Authors: Claudia Winter
She’s only half a step away from me. Her perfume stings my nose, orange and a sharp tinge of mint. The scent reminds me of another woman. I’m all nerves, but I don’t see Sofia’s chocolate eyes. Instead, I see the other woman’s eyes, an indefinable color, somewhere between the color of dry grass and . . . mud? That woman isn’t actually beautiful, but she’s the most arousing person I can imagine right now.
“What happened to us, Fabrizio?”
“You tell me.”
“Well, I’m back home.”
“I noticed,” I say, and grab her hand as it fiddles with my buttons.
“And?”
“And what?” I push her away from me, and she grimaces.
“So you aren’t glad at all? I was thrilled to see you again.” Sofia’s next advance is grabbing hold of the back of my neck. My body responds, but my head has never been further from an answer.
“What do you want, Sofia?”
“I want to ask you to forgive me, and tell you . . . that you still mean a lot to me.”
“In case you didn’t hear, I’m getting married next week.”
“Are you telling me you’re really serious about that mousy German? Please, Fabrizio! She’s not your type at all. Besides, she has an ugly nose.
“But you’re my type, of course,” I say. But Sofia doesn’t want to hear the irony in my voice. She slips behind me and grabs my hips. Her nails dig into my flesh.
“I know what you need . . . what you like.”
“That you know, for sure.” I turn around and she lifts her chin, offering her lips with a victorious smile. She never did take no for an answer. I gently turn her head away. “You’d be perfect if sex were all that matters,” I whisper in her ear. “But those times are over,
bellezza
. I’ve found something much better. And I love her nose.”
She tries to tear away from me, but it’s too late. I pull her face toward me with both hands and do what I’ve waited to do for twelve years. I kiss Sofia good-bye, good and long.
Hanna
So that’s the secret. Sofia and Fabrizio were not only a couple. They were bride and groom.
As Sasha would say,
well I’ll be.
Right. Amazing.
Not that it matters to me.
Not at all.
It’s just embarrassing.
After gaping at the empty window spot, I managed to warble a casual, “Oh, that. Obviously Fabrizio and I talked about it.” I dispelled their doubtful looks by adding, “It’s so generous of you, Signora Zanolla, to host this dinner. Fabrizio and I are very grateful,” and raising my glass in a death-defying toast to Fabrizio and Sofia’s friendship. My eye twitched only slightly when I assured everyone that Sofia and I would surely become the best of friends. And then began the longest ten minutes of my life as I counted the seconds until the table veered back to hymns, brake pads, and soup.
Then I somehow managed to stand up, to escape to the bathroom. Only Carlo noticed my wobbling knees. When he whispered, “Are you going to puke?” I responded with a withering look.
I don’t have to vomit.
I am only annoyed.
It seems that the wedding twelve years ago never actually happened.
Why?
God, I need to talk to Claire. But where is the bathroom in this damn labyrinth of hallways and doors?
I find the kitchen, or rather the not-quite-closed kitchen door, and stop dead when I recognize the voice inside.
“Are you telling me you’re really serious about that mousy German? Please, Fabrizio! She’s not your type at all. Besides, she has an ugly nose.”
Without any doubt, it’s the lovely Sofia spraying her venom again. I step closer. But the gap is too small to see anything.
“But you’re my type, of course.”
My eyes widen. Cautiously, I wiggle my foot into the gap and open the door a few inches. I see Fabrizio’s back—and then the door swings back. Shoot. Now I can see even less than before. I start to sweat.
“I know what you need . . . what you like.”
“That you know, for sure.”
I hold my breath and grab at the door handle. It’s cold and slippery. Why is my heart throbbing? Because I see exactly what I expected: Fabrizio and Sofia—and a long, passionate kiss.
In the bathroom, I slam the door shut behind me, turn the lock, and drop down onto the lid. The cheesy angels on the shower tiles and the gilded fittings above the sink overwhelm the tiny room. When my breathing returns to normal, I press speed dial on my phone. It rings and rings, and then I almost scream in relief when Claire finally picks up. A torrent of words pours out of me before she can even speak.
“Awful bunch of people . . . total lack of manners . . . all at once . . .
has
to be Ernesto’s daughter . . . looks like a crow . . . just because I suggested something modern . . . not just dating, they were engaged! Just imagine, how embarrassing . . . and there they are, making out like there’s no tomorrow.” The other end of the line is silent. “Claire?” I’m about to check my phone to make sure she’s actually there, when I hear a cheerful laugh.
“
Ooh là là!
Tell me . . . do you have a crush on Fabrizio?”
“Are you crazy?”
And I mean it. It’s completely out of line for her to say that. I haven’t had a steady boyfriend in three years—ever since Daniel, to be precise, who couldn’t wait to join the Hall of Fame with all the other liars and cheaters in my relationship lineup. It was always the same. With irresistible confidence, a Sven, Mario, or the aforementioned Daniel would sneak into my life, pretending to love strong and independent women. Soon, though, they would take up with my pretty neighbor and blame me for loving my job too much—or accuse me of cheating on them with Hellwig. Or they’d mutate into clingy little children who were upset when I refused to pack their lunches.
Believe me, I know what falling in love feels like. I know the name of each little stomach butterfly that sooner or later turns into a heavy caterpillar. I call this phenomenon “reverse metamorphosis,” and it always happens when I give my heart to someone. That’s why I stopped doing it—forever—three years ago. And that’s why I most certainly am not going to fall in love with Fabrizio Camini.
I feel Claire dissecting me on the other end of the line and regret calling her in my moment of weakness. And I really have to pee now.
“Do you want me to replay our conversation?” Claire says mockingly and, of course, what follows is exactly what she expected. I am defending myself—panties at my ankles, squatting on the toilet seat. I press the phone to my mouth so Claire can’t hear the treacherous tinkling.
“It wouldn’t bother me if Fabrizio kissed ten women at the same time. But our deal demands that we play a loving couple, and this traitor is kissing his ex-fiancée at the bridal dinner.”
“Good thing that at least
you
are sticking to the deal,
chérie
.”
“You . . .” I exhale, speechless at her sarcasm. I’m also relieved. My bladder was definitely one glass too full. I gawk at the toilet paper—covered with angels, too.
“Don’t make yourself so complicated. Fabrizio kisses another woman who happens to be his ex. So? He’s Italian. They kiss all the time—like French men.”
“Claire, it’s not the stupid kiss I’m worried about.”
“So why are you stuck on their past? You’re playing your part in your strange deal, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” I say. “My job is on the line.”
There’s another pause. It’s my chance. Phone pressed into my palm, I flush the toilet. Suppressed laughter on the other end of the line.
“With all due respect, what else are you doing on the toilet?”
“Waiting for some good advice from a friend who’s making fun of me instead.”
“I’m not making fun of you at all. Just do what’s logical.”
“But I don’t know what’s logical anymore.”
“
Bon sang,
Hanna. Gosh! Just go back in and show them who’s the bride.”
Fabrizio
My lips burn as I follow Sofia into the dining room. My ex immediately whispers something to her mother, who looks at me as if I’m a dangerous criminal. I don’t care, but I do feel some sympathy for Ernesto, who today has to be a conscientious mayor and thoughtful father and husband, all at the same time. Ernesto solves the problem in his usual way. He pours himself another glass of vino and digs into Adriana’s pasta. I cross the room to ask Lorenzo to move so I can sit next to my future wife. But Hanna’s chair is empty.
“Where is Hanna?” I mouth to Carlo. He eyes Sofia, then me. I repeat the question and motion to the empty chair. Shoveling a forkful of linguine into his mouth, Carlo shrugs. Just as I’m about to go look for her, Hanna appears at the door. She is pale and somewhat disheveled, obviously one of those women who come back from the ladies’ room less put together than before. I find that sexy and catch myself imagining what she looks like when she wakes up in the morning.
She glances around as if she has to remind herself where she is and why she’s here. But the moment our eyes meet, the vulnerable look disappears. Her expression tightens, as if invisible strings pull her skin back. Her face lights up in a smile that does not reach her eyes. Reflexively, I straighten my back when she looks right into my eyes. She comes over to me, bends down, and slides both arms around my neck.
“
Amore mio
—did I already tell you today how happy you make me?” she says.
“I don’t think so,” I say, bewildered. But I use the opportunity to caress her arms. Her skin is soft as the skin of an apricot.
She laughs. It’s a little too loud—too cheerful—too forced. But she presses her lips hard against mine, and I hear a many-voiced sigh sizzle around the table like a rustling of newspaper pages. Someone claps.
“I sometimes can’t believe it myself,” Hanna whispers, lowering her eyelids as if she just remembered we aren’t alone. Now I get it—she’s acting. Playing along, I smile, but not as bashfully as she does.
“Bravo!” Everyone is clapping now, Signora Donatelli the loudest—perhaps because she’s just emptied her second glass of wine. Hanna glides into her seat like a cat and touches my thighs with her knees. She kisses me again, on the cheek this time, and grimaces.
“You really need to shave every day, Fabrizio. You know how sensitive my skin is,” she says to the ceiling, and old Gosetti follows her gaze.
Signora Donatelli squeals. Carlo coughs into his napkin, and I nod like a good schoolboy.
“How sweet,” says Sofia from the other end of the table.
“See,
amore mio
, Sofia knows exactly what I’m talking about.” Hanna winks at Sofia, and I have to suppress a grin—Sofia is forced to smile back, no matter how painful it might be, if she doesn’t want to lose face. Hanna gives me a dreamy smile and then turns to Signora Donatelli. “You know, even though Fabrizio and I have just known each other for a short time, we have so much in common.”
“Really.” Sofia catches the ball. “What, for instance?”
I watch the veins in Hanna’s neck pulsate. I have no idea what gets into me, but it might have something to do with her transformation from an icy keep-your-hands-off-me to a passionate, full-blooded woman.
“Yes, Hanna, tell them,” I say. “I’m sure they’re all very curious.” Nobody more than me.
Hanna’s lashes tremble. She takes a deep breath and answers with a self-assured smile. “Hiking, for example.”
I almost choke on my wine. Did she really say “hiking”?
“Fabrizio and hiking?” Sofia’s laugh is shrill.
“Sure.” Hanna nods. “Fabrizio and I are true nature lovers. We could roam through fields and forests for hours. That’s why Fabrizio wants to get a dog for me. Oops!” Her eyes widen and she covers her mouth with her hand. “I wasn’t supposed to mention it. We wanted to discuss it with the family first . . .”
Carlo’s grin couldn’t be wider. Everyone knows that I use the Land Rover to pick up the mail at the end of the driveway because I don’t like walking—and I can’t stand dogs.
“Oh Fabrizio, I can’t wait for our hike tomorrow—just you and me and the great outdoors. It’ll be so romantic.”
I know it’s better not to contradict a woman, even if said woman is obviously crazy. But I won’t let the signorina get away with this that easily. Putting one hand on Hanna’s knee, I squeeze until her leg twitches satisfyingly.
“
Amore mio
, this climbing expedition is a grand idea,” I say gently. As I expected, the term “climbing” turns her city skin even more ashen. She quivers a little when I touch her nose. “Dizzying heights and your life in my hands. What could be more romantic?”
Chapter Eleven
Hanna
“A climbing expedition. You couldn’t come up with something more stupid?”
I hear Claire say in my head.
I kick aside a fist-size stone. The trail we’ve been winding our way uphill on for the past two hours is nothing more than a slope covered with loose stones and no wider than a bath towel. I really have to watch it so I don’t lose my balance. Now I’m paying for refusing to wear Lucia’s silly straw hat. The summer sun beats down on my scalp. It’s hot and quiet. My mood tumbles closer to negative numbers with each step.
Trying to keep up with Fabrizio, I focus on the back of his head. To keep me safe, he made me put on what looks like a dog harness—which makes breathing difficult. I don’t know what’s worse: my fear of heights, Lucia’s tacky trekking shoes, or the fact that I am tied with a thumb-thick rope to the person I loathe more than anyone else on this planet.
OK, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration.
The rope jerks and I stagger forward, almost falling. “Don’t dawdle,
amore mio
,” Fabrizio says over his shoulder.
Actually it wasn’t an exaggeration. Furious, I pull on the rope, bracing my feet against the stony ground. I slide along a few steps. Then Fabrizio stops and turns around.
“What’s going on?” He isn’t even breathing hard.
“You have to ask?” I’m almost screaming, or would be if I had enough air. Instead, only a warbled
“You’ve t’ask”
escapes my mouth. He studies me, unmoved.
“I need a break,” I wheeze.
“Again? We haven’t gone more than four hundred yards.” He points uphill. “The hard part is still ahead. That’s where we come to the wall.”
Come to the wall? Did he mention a wall? Up until now, I’ve done my best to look neither up nor down. Tilting my head now, I promptly understand why Lucia almost choked on her breakfast cornetto when she found out that Fabrizio and I were going to climb Monte Amiata. How did they transport a Himalayan mountain to Tuscany?
“Forget it,” I say and cross my arms in front of my chest. Fabrizio raises an eyebrow and wrinkles his forehead in his usual fashion.
“You’re behaving like a stubborn goat.” He pulls on the rope. “Come on! It’s not that bad. The mountain looks more dangerous than it is.”
I shake my head. “To hell with the mountain. To hell with your climbing trip. To hell with you!”
“Just to remind you: this was your suggestion.”
“I wanted to hike, not break my neck.”
“Not true. You aren’t a nature lover and you’ve never been into hiking.”
“What makes you so sure? You don’t know me at all.”
Fabrizio laughs. “I can put two and two together. The Internet is also quite useful. Besides, your ears get red when you lie, and last night your ears were pretty red.”
“You Googled me?”
“Isn’t that what everyone does these days? What I loved best about the magazine’s website were the comments that called you . . . let me think . . . ‘an arrogant big-city gal whose taste buds are covered in concrete.’ That’s someone with a sense of humor, in my opinion.”
“You really are the worst.”
“Tell me, Hanna . . .” Fabrizio takes a few steps toward me. I step back. Some chunks of rock come loose under my feet. “What’s your problem?”
At his sudden gentleness, I lose the thread of my rage. “I suffer from vertigo. Happy?” I’m almost spitting it out, but I sound like a stubborn little kid.
“That’s not what I mean.” He comes even closer. I hold my breath; my cheeks are burning, and my pulse is racing. I try to answer, but my thoughts get stuck as if the wheels of my brain just jammed up. I suddenly hear Claire again:
“Ooh là là! Tell me . . . do you have a crush on Fabrizio?”
No. Nooo!
My stomach flutters.
Yes, I do. Oh god!
Fabrizio
It’s not easy for me to be nice. I’d like to shake her, but her wide-open eyes stop me. She’s only a step away, right next to the edge, looking like a rabbit ready to flee.
“You’re angry with me. Tell me why,” I say quietly.
“I’m not angry with you.”
“So why do you sound like you are?”
“Heavens, you’re a pain in the neck!”
“That’s possible,” I say. “So?”
“Okay, I’m mad.”
When I smile, she rolls her eyes.
“If you really want to know, I felt like a fifth wheel at that bridal dinner because you . . .”
“Because I . . . ?”
“Because you kissed Sofia. I’m not mad because of Sofia, but because I’m the bride . . . I was—yesterday . . .” She gasps for air. “You made me look like a fool in front of all those people.”
She’s jealous. I don’t know whether to laugh or to pump my fist in the air. I decide on the former since it seems less macho.
“I’m glad you find that funny,” Hanna says, then turns—and steps into nothing.
The next few seconds happen in slow motion: The surprise on Hanna’s face turns to panic. Her pale arms, which have resisted the Tuscan sun, flail. The ground underneath her feet gives with a clatter, and a stone avalanche crashes over the drop-off. But by then I’m already holding on to her.
“Got you,” I yell, more for my own sake than hers. Her mouth is open in a silent scream, and both of us stare in near-disbelief at my hand around her arm and her feet dangling over air.
“Pull me up! Oh my god, Fabrizio . . . pull me up.”
I freeze. The whole thing lasted no more than a few seconds, and now the mass of loose rocks has stopped a few yards below us. Only a few little stones still roll down the hill.
“Fabrizio! Pull. Me. Up!”
“I heard you.”
“And what are you waiting for?”
“A ‘please’ would be nice.”
“What? Are you totally crazy?”
I squat down and adjust my weight to get more comfortable. Hanna hasn’t realized yet that she only has to stop her panicky kicking to find solid ground under her feet. Instead, her eyes fill with tears. I tilt my head and force myself to endure her fear. “I would like you to ask for help,” I say and bend forward, just enough to make my point. Hanna screams.
“Okay. Please!”
I pull her up a few inches and stop. Disbelief replaces her short-term relief.
“That wasn’t very convincing.” I grit my teeth when she digs her nails into my arm. That’s the second price I’ve paid to tame this woman, after the face slap a few days ago.
“You’re going to pull me up from this abyss immediately, otherwise—”
“You’re going to tear the skin off my arm? That wouldn’t help you.”
She gasps for air but retracts her nails. “I did say ‘please.’ What else do you want?” Her voice is weepy now, and she pants like her pulse is a hundred and eighty—just like mine.
“Have you ever considered that you have a problem accepting help?” I say calmly. “You don’t always have to do everything by yourself. There’s no shame in asking for help.”
“You sound like my friend Claire. How nice of you to clarify that for me at this truly appropriate moment.”
“I take what I can get.”
Then, unexpectedly, Hanna gives in. Her body relaxes and her mouth, pressed together a moment ago, softens. “Could we please end this? My arms are hurting and I don’t want to hang here till tonight. So please, please, pull me up.”
The plea in her eyes arouses me, and it takes all my strength not to pull her against me and kiss all her anger away. I grab her under her armpits. Her face is so close to mine that I feel her breath on my cheek.
“Are you sure you won’t slap me again?” I whisper. She shakes her head and hooks her arms around my neck. Then I straighten and pull her up all the way.
We stand locked in an embrace. Hanna’s head rests on my chest and my hand presses between her shoulder blades, holding her trembling body against me. A relieved sigh—mine or hers? I don’t know. She lifts her head. There’s no anger in her eyes, just astonishment.
This time we kiss cautiously, almost awkwardly—a kiss between heaven and earth, tasting of fear and redemption. Random images float through my mind: Dr. Buhlfort’s waiting room, the lost urn, the funeral, Lucia in the kitchen, Marco running away, the last will, my apricot orchards, the vanished recipe for apricot liqueur, Nonna’s frail voice talking about growing and thriving. But then Hanna opens her lips to mine, and everything that was or will be stops mattering.
Hanna
Without saying anything out loud, we agree to go back. I walk down the gravel path behind Fabrizio in a daze, my hand firm and warm in his. I have no idea how long we stood there lost in that incredible kiss before we reluctantly pulled apart with embarrassed grins. Blood still gushes through my ears, I feel faint, and my lips are stuck in a silly smile.
I’m completely flustered and out of control—and I don’t even care. Fabrizio guides me around a rock the size of a soccer ball. I scratched my leg on that one on the way up. Then, and I don’t know if it’s minutes or an hour later, we reach the unpaved road leading to the car. It’s wide enough for us to walk next to each other. We still say nothing, as if we’re afraid words would destroy the magic that cocoons us like a shimmering bubble.
Fabrizio stops a few steps away from the truck and lets go of my hand. I look up at him. He’s smiling and serious at the same time. I almost regret that he breaks the silence.
“Now that’s almost eerie,” he says.
“What exactly do you mean?” I ask.
“We’ve got a flat tire.”
“A flat tire,” I say, not quite getting it. He points, and I see that the truck is leaning to one side. “Oh, a flat tire,” I mumble, quite happy, and in my mind Claire shakes her head with a knowing smile. I don’t care at all. Fortunately Fabrizio doesn’t notice that I’m behaving like a love-struck teenager. He kneels in front of the truck and inspects the deflated tire—my chance to check out his jeans-clad butt. Unfortunately, the delightful sight lasts only a minute, since he gets up and walks around the truck. It seems that everything else is in order. He wipes his hands on his T-shirt.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to be towed. There’s a nail in the tire, and we don’t have a spare.” He pulls me to him and buries his face in my hair, his unshaven chin scratching my temple. His heart beats strong and steady, maybe a little too fast, but it calms me. I give in to temptation and slide my hands under his shirt. His back is sweaty and warm, and the muscles underneath contract when I touch him. “I’m going to call Tre Camini,” he whispers. “Do you think you can survive one more hour out here with me until Paolo comes with the tow truck?”
“You really ask stupid questions.” Desire shoots through me so suddenly that I gasp. Holy shit. I want Fabrizio more than I’ve ever wanted a man before.
“Nobody says we have to wait outside,” he says throatily. And then he slides his hand under my blouse and guides me gently to the truck.
No. We don’t have to wait outside.
I once knew a woman who claimed, as we drank coffee together at the university coffee shop, that the right song during sex is like an elevator carrying you straight to heaven. I laughed so loud you could probably hear me outside, and she never sought my company after that. I desperately try to remember her name. Birgit? Bianca? I was a condescending, stupid cow.
I’m flying—at supersonic speed. The hoarse voice on the radio sings of the simplicity of love, and I believe every single word. Everything is easy. We don’t take our eyes away from each other for one second—not when Fabrizio takes off his shirt and unbuttons mine; not when he tenderly strokes my belly, which I forget to pull in; not when I undo his belt; and not when he unzips my shorts and slides his hand between my thighs. His face seems transfigured. God, I want him! I claw into the soft skin above his waist. Fabrizio reacts immediately, grabbing my hips and pulling me in. And then . . . our bodies become one, moving in unison. I’m drowning in him, only to burn in his arms a moment later. And then there’s nothing but endless satisfaction.
When the radio announcer returns to his chatter, I grudgingly open my eyes and look straight through the side window at Marco.
Startled, I push Fabrizio off me and scramble for my blouse. I find my panties and one sock and start giggling as Fabrizio slides into the driver’s seat. He turns down the radio and calmly zips up.
“Ciao, Marco. What are you doing here?” he asks, as if his brother just walked in on a harmless chat over coffee.
“Who called, me or you?” is the biting reply. “Paolo had to help Alberto with the bees, so Lucia sent me.”
I wish the ground would open up and swallow me, but Fabrizio doesn’t give me time to be embarrassed. After I put on my blouse backward, he pulls me toward him and gives me a good, long kiss that tastes a little of stubbornness and defiance. I sense that Marco’s holding his breath and I can’t suppress some gloating, even though I know Fabrizio is using me as a ball to slam into Marco’s gut.
“Hi, brother-in-law,” I say casually and exchange a glance with Fabrizio. He grins and pushes a strand of hair away from my flushed forehead. Marco whirls around, strides back to his car, and returns with a towrope.
“What are you waiting for? Do you plan to stay here overnight?” he says.
“I’m afraid you wouldn’t like the answer,” Fabrizio says, stepping out.
It’s silent on the hour-and-a-half trip back. After a fierce argument—Marco hadn’t brought a spare tire and accused Fabrizio of not making it clear what was wrong with the pickup—we towed the truck to the nearest garage. Since it was Sunday, the garage was, of course, closed, and we had to leave it there.
Sitting between the two brothers on the old Ford’s front bench, like a living wall, I realize just how muddy their relationship is. Marco stares at the street, his hands clutching the steering wheel of his vintage Oldtimer so tightly that his knuckles are white. Fabrizio absentmindedly strokes my arm and looks out the side window. The scene is rather uncomfortable, but it gives me time to reflect. I steal a glance at Fabrizio. My heart beats faster.
So I did fall in love . . .
With the man I’m supposed to marry.
An enchanting story so far.
But the rest isn’t as movie-perfect. The marriage is a business deal based on lies and ending with divorce.