The Sun and Other Stars (32 page)

“Zeno, let’s put some more energy into that step! Napoleone, you’d better slow down before Ale needs to take you to the hospital!”

“Did your parents like to dance?” Zhuki asks.

“My papà, no. But my mamma did. She would always dance with the widowers at the festas and sagras.”

“I’m sure they loved it.”

“Some too much. But she would only move their hands away from the target and keep dancing.”

“She sounds like a very kind person.”

“Kind doesn’t even cover it.”

We watch Nonno and Nonna twirl by, Nonna free of her mind for a while, spinning and laughing, each turn making her more beautiful. I can see them as they were when they met on the beach as teenagers, and for the first time it occurs to me that Nonno doesn’t sit around at Martina’s like the other old guys and pass Nonna off to the care of a Polish woman every day. Even now when he’s in the shop on Tuesdays, he makes sure she’s with her friends.

“Etto and Zhuki,” Mimmo calls to us over the microphone, and everyone turns in our direction. “Don’t think we don’t see you over there on the side. Why aren’t you dancing? Are you going to be shown up by your grandparents?”

I shrug for both of us, and everyone laughs.

“Dai, Etto. Hurry, before she gets away,” Gubbio says, laughing, as he and Signora Costanza twirl past. “Forza. Su, su!”

I think there might be nothing worse in this world than old people heckling you.

“Come on,” she says, and we get to our feet.

It’s a fast dance, a polka or something. One-two-three, one-two-three, Zhuki counts off as I try to lead her around the dance floor. The entire terrace blurs, and all I can hear is her voice in my ear. The polka melts into a slow song, and Casella comes off the stage and takes Claudia’s hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mimmo announces, “I want to call your attention to the soon-to-be Signor and Signora . . . Casella.”

Casella takes a mock bow. The couples step apart and applaud for them, then rejoin. The music starts again. Camilla and Fede are out on the dance floor now, too, though Camilla is holding Fede at arm’s length, as any smart girl does with a notorious vampire. We glide past the rest of our neighbors, who, clothed in motion and music and the glow of thousands of Christmas lights, seem like different people. Even I start to feel the grace in my body, my feet skimming the boardwalk, Zhuki’s legs turning at the slightest pressure from my hand.

She tucks her head into my chest and sighs. “Genoa is not so far,” she says.

“Genoa is not so far,” I repeat.

The song winds down, and everyone relaxes. A breeze is picking up, riffling through the highest leaves of the trees on the next terrace up, and I feel a slight change in the air pressure. The pause in the music seems to last longer than usual.

“Look,” Zhuki says. She points to Yuri climbing up on the stage. At first I think he might be drunk, but Mimmo hands him the microphone, and he walks steadily to the center of the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says in Italian. The microphone squawks, and Mimmo makes some adjustments.

“Neighbors,” Yuri starts again. “I want to thank you for your hospitality these past two months. I also want to thank FIGC and the sporting judges, who give me such pleasant vacation.”

Laughter runs through the audience, and a gust of wind blows the skirts of the nonne against their legs.

Yuri clears his throat. “We have enjoyed your music very much, and we very much would like to play for you traditional Ukrainian song.” There’s applause from the dance floor, and whistling and hooting from the cluster of chairs as Ihor mounts the steps to the stage. Yes, that’s right. Slab-faced Ihor, plodding up the steps like he’s performing a duty for the motherland. Mimmo hands him his guitar, and for some reason, we all laugh. I look over at Papà, who is red-faced and beaming. I can’t tell if he’s drunk or just happy.

Ihor sits down on a stool, holding the neck of the guitar delicately between his fingers. A trickle of notes falls from the strings, slow and soft, Ihor’s eyes half-lidded, following their descent to the floor. Everyone stops laughing. The couples on the dance floor and the children playing at the edge of the terrace drop their arms and listen. Ihor takes a deep breath, and no one can believe the voice that follows the notes, the voice that seems to pick up the entire terrace and carry us to some secret forest in Ukraine. Yuri is on the stairs, kneeling on one knee, staring at Ihor with absolute stillness.

“It is about the Karpatsky,” Zhuki says softly. “The Carpathian Mountains. It is about the rivers coming down the mountains to wash the blood from Soviet oppression.” She leans against me, and I try to keep my heart from knocking through my chest and leaving bruises on the back of her head. Genoa is not so far. The wind starts to blow harder, and I look up to the sky. The clouds are piling up, one on top of the other, like extra terraces, but no one else seems to notice. They are too transfixed by this man-child on the stage, who makes them feel like this music belongs to them, the childhood it comes from, and the distant land, too.

“Etto, I need to talk to you.”

I feel Zhuki’s weight pulling away as we both turn to look at Signor Cavalcanti, his face strained. He’s just as stylish as Guido, his shirt perfectly ironed, his titanium watch fitted snugly around his wrist.

“Etto, I need to talk to you,” he says again. He’s so close I can smell his cologne.

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“I need to know.”

“Need to know what?”

“Is my son gay?”

“What?”

“Is Guido gay? I need you to tell me the truth.”

I can smell the leaves unfurling, opening to the sky, the roots beneath the ground creaking as they reach farther down into the water table. It’s going to rain. A few people in the crowd look up. The children on the edges grow restless and start to play a game of dodging between the cypresses.

“I need to know, Etto. You’ve never seen him leaving Nicola Nicolini’s apartment?”

“That doesn’t make him gay.”

“In the morning?”

I look over at the sound table, where Nicola Nicolini and Guido have been sitting happily together all night. Ihor finishes the song and hands the guitar back to Mimmo with a sheepish grin.

“I don’t know where he thinks
he’s
going,” Mimmo says into the microphone, and the crowd laughs.

When I turn back to Signor Cavalcanti, he’s still waiting for an answer.

“Signor Cavalcanti,” I say, “Guido is your
son.
”

Mimmo starts another song, but there’s a commotion among the children that’s spreading to the adults, and when I turn back around, Signor Cavalcanti has disappeared back into the darkness at the edges of the dance floor.

“What is it?”

“Do you see it?”

“I’ve never seen one before.”

“How many are there?”

The sky is sagging low, and there, toward Laigueglia, are three water trumpets, ambling across the flat plane of sea.

“Shit.”

“What is it?” Zhuki asks.

“A water trumpet.” I spin my finger in the air. “Three of them.”

“Tornadoes?”

“If they decide to come onto the beach.”

“Can they do that?”

“They can do whatever they want.”

“Will they come up here?”

“I think we’re too high.” But, cazzo, what do I know about water trumpets? In twenty-two years, I’ve never seen one.

I hear the rain crumpling the dry leaves overhead and feel the first swollen drops bursting against my back. In a matter of seconds, the entire field is engulfed in noise—plastic sheets flapping in the wind, the clattering of tables and chairs and shouts of instructions. In the middle of the chaos, the Ukrainians crowd around Zhuki and click into their own tongue. I get to work with the others, folding and stacking the chairs around the dance floor as dark circles as big as euro coins start to blot out the light wood of the boardwalk.

“Yasno,” I hear Zhuki shout through the wind.

“Dobre,” Yuri answers, and he heads up the hill with Little Yuri and Principessa in tow.

“He will take Little Yuri and Principessa to the villa and bring the SUV down to help,” Zhuki says to me, wiping the rain out of her eyes. “Have you seen Vanni?”

“I saw him go up the hill with Tatiana.”

“When was that?”

“I don’t know. A couple of songs before Ihor got up onstage?”

Zhuki, Ihor, Mykola, and I join the army disassembling the festa. The man whose fingers made the rings of heaven vibrate on a few strings is now stomping down the path to the truck, hoisting tables over his head. The rain is heavy now, the sky white like snow, and we troop up and down the mule track, slipping in the mud and reaching out to steady ourselves. I can feel the people catching me and pushing me up the hill from behind as the mud coats my feet, weighing them down. I recognize a few voices and Belacqua’s laugh through the rain, but by now everyone is soaked through, and I have to look closely to see who is who.

Finally, the truck is loaded and the brake lights go on. Sandro starts the engine and it gurgles to life. The right tires spin, but ten of us attach ourselves to the bumper and the doors and push it out. I recognize the kids from Belacqua’s band, who sit inside with their equipment and pull the door down with a bang. Thunder echoes over the sea and lightning saws the sky in half. People disperse in all directions, but I make my way back up the mule track. The bouncing castle has disappeared, and the entire field is empty except for the dance floor.

“Etto! Over here!” Nonno has pulled the 2CV onto the weedy service road at the back of the terrace. He and Nonna and Martina are squeezed into the front seat, with all the leftover food piled in the back and on Martina’s lap. Martina has the window flipped up.

“Where’s Papà?” I shout over the rain.

“He’s already gone down to the shop. We’re storing the food in the walk-ins.”

“Have you seen the Ukrainians?”

He points. “Last I saw they were under the tent.”

I sweep my hair away from my face with both hands and set out to find the Ukrainians. I find them huddled under the food tent, including Little Yuri and Principessa, who are now wearing bright yellow rain slickers and boots, like phosphorescent ghosts.

“Where’s the SUV?”

“Up at the villa,” Zhuki answers.

Yuri has an expression I’ve never seen before, as if his entire face has been deboned, leaving only skin, eyes, and tufts of hair.

“Did you find Vanni?”

Everyone glances at Yuri, and I know even before Zhuki says it.

“They were together.”

“Shit.”

“Etto, I need to ask a favor,” she says.

“Anything.”

“Can you find us a hotel for the night?”

Except that.

“It’s Ferragosto,” I explain. “All the hotels are booked six months, a year ahead of time. They put people in closets and storage rooms. I’m sure there’s not a room left in town.”

There’s another conference in Ukrainian, and this time I pick out the word
hotel.
Zhuki looks distressed.

“But you can stay at our apartment,” I say quickly.

Zhuki, Mykola, and Ihor look at each other. It’s clear they’re the ones making the decisions.

“Are you sure?” Zhuki says.

“There won’t be enough beds for everybody, but we’ll figure something out.”

“Thank you, Etto,” she says, and hugs me.

I lead the way. Ihor and Mykola carry the kids, and Zhuki grips the arm of her brother. My phone lights up my pocket almost constantly as we creep down the muddy mule track, holding on to the walls of the path. On Via Partigiani, wide rivulets of water are flowing over the pavement like a glaze of ice.

“I think the torrents have overflowed,” I say.

“Is that bad?”

“Very.”

By the time we emerge onto the railroad bridge, the sky has gone dark, closing over us like an iron plate. The vicos perpendicular to the beach are all already flooded and deepening every minute, the water having found the fastest route down to the sea. The shop is closed and dark, and as I unlock the door of the apartment, there’s another conference in Ukrainian, and Mykola and Ihor trudge back up the hill.

“They think it’s better if they stay at the villa tonight,” Zhuki explains. “To make sure she doesn’t steal anything of Yuri’s.”

Yuri is still unresponsive, a ghost of himself. The alarm chirps, and we tumble into the front hall, peeling off layers and kicking off shoes.

“Papà?” I call.

No answer. I check my phone. It’s filled with messages.

COME DOWN TO MARTINA’S.

ETTO, GET DOWN HERE. MARTINA’S.

ETTO, WE’RE ALL AT MARTINA’S.

Shit.

“Papà?” I call again, but again there’s no answer.

“Are you sure your papà will not mind?”

“Not at all.” I lead them upstairs to the living room, our damp socks leaving footprints on the wood. I turn around, and Yuri is still standing at the bottom, deciding whether he can make the climb.

“Yuri!” Zhuki calls out something in Ukrainian, and he finally sets his legs in motion.

“Yuri can sleep in Papà’s room,” I say. “You and the kids can have mine. There are two beds.”

“What about you?”

“I think something’s happened at Martina’s. I might not be back for a while.” Even inside the apartment I can hear the palms creaking under the weight of the wind, and the wooden piers of the molo groaning against the force of the waves. “SMS me if you need anything.”

“Okay.” And we kiss—automatically—as if we’ve been saying good-bye like that our entire lives.

I go outside, and it’s like the crazy divorcée upstairs is dumping a bucket of water on me, like she did to Fede and Luca the time they got drunk and serenaded her. The sheets of water down the vico are thicker, running up to my ankles and shellacking my shoes with a wobbly finish. I run down the passeggiata, my hair slicked back, my shoes squishing with every step. I can see the crowd of people gathering, their figures smeared like charcoal drawings in the driving rain. I run as fast as I can, following the floodlights, and when I get there, it’s worse than I imagined. Half the roof is gone, and a third of the walls. It’s like looking down the maw of a beast, the tables and chairs mangled and flung around the room, bottles lying smashed on the ground, the liquor mixing into a nauseous cocktail, the calcio scarves blown into the mess. A couple of men are standing around lamenting the deaths of the lotto machine and the flat-screen, which is lying on its back, the whiteness crackling through it like ice.