Apricot Kisses (15 page)

“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.

I woke up this morning thinking about Sofia’s flowing hair, and gradually, more and more frightening scenes filled in the gaps in my memory. The pencil-thin girl. Carlo punching the spot between my ribs, turning me black and blue. The fourth rum-and-Coke, and then the ones that I stopped counting. Sofia’s tanned legs. Her lips that I kissed a thousand times in a previous life. Signora Philipp’s cool mermaid eyes that did not seem so cold in the moonlight.

Now I think about Lucia’s barrage of questions before my first espresso, and my garbled answers, attempts to escape my lovely sister-in-law to whom I can’t tell the truth—ever. What shit I’m in.

I morosely toss the apricot pit into a furrow and cover it with soil. Then I pull my straw hat over my face. The midday sun burns my back. I’d rather be in bed in a dark, cool room.

“You seem to have enjoyed yourself last night, judging from how shitty you look this morning,” says someone behind me. I turn. Marco is sitting on the bed of the pickup truck, in his running duds, as usual, and covered in sweat. He bites into an apricot with relish. I lift the harvesting basket and lug it to the truck. Unfortunately, Marco jumps aside before I can push him down with it.

“What do you want?” Everything goes black for a second, but I manage to hold on to the truck. A few apricots roll out of the truck bed and land at my feet.

“Hey! What happened to your top physical condition? Or are you still feeling the effects of the alcohol?” Marco grins and spits the pit on the ground.

“Don’t you have to count some rolls of toilet paper?” I say and reach for my water bottle. Fighting the temptation to pour it over my head, I drink in gulps.

“Are you in any condition to listen to me, or should I wait until you’ve had a cold shower?”

“Spit it out and then beat it.”

“The golf club sent us another offer. They’ll add another fifteen thousand if we make a decision by the end of the year.

“What decision?” I say in a flat voice.

“They’re offering twenty percent above market value. The money would solve all our troubles, Fabrizio. We could pay our debts and expand the hotel.”

“You had the land appraised without telling me?” My fist itches to land in his smug face; I hold on to my belt buckle to keep it under control.

“Would you have listened if I’d told you about it?” Marco snorts.

“Your snotty friends from the golf club could never offer as much as the land is worth. You still don’t get that? It should mean more to you, anyway. But then, your sense of family has always been underdeveloped.”

“You’re an idiot, Fabrizio. Tell me what a sense of family will do when your dearly beloved fields rob our family of our livelihood any day now. Fortunately, Nonna came to her senses, and I have to say that her insight surprised me. I think she wanted to pass on Tre Camini all along to someone who’s reasonable, but she just couldn’t bypass her favorite grandson. She knew, though, that you’d rather be rolled over by a tractor than let a girl put a ring on your finger. I, for one, do have a wife—and the sweet grandkids our old lady was so set on are only a matter of time. As for a flourishing business, I’ll show it to you as soon as I sign the inheritance transfer naming me as the legitimate heir.”

The idea strikes me like a lightning bolt. I listen to Marco’s monologue with only half an ear as the solution unfolds in front of me like a signed legal document—with a very special seal.

“I’m getting married,” I hear myself say, not very loud, but loud enough to make Marco interrupt his lecture.

“What do you mean?”

“Just what you heard, little brother,” I say matter-of-factly, still sorting out my thoughts.

Point one: I need a woman. That can’t be changed—but the choice is mine.

“I know you,” Marco says with an arrogant smile. “You’d never chain yourself to a village nag just to do what Nonna wanted. And you won’t find a woman in Montesimo who’d let a fat fish like you escape again.”

Point two: Signora Philipp owes me big-time.

“Who says she’s from Montesimo?” I ask.

Point three: she’s a foreigner—a pretty foreigner who can’t stand me, and therefore will disappear as fast as she appeared. I can marry her, take over the estate, and then get a divorce. No drama in the village, and no danger of an old matron tearing me to pieces because I don’t agree till the day I die with everything her daughter, cousin, or whoever says.

Marco stares at me. “Are you thinking about Hanna, the kitchen help? I thought Lucia was joking. Are you still drunk?”

Point four: everyone gets what he or she wants, including Nonna, even though she probably had something else in mind.

I can’t suppress a self-satisfied smile. I almost feel sorry for my little brother, who looks as if I’ve just swiped the last piece of panettone off his plate at Christmas.

“You should know by now that I don’t do things halfheartedly. It’s been that way since we were kids,” I say pleasantly.

“But Nonna wanted—Hanna isn’t even a real Italian. And you’ve only known her since, when—day before yesterday? You’re playing games.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Marco. You’re a true-blue Italian—you should know there are no rules in love.” I shrug. “What can I do? Signora Philipp is a beautiful woman, and I’m a man, after all.”

“And she shows up just in time. By chance, right?”

Marco’s anger makes it easier for me not to feel like a complete fool.
I’m a man, after all.
Did I really just say that? God, I must truly love this estate.

“It’s gratifying to see that you’re happy for me.” I watch the redness on Marco’s face spread all the way to his bald spot.

“Your plan won’t work, Fabrizio. Maybe you didn’t listen closely when the testament was read. Nonna demands a real marriage, not a business deal. I can smell a rat, and the notary will be grateful for any hint that something is wrong with your engagement.”

And he won’t be able to do anything about it,
I think.

I step so close to Marco that I can smell his aftershave and sweat. “My compliments to the
notaio
when you phone him. And since you’ll already have him on the line, invite him to the wedding next week,” I whisper. I look him straight in the eye. “Anything else?”

My little brother doesn’t answer but takes a step away from me.

“Good. Then hop on home in your sneakers and take care of any overdue business on your desk. I’m busy here.”

Hanna

Half an hour after my hasty departure, I realize that the term “outer apricot orchard” is a flexible one, distance-wise but also topographically.

I’m struggling down a muddy path—a furrow, really—overgrown with roots. Even though I’ve been walking in one direction, I’ve still lost my sense of orientation because of the dense trees lining the way. On top of it, my shoes are completely wrong for this excursion. I’ve already pulled my right slipper out of the mud twice, and not much is left of its original color, let alone its fluffy white lining. The straps of the bag cut into my shoulders, and the thermos keeps slipping out of my sweaty hands. The helplessness I feel in this jungle fuels my rage. Serene Tuscany. Idyllic fruit orchards. Yeah, great! But only if you stay in your damn convertible on a damn asphalt road and avoid these arrogant, narcissistic Italians.

Huffing, I stop and push aside a tree branch that grabs at my hair. Unfortunately it lashes back like a whip, and I rub my cheek, groaning. I’m about to give up and turn around. How did I end up in this shivering hole of sh
—

Suddenly I hear agitated voices through the screen of trees. It takes me a moment to understand the burst of Italian.

“I’m disappointed in you, Marco. You’re a true-blue Italian—you should know there are no rules in love. What can I do? Signora Philipp is a beautiful woman, and I’m a man, after all.”

My pulse quickens as I remember Fabrizio in the moonlight and feel that same strange tingling sensation as last night. I put down the bag and thermos carefully, take off my slippers, and duck under a low branch. My toes sink into the soil as I sneak closer to the two men.

“Your plan won’t work, Fabrizio,” Marco says. “Maybe you didn’t listen closely when the testament was read. Nonna demands a real marriage, not a business deal. I can smell a rat, and the notary will be grateful for any hint that something is wrong with your engagement.”

“My compliments to the
notaio
when you phone him. And since you’ll already have him on the line, invite him to the wedding next week—”