Margherita's Notebook (5 page)

What she remembered as being the senior center was located in the new part of Roccafitta. To get there, Margherita had to cross the narrow road that ringed the town, with its shops and dark cellars that smelled of wine, onions, and cheese. The sun was starting to set behind the surrounding hills in a blaze of purple and orange tones. Margherita leaned against the wall of one of the houses and closed her eyes. The stones exuded all the warmth that they had captured during the day, and her heart was filled with a sense of peace. Rome, Francesco, Meg—everything seemed so far away, hazy, shrouded in a thick fog that absorbed the disappointment and bitterness she had been feeling. She felt rejuvenated, bursting with a newfound energy that flowed through her along with the light, the warmth, the sounds, and the scents that surrounded her. She would start over—from right there, from that place that belonged to her and that she belonged to, from her roots, from herself. She thought about her father and longed for him to hold her in his arms, console her, the way he had when she was a little girl whenever her mother scolded her for some mischief she'd gotten into. She moved away from the warm stone and continued to walk on to her destination.

The old sign that said
SENIOR CENTER
had been replaced by a brand-new plate with the words
RECREATION CENTER
etched on it.

Margherita opened the door.

The heartrending melodies of Astor Piazzolla burst through the air. Cautiously, Margherita peered inside. Before her was a big room with dim lighting, where a good number of men and women of all ages were dancing tango figures, following the rhythm carefully and with purpose. For a moment, as she stood watching them, enthralled, she forgot why she'd come. When the music stopped, a Junoesque brunette wearing a tight bright red dress clapped her hands. “Bravo! Bravo! I've never seen you do such a good job!”

The lights came on. And that was when Margherita saw her father.

“Papa!”

Armando glared at her as she rushed over.

“I mean . . . Armando!” Her father gave her a big hug that in no time became a “close embrace”: cheek to cheek with his daughter, he improvised a couple of tango steps, forcing her to follow him whether she wanted to or not.

“My little girl! It's wonderful to see you . . .
Ocho adelante!
” he said.

Armando swung her in a figure eight.

“Papa . . . I mean Armando, you know how much I love you, but . . .”

“And I love you, too,
chica
!
Giro!
”

As her father swiveled around, she was forced to follow him.

“So now it's the tango? The last time I saw you it was an easel and paintbrush . . .”

“Too static for me. Can't you see how much better it is to dance? Rhythm, allure, sensuousness . . .
parada!
”

Armando interrupted her step, pulling her toward him, which made Margherita lose her balance.

“Can't you ever be serious?”

“I'm very serious! I am a true
tanguero
 . . .
Gancho!
”

This was followed by a backward kick with the heel raised.

“Armando!”

“Grand finale with
casché
!”

He wrapped one of his legs around hers, lowered his arm to encircle her waist, and bent forward so that she curved backward.

“
Olé!
” Armando concluded, his eyes looking straight into his daughter's.

Giulia walked up to them, smiling. “A new student?” she asked.

Armando shook his head.

“No, she's a city girl, just passing through.” Then, as he continued to gaze at his daughter: “Margy, this is Giulia, my gorgeous tango instructor, as well as a new member of Roccafitta's culture and tourism association. She is the one who has made me see that the tango is mystery, complexity, joy and sadness, communication and solitude . . . Giulia is very
caliente—
”

Margherita, somewhat embarrassed, interrupted him.

“I see you've already gotten to know him . . .” She held out her hand and added, “I'm Margherita, his daughter. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

For the second time that day, Armando gave her a disapproving look. “Did you really have to say that?”

Margherita shook her head. “Papa!”

Giulia smiled in turn.

“Armando is a whirlwind, I wish there were more people like him! The world would be so much more fun,” she said as she shook Margherita's hand. “It's a pleasure, and if you
stop and stay awhile, I hope you'll join us, I suspect you may have the tango in your blood . . .”

“Just like her father!” Armando remarked, smiling, and before she could answer him, he kissed Giulia's hand gallantly, then took his daughter by the arm and steered her toward the exit.

On their way home, Armando launched into passionate, relentless praise for the tango and its magic.

“You see, my little one, there's something primordial about the tango. As Borges would say, it evokes regret for lives not lived; in the tango, music and dance become one in an irresistible whirlwind . . .”

All at once, Armando realized that Margherita hadn't said a word. He stopped talking abruptly and looked at her carefully. In an instant he knew there was something wrong. As they reached the gate in front of the house, he stopped.

“What is it, kiddo? What's up?”

Perhaps it was the familiar atmosphere, or a sudden loss of tension, or the concerned look in her father's eyes . . . Margherita's eyes welled up with tears.

A look of panic came over Armando's face.

“No, little one, don't you cry. You know that if I see a woman crying, I'm helpless!”

In spite of herself, Margherita smiled in between the tears. Her father—sorry,
Armando
—would never change.

“There's a good girl, that's better . . .”

That was when Armando noticed the noisy zoo that was awaiting him in the garden.

“You brought them with you . . . Something has happened, hasn't it? Now that I think of it, you were supposed to visit me in a few weeks. It's something about Francesco, isn't it?”

“Francesco! Jerk! Cheater!” Valastro yelled from the cage Margherita had set down near the entrance door.

Nothing more needed to be said.

“Sweet daughter of mine, did you really have to go and marry someone just like me?”

At that point, faced with her father's comical expression of despair, Margherita didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

“Can I stay here with you, Papa?”

Armando's strong embrace was enough of an answer for her. “This will always be your home.”

“This has always been my home.”

Not far from Armando's house, almost the same exact words were being uttered by Baldini, as he pointed to the vast cultivated expanse of vineyards. The person he was speaking to was listening carefully and smiling understandingly, but it was the kind of smile that stops at the lips, without involving the eyes, a smile that remains cold and unfathomable. Everything about him, from the designer suit to the polished English leather shoes, jarred with the surroundings and with the other man's rustic outfit.

“Believe me, Baldini, I see your point, but you must realize that it's the best thing possible for your land and your vineyards.” The man's tone of voice was that of someone who's sure of himself, very much aware of his carefully honed skills of persuasion and seduction, practiced indiscriminately and with equal success on men and women alike. There was no doubt that Mother Nature had been very generous with Nicola Ravelli, an ambitious, handsome,
wealthy entrepreneur who was especially talented when it came to striking lucrative business deals. Like the deal he was making at that very moment.

Baldini suddenly found himself wondering if Mr. Ravelli really understood the quandary he was in. He doubted it, although in his heart of hearts he would have liked to believe him.

“If only my son hadn't decided to quit and head for the city, leaving everything behind,” he let slip.

Ravelli turned to look at him. In his dark eyes there was a flicker of interest.

“Maybe overseeing the vineyards wasn't what he wanted to do.”

“Fabio loved the land, just like I do. He worked hard, we were a great team . . . then he met a girl, and everything changed.”

Ravelli listened to him without saying a word.

Maybe he'd judged him hastily, the winemaker thought to himself. Maybe he wasn't the shark that everyone said he was.

“If all it took was a woman to change his mind, I'd say it wasn't a real passion.” His judgment was categorical; his tone had gone back to being detached.

Baldini told himself he was a fool. What else could he have expected?

Ravelli looked away. Don't start getting sentimental, he told himself. You're here to buy, period.

“If you don't sell your land to me, you know perfectly well what's going to happen. You'll sell to someone else and your vineyards will become building land.”

“But it's farmland . . .”

“All it takes is a bribe to the right person, and it's a done
deal. How would you like to see your land become a concrete jungle?”

The older man gazed toward his land. A look of regret crossed his face.

Ravelli noticed the change.

I've won.

Now he knew that he'd be able to buy the land at his own price. The process of consolidation of both the company and the consortium of which he was the major shareholder would go on as planned. He began strolling along the vineyard again, hiding a smile of satisfaction.

Baldini caught up with him. “Do you promise to at least continue to produce my wine?”

“I promise that the use of this land will remain the same.”

The man held on to those ambiguous words.

“You can't imagine how much time and effort has gone into these vineyards . . .”

“That's why I want to meet you halfway.”

The man's smooth voice was reassuring. It was a natural talent, which had taken him years of practice to perfect.

“It feels like I'm cheating on someone I love.”

Love, what an overrated concept, thought Nicola, with an invisible shrug of the shoulders. But his smile gave nothing away.

“Why don't you think about how you'll finally be able to rest? To travel, enjoy your grandchildren . . . You'll see, you'll feel better once you've signed.”

Ignoring the dejected expression on the other man's face, he took out his checkbook.

Francesco's voice,
coming from outside the house, had risen several decibels.

“I have to talk to her, Armando!”

“Not now, Francesco, she's resting.”

“I've driven almost two hundred kilometers like a madman, I risked getting my license revoked, and I almost smashed into a truck . . . I have to see her!”

“First of all, you need to calm down. We'll have something to drink,
then
you can see her.”

“I have to explain everything. I need to tell her I love her, that I was wrong, that—”

Armando raised a hand to stop his agitated son-in-law, who had just made a very theatrical entrance, greeted by Artusi's festive howling and the unrepeatable epithets tossed at him by Valastro (which he made a great show of ignoring).

“Stop, my boy! I've heard this before. I've used these same words myself!”

They were simply too much alike, Armando and Francesco. They even used the same strategies.

Francesco slumped into the armchair in the tiny living room.

“You've got to help me, Armando, I can't live without her!”

Armando shook his head. “I've heard all this before, too. Ah! You can't imagine how many times I've heard this. You can do better than that!”

“Francesco . . . ?”

At the sound of Margherita's voice, Francesco sprang to his feet.