Apricot Kisses (19 page)

And there he is, the cheery mailman with his smile that makes him look like a little kid, even if he now weighs close to two hundred pounds and hides his baldness under a toupee. Skipping the formal greeting, Ernesto hugs me and presses his sweaty cheek against my face. He smells of bacon and garlic and some sweetish cologne I would hate on any other man. But it fits Ernesto perfectly, just as his Panama hat matches his red-dotted tie. Carlo and Fabrizio are caught off guard by our greeting, which shows that we know each other quite well.

“So the pretty Signora Hanna is here after all, and I can keep my promise.” Ernesto gives me a friendly once-over from head to toe, his gaze resting a little longer on my legs.

“It looks like it,” I say with a grin, and then I cast a defiant look back at my two companions, until Fabrizio looks away.

“Ernesto Zanolla!” a smoky voice calls from upstairs. “What’s taking you so long down there? Adriana says the pasta needs to get in the water, unless we want it crunchy as grissini.”

“We’re on our way, dear!” Ernesto screams back and stands on tiptoe to whisper in my ear, “The command center. Let’s hurry or Signora Mayor will start throwing plates.” He waves at us to follow him.

My relaxed attitude lasts all of fifteen ruby-carpeted steps. A bulky woman in her midfifties is waiting for us at the apartment door. She has white teeth and tinkling bracelets and looks like a lampshade in her mauve dress. I can’t take my eyes off the other woman, however, who stands in the shadow of the hallway, a spitting image of her mother, only younger and less shrill. Blood rushes to my ears when the older woman takes my hand. Ernesto’s voice seems to be coming from far away.

“May I introduce my wonderful wife Rita, and my daughter Sofia.”

Fabrizio

The Zanolla apartment has changed in the last twelve years. Other than the dining-room table and Ernesto’s mother’s antique chest of drawers, I don’t recognize any of the furniture. Since Rita always falls for fads, it shouldn’t surprise me that a leather monstrosity on chrome legs has replaced the comfortable flowered sofa. The bookshelves are gone. Strange steel sculptures and abstract lithographs decorate the walls instead of the previous watercolors by our local artist. It’s all very modern, right out of a contemporary-living magazine, and the furnishings fit the soul of this old building like cheap liquor belongs in a hand-blown decanter.

Besides the church, the city hall is the tallest building in town and looks out over Val d’Orcia. I lean against the window, sipping on my aperitivo, and pretend to enjoy the view while I cast sideways glances at the people around the table in the center of the room.

As I feared, the mayor’s wife followed protocol to a
T
. She assigned Hanna and me to sit on either end of the table, offering us up like two hazelnuts to the high and mighty village nutcrackers.

My fiancée sits between Lorenzo and Signora Donatelli, who always reminds me of a wrinkled date—a tiny date, since, despite a second pillow on her chair, the village’s oldest resident just barely reaches her plate. Hanna is trying not to show how uneasy she feels, but the way she constantly rubs her index finger against her middle finger tells me enough. She valiantly listens to the padre’s overly loud conversation with Signora Donatelli, who is hard of hearing. When she thinks no one is watching, Hanna quickly pushes the soup spoon closer to the old woman’s gout-ridden hands. The simple gesture surprises and moves me.

Carlo obviously relishes being in the presence of the town elite, his equals since he’s chief of police. He rocks on his chair, thumb hooked in his belt, and retells the story of his junior team’s spectacular goal that showed the losers from Monticchiello how it’s done. That happened last October, and it was the only goal his center forward ever scored in an out-of-town game, but it’s been Carlo’s favorite topic ever since. When Adriana offers second rounds of aperitivo, he declines with an indignant motion as if the thought alone of a second glass of alcohol were a mortal sin. Adriana responds by filling his glass to the brim.

How the old crow Gosetti, just a newsstand owner, made it to this esteemed table is a mystery to me, but I am sure she spent some money for her spot in the only armchair. She wears the ever-present black apron dress and something on her head that resembles a dead rooster. The bird sways to and fro while Gosetti tries to listen in on every conversation at the same time. I avert my gaze before she can make eye contact—a mistake, since now I’m looking into Sofia’s chocolate-brown eyes.

She still has it, that look that drives men crazy. I was too drunk at the Amalfi bar to be affected, but today I am unfortunately sober.

So I drink deeply from my glass. Should I go over to Hanna and ask Lorenzo to switch seats with me? It would be a great move, if only to see the mayor’s wife’s face when I upset her seating plan. Because Hanna doesn’t look all that happy, sitting with a frozen smile as Lorenzo and Signora Donatelli quarrel about the song selection for the wedding—so loud that I can hear every word.

I take all this in while Sofia touches my skin with her eyes, gentle and demanding at the same time. I don’t know what’s worse: that my body still responds or that Sofia knows it does. So I do what I always do when I can’t cope—I escape. I take the last sip of my negroni, chew what’s left of the ice cube, and, with a quick “Need more ice,” disappear into the kitchen.

Hanna

I have learned two things at this table during the last half hour. First, at an Italian bridal dinner, the temperature of the soup is more important than the bride. And second, I’ve reached the limits of my knowledge of my mother tongue—the people at this table talk incessantly, very loudly, and all at once.

“I swear, the BMW was fantastic, but this car . . . a rocket.”

“But we only sing the Ave Maria at Christmas. Is it Christmas? Well, there you are.”

“Rosa-Maria’s ribollita has to be part of the buffet. Those panini, too. You know . . . the ones with sesame . . .”

“. . . an exhaust pipe large enough to hide a melon . . .”

“Definitely not the Ave Maria!”

“At my age, you never know when your last hour will arrive. It could be the next second—pfft, that’s it! And you shouldn’t meet your maker hungry.”

“. . . as clean and clear as
La Traviata
when you step on the gas.”

“. . . postponing the wedding till Christmas . . . then, if you want, we can sing the Ave Maria . . .”

“Is there any soup left?”

Snippets of conversation swirl through the air like confetti, and I grasp only pieces of them. Other bits evade me like I’m a beginner Italian student. A beginner, by the way, on whom nobody wastes any time, not even her future husband. I’m not surprised, but I expected at least some support from Fabrizio. But since we arrived, he’s only been interested in the view outside. And I would rather hang myself from the flashy chandelier than admit that I feel completely out of place in this room, like Cinderella in the ballroom. But this isn’t a ballroom, just a dining room trying too hard to be designer chic, and I’m not Cinderella.

And the stupid prince can kiss my—

Leaning back, I put on my poker face. I can tackle any situation with that face. I look around without lingering on anyone in particular, and I grin until I’m dizzy. Then I listen in on the one conversation that’s close enough to be understandable, even though it’s all about hymns and drags on endlessly because Signora Donatelli nixes every single song the padre suggests: “Too sad . . . not festive enough . . . Do you want us all to fall asleep, Lorenzo? . . . Wrong beat . . . I never liked that one . . .”

Soon poor Lorenzo is as exhausted as his repertoire. Gathering my courage, I offer a suggestion. “What would you say to something modern? There’s a beautiful piano sonata by Ludovico Einaudi that . . .” I stop. Signora Donatelli stares at me as if I said I should walk to the altar in a bikini, and Lorenzo seems to be choking on a piece of bread. Before I can quickly add that “Holy God, We Praise Thy Name” is also a fine choice, some conversational confetti from the other end of the table grabs my attention.

“The same buffet menu as last time? Are you sure? Wouldn’t that be—how should I say it—irreverent?”

Last time? How can I not strain my ears? I sneakily glance down the table, trying not to look at Sofia, who, since we arrived, has been visually devouring my fiancé as if he were on the menu. However, I don’t have to engage in a stare-down with Fabrizio’s ex because her seat is empty. Somewhat relieved, I try to follow the battle between the mayor’s wife and the old woman in black whose name I’ve forgotten.

“. . . must break her heart . . . the last bridal dinner . . .”

Maybe it’s Ernesto’s frown, the way he pats his wife’s hand, or the gossipy gleam in the old woman’s eyes. Maybe it’s just my journalist’s curiosity or the vague feeling that this conversation has more to do with me than I’d like.

“What bridal dinner are you talking about?” I say loudly.

All heads turn toward me at once. An eerie silence settles under the chandelier, a silence that makes even Carlo interrupt his car talk to gape at me. I smile, although my discomfort intensifies.

The old woman with the pheasant hat finds her voice again first. “She asked what bridal dinner it was,” she giggles. The mayor’s wife blushes and Ernesto fidgets.

“What’s so strange about my question?” I look to Ernesto for an explanation. He clears his throat several times but seems unable to talk. Well! Now I’m intrigued. What’s going on here?

“Well, the bridal dinner was—” Ernesto stutters, but his wife interrupts him.

“Leave it to me, Ernesto.” Rita Zanolla gracefully dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin. Her ample bosom lifts as she takes a breath and looks at me directly for the first time this evening. She really is beautiful; she could have been the better half to an aged Al Pacino in
The Godfather
. “The last bridal dinner was held in this room twelve years ago, Signora Philipp,” she says in a voice that manages to be friendly and cool at the same time. “It was my daughter Sofia’s engagement dinner.”

Pain stabs in my stomach, but I decide to ignore the warning and suppress the urge to swipe my dessert spoon. “I assume that’s only part of the story.”

Ernesto gives me a sympathetic look.

“Hanna!” Carlo lifts his fork. “Did you hear me when I was explaining how to turn a two-stroke into a four-stroke engine?”

“Nice try, Carlo, but I couldn’t care less about motors right now,” I say. Carlo puts down the fork. I address Rita, who now looks almost hostile. “What’s the second part of the story?”

The pheasant hat is faster. The old woman snickers and points a gnarled finger at Fabrizio’s empty spot at the window. “The second part of this sad love story was standing over there a minute ago, dear.”

Fabrizio

“I thought you’d last a few more minutes before you bolted.” Adriana doesn’t turn around when I enter the kitchen.

“I’m just getting some ice,” I say, embarrassed, to her backside, which is decorated with a bow. I sigh and open the freezer. They used to keep ice bags in the lowest drawer. They still do. When I shut the door, Adriana comes over to me, hands on her hips.

“Are you a high-and-mighty estate owner now, or can a lowly domestic worker still expect a hug?” she says in the same tone Rosa-Maria uses when I forget to praise her pasta. It’s obvious whose blood circulates in her veins.

“Since you’re the only person who’s happy to see me today, I’m the one who should ask you for a hug.”

She pinches my cheek and briefly squeezes me. “It’s been a while,” she says.

“Rosa-Maria sends regards.”

“My cousin hasn’t talked to me in twelve years, but thanks for trying.” She pinches my cheek again, and under her bony fingers the years melt away. I see myself at the cathedral’s altar, watching Sofia’s veil disappear faster than I can blink. Her breathless
“I’m sorry”
gets caught in a high-up spiderweb that sways gently, as if the building itself were breathing. I watch it, motionless, my arms pressed to my sides, and try to figure out what to do with my shirt.
I can’t go to the banquet with sweat stains in my armpits,
I think, not yet realizing that without a bride there won’t be a wedding feast.

“Don’t look so remorseful, Fabrizio. It’s not your fault that two old women are quarreling because each wants to defend the honor of a child that isn’t even hers. But Sofia is for me what you are for Rosa-Maria.”

“No need to explain, Adriana. I understand. I’m just sorry that we disappointed so many people.”

“You’re a good guy, always have been. And you belong to this place. That’s why you never had much in common, you and Sofia. That girl was always hungry for somewhere else.” She lowers her voice. “I really wish you happiness with the pretty German signorina.”

“Hanna is actually half-Italian.”

“We all wish him that, Mamma Adriana,” someone says behind us. I freeze and see gentleness and sternness battling on Adriana’s face—her bond with Sofia, who to her is still the pink-stockinged girl who ties empty cans to cats’ tails, is strong. She grabs her serving tray and glances at the woman who leans against the doorframe, one hip cocked. Then she hurries out of the kitchen mumbling, “The pasta will be done in a sec.”

Minutes pass. We look at each other silently. My heart pounds like crazy, but not in the way that tells a man he’s in love. I suddenly find her dress cheap, her lipstick too red, and the wrinkles around her mouth too deep. The way she leans against the door—like one of the cornflake-box toys Marco used to stick on windows with chewing gum—is fake and silly. That’s the woman who’s caused my wet dreams all my life?

My body, of course, tells me that I want her—as any man would. But it no longer means that I
actually
want her. Damn it. Why did it take twelve years for me to realize this?

“What’s so funny?” Sofia comes toward me, trailing her hand along the kitchen counter, touching the container of wooden spoons and the silver tin in which Adriana keeps her homemade biscotti. That’s how she’s always been—she has to touch the things she likes.