Margherita's Notebook (4 page)

March 15, the first time they met.

November 9, Margy's birthday.

June 7, wedding day.

None of the dates matched today. So what was the story here? With a finger, he touched the cream on the pineapple pie and brought it to his mouth. It was still warm, fragrant, inviting. His favorite. And next to it, a letter. Francesco picked it up, smiling. But as he read, his smile froze on his face, like the topping on the pie into which Margherita, like the character in the movie, had poured a good dose of her tears.

Dear Francesco,

Today was truly a special day. One after the other, I was bombarded by three events that hit me without warning. Here they are, in chronological order:

1. I didn't get the job that was supposed to be a “done deal.”

2. I received a letter saying that we were being evicted from our house because our landlord's son needs the apartment.

3. And, last but not least, I received a visit from your “girlfriend,” Meg, who informed me, tearfully, of course, that you've been seeing each other for over a year and that she does not want to share you with anyone anymore.

She says our love is “gone” (this, it seems, is what you confided to her).

In short, she asked me, as she continued to cry, to step aside and grant you a divorce. When I asked her why you hadn't told me yourself, she said that you are too nice a person to hurt me that way. So she thought it might be time to do the job herself.

Oh, and I almost forgot! I discovered that we have a child; Meg told me that he's old enough to understand and that I needn't worry about him. Too bad I don't remember ever having had a child. (Just out of curiosity: how old was I supposed to have been when he was born?)

At the same time that Francesco was reading Margherita's letter in astonishment, she was heading down the highway in her station wagon filled to the roof with suitcases and bags, and Valastro, who kept croaking, “VACATION! VACATION!”

The ruckus inside that car would have made anyone else nervous, but not Margherita. At that moment, she was so euphoric that she could have withstood anything. With her, besides Valastro, were Asparagio, the famous cat who had convinced her to give in to Francesco's advances, and who in the meantime had turned into a miniature black panther
with a powerful meow; Ratatouille, a minuscule patchwork of feline flesh and fur; and Artusi, who, according to Margherita, was claustrophobic, at least to judge from his desperate protests each time he was forced to take a ride in a car. Needless to say, Ratatouille and Artusi had also been strays she'd taken home with her.

Meanwhile, back home, Francesco, who had collapsed into an armchair, was rereading the last part of the letter for the umpteenth time and was still incredulous. It had taken him a long time to understand the meaning of those words, which a part of his brain continued to reject. Margherita,
his
Margherita, couldn't have done such a thing to him. It was impossible. Unimaginable. He took another look at the letter and realized that the words were dancing before his eyes, because his eyes were welling up with tears.

And do you want to know the most surprising thing of all?

It's that after your mistress came to see me, when I started making YOUR pie, convinced that I was going to suffer terribly, feel the earth shake beneath my feet, instead, I felt euphoric, light as a feather! It took all three bitter blows (especially the last one) for me to understand that my life with you was one small, stifling, sweet hell! It took my finding out that you were in love with another woman for me to understand that all I was looking for was an excuse to be able to leave you!

Yes, because it's hard to leave a . . . “child,” even when he's over forty and has a few strands of gray hair around the temples, and it's tragically obvious that he'll never become a mature adult.

What a relief! Now someone else can play mother to you!

In other words, in no time at all, there I was packing my bags. There'll always be a place for me at my father's house . . .

You're probably wondering what I'm going to do with my life now.

The answer is: I don't know.

Yours,

Margherita

T
he church bell tolling in Roccafitta echoed in the narrow alleyways of the small medieval hamlet, for a few moments drowning out the noisy voices coming from Bar dello Sport, the café in the central piazza, just opposite the church. Tonight, as was often the case, the debate between the members of the local culture and tourism association had moved from the association's headquarters to the café. What could possibly be the reason for so much excitement? The preparations for the fair that was to be held on the last Sunday in May.

“Please explain to me what a
show
has to do with the wild boar fair!” Bernardo Maria Nocentini, nicknamed Bacci, a sturdy young man with rebellious hair, protested angrily. “People go to the fair to
eat
!”

Armando, age sixty and still quite the charmer, banged his glass on the table as he stood up.

“Aren't we lucky that it's the younger generation who
think this way!” he exclaimed, looking disconsolate. “Usually, it's the old-timers who're only interested in the food, not the youngsters!”

Bacci was indignant. “The problem is that tourists come here to eat, and as town councilor I have to promote the town!”

Giulia, an attractive woman about forty-five, with a Felliniesque bosom and a sensuous mouth, tried to help out Armando.

“But everybody likes good music, and putting on a show is a great idea. Personally, I'm in favor of it.”

Armando gazed at her adoringly.

Gualtiero, the fishmonger, a sprightly sixty-two-year-old, never missed a chance to add his two cents. “Maybe if everyone starts dancing, it'll help them digest the wild boar even better!”

He broke out into noisy laughter and was joined by the others.

“When a person's holding the ladle, he can make the soup any way he wants, fishmonger! Oh, and by the way, you can forget about your sardine fair!” Bacci answered back, still visibly piqued. Besides being a town councilor, he was the most famous butcher in town.

Baldini, the last one in the group, chipped in as well. “You're wrong there; at least it's something new. We've had enough pasta, wild boar, and
ribollita
fairs!”

They were still arguing when they were joined by Salvatore, a thin man with ferretlike eyes.

“What'll you have? Drinks on me today! To hell with being tightfisted!”

The five of them turned around as if they couldn't believe their ears.

“What are we celebrating?” Armando inquired.

Salvatore, waving a check in front of everyone's eyes, informed them that he'd just sold his land.

“That's a load off my back, and anyway, if it hadn't been me, my heirs would have seen to it! At least I can enjoy this pittance myself.” Then he turned to Baldini and added, “What are you waiting for? Careful, he might take back his offer . . .”

Armando gave Baldini an inquisitive look. “Are you selling out, too?” he asked him.

His friend shook his head and sighed. “I'm not really sure, it all depends on my son; I'm waiting for him to tell me what he thinks.”

“The property's yours, and you're still thinking about it?” Salvatore insisted. “Sell it all and enjoy the money, that's what I say!”

“But I don't want to sell,” Baldini replied. “Not having any land would make me feel like a snail without its shell!”

While the others laughed, only Armando seemed to sense the bitterness in his old friend's words. He gave him a pat on the back. “Come on, you'll see, everything will turn out all right.” Then he pointed toward Giulia. “Why don't you come with us? It'll take your mind off things. Dancing the tango works miracles, and Giulia is an exceptional teacher.”

Baldini shook his head. “You go, go and have fun. I'm waiting for my son to call.”

Armando took Giulia's arm. “Well, then, it's just you and me, Madame Teacher!”

The echo of the church bell had ceased by the time the station wagon with Margherita and her tribe on board drove past the sign that said
WELCOME TO ROCCAFITTA
.

Home, at last.

Just like every other time she returned, she felt a powerful emotion that brought a lump to her throat. This small town perched on a hill in the heart of Maremma, with the sea just a stone's throw away, its streets filled with tourists, and so much green, so many flowers, and so much happiness, was her
home.
Margherita rolled down the window and breathed, filling her lungs with air. She had always believed that Roccafitta had a unique scent, a combination of sunflowers, bread that's just come out of the oven, leather, and a hint of brackishness. The scent of home, she thought, as she steered through the alleyways, miraculously skirting clusters of tourists of multiple colors and languages stationed here, there, and everywhere.

Finally, she stopped in front of a house that looked like it could use some repair, surrounded by a garden that threatened to turn into a jungle. On the door was a sign:
I'M NOT HOME
,
COME BACK LATER
.

I should have let him know I was coming.

She got out of the car and rummaged around in her Mary Poppins–style bag, searching for her keys.

I can't believe it . . . I hope I didn't leave them in Rome . . .

A voice from behind her drew her attention: “Margherita!”

She had barely turned around when she found herself in a bear hug. And good old Italo, their next-door neighbor, a big man over six feet tall and weighing a ton, who was always armed with a warm smile, seemed like he had no intention of ever releasing his grip.

“How come time never passes for you, eh? It seems like yesterday that you were stealing figs from my garden . . .”

Followed by more hugs and kisses. Then, suddenly, Italo checked out the car, and with a serious look on his face, said, “Where's that damn fool of a husband of yours?”

“He stayed in Rome.”

“Well, he's always been an idiot!” he said judgmentally, shaking his head. “Who would let a young woman like you travel by herself? Now if I were your husband—”

She smiled in spite of herself. No doubt about it, she was home, all right!

She interrupted him. “Do you know where my father might be?”

Italo glanced furtively at the windows of the house and then, in a low, conspiratorial tone, answered, “At this time of day, he's at the recreation center . . .”

Margherita gave him a probing look. “At the recreation center?”

Since when has there been a recreation center in this town?

“Well, that's what we call it now,” Italo replied. “They've renovated it. I guess ‘senior center' didn't sound quite right.”

Margherita looked at him incredulously.

“Papa, at the senior center?” Oh, my God. Her father must have had a breakdown and she'd been too involved in her own problems to realize it.

Italo's roar of laughter caught her off guard.

“He's fine, don't worry! He's the same as ever,” he said, winking.

Margherita tried to puzzle it out. Knowing her father, he would never have let anyone drag him to the senior center, not even in chains, let alone voluntarily!

“You're welcome to wait for him at my place, Margy.”

“No thanks, Italo, I'd like to surprise him.”

The big man held one finger up to his lips: “You didn't hear it from me, okay? Promise?”

More and more puzzled, Margherita let her pets out of the car and into the garden, shut the gate, and set out to find her father.