Apricot Kisses (14 page)

My attempt falls flat. Sofia laughs, and a tear rolls down Chiara’s cheek. When Lucia almost imperceptibly shakes her head, I feel not just helpless but downright bad. Good lord, I hate this.

“The thing is, though . . .” I go on.

Signora Philipp looks at me with curiosity. Lucia crosses her arms and tilts her head. Sofia sinks her nails into my hand. Several bodies press against my back, and a cloud of cloying perfume mixes with whispers and giggles. I’ve got to get out of here.

“To tell you the truth, I’ve”—I cross my fingers behind my back with one hand and, with the other, pull the kid toward me so that my mouth almost touches her ear—“I’ve already promised to marry another signorina.”

Shit! Can I sink any lower?

Chiara stops crying. “Why didn’t you say that before?” she says in a huff.

“Yes, how come you didn’t tell us?” Carlo’s beard tickles my temple. I freeze. Carlo slaps me on the back, swats my hand away from the strawberry-colored glass that I planned to down in my despair, and yanks me up.

“My friend Fabrizio is engaged!” he yells. All chatter stops. The only noise is Eros Ramazzotti crooning “Parla Con Me.” Engaged. Engaged?

“You totally misunderstood, Carlo—I only—” But a bloodcurdling scream of joy from the bar drowns my stuttering.

“I knew it!” Salvi trumpets. He dashes around the bar and elbows his way toward us. I can’t breathe for several seconds while he presses me against his fat chest. His sweaty shirt muffles my mumbled protest. He then hugs the rather baffled Signora Philipp. “Aren’t they wonderful? Aaanna and Fabrizio! Bravo!”

Wonderful. I reach for the strawberry-colored stuff and empty the glass in one gulp.
Madonna
, it burns like fire. Then my chair seems to disintegrate. Something in my head pings, and the ground opens up underneath me—the liberating black nothingness of Nonna’s fairy tale. Finally.

Hanna

“Is he dead?”

Sofia contemplates Fabrizio, who is crumpled on the floor, and lights a cigarette. Lucia and I exchange a quick glance and jump up from our chairs at the same time.

“How many times have I told you to buy real chairs, Salvi?” Carlo rumbles, his arms crossed. “I’m going to give you a ticket for severely violating . . . safety rules.”

“How is it my fault that he just keels over?” an unhappy Salvi says. “He didn’t drink that much.”

“Didn’t he? How many rum-and-Cokes did you give him,
stronzo
—you jerk? Ten? You were supposed to make him feel good, not knock him out.”

“But I . . .”

Neither of the two combatants pays any attention to Fabrizio. Lucia bends over her unconscious brother-in-law and frantically loosens his shirt collar. “Shut up, you idiots!” she hisses and digs her finger into Salvi’s overhanging paunch. “Get me something I can put under his head. And you”—she points an accusing finger at Carlo’s crown jewels—“you should know he can’t tolerate alcohol. What a great friend you are!”

“Don’t use that tone with me, Lucia,” Carlo says, eyeing the gaping and whispering women gathered around the table. “Remember who you’re talking to.”

“I will talk to you whatever way I choose, Carlo. If you don’t like it, you can park yourself with your new radar gun on the
strada provinciale
and play
carabiniere
there.” Lucia is livid. Salvi hands me a jacket, so I scrunch it up and push it under Fabrizio’s neck. Anxiously watching his pale face, I feel his pulse while Lucia waves her fist.

“What are you all standing around and gawking at? Go home. And stomp out your filthy cigarette, Sofia.”

Sofia gets up and carefully smooths her dress. “He’s just drunk, little Lucia. Don’t act like he had a stroke,” she says, and drops her half-smoked cigarette into Lucia’s cocktail. Fabrizio groans and opens his eyes. Relieved, I lean back—accidentally against Sofia’s legs.

“I’m sure Fabrizio’s fiancée will know what to do. But let me give you a piece of advice,” Sofia says, mocking me. “He’ll puke his guts out as soon as he’s outside. I went through that a few times with him. Enjoy, and
buona notte
.”

Having said that, she shows us the plunging back of her dress, which Salvi and Carlo readily admire. The crowd parts for her. Some people get a free pass wherever they go.

“He’s all right, Lucia.” I take Lucia’s arm, but to my surprise she pulls away.

“What’s going on?” she asks. “You and Fabrizio?”

I’d like to know that myself. I close my eyes and try to breathe normally. Panicking won’t help. “Let’s talk about it later, Lucia,” I say and stroke her shoulder. “Let’s bring Fabrizio outside first.”

She nods silently, and I challenge the bigmouthed village policeman with a look, asking him to help. While Salvi quickly kneels down to lift Fabrizio up, Carlo just stands there, pointing his finger to his own chest with a questioning expression.

“Right now,” I say quietly. It’s obvious that Carlo doesn’t like my commanding tone. But because everyone’s watching, he grudgingly puts Fabrizio’s other arm around his shoulder.

“Go home, signore. The party is over,” he says through clenched teeth. Fabrizio hangs between the two men like a sack of wet flour. Lucia and a flock of women follow as they drag the drunk Fabrizio out.

A little later, Fabrizio is propped against the outside of the Amalfi bar and, as the saying goes, puking his guts out. I’m not sure whether I read compassion or disgust in Lucia’s expression, but I decide on compassion, since I wouldn’t like it if she felt disgust. Salvi beat a pale-faced retreat back to the bar as soon as the retching noises began, mumbling “Gotta clean up,” and now Carlo, the blond guy, and the priest are quarreling in the street.

“Sssure I can drive, Carlo,” the blond guy slurs. “Nnno problem . . . Where isss Lorenzo’s car?”

“You can’t see straight,
cretino
,” Carlo replies. “Do you think I’d trust a drunken moron with my life?”

“Don’t you—don’t insult my mother . . .”

“What does anything have to do with your mother?”

“Well then . . . I’ll walk . . . that way . . . I think . . .”

“You aren’t going anywhere, Stefano. The padre—Lorenzo! Unbelievable! He’s asleep standing up.” I hear giggling and knee slapping.

“I don’t think those three can be left alone,” I say, looking at Lucia. She’s just standing there motionless, hugging herself. Only her dress moves with the breeze.

“You shouldn’t drive, yourself,” she whispers. I nod but then realize that she can’t see it in the dark.

“I know,” I say.

“Do you think you can find the way home on foot? Fabrizio might benefit from some exercise.”

“Oh god,” we hear from the wall, and then more vomiting sounds.

“I’ll find Tre Camini. If I get lost, I’ll ask Fabrizio.”

Lucia smiles—briefly, but a smile, and I’m surprised at my relief. For some reason I can’t stand that she’s mad at me.

“Fine. Then I’ll drive the boys home and collect you two on my way back,” she says. I nod. She strides to the parking lot, yanks the key out of Carlo’s hand, and grabs the blond one by the collar.

“Ouch, Lucia. You’re hurting me.”

“Don’t be such a girl, Stefano. Carlo, wake up the Father. We’re taking my car—but I dare you to puke on my seat covers.”

I almost feel sorry for the three. Grinning, I stroll over to Fabrizio. He seems to have emptied his stomach by now, because he’s sitting upright, his back against the wall, staring straight ahead. His face, above his three-day beard, is unnaturally pale in the moonlight.

“Can you get up, Signor Camini?” I ask in a cool voice, trying to ignore the foul-smelling puddle a few feet away. His eyes wander around as if he doesn’t know where my voice is coming from. His gaze finally stops at my bare legs. A grin creates the familiar dimple in his cheek. “Ah. Signora Phi . . . Phil . . .” He stops. “Can’t pronounce it.”

“Kind of embarrassing, since we’re supposedly engaged.” It slips out. He takes my arm and stands up, groaning, his face only inches from mine. An incredibly potent alcoholic cloud escapes his mouth and makes me turn my head away.

“Uppsala,” he mumbles into my hair. Oopsy-daisy.

“Uppsala? Where did you come across that term?” I grab his waist just before he keels over, and my arm becomes the sole support for his entire weight. He’s much brawnier than he looks.

“Germany. Studied there . . . That was . . .” He seems to be thinking intensely. “Forgot when.”

“Signor Camini, we’re going to walk home. Do you think you can manage that?”

“Sssure.” He staggers forward a few steps and pulls me along. “Let’s go. This way. Just always follow the street.”

After a few hundred yards, my shoulder aches and I’m covered in sweat from being his walking stick. “This won’t work. You have to walk on your own,” I pant. I extricate myself from his tight grip. Fabrizio sways but stays on his feet, resembling a floating buoy.

I look at the sky. The night is completely dark, since clouds hide the moon. I can’t see a single star. No house lights, no street lamps, not even the headlights of a distant car. There’s no human noise, either, only the rustling of leaves and the chirping of crickets somewhere in the fields out there. An urge to run barefoot suddenly overcomes me, so I strip off my heels—a decision I immediately regret as sharp little stones cut into my feet. Swearing, I pad over to the grassy edge of the path.

“You better put on your shoes again. Dirt paths aren’t made for spoiled city girls,” an amused voice says behind me. It already sounds slightly more sober. The beneficial effects of fresh air.

“Just like rum isn’t made for hardheaded hicks?”

He forces a laugh. A moment later I hear a cry followed by loud rustling and crashing, as if an animal were breaking through the undergrowth. I anxiously hold my breath.

“Signor Camini?” No reply. Except for the clattering of cicadas, there’s absolute silence. “Fabrizio?”

“Here.” The muffled sound comes from my left, not next to me but below. “Down the slope.”

“What are you doing down there?”

“I thought I’d take a shortcut” is the laconic reply, accompanied by a hoarse chuckle. With a sigh, I cautiously make my way down the slope until my foot pushes against something. I stop. Just then the clouds break up and a bright moon lights the meadow. I see Fabrizio lying in the tall grass with his arms outstretched and a blissful smile on his face. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him totally relaxed. I bend down and awkwardly tap his shoulder.

“We have to go back to the road.”

He shakes his head. “The road’s too dangerous in the dark. We have to stay here until dawn.”

“That’s not going to happen.” I nudge him, and he grumbles.

“Why not? Do you have an appointment, Frau Journalist?”

“I’m not a—” A car approaches on the road above. Lucia! Straightening, I try to climb up the hill on all fours, but Fabrizio grabs my ankle, and my hands find nothing to hold on to in the dewy grass.

“Where are you running, Signora Phi . . . ?”

“Let go of me! Lucia will drive by if she doesn’t see us.” I kick—a reflex response. Unfortunately, the alcohol doesn’t seem to impede his reaction time. A second hand now grasps my other leg.

“That’s what’s wrong with you Germans. You’re always hurrying somewhere.”

“I’m not a German, damn it. Half of one at most, you dumbass,” I scream at him. Light sweeps above us, and I struggle to escape his grip. The car’s headlights, then taillights, briefly shine over our heads. When the sound of the engine fades away, I stretch out in the wet grass in defeat. I wonder who hands out the shitty cards up above.

“Now that isss much better,” Fabrizio mumbles. “Patience bears fruit; that’s what my Nonna used to say.”

“I am sick and tired of your Nonna! It’s her fault that I’m sitting in a ditch with a stinking-drunk Italian,” I say, sitting up. “Would you kindly remove your hands from my ankles?”

“I’m not stinking drunk. Slightly tipsy at most.”

“Sure, and you can call me Christina Aguilera,” I say, rubbing my ankles. They’ll probably be black and blue.

“Why do you then insist that your name’s Signora Philipp?”

“It was a joke.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You know what? Forget it.” Sighing, I stretch out my legs. Why not? I obviously can’t talk sense into this guy.

We lie silently in the grass for a while. It’s actually not unpleasant. The milky-white moonlight is spectacular. I even see some stars now. Out of habit, I scan the skies for the only constellation I know. There it is: the Big Dipper. The grass is a little scratchy and I don’t even want to think about all the insects crawling over me, but . . .

“We can go now,” Fabrizio whispers, close to my ear.

I start up. “Why? A minute ago you wanted to spend the night here.”

“I thought you needed a break. But now you’re ready to walk home. So, signora—after you.”

I feel like I’ve been had.

After a good hour of silent walking, I in my shoes again and he barefoot, Fabrizio stops.

“What is it?” I ask, in less than a good mood. I left my romantic musings about the starry sky and clucking cicadas back in the ditch. A blister on my foot is burning like hell. That’s what you get when your half-size feet mean your shoes are always too small or too big. All I want right now is to be far away from here, far from this thing called nature.

“Pssst.” Fabrizio puts a finger to his mouth and motions at the darkness in front of us. I recognize the silhouette of a wall and an archway. It’s Tre Camini’s driveway. Thank god, we’re here. I clench my teeth to limp ahead for the next hundred yards, but Fabrizio holds me back.

“We should—”

“Let go,” I hiss. “No way are we taking another break.”

Fabrizio drops his arm and shrugs. “As you wish. I just thought we—”

A bloodcurdling cry splits the night—shrill, deafening, right out of a horror movie. Something scurries in front of my feet, and an unexpected sharp pain shoots through my leg. Crying out, I jump aside. The thing hops up and down . . . and flaps its wings. The screeching turns into angry clucking.

I don’t think I’ve ever run faster. When I finally collapse on Tre Camini’s steps, a cramp is stitching my right side and my heart is pounding. So that’s what it’s like to bid your life good-bye. That stupid chicken! Fabrizio saunters into the dim circle of porch light a few moments later.