I nodded, charmed by how proud he was of his home town. I was pretty sure it was genuine, too, not just some sales pitch to get good TripAdvisor.com ratings. I was charmed by his phrasing, too, and the way he often emphasized the wrong syllables of certain words. I kept him talking by asking him where to buy groceries, about the security of food items left in the shared kitchen, and directions to the closest bicycle rental. He gave me a map on which he’d already circled the location of almost everything I requested and much more that he thought might be of interest to me.
Now, having gotten a decent night’s rest, a brand new day lay before me, a chance to start all over again. As I looked around my room, the sunshine pouring in the window, I could see evidence of graceful aging around me. The mattress on which I’d slept was thin, the iron frame was gilded by the patina of many years, and the shutters at the window could use a fresh coat of paint. But the walls stretching up to meet the high ceilings were a warm yellow, and the colorfully tiled floors sparkled. The bathroom consisted of a toilet, a pedestal sink, and a narrow shower stall, but there were no unfamiliar hairs in the drain when I showered the night before, and the water was hot, the toilet bowl pristine. The white towels and washcloths were thin, but plentiful, and smelled fresh and clean like the sheets.
Last night, with Fabio standing close and speaking with such cheerful assurance, I’d felt confident I’d have no problem figuring out where things were. But this morning, as I spread his map out on the bed to study it, I wasn’t so sure. I needed to get outside and walk the streets a little, get my bearings.
Suddenly, the voice below the window belted out another vocal run accompanied by the sound of a broom scuffing across the cobblestones, but I didn’t recognize this new song as one of Puccini’s. I wracked my brain a little longer as the trilling voice continued, pausing every so often to greet someone, and then picking up again without missing a beat. Maybe something from Verdi? But I couldn’t place it.
“Coffee. Maybe that will help.”
After carefully applying my make-up, the mirror assured me that in spite of my puffy eyes and red-tipped nose, only someone who knew me could tell for certain I’d been crying.
I chose my outfit with care, too; once I left the room, I planned to spend the whole day wandering the city on a rented bicycle. There was no way I could pull off the class and confidence of the boutique owner in her heels, partly because I hadn’t packed a pin-striped suit, and partly because riding a bike in heels seemed like a recipe for disaster for someone with my propensity for mishaps. Nor did I want my tourist to show. In the short time I’d stood people-watching out the window, I’d seen no one in yoga pants or flip flops, except a super-size American man speaking loudly into his cell phone. In flip flops, not yoga pants. I slipped into a pair of black jeans, a dark teal top, and over that, I donned a rust-colored bolero-style jacket. Most of the clothing I brought on this trip was like this—interchangeable and lightweight, easy to wear in layers.
My wavy, nut-brown hair fell just past my shoulders, and I usually wore it down, curling around my face. It softened the hard angle of my jaw, a trait that made me look a little too much like my father. I loved him dearly, but would have much preferred to share the softer curves of my mother’s features, and her golden coloring that gave her a slightly ethereal air.
Today, however, my hair refused to cooperate, the left side misshapen from sleeping on it wet. I compromised by sweeping that side up into a silk flower clip high over my ear, letting the good side show off. With the Spanish-style jacket, it actually worked. I laced my feet into black boots, a pair of brand new Doc Martens I’d found on the sale rack at my favorite discount outlet last month. They made me feel like a character out of a Tim Burton movie, but I adored them, and they were surprisingly comfortable with their deeply treaded soles and one-inch heels.
Stepping out of the guesthouse and onto the shallow stoop, I shielded my eyes against the bright sunlight. The panetteria Fabio had mentioned, l’Aurora, was on the ground floor of the building shared by Alla Dolce Vita, and the tinkling friar bells hanging from the handle of the door bid me welcome as I pushed it open. I paused, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the shadowed interior.
A slew of sights and smells assaulted my senses: sausage and cheese, pastries and bread, yeast and cinnamon, vanilla and anise. And over the top of it all, coffee. I feasted my eyes on the goodies in the glass display while I waited my turn to be served.
The elderly woman behind the counter slid a weighty box toward her customer, a man who nodded, muttered his thanks, but didn’t smile as he handed over his money. I studied him surreptitiously, noticing the black pants and highly polished shoes protruding from the bottom of a charcoal trench coat. He must have given her the exact change, because he carefully gathered up his box of goodies and left without waiting for money back.
I thought it was an oddly solemn exchange for a pastry purchase, but perhaps, like me, he knew better than to attempt polite conversation before he’d had his coffee.
The old woman turned to me and smiled. With her silver hair covered by an orange-and-red checkered scarf, her lined face looked so much like a cheerful, dehydrated apple that I beamed back at her. She had most of her teeth and her eyes studied me openly, sizing me up. People did that a lot here, it seemed. But I wasn’t offended by the woman’s scrutiny. Although I was usually a little more subtle about it, I was a people watcher, too.
“Buon giorno.” In stilted Italian, I greeted her and she echoed the pleasantries.
There were labels in front of each platter in the case, but I didn’t understand or recognize any of the words. A menu on the wall behind the register didn’t help either, and I was at a momentary loss. Finally, I opted to keep it simple.
“Coffee?” I asked. “Caffé?” I stumbled over the next words, but had practiced the phrase while getting dressed, so I pressed on. “E prima colazione.” It was really more of a statement than a request, but I figured my reason for being there was fairly obvious. Coffee and breakfast. Please. “Per favore.”
She nodded and kept smiling. I grimaced and repeated myself, this time as a question, not sure how to ask her to help me choose. “Caffé y colazione?”
Apple lady nodded again, and swept a hand across the counter, gesturing for me to make a selection. Everything looked delicious, but I had no idea where to begin. Suddenly, in a voice roughened by age, the woman called out loudly, startling me. Her shiny black eyes never left my face, and my fingers tightened around the edge of the glass counter top. Was she yelling at me for taking so long to choose? For not knowing what I wanted?
CHAPTER FIVE
“Mi scusi?” I had no clue what she’d just hollered at me, and I was seriously considering forfeiting a breakfast of fresh pastries in exchange for the comfort of my room upstairs, another packet of soup, and a cup of the instant coffee I’d brought for emergencies. One such as this was turning out to be.
“Ella vi assista. Help.” The woman reached over with her gnarled hand to pat my fingers where they still gripped the counter. Remembering Fabio’s consoling touch on my leg last night, I was beginning to feel like a daft tourist who was simply being tolerated by the locals.
“May I help you?” A girl dressed head-to-toe in black and bulging in all the right places, came hip first through a set of swinging doors from the back of the shop, her arms laden with a huge tray of fresh-out-of-the-oven pastries. The aroma clambering to keep up with her was nutty and sweet, making me think of my dad’s favorite chocolate toffee and almond candy.
The old woman nodded vigorously and raised both hands toward the girl, repeating, “Madalina vi assista. He help.”
“Oh, my. I want one of those.” I eyed the tray she set on the counter, my mouth watering. It came out in English, but I tried again in Italian. “Vorrei... uno...”
“I understand. I speak English. You do not speak Italian so good, no?” The buxom beauty grinned. I was pretty sure her teasing was intended to be friendly.
“No. It’s not so good.” My stomach growled loudly in relieved anticipation. Apple lady chuckled behind the hand she brought to her mouth.
“You are the American girl from up the stairs?” Madalina pointed at the ceiling with a flour-dusted hand. “Alla Dolce Vita?”
“I am.” News traveled fast in this neighborhood. Maybe Fabio asked her to keep an eye out for all his guests as a general courtesy.
“Signora Adimari told me you need my special coffee this morning.”
“Who?”
“Isa Adimari. Our neighbor.” She jutted her chin toward the front door.
I could feel my eyes grow round. “The woman at the window?” It was my turn to point in the general direction of the second floor. I must have looked quite a sight for her to have taken it upon herself to order me coffee. How embarrassing.
“You go sit outside in the sunshine,” Madalina ordered. “I bring you coffee and some special sweeties, yes?”
“Yes!” I exclaimed, glad to be leaving the fate of my breakfast menu in the hands of an expert. I turned to the older woman before heading outside. “Grazie, signora.”
Still nodding, still smiling, apple lady said again, “Madalina help.”
I chose a pink-clothed bistro table out under the awning, and Madalina followed right behind me with a thimble-sized mug of coffee.
I was going to need seconds.
“Do you require to have con latte? Cream? Or sugar?” The look she gave me was almost a challenge, daring me to taint her brew with additives.
I shook my head. “I like it black, thank you.” I cradled the miniature hot drink between my hands, giving it my full attention. I made the decision not to let the gossip bother me, especially if it was going to inspire this kind of attention. Of course, they were going to talk about me; I was the stranger among them. Fresh blood.
As Madalina pushed the jingling door open to go back inside, she began to sing, her voice echoing the fullness of her figure.
So it was Madalina who sang so boisterously outside the window this morning, just as it had been Madalina whom Isa Adimari called out to from her second story window. It was Madalina who declared it a glorious day, and I was still inclined to agree with her.
It couldn’t be any worse than yesterday, anyway.
I sipped daintily, and the intense, smoky brew sent warm tendrils swirling all the way to the tips of my toes. I think I even felt a new set of synapses fire off for the first time in response to the jolt of caffeine. No wonder they served it in such small cups; this stuff could raise the dead.
Around me, the street had picked up a new, less frenzied melody. Long-skirted, matronly women, their heads covered in colorful scarves, loaded their wicker baskets with garden-fresh produce from a little stand down the way, while in the next shop over, a golden-haired goddess in stilettos and skinny black pants pondered the value of a teal-blue pea coat she was trying on. The conversation between her and the handsome salesman could be seen through the plate glass windows. He kept bringing his bunched fingers to his lips, then throwing his hand in the air. I was pretty sure he would be landing a sizable commission before the morning was over.
“You like?” Madalina asked, her kohl-lined eyes bright and clear, long black curls swept back in a set of oyster-shell combs on either side of her head. She was clearing a table nearby and pointed at the coffee cup in my hand. “If it is too strong, I bring you cream.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s perfect. Delicious. I’m not big on frou-frou drinks.” I swirled the small cup carefully so as not to lose a drop of the elixir. I wasn’t going to admit to Madalina that I didn’t know the difference between espresso and strong, black coffee. Whichever this was, it worked just fine.
“It is my favorite bean in all of Lucca. I choose it for l’Aurora.” She waved a hand at the door on which was painted the name of the shop. “Pops knows only muddy water. I know coffee. I am Romanian.”
“Did you say Roman?” It had rolled off her tongue differently than when I said it.
“Weesht! I am not Roman!” Madalina raised a hand over her head, dismissing the notion with a flourish, and I blushed. She’d said the word so quickly, the last syllables falling away. She leaned down and spoke slowly, as though to a dull child. “I am from Ro—mah—nyah. My country is Romania.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I just didn’t understand you.” Even the way she pronounced Romania, the emphasis on the first syllable of the word, it was no wonder I’d misheard her. But I wasn’t about to offend her more by trying to explain. Her next words confirmed my decision to hold my tongue.
“You are American. You do not try to understand.” She said American like it was a bad thing. Well, I had a few bad things on the tip of my tongue I was seriously considering let fly. They had nothing to do with her nationality, though, but were more along the lines of a character analysis. She straightened and glowered down at me, her nose turned up ever so slightly. Then she reached out, pointing at my empty cup. “More espresso for you?”
Once again, I was having second thoughts about breaking my fast at l’Aurora, especially if this belligerent person was going to hover over me while I ate. I covered my cup with the palm of my hand and squinted up at her, her face spotlighted by a shaft of sunlight slipping around the edge of the awning above us. In fact, I was admittedly a little cantankerous myself, and I didn’t really feel like being someone’s punching bag this morning.
“Madalina, right?” I plowed ahead, not giving her a chance to reply. “I don’t speak Romanian.” I pronounced it with my crass American accent on purpose. Romaynian. “I did try to learn a little Italian in preparation for coming here.” I looked around pointedly. “We are in Italy, right?” I didn’t wait for her to acknowledge my sarcasm, either. “Other than that, I pretty much speak only English. Uh-mare-uh-can-oh,” I said in a slow, hick drawl. “So I’m sorry I didn’t understand what you said. I certainly did not mean to offend you. If you’ll give me the bill for my coffee, I’ll be on my way.”
I don’t know which of us was more shocked by my rudeness. We stared at each other for a few weighty moments, then she made another dismissive gesture and I wondered how she would communicate if she had no hands. “Weesht! You only offend me if you do not like me to be Romanian.”
“I’m sorry?” I was even more confused now. Why on earth would I care if she was Romanian, Bulgarian, Hungarian, or from Pluto, for that matter? Maybe the man in the trench coat and shiny shoes hadn’t spoken because he was afraid to.
But Madalina surprised me again when she pulled my cup out from under my palm. “I will bring you another to have with your sweetie.”
She didn’t leave, though. Thrusting out a hip, she narrowed her eyes at me and asked, “Do you know anything of Romania?” Her voice was still brisk, but she sounded like she actually wanted an answer to her question. “What do you know? Tell me.” She reached into her apron pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “You smoke?” she asked, offering me one, but I shook my head in response to both her questions. I wasn’t a smoker, and I pretty much knew zilch about her homeland.
“Come,” she mouthed around the cigarette between her lips. “You must know something. One thing. Tell me one thing.” She took a quick draw of smoke, then blew it slowly out to the side away from me. To my surprise, she smiled at me. And it wasn’t a snide, ugly smile, but encouraging and open, and it occurred to me she was actually trying to be friendly. I hoped that meant she wasn’t going to hold my unkind words against me and sabotage my breakfast.
“Okay.” I’d play along while I waited for the promised sweeties. “There’s Nadia Comăneci. She’s from Romania.”
“Of course,” Madalina nodded approvingly. “Nadia was only age fourteen, and the first gymnast to win a perfect ten in the Olympics, yes. What else do you know?”
I shook my head and squinted up at her. “You said one thing.”
“Yes. But I am woman.” She shrugged. “I change my mind all the time.”
I grinned at her saucy response and nodded. “Okay. What about Count Dracula? Isn’t he Romanian? And the whole Carpathian Mountain vampire thing?” Although I knew he was a literary creation, I’d always had a fascination with his story, especially after learning the count was inspired by a real fellow, fondly dubbed Vlad the Impaler, a man who obviously had some disturbing habits.
“Ah, yes. Americans love the vampires, no?” She took another pull on the cigarette and let the smoke curl lazily from her nostrils. “Is that all? Nadia and Dracula?” She seemed to be fishing for something more than the names of aging gymnasts or iconic vampires, but I was stumped. Maybe she was just gaging my opinion of all things Romanian, to determine whether or not I would hold her nationality against her.
“The women from Romania are very beautiful,” I teased, hoping to diffuse any remaining tension between us.
She burst out laughing, a full-throated sound that made me giggle just to hear it. Setting the cellophane-wrapped package of cancer sticks, along with her green, disposable lighter, on the table across from me, she said, “I go get your bomba, and I will sit with you, okay?”
“My bomba?” What on earth was she bringing me?
“It is bomboloni. Like doughnut. But be careful because it hits here like a bomb.” She smacked her round backside and chuckled. “It will blow you up so big!”
CHAPTER SIX
The “bomb” blew my mind, as well as my diet. Except that I wasn’t on one, because I hated dieting with a passion, and I could never say no to a doughnut, no matter where it was made. This one, though, was like no doughnut I’d ever had before, and was impossible to eat without making a mess. Coated in finely ground sugar and stuffed with cream that was both rich and light at the same time, I had to lean over my plate with every bite. Madalina laughed at me, and shoved a stack of napkins across the table toward me.
For the first few minutes after she returned with my breakfast and commanded me to eat, she sat in silence and smoked another cigarette, one foot propped up on a chair she’d pulled over from another table. She stared off into the distance, eyes narrowed, and I wasn’t certain if she was studying her competition down the way, or contemplating how best to enlighten me about Romania. My mouth was busy with its own form of contemplation, so the lack of conversation didn’t bother me.
All the Way to Heaven Page 3
