Apricot Kisses (4 page)

“Salut, ma belle!”

I look up in surprise and see a petite shape against the sun. “What are you doing here?”

“Keeping you company.” Claire sits down next to me and fishes a croissant out of a paper bag. We sit silently for a while.

“It’s Sunday,” I say.

“Hmmm,” Claire responds, chewing.

“Did you have a fight with Jan?”

“Jan doesn’t know how to argue.” She offers me the paper bag. “Croissant or chocolate roll?”

I suddenly have a lump in my throat. “Claire, why are you here?”

“To stand by a friend. Isn’t that the phrase?”

“I’m your friend?”

“Mostly you’re a silly goose.” Swallowing the last bite, she grins. “So what are we going to do about the Caminis?”

“I’m going to write a heart-melting letter of apology and ask Signor Camini to drop the charges.”

“You actually intend to send poor Giuseppa to Italy in the mail?”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“You really should know the answer yourself. Why do you make yourself so complicated?”

She always says that, and I hate it. “Forget it, Claire,” I mumble.

“It’s too late. I already called the boss and he finds my idea
magnifique
!” She curls a lock of hair around her finger. “And before you curse and swear like a raven—”

“It’s ‘swear like a sailor.’”

“Whatever.” She makes a dismissive gesture. “Before you get mad at me, listen first. Signor Camini is Italian and you are half-Italian,
n’est-ce pas
? So nobody is more aware that a letter does nothing to soothe the pride of a Mediterranean man. I thought carefully, Hanna. You have to go back to Italy. Talk with Signor Camini, tell him that you are sorry and that you’ll make amends. You’ll hand over the urn, and everything will be all right.”

“You mean the stolen urn,” I say.

“The found urn.”

“But I can’t do something like that. I suck at conflict resolution!”

“Seriously, Hanna. Life is filled with conflict. It’s about time you learned how to deal with it.” Claire is unrelenting. “Hellwig already gave the go-ahead on my idea for a special Tuscany issue. Your ticket is waiting for you at the airport. You’ll go on a business trip, you’ll wrap the Caminis around your little finger, and you’ll also write a few nice—the operative word is
nice
—articles about local restaurants.”

“You covered all the angles, didn’t you?”

“Most of all, I thought of you,” Claire says softly. “Sometimes it is better to confront the ghosts that haunt you rather than running away from them. It can be healing.”

Honestly, I don’t have the slightest idea what this French girl is talking about.

Chapter Three

Hanna

“What do you mean, the car is not available?” I say. “Here’s the online confirmation from your company. It clearly states medium-size car, Florence airport car rental, reserved for Monday, June twenty-third. That’s today!”

I thought I was prepared for anything, but I wasn’t ready for my personal Italian nightmare to start right when I arrived in Florence. First, the workers threw my luggage onto the baggage-claim conveyor belt last, as if they knew that I was in a hurry. Then, I was randomly selected for a special customs check and had to take my underwear out of my suitcase and spread it out in front of a clerk with a mustache and an Adam’s apple that jumped up and down. Next, my heart sank when the customs clerk held Giuseppa indecisively in his hands for a while. But, unexpectedly, the urn slid through as a souvenir. He shrugged his shoulders and put her back in the suitcase. I guess I don’t look like a drug smuggler.

Of course, by then the rental-car line reached all the way to Arrivals. When I finally got to the glassed-in counter two hours later, I was ready to board the next plane back to Berlin—regardless of my job or the urn. And now this!

The fat Italian in the bright-yellow booth looks at me nonchalantly. “No car available.”

He must be joking.

“Yes, you already said that,” I reply in German. “But that’s not my problem, I’m afraid.”

“Is not a problem, signora. Just come back tomorrow, and then a car will be here.”

“Tomorrow?” I can feel the frozen smile on my face melting.

“Maybe late morning. But not too late, because then we have lunch break.” He is still completely indifferent.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I can do nothing. Come back tomorrow.
Basta.
”

“Listen, I’m here on business and don’t have time to be the victim of your lousy organizational skills,” I say—in a much higher pitch than I planned.

The fat guy shakes his head and starts to roll down his blinds.

In desperation, I put both hands on the window and start screaming in Italian. “You’ll get a car for me pronto, even if you have to weld it together yourself! Otherwise your little yellow box will explode.
Basta!
”

Suddenly the clerk is no longer blasé. He rushes out of his glass box. “Luigi Cartone, signora, at your service. Why didn’t you say you were Italian in the first place?”

I cut him short. “So are we now solving the problem the Italian way, or should I sic my mother on you?” I ignore his outstretched, pudgy hand. Cartone looks at me approvingly. My reaction doesn’t seem to astonish or offend him. I push my chest out even farther and pout, something I wouldn’t do in Germany even if my life depended on it. Cartone makes a calming gesture—hands flat, paddling downwards—and scurries back into his fishbowl. He reaches for the phone, an antique with a dial, while he texts furiously on his cell phone with the thumb of his other hand.

“Giacomo, come over here, OK? And bring the key for the Spider for a pretty signora. What? I don’t care if it’s reserved.” Ignoring the excited response on the other end, he puts down the receiver and raises a thumb. “No problem, signora”—he glances at the rental contract—“Signora Philipp. If I may give you some advice, from one countryman to another: speak Italian in Italy. That opens windows and doors for a beautiful woman—car doors, too.”

Driving a car in an Italian city is a life-threatening activity, especially if you don’t know the rules, which aren’t posted anywhere. Basically, remember that the faster car always wins, pass in the most dangerous spot you find, and watch for motorbikes and Vespas that suddenly dash out of tiny side streets with total disregard for traffic lights. Italians also tend to tailgate, following so closely that you cannot see the grille of the car behind you in your rearview mirror.

When I instinctively take my foot off the gas pedal, a cacophony of car horns sounds around me. Despite Cartone’s directions—both spoken and pantomimed—I miss the freeway going southwest and land in the middle of Florence. Sweating blood in what feels like a-hundred-plus degrees and feeling no appreciation for the beauty of the city, I drive around the roundabout on the Piazza della Stazione for five minutes, looking desperately at the exit signs. None of them, even after three rounds, points in the right direction. I’m in a spanking-new Alfa Romeo Spider, but it doesn’t make me feel any better in this bumper-to-bumper chaos. Besides, now I’m sorry I was too chicken to ask for a GPS. I don’t remember when I last balanced a street map on my knees while driving. Other than that, the convertible is a dream.

“Damn it!” I start when a Vespa roars by just inches from my side mirror—the driver in shorts and sandals with his cell phone wedged between his ear and helmet.

A blue Fiat—which has trailed me, honking, for the past two rounds—moves up to my side. Two young Italians in mirrored sunglasses call out to me,
“Che bella donna! Dove vai?” Beautiful woman, where are you going?
I’m at the end of my rope. So instead of swearing at them, I wave my map and shrug my shoulders.

“Where to? Where to?” they shout.

I start my fifth circle of the roundabout. The Fiat doesn’t move from my side.

“South? Perugia? Montepulciano?” I scream back. It’s worth a try. The boys grin, and one raises his thumb. The Fiat’s engine revs, and the little car scoots into a space in front of me. The passenger gestures that I should follow them. Relieved, I follow them out of the traffic circle after a sixth round, heading in the exact opposite direction from the one I thought I should take. All I can hope now is that my new friends aren’t luring me into some horrible neighborhood to pinch my purse.

Fabrizio

I tighten the muscles in my back, inhale, and raise my arms. The axe smashes down on the log and cuts it cleanly in half. Another piece of wood—my sixty-eighth—is next. I knock it out with one blow, paying no attention to the blister on my thumb. I deserve the pain.

I once read that one can gauge a person’s popularity by counting how many are crying at the graveside. If that’s true, my grandmother outranks soccer legend Enzo Bearzot.

The entire village came to pay last respects to Nonna this morning. The black-clad crowd—a sighing, crying colony of ants—invaded the cemetery and reached all the way to Via Capelli, where cars, tractors, motorbikes, and bicycles were lined up like pearls on a necklace. I don’t know who was more desperate: Padre Lorenzo, fearing for the graves that were trampled by countless feet, or me, who had to offer the mob of mourners an empty urn.

My shirt is sticking to my back. Sweat stings my eyes; I haven’t wiped them with my bandana since round fifty-seven. I wind up for the sixty-ninth blow, this one intended for the sharp-faced notary Lombardi. I couldn’t keep him from going to read Nonna’s last will right after the funeral—he didn’t want to pay the cab fare from Pisa twice. The testament will be read in public, in the community hall, this very afternoon, the way Nonna stipulated. How crazy is that? My wooden adversary topples off the chopping block, but I don’t feel triumphant.

“So whom exactly do you want to kill, son?”

I notice that Alberto is leaning against the shed, his thumbs wedged under the straps of his blue overalls. Thin smoke escapes from his nose—the result of a hasty secret cigarette, no doubt. Our estate manager is as immune to medical advice as Nonna was.

I reach for another piece of wood, pretending that Alberto has not just materialized out of thin air. I have no idea how long he’s already watched me. He has almost perfected the art of creeping up on people.

“You mean since I made a good start with Nonna?” Round seventy. Whack. Next, please.

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

I look for an especially impressive log instead of replying. I call the log I find Titan and fight the urge to cross myself. I’m on the outs with God lately, like I’m on the outs with everything else. Titan’s neck breaks in a fraction of a second. Amen.

“Your granny knew that she wasn’t well.”

“But I didn’t know it. Otherwise I’d hardly have let her fly to Germany.”

“You better believe me that no power in the world could have kept her from taking that trip, not even being tied to a tractor.” It sounds as if Alberto wants to add something, but he only shakes his head and laughs, as if what happened was just Nonna playing one last macabre trick on us.

“I would have thought of something,” I say. If I inherited one gene from Nonna, it’s stubbornness. The next piece of wood—but my axe misses, cuts only the edge and whizzes into the chopping block. Relieved, I let go of the wooden handle.

“You couldn’t have prevented the heart attack. Sooner or later—”

“I would’ve preferred later!” The words are hardly out of my mouth when I realize that, yes, I lost my grandmother, but Alberto lost the person he’s loved his entire life. Tension tightens my chest. “Sorry. I just would have loved to . . . say good-bye. Instead, I took that possibility away from me and from all of you. I will never forgive myself. Never.”

Alberto scrutinizes me for a long time before looking to the courtyard where Vittoria, my grandmother’s favorite white hen, is scratching in the mud.

“Finding her ashes won’t change that she’s gone forever. Say good-bye here.” He taps his chest. By now, our estate manager has used up more than his weekly allotment of words in this conversation, a sign that he means what he says. I look into his watery eyes, which almost disappear beneath his heavy brows. I guess I’ll have to get used to feeling guilty all the time.

“You’re right. Forgive me.”

Alberto pats the back of my neck with his hand, a gesture I know from my childhood, when he would slap the back of my head if the situation warranted it. “Finish up, son. It smells of rain.”

Hanna

I don’t end up in a scary neighborhood. Right after the city limits of Florence, I say good-bye to the nice Italians by honking and screaming,
“Grazie, grazie!”
I leave the freeway at the next exit, courageously choosing the local road that runs parallel to the
strada provinciale
. Even though this will double my traveling time, I’m happy with my spontaneous decision. Within half an hour the fields and woods of the Arno valley open up in front of me.

I am not a nature lover, but it’s unbelievable how the mellow landscape of this quiet side street affects me. On my right, the Arno winds its way through the hills like a serpent, copper colored in the late-afternoon sun that breaks through the clouds. The wind brushes against the back of my head, and I suddenly don’t regret anymore that I entrusted my hair to an obviously mad hairdresser who dyed it a brownish black and cut it very short. Tiny villages and farmsteads—houses with faded awnings, and little gardens with laundry lines—fly by. I hum along with an Italo-pop hit playing on the radio and wave to a bicyclist I pass; I just can’t resist. The air smells of meadows, lavender, and something sour that I can’t quite define. I’m almost at peace—at least for ten minutes until the idyll is destroyed by a bang and billowing black smoke.

“Damn!” I step on the brake and come to a stop behind a tractor that is taking up most of the road. My car chortles violently, burps a few times, and then dies.

Of course. Did I seriously think I could reach this godforsaken place—what’s it called?—without incident? I fish around the armrest for the crumpled piece of paper with the address. Montesimo. A short look at the map confirms what I thought: Montesimo is unreachably far. The next village is about two and a half miles away, and who knows whether it has a gas station, let alone a garage. The tractor has long since puttered out of sight, and an invisible mockingbird in the underbrush next to the road is having a loud laugh at my expense. My forehead drops onto the steering wheel.

I know as much about cars as a carpenter knows about crocheting. It takes me ten minutes just to locate the lever that opens the hood. Above me a rain cloud—a rather large one—rumbles ominously.

Fabrizio

Umberto Lombardi is a tall, gaunt man with a beaked nose that somehow complements his starched shirt collar perfectly. From the lectern, where bingo numbers are usually called and award ribbons attached to the overalls of chicken farmers, he’s lording it over us. The community hall fills with the same black crowd that trampled down Padre Lorenzo’s graves this morning. Nobody wants to miss the public reading of a last will and testament, especially not if it’s the one of Giuseppa Camini.

I glance around with my head bent, trying to endure the pitying looks and at the same time to act aloof enough so nobody speaks to me. The mayor’s wife, who starts to waddle toward me with a sorrowful expression, hits the brakes and instead presses Lucia and Marco to her ample bosom—making sure that everyone witnesses her expression of condolence.

The proceedings in the darkened room seem strangely staged to me, almost as if, from behind the velvet curtain, Nonna were directing her own funeral feast (a horrible expression for the mountains of spaghetti, vats of minestrone, and buckets of panini). Nonna liked best the sesame-topped panini, some of which are right now disappearing into Lucrezia Gosetti’s pockets. Her son, Stefano, in shirtsleeves and bow tie, is sitting with the Bertanis. One row in front of them, Rosa-Maria sits in tears next to Alberto, who is more composed. Our foreman, Paolo stands by himself at the window, hands buried in his pants pockets and gaze directed outside as if he wished he were in the fields. I understand the feeling exactly.

Lombardi coughs quietly, condescendingly—typical of his profession. He leafs through his folder. It’s obvious that he doesn’t feel comfortable with this group of peasants who are so different from his rich clients in Pisa. The lawyer has been taking care of our family’s affairs for two generations, but I’ve never understood what Nonna saw in this stuffed shirt. He can’t finish a sentence without using a word from a foreign language.

Lombardi clears his throat more emphatically, but the room quiets down only when the mayor sits down and takes off his Panama hat. Chairs scrape across the floor, last morsels of food disappear into mouths, and glasses are deposited on the floor next to muddy shoes. All hundred and twenty or so curious pairs of eyes fixate on the lectern, as if someone shouted “Bingo.” I can almost hear Nonna whispering from the great beyond,
“Bread and games, child. Even the old Romans knew the only effective way to get people to do what they have no intention of doing.”
I almost laugh out loud.
What the hell is your plan?
I wonder.