Apricot Kisses (25 page)

“It does you justice,” I say and cautiously touch the uneven, shiny surface. My heart beats faster and I shrink back, laughing at myself at the same time. The pulsing sensation in my fingertips is surely nothing more than my own hysteria. I slowly breathe in and out, tilt my head, and lock eyes with the shimmering oily ones of the woman in the painting.

“Thank you for everything,” I whisper. Then I wait, holding my breath. Only the ticking of the grandfather clock interrupts the silence. She doesn’t answer. Of course not—everything has been said. I nod good-bye to Giuseppa. It’s time to go home.

From the end of the driveway, the bus stop is a few hundred yards in the opposite direction from Montesimo, behind a curve covered in juniper bushes. According to the schedule, the bus stops here twice a day, and finally I have some luck: the next one is due in twenty minutes.

Slightly out of breath, I sink down on the little bench on the side of the road. I panicked after leaving the living room. I couldn’t get away fast enough from this place that’s made me realize how lonely and pathetic my own life is. Like a scared chicken, I hurried back to my room, bundled together my things, and stuffed them into my suitcase without caring that my muddy shoes will ruin my dresses and blouses. Then I sneaked out of the house and ran the entire way to the road.

And now I’m sitting here feeling guilty because I didn’t have the decency to say good-bye to Lucia. But she would have tried to make me stay, would have begged with her huge eyes, and would have asked questions I don’t want to answer.

I shield my eyes against the sun and watch Vittoria, who followed me like a puppy and resisted all my attempts to shoo her back. Now she stalks around on the grassy roadside, clucking, and I’m worried that some speed freak might run her over. How strange that this chick gave me the jitters only a little while ago. She’s actually cute, even pretty, with her snow-white feathers and spotted brown chest.

I sigh and check my watch. The twenty minutes are taking an eternity. Finally I hear the welcome sound of a motor. But what clatters around the curve isn’t a bus. Ernesto’s dirty yellow postal vehicle comes to a halt next to me with squeaking wheels. This is all I need.

“
Buon giorno
, beautiful signora,” Ernesto shouts. “Did you get lost again? If you’re looking for Tre Camini, it’s in the opposite direction.”

“I’m waiting for the bus.” Maybe he’ll leave me alone if I’m gruff enough. Ernesto scratches underneath his cap.

“That might be a problem.”

“Why would there be a problem?” I cross my arms in front of my chest. Ernesto points his thumb behind him.

“The bus is in the garage. Broken axle. Happened last week.”

“You’re kidding! Don’t you have a replacement bus?”

Ernesto shrugs. “Well, yes.”

“Yes, and? Where is it?”

“Near Perugia by now, probably. It left here about two hours ago.”

“But the schedule says it’s due now.” I stare at him in disbelief. True, I’ve heard a lot about the unreliability of public transportation in Italy, but this—it leaves me speechless. Meanwhile Ernesto turns off his engine and smiles at me.

“Pietro isn’t much for schedules. To be honest, I don’t think he can even read them. But he’s a good driver, hasn’t had an accident in more than twenty years. That means something in Italy.”

“How nice for Pietro, but it doesn’t get me to the airport,” I say, and immediately regret it because now Ernesto no longer looks at me cheerfully, but eyes my suitcase suspiciously.

“Does Fabrizio know you’re leaving?”

“It’s none of his business,” I say.

Ernesto slowly shakes his head, but his expression actually lightens. “You really make a great couple, you and my ex-future-son-in-law.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had to keep my Rita from running away six times. Once, she made it all the way onto the plane to Milan. But the air traffic controller is my cousin’s brother-in-law, and he wouldn’t let the plane leave.
Mamma mia
, Rita was furious. I had to sing twice to make her get off the plane.”

“You sang?”

Ernesto nods. “Twice. Fausto Leali’s ‘A Chi.’ Do you know it?”

“No.” I raise my hand. “And I don’t want to hear it.”

“Pity. It’s a nice one.” He hums and taps a beat on his steering wheel. I cover my ears.

“Ernesto, could you please just drive me to Stefano’s garage so I can pick up my rental car? And would you please do it without saying anything? I beg you.”

Maybe because of my intensity, or because of the tears that suddenly roll down my cheeks, Ernesto is immediately serious. He unbuckles his seatbelt, gets out, and picks up my suitcase. Then he waits silently next to the passenger door until I’m settled among the packages and piles of letters. When he’s behind the steering wheel again, he nods to me and starts up the engine. Half-blinded by tears, I look in the rearview mirror and catch sight of Vittoria shrinking into a small white spot and then disappearing around the bend.

Fabrizio

I actually just wanted to sit down and rest for a while. But when I reluctantly open my eyes, I find that my head is on the table and throbbing like I have a hangover. On top of it, the sun beats down through the window, bent on burning me.

Groaning, I straighten up, scoot my chair out of the sun, and wait for the carousel to stop turning. Then I see the empty liqueur bottle on the table and the half-full glass next to it, and I’m suddenly wide awake, overtaken by the memory of yesterday. I somehow manage to get up, stagger into the container of corks on my way to the door, and stumble over the dustpan that I forgot to put away yesterday. My wrinkled trousers and dirty fingernails disgust me. I feel filthy and taste something nauseating in my mouth, but there is no time for a shower. I have to talk with Hanna—now.

I cross the yard and head for the back door. Marco is sitting on the bench in front of the kitchen window, his face to the sun. He opens his eyes, destroying my hope of sneaking by him.

“Well, well, well . . . The lord of the manor slept off his hangover. Make sure it doesn’t become a habit, brother.” He makes a show of stretching and yawning. I reach for the door handle with a snort. Ignoring Marco is the best punishment, and has been ever since we were little.

“By the way, you don’t have to rush. She’s gone.” Another hearty yawn. I stop midstride. “She must have smelled a rat.” He clicks his tongue. “I thought she was tougher. But . . . maybe I was right from the start. It’s a pity nothing came of your little deal.”

I slowly push down the handle without looking at him, because otherwise I might lose control. One thing is certain, I’m going to kill him. I just don’t know if it will be now or later. Marco’s laughter follows me into the hallway, where I run into Rosa-Maria. She brushes by me with an annoyed “Signora I-Do-Whatever-I-Want.”

Without knocking, I rush into Hanna’s room. Lucia is sitting at the edge of the bed, her hands in her lap. She gives me a startled look. In one glance I take in the made-up bed and the empty wardrobe, its doors wide open.

“She didn’t say good-bye,” Lucia says.

I go to the table and touch the apron dress that is neatly folded over the back of the chair. The material is soft and faded, and a safety pin still clips the spot where Hanna took it in. Bending down, I pick up a coat hanger, one of many on the floor. I guess she couldn’t leave fast enough.

It’s hurtful, but it also proves that I did the right thing. I gave Hanna a choice, and she chose. Actually, it was clear from the beginning. A deal is a deal—and you can’t force love. The sex meant nothing. Thing is, a foolish heart is still a foolish heart.

Lucia looks at me questioningly while I pick up the rest of the coat hangers and hang them back up. “It looks like she made a decision,” I say and slam the wardrobe door. “Come on, Lucia. We’ve got work to do.”

Hanna

When the plane starts to move, I turn off my phone and lean back in the uncomfortable seat. I’m not sure whether I should laugh at myself or berate myself for hoping until the last moment to be begged over the intercom by a breathless voice, or an off-key love song, to get off the airplane.

But some things happen only in movies—or maybe in Ernesto’s world, where anything seems to be possible. In my world, I get on the plane, and that’s the end of the story.

I look through the window as we taxi toward the runway and force myself not to check the aisle again. Instead I focus on the flight attendant and her pretty smile. She’s a pretty, blue-eyed brunette who doesn’t look as if she’s ever been lovesick. But what a stupid assumption! Lovesickness is as universal as eating; it affects everyone who doesn’t pretend to be an island, as I did for years. My eyes tear up again. All this crying is new to me, too, but I can’t help it.

“Is everything all right?” the flight attendant asks me in Italian-accented German. She puts her hand on my arm. In the past, I would have shaken her off and sent her away with an irritated look. Today, I read her name tag, feeling grateful for her concern.

“No, Emilia, nothing is all right, actually.” I sniffle. “It would be really nice if you could bring me something alcoholic later.”

She nods with a soft expression. “I’ll bring you two, signora.”

There you have it. Lovesickness is universally understood, no matter how young and pretty you are. I watch her as she asks passengers to turn off electronic devices and bring their seats to an upright position. Then an elderly lady across the aisle in front of me draws my attention. She’s looking around with curiosity and keeps grabbing the hand of the younger woman next to her.

“Here we go, Pupetta!” She clasps the golden cross on her necklace.

“Yes, Mamma. We’re taking off soon,” the daughter says and helps her mother with the seatbelt. The old lady seems to feel my gaze, because she suddenly looks over her shoulder. I am dumbstruck—not because she caught me eavesdropping but because her eyes are just as black and oily as Giuseppa’s. Even the smile playing around her wrinkly mouth, friendly and mischievous, could easily belong to the younger woman in the oil painting at Tre Camini.

She winks at me. “My grandson is getting married in Germany.”

“That’s wonderful,” I say lamely, because what I remember all of a sudden makes my pulse jump sky high. Giuseppa.

No.

It can’t be.

Did I really . . . ?

I look around nervously, but it’s way too late. The engine is already racing at full speed; the stripes on the runway merge into a single line and the plane accelerates, shaking and rocking. The old lady shouts with glee, and I feel the familiar tingling in my belly as the upward lurch presses me against my seat. Then it’s over.

I’m still numb half an hour later. The seatbelt sign above me has been off for a while, and two strong-smelling drinks sit in front of me. I toss the first down in one gulp and grimace, and then I do the same with the second. Then I tilt back my seat and try to breathe as I relive my hasty departure from Tre Camini.

In slow motion, I watch myself grabbing blouses and slacks from the wardrobe, dropping coat hangers, and stuffing everything randomly into my suitcase—on top of Giuseppa’s urn. And then I run out of the little room as if someone were chasing me.

How stupid can you get?

At that point I burst into loud laughter, to the astonishment of everyone sitting near me.

Chapter Fourteen

Hanna

“Anything to declare?” The uniformed official at the counter seems to find my passport boring.

“Just a grandmother. In here,” I say truthfully—and with a somewhat floppy tongue. Emilia, the flight attendant, meant well by giving me three more consoling drinks during the flight, but that’s why I twisted my ankle twice on the gangway (I swear I will never wear these pumps again), bumped into an elderly gentleman at baggage claim (I really didn’t see him), and almost grabbed the wrong suitcase from the conveyor belt (why are they all black?). Now I’m standing in front of the glassed-in customs counter. Suddenly I want to breathe on the glass and draw a heart in the condensation. Giggling, I brace myself against the window.

“In here,” I repeat and point to my suitcase. The customs official frowns without looking up.

“So you have nothing to declare.”

He thinks I’m joking. I’m about to explain the misunderstanding when someone touches my arm.

“Oh, there you are,” says a clear voice. I only recognize it when I see Emilia’s gentle eyes. I open my mouth, but close it again since the ground starts to move. I grab on to Emilia’s arm for dear life. The customs guy seems to be as happy to see her as I am.

“Emilia! Done for today?”

Emilia’s laughter bubbles like prosecco. I wouldn’t mind a glass, a tiny one. I giggle.

“Hello, Reiner. How are the kids?”

The customs official’s groan is half-proud and half-annoyed. “What can I say? I found my first gray hairs.”

“Men like you never get old,” Emilia says. She holds my arms tight, since my feet seem to be sliding apart—like two icebergs, and I’m straddling them. Any farther and I’ll do the splits. I giggle again and follow it with an unladylike burp. Nobody notices, since Reiner is luxuriating in Emilia’s smile.

“Are you done here so I can take my friend along?” Emilia blinks her eyes. “Ride sharing. You know how expensive cabs are.”

I look up in surprise. We carpool? Customs Reiner nods and returns my passport without so much as looking at me. While I’m still contemplating whether I should feel insulted or insist on explaining the urn in my suitcase, Emilia maneuvers me toward the exit. She heads for the parking area instead of the taxi line.

“I have to”—I point to the blue Taxi sign—“go there.”

Emilia shakes her head. “My car is waiting in the staff lot. It costs an arm and a leg, but it’s worth it. I’ll drive you home. After all, it’s sort of my fault that you’re a little tipsy.” I want to protest but think better of it. First, I might not find my way to the taxi stand in my current condition, and second, someone as nice as this Emilia shouldn’t be snubbed. So I smile politely and try to walk straight and not trip over her cute wedge sandals every fourth step.

Half an hour later, Emilia stops her car at Pfalzburgerstrasse 53 in Wilmersdorf. She helps me out as if I were an old woman—normally I would be embarrassed—and guides me to the staircase. Then she runs back for my suitcase. She smothers my sheepish “Thank you” with a huge hug and hands me her business card.

“Just call me if you feel like talking.”

She drives away, honking the horn and waving. Befuddled, I just stand there, staring at her name—Emilia di Luca—and her address and phone number, all in a playful font. So that’s how easy it is to make friends.

While fishing for my keys, I glance at the nameplates next to the apartment-building door. It’s as if I never read the names before. For some strange reason, it seems I never provided mine.

When I enter the hallway, the usual odors welcome me: vinegary cleaners and kitchen smells, a spice mixture of cardamom, saffron, and cinnamon that permeates the staircase from the Rahmanis’ ground-floor apartment all the way to the attic. Did this really once bother me? I close my eyes and suddenly have some idea what it means to have a place called home. Still wobbly, I grab my suitcase with one hand and the railing with the other.

It has never taken me so long to climb three flights of stairs. When I finally arrive in front of my door, I’m covered in perspiration. Dizzy, too, though I’m not sure if that’s from the physical exertion.

Claire tells me off, shaking her head.
“Don’t be silly, Hanna. You live here, so go in. And take a bath, for crying out loud. You really need it.”

Just you wait,
I talk back to her.
Tomorrow I’ll see you in person, and that’ll be the end of your voice in my head.
Claire laughs. I turn the key, breathe in, and drag the suitcase into my apartment.

Okay, I’m in.

It smells funky.

Of course it does. The place hasn’t been aired or dusted in two weeks. Do I even own a dust cloth? Well, I can fix that easily.

Otherwise it’s tidy in here.

No wonder. I have just a few pieces of furniture with almost none of what could be considered shelf space, for spreading out holiday souvenirs and other dust-catchers. Modern design isn’t meant for tchotchkes. And I like it modern. To be honest, though, it does look a bit sterile.

Do I really not own a single plant?

I drop down on my white leather couch and study the unopened cardboard boxes. Have I really not needed anything in those boxes since I moved here?

And . . . has it always been this quiet around here?

I fumble in my pocket for Emilia’s card and put it on the coffee table. Then I contemplate the suitcase standing in the middle of the room.

“We are a funny couple, you and I,” I say, and I grin because I’m talking to a dead person yet again. But hey, who cares? I get up.

“It’s time we make the best of what’ve we got, Giuseppa.” I kneel down and open the suitcase. I toss the wrinkled clothes on the floor, take out the urn, and carry it to the table. “You’re my guest for the time being, until I figure out how to get you back to Italy.”

Looking at the box that says “Living Room” in black Sharpie, I suddenly know what I have to do. I need to make sure this apartment feels like a home for the old lady. I owe her that. I owe it to myself.

Fabrizio

It is seldom this quiet in the kitchen. It’s so silent that I think everyone can hear my heart beating, and it isn’t even beating particularly loud or fast. And the thing I just said out loud isn’t all that surprising, either—no more so than a remark like “I think it’s going to rain,” or “The tractor’s stupid fuel pipe is broken again.”

But even though the actual words don’t touch me—I’ve rehashed them in my head so often that they don’t terrify me anymore—their effect on my family is dramatic. Lucia drops the sauce ladle and then stares at the wall as if frozen. Rosa-Maria scrutinizes her panino as if she doesn’t know what to do with it. Alfredo, who has constantly complained about Lucia’s bland diet ever since he came home from the hospital, has stopped grousing. Even Marco drops his arrogant mask and gapes at me in disbelief. However, the reaction that really gets to me is Paolo’s. My foreman gulps down the rest of his wine and leaves the room without saying a word.

Lucia breaks the silence. “Could you say that again, please?”

“I said that we’ll sell the apricot orchards and put the money into the hotel after paying off the debts.” I reach for the pasta bowl. The more I say it out loud, the less I care.

“But why?” Lucia’s voice is shrill. “For years, you’ve put all the money into these fields, and now you suddenly want to give it all up? What about the distillery? What about the apricots? Nonna’s liqueur . . . your grandmother sacrificed her entire life to—”

“Nonna is dead. And since I can’t keep the estate going like before, I won’t accept the inheritance. I don’t want to be responsible for losing everything in a year.” I nod at Marco, whose mouth still hangs open. “If Marco’s numbers are correct, we have no other choice.”

“Fabrizio is right, Lucia.” Alberto dabs his mouth with his napkin and looks at me. “I’ve seen the books.”

Marco clears his throat. “The present situation is that the apricot orchards have been in the red since last summer, and they get in deeper every single month. Best-case scenario, we have two years until our obligations—”

“Oh, shut up, Marco!” Lucia interrupts. “A lot can happen in two years. Nonna’s liqueur is worth any risk. If we sell it abroad, we’ll be swimming in money. That’s what Nonna said.”

“We lost the recipe, Lucia.” I shrug and robotically pour spinach sauce over my tagliatelle. I haven’t had an appetite since Hanna left two days ago.

“What do you mean, it’s lost?” Lucia’s eyes narrow. “That green notebook you were looking for the other day?”

I say nothing. Marco reaches for Lucia’s hand, but she snatches it away as if he had an infectious disease.

“How can it simply disappear? Nothing gets lost in this house. It’s somewhere.”

“Believe me, it’s gone.”

“Then . . . we make our own liqueur.” Lucia’s eyes spark. She reminds me more of Nonna than I can handle.

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do in the distillery these past few weeks? It’s useless, believe me. It’s over.” The pasta is flavorless, but I force myself to swallow another forkful and wash it down with some wine. Marco tilts his chair and again looks so full of himself that I want to throw him, headfirst, into chicken manure.

“We have to recognize when a dream is over,” he says. “The new distillery machine was a bad investment from the start. I said that.”

Lucia raises her chin and sizes up her husband. “You did indeed. More than once.”

“Exactly. But nobody listened to me.” His left eye twitches. I’m not sure if Lucia is having the same premonition as I have.

“Fabrizio, tell me, where did Nonna keep the notebook?” Lucia says. “I’m sure it wasn’t with the other cookbooks. Something so valuable—she’d have left it in a safe place.”

“Probably,” I say, and Lucia nods without taking her eyes off Marco.

“In the office, for example.”

“I looked everywhere there, too.”

“What does it matter now?” Marco waves his arm. His forehead looks red. Lucia’s eyes darken.

“I’d like to talk with you, Marco. In private.”

Hanna

“Hanna?”

Panting, I stop but can’t turn around, afraid that I will fall down the stairs or simply collapse right here if I make one more move.

That’s what I get for ducking into the tiny flower shop on my way to work—I’d never noticed it before. But I was early this morning. All I wanted was to inquire about an easy-care indoor plant that even a novice like me could handle. Who’d have thought the colors and fragrance would overwhelm me? And then there was the salesperson, an incredibly warm-hearted woman in her midforties, who almost talked me into a cactus. I really thought about it for a moment, but then decided it was too prickly for me.

So I arrived at work with a palmlike plant—named Eve, since it’s the first plant I’ve ever had—in my arms. I also bought a bunch each of sunflowers, gerbera daisies, lilies, roses . . . and lilac-colored blossoms whose name I forget. It’s definitely too much for one person to carry.

“Hanna,” the voice calls again. “Is it really you?”

I peer over the bunched-up wrapping paper. My intern, standing next to me on the staircase, looks at me in astonishment.

“Sasha! Great to see you,” I say, pushing aside a meddlesome lily that tries to tickle my nose. Like she is every morning, Sasha is carrying coffee. That’s sweet of her.

“Are you all right?”

The lily persists. I sneeze and have to laugh. Sasha looks at me with even more suspicion. “Could we continue the conversation in my office? My arms are almost falling off,” I say. I just barely catch the pink gerbera before it drops to the floor. Pink! I must be crazy.

Sasha doesn’t seem to know what to do or say. “Should I . . . can I help you carry . . . ?” She looks like she’s expecting me to reprimand her for daring to ask such an impertinent question.

“That would be great!”

Sasha takes Eve from me just before my left arm gives out. I rub the muscles with a groan. At that moment, the door to our offices flies open and Claire appears in front of us with crossed arms.

“We aren’t buying anything.”

I hand her the sunflowers. “Good—since I only give things away.” But Claire just tilts her head and stares at me as skeptically as Sasha did a moment ago.

“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in Italy?” she asks sternly and straightens herself up in the doorway—ridiculous, for someone less than five feet tall. I smile—an indulgent smile, I hope. Claire measures me from top to bottom. She must notice the state of my eyelids. Lovesickness is strenuous—you sob all the time and can’t sleep, and it affects your skin, no doubt. Finally her gaze lands on the sunflowers. “Those are pretty.”

“Pretty enough that you’ll let me come in?”

“You crazy girl! But before I start dancing with joy, I have to tell you,” she whispers. “Hellwig is beside himself.”

“He is?” I swallow. I’ve been afraid of that. There are only two reasons the boss could be mad at me, and each qualifies as a midsize catastrophe. Either Fabrizio didn’t drop the suit, in which case I’ll have to clear out my desk today, or Hellwig hates my article and wants me to change it. But I won’t do that—I made a promise. In either situation, my career as a food journalist will be over. I follow Claire somewhat sheepishly into the office and put the flowers on my desk.

Claire snaps her fingers. “Sasha, bring vases.” With a look at the desk, she adds, “Many vases.”

Sasha rolls her eyes and stalks toward the staff kitchenette, mumbling something about Girl Friday. Then Claire pushes me down into my swivel chair and perches on my desk, her knees only inches from my chest. I stop her just in time from crushing my peach-colored roses.

“Now then! Who are you and what have you done to Hanna?” A paper smacks on my lap, the new Italy issue. I try not to look at it and focus on a brown spot on Claire’s blouse. I bet it’s Nutella. I grin, even though fists barrage the inside of my chest.

“Did Hellwig accept my article?”

Claire stares at me. “I already told you, he was beside himself.”

“Okay, but did he still include it in the special issue?” I clench my fists and try to breathe evenly. Please say yes. Please! I won’t be able to look myself in the mirror until the truth about Tre Camini is in print—I don’t care if it’s black on white or blue on pink.