Apricot Kisses (13 page)

“You might be wrong about nothing coming of it, Lucia,” I say. My mouth is dry. But Lucia is staring at the pinball machine.

“
She’s
all we need!”

Taken aback by the hostility in her voice, I look over, too, and stop breathing for a moment. “Who’s that?”

Lucia snorts, “That’s Sofiiiia.” She draws out the name as if she wants to tear it apart. “The nightmare of all women who plan to hold on to their men.”

I believe her. Sofia isn’t just beautiful, but a new-and-improved version of a young Sophia Loren. I look enviously at her waist-long hair, which reminds me of raven wings. She leans casually against the pinball machine, seemingly detached somehow, even as she chats with the players—like she’s standing on an imaginary pedestal. “Wow.”

“Wow, all right. But don’t be deceived by her pretty facade,” Lucia says. She groans when the woman snaps out of her Madonna pose and heads toward our table with swaying hips. Sofia isn’t slim—her cherry-red dress accentuates her curves almost obscenely.

“Ciao, Lucia!”

Lucia stares straight ahead and doesn’t reply to the smoky greeting.

“It’s been a long time. How are you?” Sofia purrs, and sizes me up. I smile back. Eyelashes like hers should be illegal.

“Since when do you care how I am?” Lucia reaches for her cocktail.

Sofia laughs. “So you’re still mad at me?”

“Since that would imply that you matter to me, the answer is no, I’m not.” Lucia’s voice trembles with suppressed fury. I hold my breath. Sofia raises a plucked eyebrow, and her pitch-black eyes seem to eat me up. I’m still smiling, but it’s turning into a forced smile.

“Are you the new kitchen help?” she asks me.

I open my mouth, but Lucia is faster. “Hanna is a friend, and she isn’t interested in you. Why don’t you stagger back to Milan and your rich playmates and leave us alone?”

Sofia glares, all friendliness gone.

“I don’t think you can tell me who to play with, little Lucia,” she says. “But since we’re on the subject, do you know where Fabrizio is? I hear he has a little problem, and I’m eager to help out.”

Fabrizio

I’ve never been into bars with too-loud—and in this case also bad—music, where too many people are pretending to have fun. Usually the Amalfi bar is closed at this hour, for lack of customers—except the one time Salvi fell asleep behind the counter and Carlo fined him for violating the business-curfew laws. But today Carlo couldn’t care less about laws and fines. Great for Salvi, who’s making a killing tonight.

I glance around to find a quiet corner, but Salvi ruins my plan to hide. His shiny face shows true joy when he discovers me.

“There he is, our future groom!”

Everyone turns around, and I see an ocean of black eyelashes and red lips in front of me. Groom? I look to Lorenzo incredulously. He looks back guiltily, but then disappears in the crowd before I can grab his cassock. This . . . can’t . . . be . . . happening. Women call out to me from left and right.

“Ciao, Fabrizio. How nice of you to come by.”

“
Buona sera,
Signor Camini
.
I’m Marta and this is my cousin Franca. We came all the way from Sant’Albino to meet you.”

“Fabrizio, share a glass of wine with us.”

“May I introduce my friend Cilia?”

The avalanche of fluttering eyelashes and babbling mouths sweeps dangerously closer. Dozens of legs below flowery, striped, and polka-dotted skirts block all escape routes.

“Get me out of here, Gosetti.” I grab Stefano’s collar as he staggers by, even though I know he’s not going to help. He’s more afraid of Carlo than of his mother, and that was true even before Carlo declared himself Stefano’s protector. They have a strange mutual dependency, and to this day I don’t know who profits more. As expected, Stefano just shrugs after escaping my grip and stumbles toward a blonde woman who looks like a bottle in her green dress.

Carlo waves at me from the middle of the crowd, one thumb up. He abandons the padre, who’s standing in the middle of the room gaping at a nearby cleavage display. Carlo wades through the crowd, throwing out compliments left and right, and then punches me, proud of himself.

“What a surprise, eh? So many beautiful young ladies, and you have the pick.”

“Yeah, what a surprise, you scumbag!” I hiss. Not quietly enough. A young girl, thin as a pencil, gazes at me with big eyes. Carlo grins again and delivers a second punch to my ribs that almost takes my breath away.

“No need to thank me, old pal. It was a pleasure planning it.” He looks at the young one, who stares at me with a mixture of fear and admiration. “Who do we have here? What’s this lovely signorina’s name?”

“I’m Chiara,” the girl peeps, and her smile isn’t timid at all. God, she’s probably underage. That doesn’t bother Carlo. He puts his arm around her slight shoulders.

“Chiara, this is my good friend Fabrizio. I’m sure he’ll buy you a cocktail if you’re nice to him. If not, I will.”

What am I supposed to say? Before my friend can put his dirty claws on the kid, I relent and smile at Chiara. It’s a forced smile, but a smile it is. Behind it, I’m running terrible scenes of torture through my head, with Carlo in the main role. My feigned interest makes Carlo leave. I just hope he finds a more mature victim for himself.

Chiara climbs on one of the bar stools and checks out Salvi’s array of liquor. And then I do what I promised never to do again, after my last hangover about ten years ago: I order a double rum-and-Coke. And a lemonade for Chiara.

Half an hour later, my situation seems much less impossible. Contrary to my expectations, the pencil-thin woman is quite entertaining, even though I don’t buy that she’s twenty-two. But she at least protects me from the circling hyenas prowling for their chance, blaming occasional bodily contact on the jostling crowd.

I turn my back on the baker’s daughter and her two cousins and focus on Chiara. Surely she’s the least dangerous of all the women in the room. She’s actually quite cute, protruding teeth and all. Although rum-and-Coke number two might be influencing my perception and bathing this entire situation in a softer light. The kid talks nonstop, with wild gestures and dangling legs. I have no idea what she’s saying. I just smile and nod—and drink.

Drink number three limits my field of vision to a radius of ten yards. Behind it is the big nothingness, just like in the children’s book Nonna used to read to me on Sundays.
La Storia Infinita
. And the girl slouching next to me on a bar stool and drinking lemonade is
The Neverending Story
’s childlike empress.

Salvi puts number four on the counter and I have trouble picking it up. He shouts something, and his triceps wobble left and right. I turn my head with some effort and survey the dimly lit room. I can’t see Carlo anywhere, but when the crowd parts for a moment, I see Lucia. My vision clears immediately and I notice two things at Lucia’s table. One is confusing and the other more than disturbing. Then the nothingness sweeps back.

“Are you all right, Fabrizio?” Chiara looks up at me hopefully. I reach for her wrist, which disappears in my hand. What the hell is Sofia doing here?

“Know what, Chiara?” I mutter. “You’re a nice girl, honest. But whatever you’re looking for here—look for it somewhere else. And, mainly, later in life.”

Chiara tilts her head. “You’re drunk,” she says.

“Right.” My ass slides off the stool like someone rubbed it with soap. I hang on to the counter for support until my legs adjust to standing up, and I give Chiara my best sage impression. “But as you know, children and drunks always tell the truth.” Then I give her a smooch on the forehead and stagger to Lucia’s table with unsteady knees.

Hanna

I’m starting to worry. Lucia’s face is dark red by now, and her chest rises and falls so fast that I’m afraid she’s hyperventilating. Sofia sat down at our table without an invitation, crossed her smooth legs, and is now smoking a cigarette, even though smoking is not allowed in the bar. She uses our almost-empty bowl of peanuts as an ashtray. I’ve seldom seen someone break rules with such nonchalance before, and I’m upset with myself for grudgingly admiring her. What the hell happened to my insolence? On paper, I checkmate people like Sofia in three effortless moves. In real life, however, I take forever just to line up the players.

So, instead of helping Lucia with a verbal bludgeon, I play with the small pepper shaker—it’s shaped like a baseball bat—and slip it unobtrusively into my handbag. That’s the moment when I meet Fabrizio’s surprised gaze.

Blushing, I remove the mini baseball bat from my bag and return it to the mini baseball salt shaker. I look at Fabrizio as casually as I can. He’s now standing behind Lucia and Sofia, but the two don’t notice because they’re preoccupied with hating each other.

“Why don’t you spread your stench at another table, Sofia?”

“Why don’t you keep your stupid little nose in your own business? Besides, I’m still waiting for an answer. Is Fabrizio here?” Sofia replies, blowing blue smoke toward Lucia.

I open my mouth and shut it again. Fabrizio crosses his arms as he stares at Sofia’s hair. He seems unusually tense. He sways slightly, grabs on to the back of Lucia’s chair, but then thinks better of it and puts his hands into his jeans pockets. I almost start to laugh. Signor Camini, the supposed teetotaler, is totally wasted.

“He’s right behind you,” he says in a surprisingly sober voice. Lucia veers around. Sofia doesn’t move. However, something creepy happens to her bored expression: her face relaxes, her eyes become round, and laughter lines appear. She snuffs out her cigarette in one of the remaining peanuts and then turns around with a sparkling smile.

“
Bellissimo!
Where have you been hiding? I’ve been missing you all evening.” She pulls Fabrizio down toward her and kisses both of his cheeks—a touch too slowly to be purely friendly.

“I think I’ll throw up,” Lucia says, rolling her eyes.

“Your sister-in-law is so witty. Marco must be in stitches half the time.” Sofia giggles without taking her arms from Fabrizio’s neck. I’m sure the stabbing feeling in my chest is because she’s so mean to Lucia. I can’t suppress a snort, and Fabrizio disentangles himself from Sofia and moves closer to Lucia.

“I didn’t know you were in the area again,” he says unemotionally, and tries to catch my eye. “I see you already got to know Hanna.”

He used my first name. I’m so stunned that I almost poke out my eye with my sad little umbrella as I sip from my cocktail. “‘Got to know’ is an overstatement,” I mumble into my glass.

“Well, we’ll have a chance to do that,” Sofia says. “I’ll be in Montesimo for a while, since I finished what I had to do in Milan.” Her crystal-clear fake laughter drives even me crazy this time. Lucia juts out her chin and grabs Fabrizio’s arm.

“Is your ex-girlfriend threatening us?”

It all seems a bit too much for Fabrizio.

Claire, in my head, says,
“Do something, Hanna. Hit the silly cow with something.”

I straighten up.

“Get on with it.”

I look at the crucifix on the chain around Sofia’s neck. So she’s Fabrizio’s ex.

“Do it—fast! Otherwise the opportunity goes pfft!”

I feel a smile coming on.

“In that case,” I say, “I would be delighted if you came to visit me, Sofia. That is, if you aren’t afraid of a steamy kitchen and sweat. And I guess you aren’t,” I add in a friendly tone, “since you seem quite sturdy.” Lucia’s mouth drops open and the corners of Fabrizio’s twitch. Sofia throws back her hair and glowers at me.

“I am very interested in what’s going on at Fabrizio’s trattoria. Visiting the kitchen staff would obviously be part of it,” is her patronizing reply.

“How nice of you. I’ll ask our dear Rosa-Maria if you could work with us for a night. I’m sure she’d develop a soft spot for you right away. A bit of warning, though.” I lower my voice and Sofia responds by leaning away from me suspiciously. “Don’t use the term ‘kitchen staff’ in front of Rosa-Maria. I’m afraid she’d cut your pretty little behind into slices if you did.”

Everyone is silent, shocked for a moment. Then Fabrizio starts to laugh.

Fabrizio

I underestimated Signora Philipp—very much. I like the new her. What I like more than anything is Sofia’s stony face. I gasp for air. I’m obviously in absolute control of the situation, but the room has started to spin, which makes me unable to think clearly. I hold on to Lucia’s chair and try not to lose my balance. My sister-in-law watches me through narrow eyes.

“Are you all right, Fabrizio?”

I drop into the chair next to Signora Philipp. She smells good—of oranges. Or is it tangerines?

“Everything A . . . A-OK,” I say with a heavy tongue, and I grin. Then Chiara tugs on my sleeve. Unfortunately, my new little friend is more persistent than I anticipated.

“Are you coming back to the bar?” she whispers into my ear, giving me those p
uppy-dog eyes. After glancing at Signora Philipp, whose expression gives nothing away, I shake my head. To my horror, Chiara’s cute eyes fill with tears. “Am I not pretty enough for you?”

“No. I mean, yes, of course. That’s not the problem . . .” I look around helplessly. Embarrassed silence everywhere. Even Sofia seems to have lost her voice.

“I’m not pretty enough for you,” Chiara repeats.

Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look up into the doughy face of the baker’s daughter. One of her yellow teeth sticks out. Where did she come from?

“Hello, Fabrizio! When you’re done with the lemonade chick, are you going to buy me a real drink?”

“There are two of us, by the way,” her friend adds and nudges the baker’s daughter with her elbow. I see the owner of Fonte di Tufi making her way through the crowd with her ferret-like daughter in tow. And they aren’t alone: an entire scouting unit of women doggedly advances. Help!

“You are definitely pretty, Chiara. I think you’re sweet.”