3.
Chester Holland was screaming in Nate’s ears as he looked out at the tarmac, telling him he was gonna go far, kid. It was the last glimpse he’d have of Oregon in–he didn’t know how long. And sure, as Thea would say, he was a basic bitch whose musical taste was stuck in the early aughts, but when things changed or got scary or difficult, it was comforting that the soundtrack stayed the same. He needed something familiar right now. His nerves were buzzing and he had been shivery and soaked in sweat going through security. But they had made it without any hangups, they were being allowed out of the country, and Nate was still in a daze about how easy it had been.
He’d packed very little, just his laptop and some clothes, and, on a whim, a sketchbook and watercolor palette, both dusty from sitting at the back of his closet for so long. He had gleefully no-call, no-showed to his job at the warehouse. He’d never been able to make many friends there anyway. It was a giant company and they wouldn’t miss him, just another worker ant that stopped showing up one day. It was strange how invisible he still felt, and part of him wanted to scream to the whole plane that this wasn’t just some normal vacation, that he was on his way to be somebody. But that would probably get him yanked off the flight and put into some TSA holding cell before the trip even started.
Nate felt Jacopo rustling next to him as the plane began taxiing for takeoff. His eyes were squeezed shut and Nate realized he was making the sign of the cross.
“You okay?” he asked.
Jacopo’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I don’t like flying.”
“I told you we should have gotten a beer at the airport.”
“I don’t–I don’t like beer. Not the kind they have here. My head still hurts.”
“Ooh. Sorry for making you drink so many IPAs.” Nate patted Jacopo on the arm before he could think better of it. He still didn’t know exactly how old Jacopo was, but he guessed he was far enough on the other side of thirty that the hangovers had really started to hurt. The plane’s engines had begun to hum, and Nate’s pulse was thrumming with them, faster than seemed normal. “Here.” He offered an earbud. “I don’t really like flying, either. It might help to listen to music.”
Jacopo acquiesced, making a little face when Nate’s Fuck-you-America-I’m-leaving playlist started blaring in both their ears, but he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, and his hand was clutching Nate’s wrist, too tight, the knuckles turning pale, as the plane leapt off the tarmac and the familiar sight of the Columbia Gorge wound away beneath them.
*
Multiple connections, too many in-flight movies, and several eternities later, the ragged coastline of Sicily emerged between scraps of cloud, the sandy-colored domes of volcanoes looming over red-roofed buildings and a curacao-blue sea. Nate’s heart leapt into his throat; he couldn’t control it. This place was real, and even though he was flying economy, he felt high-class as fuck, looking down at the white curve of the beaches, the sun glinting off the ocean. His head was fuzzy from lack of sleep and too many complimentary mini-bottles of wine, but his body was filled with static, his muscles twitching from underuse. He’d torn multiple paper napkins into scraps throughout the flight and would probably have started on the in-flight safety manual if it hadn’t been coated in plastic.
Jacopo, blinking foggily at the yellow light streaming through the window, didn’t seem to share Nate’s enthusiasm. He’d slept, or appeared to, throughout most of the flights, though his skin looked a little gray and there were bags under his eyes that told Nate he might have been faking it. In any case, he hadn’t wanted to chat. Which was fine. Nate’s life was only changing forever, irrevocably, and it would have been nice to maybe know a little bit more about what to expect once they got off the plane, but–it was fine. Jacopo was obviously exhausted. And no, it hadn’t been awkward sitting next to him for over 16 hours, their arms brushing, Jacopo’s head occasionally resting on Nate’s shoulder.
And no, it still wasn’t awkward that Jacopo didn’t seem to want to talk much as they piled into a bus that took them into the terminal, and into another bus that took them from the airport into downtown Palermo, and from there to the harbor. Nate didn’t even care, really. His face was glued to the window as scenes straight out of a movie flickered by and scraps of Italian floated through the air and the smell of the city filled his nose: sun-warmed brick and exhaust and the ocean.
Jacopo remained mostly silent as they waited for the ferry, except to take a stressful-sounding phone call that he explained was his mother, inviting Nate to dinner. He’d already smoked about half a pack of cigarettes since they’d gotten off the plane, and his shoulders were hunched as he looked out over the sea, boats bobbing on its surface like multicolored beads. Nate didn’t know why he was in such a bad mood; it seemed impossible to have a bad day or to worry about anything in a place as beautiful as this. But maybe the jetlag was just hitting him hard. And anyway, it was hard to focus on Jacopo for long, because now they were getting on the ferry, and out there in the distance was the little island of Carmosino, a star-studded monolith rising from the darkened waters of the Mediterranean, the last rays of sunlight sliding across its jagged peaks and hills.
Nate’s excitement increased as the island got closer, his lungs tight, his heart in his throat, and by the time they were stumbling off the narrow gangplank and onto solid ground, he was sure Jacopo could feel him shivering like a chihuahua. Probably that was why he’d barely let his hand skim Nate’s shoulder blades for a moment, helping him off the boat.
A rickety little pickup truck straight out of the 80’s was idling in the little parking lot next to the docks. A man and a woman stood next to it, waving at them. Before Nate could react, he was being wrapped in a hearty hug, the man clapping him on the back. Then it was the woman’s turn, squeezing him harder than her petite frame suggested she could and kissing him on either cheek. She was heavily pregnant, and he could feel her belly squish against him as she spoke a stream of Italian against his cheek.
“This is my sister,” Jacopo translated, “Mirabella. And her husband, Antonio.”
“Buonasera, Nate,” Mirabella said. She was tiny and adorable, and her husband wasn’t much larger, a handsome young man with a stocky build and muscles obviously made on a farm and not in a gym. Jacopo loomed over them like a reed. Mirabella made a gesture, scrunching up her face. “Welcome… a Carmosino,” she added haltingly. “Sorry. English is no good.” She slapped her brother’s arm playfully and added something in Italian.
Jacopo sighed. “She says I need to teach her more.”
“Sempre impegnato,” she said dismissively.
“That’s okay.” Nate could feel sweat gathering under his collar, and he hoped the back of his shirt hadn’t been wet when Antonio and Mirabella had hugged him. He’d tried to learn some Italian on the plane, but all the DuoLingo owl had managed to drill into his head was the completely useless phrase, “The boy has an apple,” and he wasn’t sure how well that went down at parties. “I don’t know any Italian, either. Maybe Jacopo needs to teach me, too.”
He felt his face turning red as he said it, because the thought of Jacopo teaching him things did something squirmy to his insides. Nate chewed his lip, trying to re-focus on the conversation as Antonio drove them up into the hills.
Mirabella, in the front, had turned to face them, her elbows propped on the headrest, and was asking questions a mile a minute, without a worry in the world about being a pregnant lady with no seatbelt on. Jacopo translated as well as he could, and Nate tried to answer, telling her about where he lived and his job and what his family was like.
“Oregon. I live in Oregon. It’s the state north of California?”
“Ooh, California! Che figata! Hollywood?”
“A nord della California,” Jacopo tried, but Mirabella seemed to prefer the narrative where Nate lived shoulder-to-shoulder with celebrities. “She says you look like a movie star.”
At least somebody thinks so. Nate had washed his face and armpits, changed his shirt, and attempted to do something with his hair in the bathroom on the ferry, but the wind off the ocean had made a mess of it again, and he could feel the sweat at his temples and ringing his neck. He hardly ever wore a button-up. Like Jacopo, Mirabella and Antonio were wearing clothes that, although a little outdated, looked nice, and there was an effortless put-togetherness about them that seemed undeniably European. Nate felt like an impostor in comparison, sticky and awkward in his overly-stiff shirt.
Something had happened to the conversation while Nate’s mind had wandered. To his ears, Italian was one of those languages where it was impossible to tell if somebody was upset or just excited, but it seemed from the tense set of Jacopo’s shoulders and the way his hand was gripping the seat that he wasn’t happy. His voice was full of irritation as he spoke. Mirabella made an exasperated gesture and said something back. Rolling her eyes at Nate, she added, “He don’t like party.”
“Party?”
Jacopo groaned. “I told Mamma you would be tired. I told her to have a small dinner.” He muttered something that sounded like a curse, and, as they crested the hill, Nate could see why: a short driveway branched off of the main road, and at the end of it was a big two-story farmhouse, its windows blazing with lights, and the sound of voices and music filtered out into the night air along with the distinct, mouth-watering smell of barbecue. The front yard was lit up with Christmas lights, and Nate could see tables set up and people bustling back and forth as if preparing for a wedding. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
“This is–?”
“For you, yes,” Jacopo said. “She’s invited the whole village.”
*
The second he got out of the truck, Nate was engulfed by women. A group of them, most his mom’s age or older, converged on him from the lawn, and before he knew what was happening, he was being hugged, kissed on either cheek, and generally manhandled in a sea of perfume, delicious cooking smells, and rapid, excited Italian. All he could really make out was his name, and a lot of things that sounded like questions. Nate smiled and nodded, reeling. Where was Jacopo? Had he abandoned him to the horde of nonnas that was slowly pulling him toward the door? Someone had already put a plate of cheese and cold cuts in his hands and his left cheek was sticky with lipstick.
“Nate.” Oh thank God, there he was, carrying the suitcases. “This is my mother, Beatrice.”
One woman stood about a foot above the rest, her mouth set in a stern line, her striking profile similar to Jacopo’s. Her long reddish-blond hair was streaked with gray, and her coloring was lighter than her son’s. Put her in a renaissance gown and she could have been some Milanese dowager countess who had poisoned seven husbands. Even here, in a sauce-splattered apron and her hair in a messy updo, she was intimidating.
“Allora, piacere,” she said, and wiped the lipstick off Nate’s cheek with a corner of her apron before giving him a hug. Upon releasing him, she embraced Jacopo with similar vigor, then held him at arm’s length and clearly scolded him for something.
Jacopo seemed to shrink in on himself. “She hopes you are not too tired,” he translated.
“I’m good,” Nate said, though his head was spinning. One of the nice ladies was offering him a glass of wine, and another one kept squeezing his arm and explaining something that was obviously very important but was, again, in Italian. The air was fragrant with food smells, tomatoes and garlic and some kind of roasted meat, and Nate’s stomach let out a very loud growl.
Jacopo’s mother gestured toward him with another loud admonishment, like, See? Our guest is hungry.
Nate could feel his face getting hot. “It’s fine,” he said, “I really–”
“Mamma, ci penso io.” A younger woman gently shooed away the lady who had been telling him about–quantum physics, or something. “Nate Schafer,” she said, in a flat West Coast accent barely tinged with anything else. “I’m Grazia. You can call me Gracie. Come on, let’s get you seated. Mamma is going to make Jacopo help with the goat.”
“Goat?”
“The village roasted a goat. I hope you’re not a vegetarian.” She smiled, dimples showing in her cheeks. She was short and curvy like Mirabella, but she had Beatrice’s complexion, and Nate realized she must be another sister.
“No one’s ever roasted a goat for me before,” Nate supplied helplessly. Whatever brain cells he had left after almost twenty hours of no sleep were pinging gleefully around in his head, refusing to hold hands. He took a large gulp of wine, hoping it would help.
“You’ll like it,” Gracie told him. “Come, you need to sit. My stupid brother probably made you fly–what do you call it? Economy? He is so cheap, Nate. I told him you’re a duke and we need to, what is it? Roll out the red carpet. Is that right?”
Nate took another gulp of wine, then realized she was waiting on him to reply. “Yeah. Your English is great, did Jacopo–”
“Pfft. Jacopo? Why would he bother to teach me anything?” She rolled her eyes. “I learned from online multiplayer games, since we got internet when I was fifteen. But don’t tell Nonna, she thinks they’re the Devil. And I’m studying to work in data science, so I need to have good English. You have to correct me if I say an idiom wrong, okay?” A flash of Jacopo’s intensity passed across her face. “Okay? Deal?”
“Deal. Yeah.” Nate looked mournfully at the salami on his plate. So close, yet so far away. He wouldn’t have fingers to eat it with unless he found a place to set his glass down.
“You’re the best! Anyway, let me introduce you to Zio Beppe.”
There was Zio Beppe, and Zia Grazia, not to be confused with Gracie, and the third, oldest sister, Alessia, and her husband, Marcello. There was Nonna Rosina, and Papà, a sickly-looking old man who held a cigarette in one trembling hand and responded to Nate’s presence with little more than a grunt. It seemed like one side of his face was paralyzed, and Nate wondered briefly what was going on with him before getting swept away into another sea of introductions. More uncles, more aunts, some cousins, a bunch of people called aunt, uncle, or cousin who weren’t actually related or whose relation was unclear, about a billion children, at least one guy who was actually, legitimately named Guido, and at least two other guys who were named Peppi, and Nate knew that in the morning he would have exactly zero memory of who was who.
He bumbled around, Gracie pulling him into multiple social situations. People kept refilling his glass and telling him he was welcome, urging him to eat. Nate looked for Jacopo’s slim, tall figure in the crowd and thought he spotted him a few times, but then there was always another distraction, somebody else to meet, another appetizer to try. Children were everywhere, though Mirabella and Alessia were doing a great job of keeping them from getting underfoot or falling into the fire pit, and the air was hazy with smoke from the roasting goat and the cigars some of the uncles smoked. Women, their forearms covered in flour, laughed to each other as they rolled out pasta, draping it over wooden spoons suspended between chair backs so it could dry for cooking, and Nate was surprised to see that even the grandmas were taking part, their fingers still nimble enough to hand-fold tortellini despite being knobbly with arthritis. It was as crowded and noisy as any county fair, but with none of the tension of being surrounded by strangers. Everyone knew each other; everyone knew Nate and liked him just for being here. It had never been so easy to be popular before.
By the time the goat came out, Nate was so full he could barely breathe, and he didn’t want to think about how many spritzes and glasses of wine and other, less-identifiable alcohols he had drunk. Still, he had to try some–though he did send up a silent and slightly delirious prayer of forgiveness to his parents’ two pygmy goats, Merry and Pippin. It was delicious, smoky from the fire and flavored with rosemary and peppers. Nate’s eyelids fluttered, and he suppressed a yawn. The faces at the table had begun to get a blurry sheen to them, and his limbs felt unbearably heavy. Would it be okay if he just fell asleep at the table? Was that a thing dukes were allowed to do?
Gracie was at his side, feeding him gossip just as the old ladies had fed him pasta and endless slices of meat and cheese, telling him about Nonna Stella, the town eccentric, who read Tarot cards and sold medicinal herbs and was rumored to have the heart of her last husband buried in a jar in her backyard, and about Zio Beppe, whose foraged mushrooms you shouldn’t trust because sometimes they weren’t the cooking variety. And Nate, because he had had countless drinks and Gracie was his new best friend, was telling her about how Thea had done too many mushrooms one time on a camping trip and swore that she had astral-projected back into a former life as one of Marie Antoinette’s handmaidens–
And as Gracie threw her head back in laughter, Nate cast his gaze across the table, taking in the blurry faces and, for the first time since they’d sat down, catching sight of Jacopo, who was pushing his chair back abruptly and standing up. He’d been at the other end of the table, Nate realized, sitting with his mother and the old man Gracie had introduced him to earlier, the old man who hadn’t spoken. Their dad, Nate remembered.
Beatrice was saying something, but Jacopo shook his head shortly and left the table, walking off into the darkness. Nate could see the red cherry of his lighter flicking on, and then he had turned around the corner of the house and was gone.
“Huh,” Nate said, his thoughts sluggish. Someone was taking away his plate, replacing it with a cup of espresso and a little shot glass of something yellow. “So that’s where he was.”
Gracie tsked. “Again? Always arguing, those two.”
“What?”
“Oh, Papà and Jacopo. They can’t stand each other.” She shrugged, holding out a basket full of cookies. “Have a biscotto. And tell me more about this asteroid projection of your sister.”