost run the last few yards to the door of the plane, past the waiting crew. Despite my determination, I feel somewhat queasy.

  “Are you going to bring Hanna home?”

  I’m about to scold her, but something holds me back. I’m thinking of Nonna’s good-bye letter, of Alberto’s words, and of Hanna’s soft lips that I want to kiss again. It took me a while to be certain, and maybe it’s too late—but maybe not. “I hope so, Lucia.”

  Hanna

  I have never in my life packed a suitcase so fast and disorganized. I’ll pay for it in Italy—unless Lucia slams the door in my face right away. I did pack a lot of tops and dresses, but only one pair of jeans and neither socks nor underwear. I even forgot my makeup bag. But if I turn around now, I might change my mind and allow the ticket to go to waste.

  It seems that my cab driver thinks I’m going to give birth in his cab if he doesn’t drive like a racecar driver. When the horrible ride ends in front of Terminal A, I clutch Giuseppa’s urn to my chest and give him way too much of a tip—I’m too nervous to wait for him to count the change. I climb out, grab my suitcase from the backseat, and slam the door shut with my hip.

  “Hey—this isn’t a tractor,” he yells before taking off at full speed.

  Just then it starts to rain—of course—so I run into the terminal. My flight isn’t listed on the display board—no wonder, since I’m over three hours early. I glance around, not sure what to do. People are running past, clutching their phones, pulling their suitcases to the check-in counters, and dashing into duty-free shops. I see a poster advertising the airport restaurant’s breakfast special.

  Why not? I can’t check my bag yet, and I have nothing in my stomach besides coffee. And I haven’t eaten properly in days, so a breakfast croissant will hit the spot—although it’ll hardly be as delicious as Rosa-Maria’s cornetti. Suddenly I’m looking forward to the trip. At a magazine stand, I buy a women’s magazine that’s full of calming trivialities like new styles, moisturizers, and recipes. With Giuseppa under my arm, I stroll toward the airport restaurant.

  Fabrizio

  I’m almost surprised how smoothly everything goes. My plane arrives on time, I don’t have to wait for my luggage since I only have a carry-on, and the customs official waves me through without checking my ID. A mere two hours after leaving Florence, I’m in the arrivals terminal in Berlin. I stop in the crowd of people laughing, hugging, and kissing. Fragments of German sentences drift through the air, and it takes a moment for me to adjust to the unfamiliar language again. Then I remember that I don’t have Hanna’s phone number or address.

  Retreating to a quieter corner, I take out my phone. But the battery is dead, and I didn’t bring the charger. I curse loudly, scaring an elderly lady pushing a luggage cart. I’m about to apologize when two little girls greet her with hugs and screeches. A magazine falls from her purse to the floor, and I stare in disbelief at the yellow house on the cover. I reach for it quickly.

  “You’ve lost . . . something,” I say lamely and hand the overwhelmed lady her magazine, still staring at it. The mother rushes up and calls the girls, Pia and Pippa, to order. The Germans have a sense of humor, after all.

  “Very kind.” The woman takes the magazine, but I don’t let go. I suddenly have an idea.

  “Forgive me . . . this magazine . . . Where can I buy one?” Now I let go, and the woman looks startled.

  “You can get it at any newspaper stand.” She speaks slowly as if I were half-witted.

  “A newspaper stand, of course.” I nod, feeling embarrassed. Bowing a little, I turn and hurry away.

  I run almost to the other end of the airport before finding a stand that isn’t sold out of Genusto Gourmet. But in the departure terminal, I manage to get my hands on the next-to-last copy, and, still in line, search for the masthead. I’m dying to read the lead article, but I have to find Hanna first.

  The text blurs—the sleepless night is catching up with me—and I do a double take, imagining that I saw Hanna in the crowd. I need to take something for this headache, get a bite to eat, and wash it all down with a double espresso.

  While pocketing the change, I almost crash into a display for the airport restaurant that some genius put right outside the door. Ouch. I rub my elbow and eye the poster, a smiling blonde woman holding out a breakfast cornetto.

  And even though I feel strange about returning to the place where all the trouble started, I follow the pretty blonde’s pointing finger.

  Hanna

  Nothing has changed in the airport restaurant. The place smells of roast pork, coffee, and broken air conditioning. Servers hoisting trays squeeze by people, suitcases, and strollers. There’s even a tour group at the bar again, although its members are wearing matching T-shirts instead of green baseball caps. I make my way through the crowd to the back of the restaurant, half expecting to see my boss somewhere near the window—or a dark-haired man with a three-day beard and sad eyes. That doesn’t happen, of course—a relief but also, however irrationally, disappointing at the same time.

  I head to a table for two next to the window and put Giuseppa on the empty chair, and then on the windowsill, despite the déjà vu. I have no time to ponder—the server’s already waiting for my order. She doesn’t recognize me, which is understandable, considering the hundreds of guests she sees every day. I return her impersonal smile with a warm, friendly one and order a corne—croissant and a coffee with milk.

  Then I delve into an article about potted plants for balconies. I’d like to have a garden—of course, not one as big as Lucia’s at Tre Camini. Maybe I’ll get lucky and snatch a first-floor apartment in Vienna. I could grow strawberries or cherry tomatoes. I start to smile when I think of Sasha and how she flung her arms around my neck last night because Hellwig decided to run her article on urban vegetable gardening in the next issue.

  “You know, I’m a little proud of myself,” I tell Giuseppa, and my heart beats faster. The old lady is going home, and so am I—even though I don’t yet know where that might be. The idea of a new beginning in Vienna is definitely exciting. But my life seems suddenly full of opportunities and maybe . . . maybe Fabrizio is one of them.

  When the waitress brings my breakfast, I remember that I wanted to stop at the restroom when I bought the magazine. I lean toward the next table, where a couple in their thirties is studying a Thailand travel guide.

  “Excuse me.”

  The ginger-haired woman looks up.

  “Could you please watch my stuff for a moment while I run to the restroom?” I ask. She looks confused for a moment, but then nods. I hurry off after mouthing thanks.

  Fabrizio

  My blood sugar has definitely zeroed out. I saw three Hannas on the short walk to the restaurant and even followed the last one, only to see her embrace a blond giant of a man.

  A sobering thought.

  Until now I’ve assumed that there is no other man in Hanna’s life. What if that’s not true? What if he was the reason she left? I briefly close my eyes and realize that it’s harder every day to imagine Nonna’s face. “If you don’t ask, the answer is no, kiddo,” she says. You’re right. I will find out if her heart is taken.

  The airport restaurant is so crammed that I contemplate just grabbing a bratwurst at a stand. But then I see an empty table at the window, and a moment later look down in confusion at the untouched breakfast awaiting me. Did I black out and order already?

  “That table is taken,” a woman with red curls says next to me. “The lady will be back any moment.”

  Disappointed, I nod and look around. My stomach growls so loudly that the redhead starts to laugh. “She just asked us to watch her luggage. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you take the other seat,” she says.

  Needin
g no more encouragement, I drop my bag and sit down. Even if this lady does mind, I’m so hungry by now that I don’t care—and I have to curb my impulse to eat her crispy cornetto.

  Then the curvy waitress comes over. God forbid! It’s the same as last time.

  “Don’t tell me you came back because of our excellent pork roast,” she beams. I grin back at her with what I hope is not too forced a smile.

  “Obviously I only came back to see you again.”

  She blushes, not hearing the sarcasm in my voice. Damn. Now I’ll have to wait forever to get something to eat.

  “You’re unfortunately too late. I have a new boyfriend,” she giggles. The ginger woman at the next table rolls her eyes. I raise an eyebrow and try not to look too relieved.

  “What a pity.”

  She shrugs and winks. “I could put you on the waiting list. Just in case.”

  “That’s a generous offer. But before you do that, could you bring me . . . the same order as this one, a coffee and a cornetto?”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I feel the redhead measure me from top to bottom and almost sense the darkness around me as she files me in a drawer labeled “typical Southern European,” slams it shut, and turns the key twice. Sighing, I take the magazine out of my bag and flip to Hanna’s article. My stomach contracts when I see her photo. She’s laughing—a beautiful woman. I breathe in and out deeply and begin to read.

  Dear Reader,

  I am turning to you today about a partly personal matter. First of all, thank you for your loyalty, encouragement, and expressions of gratitude, and also for your criticism, which has helped me improve my work.

  What follows is not the type of restaurant critique you’re used to reading. It starts with two apologies—to you, dear reader, for misinforming you, and to the owners of a small Italian trattoria whom my critique in the May 2014 issue—though it was written in good faith—unjustly wronged.

  Had I known then that the truth about Tre Camini is more than frozen vegetables and mushy spinach sauce, my review would not have been better, but might have sounded milder. For sometimes, good taste is a matter of not only the stomach but the heart. The gustatory catastrophe that ended up on my plate that day was the result of a well-meaning act of friendship, the work of the local policeman who wanted to make sure his best friend’s restaurant wouldn’t be closed because the cook was ill. I hope Carlo Fescale will forgive me for saying so, but I strongly advise you to avoid brushes with the law in the vicinity of Montesimo—the food in prison is abominable.

  But let’s talk about Tre Camini itself. Much more than a trattoria, the Camini family’s agricultural estate has been dedicated to the perpetuation of cucina bella Italiana for generations, not just in its kitchen, but also in its apricot fields. After the owner, Fabrizio Camini, pointed out why my original critique was incorrect, the family graciously gave me the opportunity to reconsider my opinion during a two-week stay at Tre Camini.

  What I discovered during those weeks far exceeded my expectations, not just in regard to the kitchen. Even though my own roots are Italian, I had no idea that the true taste of Italy is not only founded on fresh and first-class ingredients, carefully selected herbs, and a knowledgeable local cook—all of that goes without saying at Tre Camini. No, an Italian meal is perfect only if it’s been brought to the table by a family’s efforts.

  It is Rosa-Maria’s patience as she stirs the pasta sauce for hours; the tune Lucia Camini hums as she collects wildflower blossoms to decorate the desserts; old estate manager Alberto’s words that encourage the bees to exchange honey for sugar water. It is the passion in Fabrizio Camini’s espresso-colored eyes when he talks about his grandmother’s apricot liqueur, and the willpower and persistence needed to face the ups and downs of agriculture and business to produce a unique product. It is the contentment on everyone’s face when the lid of the roasting dish lifts and the aromas of wine and apricots mingle with cheerful chatter and harmless quarrels around the table; the laughter when thyme-infused panini slide out of the oven or handmade pasta tumbles into boiling salted water. It is the wine that tastes twice as good because one has someone to clink glasses with.

  Simply said, Tre Camini enchanted me. It offers far more than authentic Tuscan ribollita, spicy pasta Zanolla with speck and fava beans, or soft-as-butter roast rabbit prepared with apricots from the estate orchard. The venerable stone building radiates a living tradition and carries the spirit of an old woman who taught me what is important: the meaning of feeling at home—and of giving your heart to someone special.

  Today I can say with conviction that there is no place in all of Italy that is more Italian than this dot on the map, hardly visible to the naked eye. You should not miss it, whether you’re traveling through or decide to make a special trip there. You won’t regret it. I promise.

  Your Hanna Philipp

  Hanna

  At first I’m sure that I’m the victim of an optical illusion. I see Fabrizio. Not in passing, like spotting a familiar face in a crowd, there one moment and then gone. Not like the figure that disappears around the corner at the exact moment you glance back, and not like the back of a head in line in front of you that turns out to be a stranger. No. This hallucination is sitting at my table, and no matter how often I blink, he doesn’t disappear.

  I stop dead, and the chubby waitress almost runs into me. She veers to the side, and the only victims are the croissant and coffee on her tray.

  “Excuse me,” I mumble. I suddenly feel . . . as if there’s no substance to me . . . as if I’d dissolved into countless particles that now hover, cloudlike, where I stood before. The woman’s pink lips move, but the sound seems to be off. In a daze, I stare at the spilled coffee and soaked cornetto on her tray.

  Fabrizio is sitting at my table.

  It’s not a mirage.

  Someone touches my arm. “Are you all right?”

  Good. The audio is back on. I smile at the worried server, and then my body reacts. I’m suddenly cold and sweating at the same time. I want to run to Fabrizio, take him in my arms, and whisper all the words that have circulated in my head for days. Instead, I turn around and run back to the restroom.

  Fabrizio

  I lower the magazine. I’ve read the article three times and still don’t have a clue. Good heavens. I could really use Lucia’s help, and what do I have? A dead battery. I study Hanna’s photo as if the answer were in her eyes. The next-to-last paragraph—does it say what I think it does, bellissima? Is she talking about me? Was I so blind?

  My gaze wanders to the window, but then catches between two potted palms, where—

  I gasp.

  It can’t be true.

  It’s Nonna.

  I bend forward to inspect my absent tablemate’s suitcase more thoroughly. It’s simple and black, streaked with dirt, and the wheels are caked with mud. I grab the handle and move the suitcase back and forth. One of the wheels is stuck. Bingo!

  “Hey, what are you doing?” The redhead looks at me suspiciously.

  “The woman who’s sitting here”—I clear my froggy throat—“where exactly did she go?”

  “The toilet,” her companion says, and gets a nudge in the ribs.

  “I don’t think it’s any of his business,” she hisses.

  “Could you please . . .” I motion to my bag and jump up, and my elbow knocks into something. A woman cries out; I hear a clink and a clatter.

  “Oh no! Not again,” the waitress whines.

  “Sure, man. No problem.” The redhead’s friend gestures in the direction of the restrooms. “She just now turned on her heels and ran back in the direction she came from. Was quite green in the face.”

  “Thank you,” I yell, but then rush back and take the urn from the windowsill. Better safe than sorry.

  “Hold on. That belongs—” the redheaded woman shou
ts, but her friend silences her with a kiss. I slow down to protect Nonna and follow the signs to the restrooms.

  Hanna

  I’ve been staring at the white stall door for about five minutes. I know, of course, that I can’t sit here indefinitely—that’s not only childish but stupid, since the man I love is right outside. He might disappear if I can’t get this panic attack under control. I take a deep breath and exhale while counting to two. At least I didn’t throw up. Right now I just feel a little queasy, but my heart throbs as if it’s pumping goo through my veins instead of blood.

  I need some more time—to think about what I should tell him. Out of all the things I want to lay out, what should I say? Five more minutes. Then I’ll leave this stall, splash some cold water on my face, and return to the restaurant to tell Fabrizio with a radiant smile . . . Why is he in Germany?

  I hear Claire again. “Ooh, Hanna! What do you think he’s doing here?”

  He wants to get his grandmother. What else?

  Or is he really here because of me? I tremble, groan, and bury my head in my hands. I’m exactly where I wanted to be, and now I don’t have the courage to face him.

  “Hanna?” says a deep, gentle voice that I am very familiar with. OK, no cold water. I bite my lips and cautiously lift my legs. If I stay completely silent, I might get lucky and he’ll leave.

  “Hanna, I know you’re there. So put your legs back on the floor and stop holding your breath.”

  “I’m not holding my breath!” I clap my hand against my mouth, but it’s too late. A pair of polished men’s shoes appears under the stall door.

  “Hello, bellissima.”

  “Hi.” Giving up, I put my feet on the floor.

  “What are you doing in there?”

  “What kind of question is that? This is a toilet.”

  “I realize that. But you aren’t in there to do the normal things. So?” I can hear that he is grinning.