Margherita's Notebook (28 page)

Miss Lemon Popsicle? More like the icy snows of Kilimanjaro!

Nicola opened the door, then he put his arms around her waist, pulling her toward him as they started going down the stairs.

“I think Oscar Wilde was right: the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

He stopped and kissed her.

Several kisses later, they finally emerged from the main door. They were about to get into the Touareg when they heard Carla's voice behind them: “Margherita . . .”

She turned around, surprised, and found the glacial blonde standing in front of her with a cell phone in her hand and a look on her face that was supposed to be a smile but was more like a grimace.

“You must have dropped this.”

Margherita blushed. She could tell Nicola was looking at her with amusement.

Shit!

“Thanks,” she replied, taking it from Carla's hand.

“No problem,” the other woman said as she whirled around and headed back to the office.

Margherita felt the same powerful sensation of uneasiness she'd felt just before.

She hates me.

Nicola looked at her inquiringly. “Is everything all right?”

Okay, let's try to keep the paranoia under control.

“Yes, of course. Let's go.” She got into the car, shaking off the feeling.

As the car climbed along the street, Margherita could smell the brackishness blended with the aromatic fragrance of the pines. They left the Maremma behind them and drove down the road that circled the pine forest, beyond which you could just glimpse patches of dark blue.

“I'm taking you to the seaside.”

She leaned her head on Nicola's shoulder and closed her eyes, abandoning herself to the pleasure of that contact, to the scent that filled her nostrils, to the hypnotic rhythm of the tide in the distance. Then he stopped, parking the car under the pine trees. Opening the door for her, he took her hand, and together they walked along a path that wound through the Mediterranean maquis, luxuriant and steeped in fragrances. They reached a small semideserted beach. Nicola sat down on the sand and pulled Margherita close to him.

“I wanted to be alone with you . . .” His voice and his lips caressed her ear, making her hope he'd never stop.

She let herself go against his body, while his arms held her tight and his mouth searched for hers again.

A sharp cry shattered the perfection of the moment.

“No, no, Papa!” It was the voice of a terrified child.

Nicola let Margherita go and twisted around.

A few feet away from them, a man was holding a little boy, who couldn't have been more than eight years old, by the arm, trying to force him to pick up a large octopus that was in a bucket.

The little boy was crying and screaming, “I don't want to . . . please, Papa . . . let me go!” pulling on the hand that held him, trying to free himself from his father's grip.

Nicola couldn't take his eyes off the awful scene and Margherita could feel the tension that had taken over his body.

With one strong tug, the boy finally managed to free himself and started running along the shore. His father, however, stuck his hand in the bucket, pulled out the octopus, and began chasing after his son.

“You have to learn to be a man,” he shouted, “not a sissy!” And as soon as he got close enough to the boy, he threw the octopus at him, which hit him in the leg and curled its long tentacles around it.

The child yelled in desperation. At the same instant, Nicola jumped to his feet and rushed toward him. Before Margherita could recover from her surprise, he'd reached the screaming child and was trying to remove the clinging tentacles from his leg. It was clear from his face how disgusted he was and how hard he was trying to control himself. When Nicola finally succeeded, he hurled the animal back into the sea, while the boy sat on the ground trying to hold back his tears.

“Are you out of your mind?” The boy's father confronted Nicola.

Nicola turned around, the picture of icy rage.

“I'm not going to report you and I'm not going to beat you up because your son is here,” he hissed, looming over the man. “But try that again and I swear I will.”

The man stepped back, frightened by what he could see in Nicola's eyes, and by his words. After helping his son stand up, not daring to say another word, the two of them took off down the sand.

Margherita approached Nicola. She touched his arm hesitantly. She could feel how taut his muscles were.

“Nicola . . .”

He turned to look at her, but Margherita had the feeling he couldn't actually see her, that his thoughts were lost in some distant memory. Then, slowly, his gaze regained its focus. Nicola looked at her, and he pulled her toward him.

“They call it a test of one's courage. It's the cruelest thing a parent can do to a child.”

Margherita held her breath. She'd never heard him talk in such a low, pained tone. She gently touched his face, standing still, without saying a word, knowing he would go on speaking soon. He moved back just enough to be able to look into her eyes.

“My father was convinced it was the best way to teach me to be strong. After my mother left him, he told me he never wanted to see me cry again, because I was a man, and men don't cry. Ever,” he added bitterly.

“That's why you had such a violent reaction when I dropped that squid on you,” she muttered, almost as if she were talking to herself.

Nicola nodded. “It was one of many tests, but I didn't pass a single one of them back then.” His tone was bitter, but she could feel his suffering beneath the defensive armor he'd created for himself. Like a prickly pear, she thought, all those spines to defend the sweet, soft fruit inside.

Nicola fell quiet. She put her arms around him. Standing on tiptoe, she put her cheek up against his.

Margherita was thinking about that child whose insensitive father had wanted to teach him to be “a man.”

Nicola was thinking about how for the first time in his life he felt free to be himself with another person.

They stood there like that for a long time, in the kind of silence that doesn't need words.

T
here are days when everything seems to be going in the right direction, and others when dark clouds mass on the horizon. For Armando, it was the second kind. None of his friends or acquaintances were willing to lend him any more money, and he was seriously overdrawn at the bank. Luckily, he'd managed to intercept a bailiff who was just about to leave a document that said their house had been repossessed before Margherita could find out about it. How could he tell her he'd mortgaged the house, as well? She would never forgive him. He had to admit that the bank manager had warned him. But Armando hadn't listened to him, so sure was he that that damned number would finally come up and he'd be able to remedy at least a part of the situation. But things didn't go as he had hoped. For the past two years it seemed as though the number 44 had vanished from the roulette wheel in Genoa. He'd even started thinking they'd eliminated the number altogether to make
money off poor guys who, like him, had staked a fortune on it. And it was a good thing the ads said, “Bet on what's right, not on what's wrong.” Rubbish. If you want to win, you have to be daring, otherwise all you'll get are scraps. There was no way around it—he somehow had to find the money to be able to continue playing. There was no turning back now. He couldn't let the bank take his house away from him the way it had the restaurant.

So when Giulia called to ask him if he wanted to go food shopping with her, Armando had agreed right away. Maybe she was the ace up his sleeve. He could ask her for a loan; he'd pay her back with interest. But as soon as he saw her, he knew in his heart that he'd never have the courage to ask her. He would have had to deceive her, and if she ever found out, it would be curtains. He couldn't lie to her, he didn't want to risk losing her forever. I'm getting weak, he thought, as he accompanied her from one shop to the next. I would have had no qualms before . . . But Giulia was so cheerful, so wonderful to be around, that there was no reason for him to regret the choice he'd made. Holding hands, they'd gotten as far as the butcher's when they ran into Salvatore who, upon seeing them, instinctively ran his hand through his mop of red hair, a look of concern on his face. Obviously there was more than just a friendship between the two of them. He'd lost the bet, and this could mean only one thing: Armando would demand that he shave his head!

“Good morning, Salvatore,” Armando greeted him, smiling.

There was an anxious look in his friend's eyes.

“It depends on your point of view,” he answered defensively.

Armando chuckled.

“What's the problem?”

Salvatore looked from one to the other, and Giulia took her cue to leave them alone and entered Bacci's shop.

“I won't be more than a minute,” Giulia told them.

“So, what's the problem?” Armando insisted.

Salvatore mumbled something about having gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. He'd received a huge electricity bill. Then, for fear that Armando might ask him to shave his head, he said good-bye as if the devil himself were in hot pursuit.

Armando grabbed him by the arm. “Wait,” he said.

A look of panic crossed Salvatore's face.

“If it's about the bet . . . ,” he started, but Armando cut him short.

“Forget the bet. I need to ask you a favor.”

Salvatore breathed a sigh of relief.

“A big one,” Armando went on.

“What's it about?” Maybe he'd found a trade-off for his thick head of hair.

“I need a loan, two thousand euros by tonight. I'll pay you back as soon as I can, of course. I just need enough time to straighten out a couple of things—”

But Salvatore wouldn't let him finish.

“I don't have two thousand, but I can lend you five hundred. On one condition . . .” He paused, trying to figure out just how badly his friend needed the money.

Armando shook his head. “That won't help.”

“I can go up to seven hundred, but let's get one thing straight: we never made any bet.”

Armando figured that seven hundred was better than nothing and that he had nothing to lose, also because he would never have collected on their deal.

“It's a deal,” he answered. “You're a real pal.”

Salvatore took the money out of his wallet. He could pay the electric bill some other day, right now it was better to take care of this little problem. “As regards the bet, we're square now. I don't care what the story is between you and Giulia, as long as we're square.”

Armando nodded, smiling. Salvatore took off in a hurry.

“And so
I
was a bet to be won?”

Armando turned around to find Giulia standing there looking at him with a furious expression in her eyes. And very hurt.

“No, of course not, you've misunderstood! I can explain everything—”

But she wouldn't let him go on. “How much did he pay you back? A hundred? Two hundred? More than that?” She looked at him bitterly. “Why should I be so surprised? You've never taken anything seriously, everything's just a game for you, a gamble . . . even when it comes to feelings.”

Armando tried to explain, but to no avail. It was just a loan, it had nothing to do with any bet. But Giulia refused to listen. Salvatore had been very explicit. She'd been foolish to think she'd found someone new to share her life with. How could she have been so wrong? Never trust your instincts. Armando was a professional liar, a good-for-nothing. There was so much suffering in her voice that Armando, perhaps for the first time in his life, really did feel like a good-for-nothing, unable to find the words to object, to defend himself. After all, she was right. He'd made the bet about conquering her just for fun. Little did it matter that he hadn't gone through with it. He'd made the bet for the sake of betting, without the least concern for her feelings.

“Don't come looking for me. I never want to see you ever again. It's
over between us,” she said to him, her eyes welling up with tears, an expression of deep disappointment on her face.

She turned around and left.

How could a woman succeed in catalyzing all his thoughts? Nicola continued to be amazed by it. He hesitated to give a name to how he felt, but he knew that it wasn't just about sex. Margherita was more than that. He didn't want only to kiss her, to touch her, to make love with her, he also wanted to talk to her, share little things with her, such as breakfast, waking up, everyday things. He imagined taking a walk with her and with . . . what was her dog's name? . . . Artusi, hearing her talk, laugh . . .

But all those thoughts were brusquely interrupted by Vittorio Giovanale's sudden entrance.