Apricot Kisses (3 page)

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“Honestly, just nervous.”

Hellwig scrutinizes me silently and then laughs—he doesn’t sound amused. “You, nervous? Never.”

“All right, you win. I’m curious. It’s not every day I’m summoned to the airport.”

“Then I won’t hold you in suspense any longer.” He looks at his watch. “There is actually a problem.”

“And the problem involves me?” I ask as casually as I can.

“We’re being sued because of your last article.”

“Again?”

Although he doesn’t usually take hot-and-bothered restaurateurs seriously, Hellwig doesn’t return my grin. His recurring sermon: if you investigate thoroughly, stick to the facts, and don’t insult anybody, you can attack anyone—even top chefs, for all he cares. Research, facts, respect. I’ve always followed these rules—strictly.

“So you think it’s funny?” Hellwig stirs his empty teacup. The scrape of metal on porcelain makes my hair stand on end.

“Of course not!” An alarm shrills in my head. This is not going the way I thought it would.

“Good—since this situation is
not
amusing.” Hellwig leans over the table, and the subtle aroma of peppermint drifts to my nose. The boss is a health freak. He never drinks coffee, and it’s rare to see him in a suit and properly tied tie, like today. Usually he wears jeans and polo shirts.

“The plaintiff—a Signor Camini—wants a five-digit sum.”

“Five digits!” I clench my fists in my lap. Hellwig looks at his napkin’s flower pattern. “And he demands your head.”

My voice deserts me.

“For some reason, Signor Camini’s lawyer thinks that your article killed his client’s grandmother.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” I manage to say, though it sounds pathetic.

“I don’t think so at all. I can imagine how an old lady who suffers from a heart condition would come across your sharp pen . . .” Hellwig pauses and slowly shakes his head. “Of course, nobody can force a magazine to fire its writers. I mean, where would we be if we allowed that? But Donnermuth’s law office is pretty good at making offers that are hard to refuse.”

I can’t laugh about the butchered
Godfather
quote. Pressure plays an accordion in my chest. My article killed an old lady.

I killed an old lady.

I didn’t mean to.

I didn’t. Really.

“Donnermuth has good media contacts and is not shy about using them. You can imagine how it could play out, how everyone you’ve insulted in the course of your career will react to the story of the sweet Italian granny whose restaurant has been in her family for generations. They’ll tear you apart. Frau Philipp, I love the magazine, and I do believe that journalists are replaceable.”

“But everything I wrote about Tre Camini is true,” I say. “The food is a catastrophe; the soup alone . . . the pasta was . . . and the service—”

Hellwig interrupts me with an indignant gesture. “I’m not discussing with you whether or not your review was justified. Obviously the article is not responsible for the old woman’s death. Herr Camini, however, views the whole matter more emotionally, and so we have to control the damage.”

“But if we aren’t wrong, then why should we relent? Why should we sugarcoat an article that informs our readers? This is an attack on the freedom of the press.”

“Maybe because you’re smart and you like your job?” Hellwig says. Am I mistaken, or does his face show some pity? Everything is clear to me now, and it sweeps away every ounce of security in my life. Hellwig gave up on me long ago.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am completely serious. You’re a brilliant writer, but you’ve become somewhat expensive lately. Our lawyers pull in their heads whenever your name comes up, and after the Rothfeld matter . . .” He looks troubled, but his eyes remain cold as steel.

My mouth feels stuffed full of cotton balls. “Rothfeld is a con man. The report from the Institute of Food Technology
proved
that he was selling trout as arctic char.”

“Here we go again.” Hellwig sighs. “Just tell me, what restaurant critic would send a piece of fish to a lab? You’re losing your sense of scale, Frau Philipp. We aren’t the Office of Criminal Investigation. You aren’t solving ritual murder cases, but writing an entertaining column in a food magazine that sells for three euros and eighty cents. It’s as unrelated to
Guide Michelin
as my laptop is to the Voyager program.”

“I know that,” I whisper, but the boss isn’t done.

“It’s not that I don’t admire your courage,” he says. “You’re a career woman with backbone, and you don’t mince words. But you are going too far. Sometimes you don’t have any sense of moderation or tact. You’d probably have been burned at the stake if you’d lived during the Middle Ages.”

“Does that mean I’m fired?” The palms of my hands are dripping wet; I feel blood rushing to my head. I’m losing control of myself. I scan the table for something that will put an end to this feeling. Other than Hellwig’s teacup, the table is empty. What’s with this restaurant? If it’s too much to offer a vase with some pathetic artificial flowers, couldn’t they at least put out salt shakers? I mean, I can’t swipe the spoon from my boss’s saucer.

I start to tremble. My eyes fall to the windowsill, which has two huge planters—and a striped porcelain vase.

“So this is what you’ll do, Frau Philipp. You’ll publish a friendly retraction of your article in the July issue. You will apologize for your error. And then you will make Signor Camini drop this absurd suit, even if you have to kneel in front of his stable door to do it. I know it’s humiliating, repenting publicly and eating humble pie, so I’ll put in a good word for you with the board of directors.” As Hellwig turns away to grab his jacket, I act with lightning speed.

The vase is not only ugly, but heavy to boot. Fortunately it fits into my handbag. My trembling stills at once and I exhale in relief. The accordion in my chest relaxes. Hellwig leafs through his money clip and then gives me a noncommittal smile. “I’ve got to go. I am sure you’ll find a solution that satisfies everyone.” He hands me twenty euros. “Please pay for my tea—and order a piece of cake for yourself. I hear that carbohydrates do wonders for stress.”

I take the money, smile thinly, and stop myself from saying anything snarky. “Have fun in Vienna,” I say instead, without meaning it. To my surprise, Hellwig winks at me, taps his forehead, and turns away without a word. He navigates through the throng of people and finally disappears.

The chubby server doesn’t look at me while telling what I owe and handing me my change. Instead she stares at the man at the neighboring table. I completely forgot about him, since Hellwig had blocked my view.

The Italian is sitting there with his eyes closed, facing the window. Earphones wrap around his head. He’s good looking, I notice absentmindedly. He has dark, wavy hair run through with copper brown, and distinct features. His lashes are so long that they throw shadows under his eyes. I don’t know if it’s because he’s tapping his feet to the beat under the table or because he’s smiling—which makes dimples in his unshaven face—but the man moves me. Mostly I’m just envious that he seems so relaxed. In his sound cocoon, there’s probably nothing that could upset him.

I straighten and pick up my handbag, which is much heavier than before. Passing a mirrored wall on my way out, I automatically glance at myself. I was definitely taller when I came in.

Fabrizio

My mood has improved by the time I get to airport security. Zucchero’s boozy voice gave me half an hour of escape from my worries and that waitress, and I can think clearly again.

As I expected, the metal detector peeps when I walk through. Compared to Italy’s, German airport security is top-notch. That’s what I get for not removing my cross necklace. The security official points to the bench for sinners behind a folding screen. I’m rolling my eyes.

“Shoes,” the uniformed guard tells me.

Yes, I do have some.

“Take off your shoes!”

I give him a confused look. I’ve loved driving German guardians of the law up the wall since my student days. The official points to my wingtips. I bend down to fumble with the shoelaces.
“Make two knots, child,”
Nonna always told me.
“That way you’ll never end up running around with untied laces.”
The first shoe clatters to the floor. Nonna really had the right advice for every situation.

Suddenly I freeze.

I stare at my hands, the untied second shoelace, and then the official’s legs. He jiggles his foot impatiently. My gaze drops back to my feet. My left sock has a hole in the big toe.

Holy shit!

I see that my briefcase has already gone through the baggage scanner. Another uniformed officer approaches me with some official-looking papers in his hands.

“Herr Camini? You’re transporting some special luggage?”

Nonna! I jump up and push my shoes into the surprised officer’s hands. “I’ll be right back.”

With that, I race past passport control in my socks and, followed by astonished looks and giggles, whiz out of the security area.

Chapter Two

Hanna

For the first time since I joined the magazine two years ago, I take the staircase. When I get to the top, I realize why I’ve always preferred the elevator. There are one hundred and twelve steps. Panting, I’m standing in front of my department’s door, unable to even push down the handle. Then Sasha hops up to the top of the stairs behind me with a pile of magazines under her arm, whistling and showing no sign of being out of breath. I try to remember how many years ago I, too, could do that.

“You all right, boss?”

Actually, if I’m being honest, I can’t remember ever hopping up such a huge flight of stairs—and certainly not whistling.

“Take my bag!” I gasp and lean against the wall. “Give me a moment.”

Sasha takes my bag and opens the glass door with her elbow. “Was the meeting with the boss that exhausting?”

I straighten up and suck in a wheezing breath. “Absolutely not.” I ignore Sasha’s mocking look and stalk by her with my head held high. In the office kitchen, I catch Claire red-handed with my jar of Nutella in her lap. “That makes you fat, Madame Durant.”

“Mostly it makes you feel good.” She unrepentantly puts the spoon into her doll-like mouth and screws the lid back on. “You look like you could also use one or two spoonfuls.”

“We have a problem.” I drop into the only chair that is not covered with jackets and bags. I have no idea who’s made the cozy employee lounge into a closet. Lately there are even shoe boxes under the corner bench. Our intern is probably not entirely innocent.

“Do
we
have a problem or is it you?” Sasha pushes past Claire and sets my handbag on the table, which is strewn with empty Thai takeout boxes. “What in the world are you hauling around? This weighs at least ten pounds.”

“Please return the ugly vase to the airport restaurant.” I sigh and turn to Claire, who looks at me expectantly. My eyes are burning. “I think I really bungled things badly this time.”

Claire frowns. “What’s a bungle?”

“She means that she made a mess of things.” Sasha steps closer, interested. I open my mouth, but the sentence sticks in my throat. Claire sits down next to me and takes my hand.

“What happened?”

“The article about Tre Camini . . . Do you think it’s mean?”

As I wait anxiously for their reaction, Claire and Sasha exchange a glance.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it nice,” Claire begins. “But your articles rarely are,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“That bad?” I say.

“I thought it was funny,” Sasha says. “Especially the part about the frozen vegetable corpses in the instant soup. And the spinach mush on raw spaghetti.” Sasha grins, but she shrinks back when Claire gives her a critical look.

“Are we dealing with a letter from some lawyer again?” Claire sounds matter-of-fact, and I’m grateful.

“The owner of the trattoria believes that my article was the cause of his grandmother’s heart attack.” The pain in my chest comes back.

“Ouch, that’s new!” Sasha says. Claire raises her finger and Sasha responds by busying herself with my handbag. I keep talking—fast, so I don’t start crying. I can’t remember ever losing my cool like this—and in the office, of all places.

“Now this Camini wants me fired.”

“That’s not nice,” Sasha says.

“And I couldn’t meet his damages claim in ten years, if ever. I’m done for.” In utter disgust, I open the jar of Nutella. Forget about the stairs; what I need is sugar. Lots of it.

“We’ll find a solution.” Claire glances toward our intern, who is setting the striped vase on the table.

“I doubt it,” I say.

“Hanna . . .” Sasha has turned very pale. How nice that she’s worried about me even though I’m sometimes a horrible boss. I sniff the Nutella jar.

“Could you hand me the spoon?” I ask Claire. Why should today be the day I start getting in shape?

“Hanna!”

“What?” I say to Sasha. “If Claire can stay thin even though she eats Nutella by the pound, I should be allowed a little spoonful.”

“This thing here—that’s no vase.” Sasha’s voice trembles.

“What are you talking about?” Mmm, the Nutella tastes amazing.

“I don’t think you’ll like the answer.” Sasha looks as if she’s about to throw up. And she’s the one who usually takes everything in stride. Is something gross stuck to the vase? Claire is about to touch it, but then she shrinks back with wide-open eyes.

“Mon dieu,”
she whispers.

“Girls, what’s the matter with you? It’s just—”

“An urn,” Sasha mumbles with a sepulchral voice. “My gramps got one. But it wasn’t so colorful.”

It is suddenly deadly quiet. I’m not in the mood for chocolate anymore.

We stand around the table and stare at the porcelain container as if it were a poisonous striped puffer fish.

“Are you sure?” I whisper.

“Be my guest and check it out,” Sasha whispers back. “I’m definitely not looking inside.”

“How would an urn end up in an airport restaurant? It’s ridiculous. And why are we whispering?”

“Out of reverence,” Claire says softly and cleans her glasses. At least she’s talking again. The shock isn’t too much for her. It is for me. I stole a corpse. Oh my god!

“Reverence, sure,” Sasha says. Claire’s nostrils flare, a clear sign that she’s smelling a story.

“Maybe someone forgot it in the airport restaurant.”

I reach for the urn. “I just don’t believe it.”

“Nooo!” they both scream, and I recoil.

“But I have to see if you’re right,” I say.

Finally, Claire musters the courage to carefully lift the urn. She examines the container from every side, checks the cork seal, and turns the urn upside down. “There’s a plaque.”

“Is something written on it?” Sasha peers at the bottom, but stays a safe distance away.

“Yesss.”

This time Sasha and I speak in unison. “What?”

For some strange reason, Claire seems about to either laugh or cry. “
Quelque chose ne tourne pas rond
—something is definitely wrong,” she mumbles in French and adds a phrase I don’t understand.

“What do you mean?”

Claire carefully puts the urn back on the table and looks at me with part pity and part amusement. “I’m afraid that this time you won’t be able to return your souvenir by just mailing it. Look at it yourself.”

I’ve never touched a dead person. Sure, it’s not actually a corpse, just ashes, and inside a porcelain container, but . . .

“She’s not going to bite you.” Claire’s upturned nose twitches.

So it’s a woman. Breathe, Hanna. Breathe! The urn doesn’t feel like an urn. It’s smooth and cool and could be a milk jug. I read the engraving once, then a second time:
Giuseppa Camini, 1932–2014, Tre Camini, Toscana.
It takes a few seconds before everything clicks in my head.

“What’s the probability that this isn’t what I think it is?” I ask calmly.

Claire lifts her hand. The space between her thumb and index finger is barely big enough for a pencil. I nod slowly.

“So I not only killed an Italian
nonna
with my article, but stole her urn on top of it.”

“In France we call that destiny.”

Fabrizio

“What in heaven’s name did you think you were doing, Carlo?”

For the past half hour, I’ve been furiously pacing the kitchen while Rosa-Maria has kneaded the dough as if her life depended on it. To be honest, rage is the only feeling I’ve been able to muster since I arrived. Rosa’s freshly baked panini won’t change that. Carlo nibbles on a toothpick, unruffled.

“Eh, Fabrizio! Sit down and have a glass of wine. Your bad mood is hard to stomach.” My friend shakes his head. His grin, revealing gaps between his teeth, drives me crazy.

“How could you allow this jerk to cook in my kitchen, Rosa-Maria?” I point at Carlo’s stained T-shirt, which displays the logo of our national team, Gli Azzurri. Rosa-Maria slouches, which makes her look even more square-shaped. Her face turns tomato red, and the dough bubbles feebly in the bowl when she pushes it down. Under normal circumstances I would feel bad—Rosa-Maria is like a mother to me. But nothing has been normal these past few days.

I can still hear Lucia’s desperate sobbing when I told her what happened in Berlin. I had expected Marco’s disapproving expression, but he’d been wise enough not to make a stupid remark. Alberto has been missing since yesterday. He’s probably sharing his sorrow with his chickens.

“Carlo said he had your permission.” Rosa-Maria shoots a livid look in Carlo’s direction.

“In my opinion we shouldn’t discuss this in front of an employee,” Carlo says arrogantly. “You know that as the arm of the law I have to uphold
la bella figura
in front of all residents.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass whether or not you look good,” I say. “And Rosa-Maria isn’t an employee; she’s part of the family. So why was the trattoria open when we had decided otherwise?” I again address Rosa-Maria, who has started to sneeze violently.

“It’s not her fault, honestly.” Carlo eyes Rosa-Maria’s thyme rolls. Out of pure spite, I push the bread basket out of his reach. So he mumbles, “It was my idea.” I move the basket even farther away. “Rosa-Maria was ill. She was coughing like my old Fiat that I scrapped last year. So I said to myself, ‘Carlo, why don’t you do your good friend Fabrizio a favor?’ A closed restaurant isn’t a good restaurant, eh? Nothing against your culinary skills, Rosa-Maria, but I can whip up some pasta blindfolded. There was only one guest anyway, and she tipped little Alba generously.”

Rosa-Maria’s skin darkens another shade. She clears her throat several times and licks her hairy upper lip, but her silent cry for help gets lost in our village policeman’s sea of smugness.

“You let the maid serve?” I say. “Where the hell was Lucia? How much did Alba get?” I ask warily—around here, an overly generous tip does not mean a compliment for the kitchen. Carlo raises two fingers triumphantly.

“Twenty euros?”

“As I said, it was good.”

For a few seconds, I want to beat the magazine—which I’ve been carrying in the inside pocket of my jacket for forty-eight hours—round Carlo’s head. But the urge remains just a very satisfying image. Our house doesn’t need another troublemaker. “Don’t you realize that Tre Camini has a reputation to lose? We can’t afford botched kitchen jobs—or the tourists won’t come.”

His black mustache trembles, a clear sign of uneasiness. He would never admit it, though. You can catch Carlo Fescale with his finger in the honey jar and he will still claim it wasn’t him. He was born without a conscience. Maybe that’s why he’s such a good custodian of the law.

“I can’t stand foreign tourists anyway,” Carlo says. “They have no idea what
al dente
means. Could I have a thyme roll?”

“You’re hopeless.”

“I meant well. Now give me a panino and tell me what’s really bothering you,” Carlo grumbles and reaches for the bread basket.

Maybe it’s the carefree attitude of his that I’ve known since childhood. Possibly it’s the warmth emanating from the oven—or the aroma of freshly baked panini. My rage crumbles like the crumbs Carlo scatters on the table as he cuts through a roll. He smears it thickly with salted butter.

“The urn. I lost Nonna.” My throat feels as if I’d swallowed a cup of flour.

Rosa-Maria’s mixing bowl shatters on the terra-cotta tiles. She whimpers and crosses herself several times. Carlo scrutinizes me, chewing. It feels like an eternity, with Rosa-Maria’s sobbing as the soundtrack. Then Carlo scratches the back of his head.

“Fabrizio?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have some more salted butter?”

Hanna

I’ve tried sleeping on it, but the night did nothing to help the way I feel. Since I didn’t want to leave the urn at the office, I took it with me to my apartment in Wilmersdorf, a decision I have since regretted. After all, a dead person is not your average houseguest. I didn’t sleep a wink and got up several times to move the unwelcome visitor. I couldn’t find a single spot in my six-hundred-fifty-square-foot apartment that didn’t offend either my or Signora Camini’s sense of propriety.

Now, I sit totally bleary-eyed on a wooden bench in the Berlin zoo, my shoulders resting against the spot where I carved
H.P. + D.A.
four years ago with the key of Daniel’s BMW. I flushed the same key down the toilet a few months later, just to bug him. I scratched out his initials after we broke up and haven’t allowed another pair of letters into my life since then. But I held on to Sunday mornings at the zoo, even though I’m not much into animals. Birds actually scare me. On the other hand, I find meerkats cute. Daniel nastily called them “bastards.”

“Hello, Hanna!”

“Morning, Helmut!” I wave to the stocky man in Wellingtons who is entering the meerkat enclosure with two buckets.

As a teenager, I used to visit the zoo almost daily—mainly to skip school, but also to secretly attach myself to Southern European extended families, people I’ve always found strangely attractive. I would simply trot behind a Turkish family and imagine that I was their adopted daughter. Unfortunately, it never went well for long. I usually ended up as a human found item in the lost and found at the zoo’s administration offices, where my name and face became well known. Eventually I moved my adventures to the Kaufhaus des Westens department store, and that had consequences. My adolescent escapades didn’t seem to particularly bother my parents, but the juvenile-court judge, who sentenced me to forty hours of community service for shoplifting, took the matter much more seriously. I will never forget how I felt in the courtroom when the intimidating, black-robed man said to me, “Child, what did you think you were doing?” while simultaneously staring down my parents. It was the first and last time I saw my father look embarrassed.

When the zookeeper empties the bucket, the meerkats rush to devour pieces of banana, eggs, and peanuts—no chicks today, to my relief.

Unfortunately, the diversion doesn’t last long. As the last banana disappears into a smacking mouth, my thoughts return to my strange visitor. It feels as if I’ve given shelter to the actual living Giuseppa Camini. She shuffles in slippers through my apartment and shakes her head when she sees how empty it is and how I haven’t unpacked all the boxes from my move, even though I’ve lived there for a year. She investigates cupboards and reads my mail, and she’s expecting me to bring home the Sunday paper, which I won’t be able to afford if I lose my job.