Steal You Away (41 page)

She had accepted. And so, whenever they went into the Acquasparta woods, she’d put on the mask and they’d have sex (once when there was a thick fog, Rossano Quaranta, a sixty-eight-year-old pensioner and poacher, had passed by and found a car hidden among the oaks and being a bit of a voyeur too had crept up and seen an incredible sight. Inside the car were a young man and a large ape. He had raised his shotgun ready to intervene, but had lowered it when he had realised that that pervert was shagging the gorilla. And he had walked away shaking his
head and muttering to himself that there was no limit to the dis gusting things some people would do nowadays.)

Bruno Miele, however, had not kept his side of the bargain.

They’d made only one trip to Civitavecchia, then he’d started finding excuses and had finally taken her to watch him playing table football. And he even pretended he didn’t know her.

Patrizia, in despair, had written a long, heartfelt letter to Dr Ilaria Rossi-Barenghi, the resident psychologist on the weekly magazine
Heart to Heart
, telling her how badly things were going between her and Bruno (she omitted the bit about the mask) and saying that despite everything she loved him to bits, but felt she was being treated like a whore.

To Patrizia’s infinite surprise, Dr Rossi-Barenghi had answered her.

Patrizia had followed the doctor’s advice to the letter. At their next encounter she had explained to Bruno that things were going to change. He was going to have to give her red roses and take her to dinner at the Grandfather’s Barrel pub and then to the cinema in Orbano to see
Terms of Endearment 2
with her girlfriends. And she was not going to wear the ape mask when they made love any more.

Bruno had opened the car door, ushered her out and said: ‘Get lost, you ugly bitch. Me go and see
Terms of Endearment 2?
What do you take me for, a poof?’ And he’d driven off in high dudgeon.

Now, having learned from this nasty experience and Dr Rossi-Barenghi’s advice, Patrizia had organised her relationship with Mimmo in such a way that she would never find herself abandoned like a fool and with a broken heart.

Pietro was seeking his brother for a very precise reason, namely to ask him if he would go and speak to the deputy headmistress. He had thought up the scheme with Gloria’s help. And it seemed workable.

At first she’d tried to convince him that her mother could go. Mrs Celani adored Pietro and said he was the nicest little boy in the world. She would have been delighted to do it. But Pietro wasn’t so sure. If Gloria’s mother went, it would be further proof that his parents didn’t care about him, that his family were all crazy.

No, it wasn’t a good idea.

Finally they had come to the conclusion that the only thing for it was to send Mimmo. He was old enough, and he could say that his parents were too busy, so he had come instead.

But now, seeing him there crying like a baby underneath a tree, he wondered if it really was such a good idea. Still, he had to try, there was no alternative.

He told him he’d been given five days’ suspension and that they wanted to speak to a member of the family. But Papa had refused to go and said it was nothing to do with him.

‘So you’re the only one left, you’ve got to go and tell them I’m a good boy, I won’t do it again, I’m very sorry, you know the sort of thing. It’s easy.’

‘Send Mama,’ said Mimmo, throwing a stone a good distance.

‘Mama …?’ Pietro echoed him with an expression that meant: are you out of your mind?

Mimmo picked up another stone. ‘What if nobody goes?’

‘They’ll fail me.’

‘So?’ He took a run-up and threw the stone.

‘So I don’t want to be failed.’

‘I was failed three times …’

‘So?’

‘So what does it matter? One year more, one year less …’

Pietro snorted. His brother was being a bastard. As usual. ‘Will you go or won’t you?’

‘I don’t know … I hate that school … I can’t go into the place. It makes me feel sick …’

‘You won’t go, then?’ it was an effort for Pietro to ask him again, but if Mimmo thought he was going to get down on his knees and beg, well, he was wrong.

‘I don’t know. I’ve got a more serious problem at the moment. My girlfriend has ditched me.’

Pietro turned away and said in a flat tone: ‘Well, fuck off, then!’ And he started off down the hillside.

‘Hey, Pietro, don’t be cross, listen, I’ll think about it. If I feel like it tomorrow, I’ll go. If I make it up with Patti, I swear I’ll go,’ shouted Mimmo in that bastard’s tone of his.

‘Fuck off! That’s all I’ve got to say to you.’

Flora Palmieri had spent the afternoon wondering what to make for dinner. She had leafed through recipe books and cooking magazines without finding anything.

What would Graziano like?

She had no idea. But she was sure he wouldn’t object to pasta-sciutta. Linguine with zucchini and basil? A fresh dish, for all seasons. Or trenette with pesto. Although that contained garlic … Or no pasta and baked aubergine barchette instead. Or …

It’s a real problem, indecision.

Finally, in desperation, she’d decided on curried chicken with raisins, hard-boiled eggs and rice. Flora had cooked this dish for herself a couple of times, following a recipe from
Annabella
, and had really enjoyed it. It was something different, an exotic dish, which would certainly appeal to a globetrotter like Graziano.

Now she was pushing a trolley among the shelves of the Co-op, looking for curry powder. She was out of it at home. But, as luck would have it, the Co-op was out of it too, it was too late to drive to Orbano and she’d already bought the chicken.

Oh well, I’ll just do roast chicken with new potatoes and salad. A timeless classic.

She went to the wine section and picked a bottle of Chianti and another of Prosecco.

The idea of this intimate dinner both excited and frightened her. She had cleaned the house and got out the good tablecloth and the Vietri dinner service.

As she busied herself with all these preparations, she had tried to silence an irritating little voice which kept saying that she was making a big mistake, that this relationship would only cause her heartache, that she would fill herself with hopes only to see them dashed, that on the way back from Saturnia she had decided to do one thing but she was now doing another, that Mama would suffer…

But Flora’s healthy side had asserted itself and locked that irritating little voice away in the cellar, at least for the time being.

I’ve never invited a man home, now I’m damn well going to do
it. I want to do it. We’ll eat the chicken, chat, watch TV, drink the
wine, and that’s it. No necking, no rolling about on the floor like
pigs, no lechery. And if it’s the last time I see him, so be it. Maybe
I’ll suffer. But what’s a little more suffering to me … ? I know
what’s right and Mama, if she could, would tell me to go ahead
.

To reassure herself, she thought of Michela Giovannini. Michela had taught physical education at the Buonarroti for a year. She was a petite girl, the same age as Flora, with brown hair and a dark complexion.

Flora had taken an instant liking to her.

During staff meetings her spontaneity came to the fore and left the old bats speechless. Michela always sided with the children. Once she had clashed violently with Miss Gatta over a question of timetables, and although in the end she hadn’t got her way, at least she had told her to her face what she thought of her Fascist methods.

Something Flora had never managed to do.

They had become friends quite by chance. As often happens. Flora had asked Michela for advice about where to buy some gym shoes for walking on the beach. Next day Michela had arrived with a pair of beautiful Adidases. ‘They’re too big for me, someone brought me them from France but they’d chosen the wrong size. Try them on, they should fit you,’ she’d said, putting them in her hands. Flora had hesitated. ‘No, thank you, I couldn’t possibly,’ but Michela had insisted. ‘What am I supposed to do with them, leave them to rot at the bottom of the wardrobe?’ Finally she’d tried them on. They were a perfect fit.

Flora had invited her to go walking with her and Michela had accepted at once, enthusiastically, so every Sunday morning they would walk across the fields behind the railway and go down onto the beach for a stroll. The stroll would last a couple of hours and now and then Michela would try to persuade Flora to run a short distance and sometimes succeeded. They chatted about things.

School. Their families. Flora had talked about her mother and her illness. And Michela had talked about her boyfriend, Fulvio, who worked half-days as a building labourer in Orbano. They had
been going out together for several years. He was twenty-two. Three years younger than Michela. They had rented a flat in a block near the Franceschini brothers’ fish farm. She said she was in love with him (she had shown great tact in never asking Flora about her own love life).

One morning Michela had arrived on the beach, grasped her friend by both hands, looked around and said: ‘Flora, I’ve made up my mind, I’m going to marry him.’

‘How will you manage, without any money?’

‘We’ll get by somehow … We’re in love, and that’s the main thing, isn’t it?’

Flora had given a conventional smile. ‘Yes, you’re right.’ Then she’d hugged Michela hard and felt happy for her, but at the same time she’d felt a vice squeeze her chest.

What about me? Why do I get nothing?

She hadn’t been able to hold back her tears. Michela had thought they were tears of happiness, but they were of envy. A terrible envy. Afterwards, at home, Flora had hated herself for being so selfish.

Michela had begun inundating her with phone calls. She wanted to introduce her to Fulvio and show her her little flat. And Flora, each time, would find increasingly fatuous excuses for not going. She sensed that it wouldn’t be good for her. It would set painful ideas whirling in her head. But in the end, such was Michela’s persistence, she’d been obliged to accept an invitation to dinner.

The flat was tiny. And Fulvio was little more than a teenager. But it was cosy, the fire was crackling merrily and Fulvio had cooked a grouper which he had caught out scuba-diving at Turtle Cliffs. It had been an excellent dinner. Fulvio was very affectionate towards his future bride (kissing her, holding her hand) and afterwards they had sat down to watch
Lawrence of Arabia
and eat cantuccini biscuits dipped in vinsanto. Flora had returned home at midnight feeling happy. No, happy is not the right word, calm.

That was what she wanted for this evening. An occasion of that sort.

The dinner with Graziano would be a bit like the one at Michela’s. Except that this time she would have a man all to herself.

On her way past a long freezer she took out a tub of ice cream and was heading for the checkout when she saw Pietro Moroni appear in front of her. He was limping slightly and smiled when he saw her.

‘Hallo, Pietro, what’s going on?’

‘I wanted to talk to you, Miss …’ Pietro heaved a sigh of relief.

At last he’d found her. He had walked past Miss Palmieri’s house but hadn’t seen her car parked there so he had gone down to the village (a nightmare now – he had to sneak about like a spy to avoid meeting Pierini and his gang) but hadn’t found her anywhere and then, just as he was about to return home, he had spotted the Y10 outside the Co-op. He had entered and there she was.

‘Why are you limping, have you hurt yourself?’ she asked him in a concerned tone.

‘I fell off my bike, it’s nothing serious,’ said Pietro dismissively.

‘What’s going on?’

It was essential that he explain it clearly, then she would find a solution. He trusted Miss Palmieri. He looked at her and, despite his absorption with what he had to tell her, he noticed that there had been a change in her. Not an enormous one, but there was definitely something different about her. In the first place she had let her hair down, and how thick it was! Like a mane. Secondly she was wearing jeans, and that too was a novelty. He had always seen her in those long black skirts. And then … he didn’t know how to describe it, but there was something strange about her face … Something … no, he couldn’t put his finger on it. Just different.

‘Well, what do want to tell me?’

His mind had wandered off as he looked at her.
Go on, tell her
. ‘My parents won’t come to school to speak to the deputy head and I don’t think my brother will either.’

‘Really? Why not?’

How can I tell her?
‘My mother’s not well and can’t go out, and my father … my father …’
Tell her. Tell her the truth
. ‘My father said it’s my problem, I caused all the trouble, not him, so he won’t come. And my brother… my brother’s just an idiot.’ He moved closer and asked her, ingenuously: ‘Will they fail me, Miss?’

‘No, they won’t.’ Flora crouched down to Pietro’s level. ‘Of course they won’t. You’re doing well at school, I’ve told you that. Why should they?’