The Knotty Bride (2 page)

“Oooh, here’s one. Listen to this, Ruup. Romantic Versallo. It looks perfect; it says it’s an old stone house with green vines climbing all about and bright red geraniums in flowerpots. The rooms look simply divine, with antiques and white linen bedspreads. And there’s also a balcony which overlooks the sea.”

“Sounds lovely,” Rupa murmurs, concentrating on the road.

“Dear me,” I tsk a second later. “These brochures are always translated so poorly into English. Maybe I should have picked up the Italian versions?”

“Oooh, I adore poorly translated English. Read them out loud!”

“You know, Ruup. I’ve never really understood the rather quaint notion that it is unnecessary to formally study English in order to be able to write in English. Why is it that there is a small subset of Italians that grab the English dictionary and begin writing with very limited formal study?”

The question is rhetorical. Nobody replies.

“And the translations are crazy. For instance, this one says that at this particular bed and breakfast they have a third floor ‘terracy,’” I continue.

“A terracy?” Rupa laughs. I glance at the backseat. I don’t want to upset Francesca by laughing at her fellow compatriots. At least they are making an effort to speak a foreign language. I can appreciate that. But I needn’t be concerned about Francesca’s feelings because she has her headphones on and is listening to some loud tribal drumming.

“Listen to this, Rupa,” I say, flipping through another brochure. “This one says that at this particular bed and breakfast one can ‘Enjoy to be typical Italian.’”

Rupa snorts and inadvertently causes the car to swerve.

“I know, I know, it’s an idiomatic translation. I think it means something like, ‘Come, enjoy things that are authentically Italian.’ Whatever it means, the idea doesn’t translate well.”

Now I’m on a roll, and I flip open yet another brochure. “Oh, oh, Rupa! This bed and breakfast says it offers a ‘discreet welcome.’”

“Much better than an overt one...”

“What do you think ‘a breakfast service international’ is?” I say, looking at the picture of the very pretty owner who has freckles and long, brown curly hair. The picture in the brochure shows her standing in front of a beautiful ochre-colored palazzo with overflowing flowerboxes. “It says it also offers a ‘dwelling single with large technical shelter for bikes.’”

Rupa laughs so loud this time that we almost cross into the left lane. Beside us, an angry driver slams on both his breaks and his horn.

“But I think this might be the place for me because the owner, Debi Busaci, says the bed and breakfast is ‘for those who want to live days pleasing.’”

“Heavens no,” Rupa replies adamantly. “Who wants to live days pleasing? That’s all we women ever do. We try to please. Don’t go to that one.”

“That’s not what she means. I think she means it’s for those who want pleasant days or something. And I’ve already made up my mind. I’m going because it’s on the beautiful island of Lipari. I am going to go and enjoy ‘to be typical Italian.’ And I will park my bike in their ‘technical shelter’ and live my vacation days as ‘pleasing’ as possible. It will all be so wonderful.”

I stare hard at the brochure of the beautiful bed and breakfast. The pictures of the sea look so warm and inviting that I can almost hear the little waves calling my name. “Lily Bilbury,” they say, “Come, sit by the sea. Come and forget all about your broken heart.”

I decide right then and there that I will accept their invitation.

A
few hours later we are
south of Florence, driving along the Umbrian autostrada and closing in on the town of Orvieto. The countryside outside Orvieto is our stop-off point. Here, Francesca has arranged for us to stay at the
Inn of the Seven Hounds
, which is owned by some distant relative of hers.

Simply put, the place is amazing. There are all these little houses clustered around three shimmering pools. Each one of these houses looks like something out of
Casa Bella
with its own small kitchen, living room, bathroom and two small bedrooms. True to its name, the
Inn of the Seven Hounds
also has a small group of beagles loping along hither and thither, longing to be petted. All these things are truly wonderful, but the high point of the inn is the spa that consists of a lovely thermal pool inside a rock grotto.

“The spa will be open exclusively to the three of you before dinner,” Francesca’s great-uncle Mario Tallete says as he shows us to casita no. 5.

With the splendidness of our lodging, the private spa, and seven loping hounds, the casual reader might assume that I am already on vacation. But I am not. I am on a mission. This mission started several months ago when, in an effort to help the Italian tax office locate Carlo Buschi’s unnamed heir, Rupa, Francesca and I went to visit a farmhouse that belonged to the Buschi family. This farmhouse was near Dagro, Switzerland, and we were hoping to find a relative who might know the name of the daughter mentioned in Carlo Buschi’s vague will. Sadly, when we arrived at the farmhouse after a frightful battle with Mother Nature, we found the place all shuttered up and abandoned. Arriving in a terrible snowstorm, we did what anybody else might do in such a situation– we broke in. The place was pretty empty save for some long-forgotten furniture and a jewelry box. As luck would have it, the jewelry box contained a very intriguing scrap of yellowed paper. On it, Carlo Buschi had written the names of three women. Fancying ourselves super sleuths, we have developed a theory that goes like this: we believe that one of the women may be the missing daughter.

I know; we’re absolutely brilliant!

So, in an effort to solve the missing heir mystery, several months ago we sought out the first lady on the list. Margherita Tazzini, a Milanese interior designer, told us quite a few interesting stories about her love affair with Signor di Meo, Villa Buschi’s dandy of a florist. In the end, however, we were very disappointed to learn she was not Carlo Buschi’s daughter but his goddaughter. Sadly, she knew nothing about any child of Carlo Buschi’s, and that is why we have come to the
Inn of the Seven Hounds
. We have moved on to the second name on the list: Beatta Cavale.

Rupa, bless her heart, has been trying to get in touch with Beatta Cavale for over a month. Since she didn’t have a direct number for the Signora, she had to leave a message with the town priest. Finally, Beatta returned the call and it was all very peculiar and secretive because when Rupa asked if she could help us locate the missing heir, Beatta Cavale informed us that she couldn’t discuss the matter on the phone. So, first thing tomorrow morning we’ll call on the Signora who lives in a nearby town. In the meantime, we decide we deserve a visit to the spa.

Isn’t it amazing how one can forget all one’s problems when enveloped by the healing powers of hot water?  Especially the healing powers of a tiny, shimmering, thermally-heated pool that is inside a natural grotto? Although to be truthful, we don’t actually forget all our problems. Instead we begin to discuss them quite loudly. In a terrible turn of events, Rupa’s husband, Dario, has begun to talk about a permanent separation.

“It’s awful. He says it was my latest and greatest attempted rescue of 102 cats which finally pushed him over the emotional and financial brink. He says he has no other choice, he must go his separate way!” Rupa looks down at her hands as she says this. To my astonishment, she isn’t wearing her wedding ring. Did she take it off for the spa? Or has she stopped wearing it altogether?

I feel terribly guilty about all this. After all, I was the mastermind behind the plan to rescue the cats. Our flood-lit spa no longer seems like a sanctuary. To escape the gloom, I duck my head under the water. While holding my breath and pretending to be most engrossed in examining the grotto’s rock formation, I shed a tear. Or at least I think I do. It’s hard to tell if one is actually crying when one is immersed in water.

“Why you naughty thing, did you sneak that in? The sign on the door says no alcohol,” I say when I bob back up to the surface to find Rupa holding a flask.

Looking much happier than a moment before, Rupa busily pours bright yellow liquid into small plastic cups that she has pilfered from the water cooler. With a half-smile she hands one to me.

Well, what do you know? Maybe I don’t have to wait until my vacation to Lipari to start forgetting all my problems. Maybe I can start forgetting them right here, right now.

“Cheers,” I say to the ladies and hold my plastic cup up high.

******

“Look at those bulging muscles,” Rupa says airily as we are waited on hand and foot in the inn’s dining room by yet another one of Francesca’s relatives. This one is a second cousin on her father’s side. I can’t remember his real name because Rupa keeps referring to him as “Hornirino,” which is a very embarrassing name she has invented.

You have to understand, we ended up drinking a lot of limoncello in the spa.

Fortunately, Francesca pays no mind to this blatant objectifying of her cousin. Instead she sits rigid in her chair staring at the ceiling, popping pickled asparagus into her heavily-lipsticked mouth. Encouraged by Francesca’s lack of attention, Rupa continues to behave poorly. Every time Hornirino walks away from the table, she pretends as if she is cupping his buttocks in her hands. At the same time she cackles loudly, “I’d like to enjoy a typical Italian.”

Okay, you have to understand when I say we drank a lot of limoncello in the grotto, I mean a lot.

And yes, Hornirino is a really lame name. According to Rupa, it’s some loose translation of the idiomatic term “horny.” As a feminist, I believe blatant objectification of anyone is wrong. Still, I have to admit I feel a tingle of happiness watching Rupa have a little fun. Back in the spa she seemed so depressed when talking about her husband.

“It’s my mother-in-law who’s getting to him,” Rupa had explained as we sat around the rim of the grotto pool, dangling our feet in 102 degrees water. “She’s always been unhappy that we got married. Always complaining that her son did not marry a Catholic woman in a Catholic church.”

“Honestly, what is her problem?
”

“I don’t know,” Rupa had replied. “Dario always defends her. He says she had a rough childhood.”

“Who didn’t have a rough childhood, am I right? Like ninety percent of the planet had a bad childhood. Doesn’t give anybody the right to be rude to their daughter-in-law,” I lectured like the wise person I am after three Dixie cups of limoncello.

“More wine?” Hornirino asks, snapping me back to the present. I stare at him agog. With his mass of curly hair, broad shoulders and “come hither” looks, the man is perfection. Strangely, when he reaches over to pour me a drink, I hear an odd noise.

“Shh, Rupa, now you’re the one making some kind of animalistic sound,” I whisper a second later.

“I am?” she asks before returning to growling.

I look at Francesca to see if she notices we’re ogling her cousin. Nope, she’s officially checked out. She’s not even picking at her asparagus anymore. Good, because at this point I’m beginning to feel slightly dirty.

Despite her naughty innuendos and spicy double-entendres, Stefano, which was poor Hornirino’s real name, was not biting. Five delicious courses later, Francesca and I assist Rupa --who still isn’t wearing her wedding ring --in walking across the lawn to our private casita. Quite tipsy, Rupa goes on and on about how we should all go out dancing.

“Why not, we’re not dead. We should live a little,” she continues.

“Oh yes, let’s,” I say in response to her third hearty rendition of “Does anybody want to par-tee?” It’s a bit like the old days, back before I was married, back before I had children. I think I know exactly what to wear. In my bedroom at casita no. 5, I dump out my overstuffed duffle bag. Even though I knew I was only leaving Arona for one night, I packed as if I was going on a safari. I brought half my closet. What can I say? I am a mother and a mother learns to be prepared for all circumstances; surely there must be something in this bag for me to wear out on the town.

“Let's go, ladies,” I return to the living room dressed in dark slacks and a pale pink top that the clerk at
Upim
swore was a perfect complement to my skin tone.

“I absolutely cannot remember the last time I went dancing. Come to think of it, I did shake my groove thing at my children’s birthday party when they turned four. I guess what I mean to say is I can’t remember the last time I went dancing unaccompanied by small children. I think it was before Enrico and I got married. And hey, even though I’m a mother, I am still entitled to an occasional night out, right?”

“Shh,” Francesca whispers in my direction before returning to the task of covering up Rupa with a blanket.

“She just sat down and fell asleep,” Francesca murmurs with a shake of her head. “Maybe we should leave her where she is. The couch looks comfy. What do you think?”

I think my evening of fun just went down the toilet, that’s what I think. And who am I kidding anyway, I can’t stay up late. On nights when I’m not working, I’m usually in bed by nine.