Tangling Hearts

100. Christiano

Chapter One Hundred

CHRISTIANO

S aturday Afternoon: outdoor market in Lucca, Tuscany. Mood: crap.

“ C inque euro,” Maria argues, waving the bundled arugula at me in her balled fist.

In Italian, I argue, “Maria, you’re out of your mind if you think I’m paying that.” She eyes me, sucking on her teeth between closed, tight lips. “Uno euro, e non di piú.

“Bah!” She throws it on the pile and juts her elderly chin at me, refusing my price.

Normally, I’d laugh, but not today. Today I walk away without a backward glance, disinterested in engaging further. Pulling out my phone, I look to see if I missed a call. We had a short text conversation yesterday and Annie promised we’d talk today, and it’s all I can think about. That, and of Sophia’s naked body, her wild hair, her musky smell.

Merda. Life is not kind.

Tucking the only thing I’ve bought so far under my arm – a paper-wrapped loaf of rosemary bread – I text Annie: “Quando?” It would have been just as easy to type: When? I know when she reads it, she’ll know the mood I’m in.

“Christiano!” a friendly voice calls. Before I even look, I know exactly who it is.

“Francis!” He walks to give me a hug, wrapping his arms firmly around me and smacking my back twice before letting go. “It’s good to see you, old friend. What brings you to Tuscany?”

With a buoyant grin, he points at the sky. “Look at this sun, eh? You think the Brits have this in London?”

Looking up at the day, I argue, “Then why did you move there? Are you a glutton for punishment?”

He laughs, his big belly rocking with the sound. “I must be. It would explain my three ex-wives! Eh? Come! Let’s shop together.” He picks up a grape while a young vendor has his back turned. “Ah, it’s good to be home. And to be speaking with our mother tongue! Speaking of mothers, how is yours?”

I step out of the way of running children to answer, “Well! And yours? How is Liana?”

“Fine! Fine!” He waves to people as we pass, faces who beam at him with recognition. “Won’t stay out of my personal business, but that’s her job, right? I think it keeps her young.”

I laugh in full agreement. “Mine as well. If she didn’t have me to ask about non-existent grandchildren – an ever-present request… no, demand! – then what would she have to wake up for?”

He shakes his head at the truth of it. “Is that Sophia?” He throws me a look that implies her beauty is on his mind. “She looks incredible!”

I glance and catch the darkness of her stare before she turns away. Francis is about to raise his hand to call her name, but I grab it before it goes up and silence him in the process. A cloud descends on my heart, but I keep my voice the same as best I can. “She gets better with the years, Francis. But let’s leave her be. I don’t want to share you just yet. When did you get back?”

“Just last night! Only for a short visit. Ah, Antony!” Francis turns and hugs another from our neighborhood and I watch as they exchange idle conversation, catching up for a quick moment.

Sophia, Francis and I used to play together as children. Her younger brother Eduardo joined us when we let him. But the three of us, we are all the same age, though Francis now seemingly wears more years. A financial tycoon, he has been the prize of several wives. He works too hard and now his hair is almost entirely gray, where mine is salt and pepper. To add to all that, his weight bears forty pounds more than it should. But his demeanor always brightens any room and his presence is welcomed by all.

I believe it is this charm that has him three times married, and his ambition, three times divorced.

“Caio, Antony!” Francis turns to me, and we continue on through the crowded market, but he steals a glance Sophia’s way and I peek, too, curiosity getting the better of me. Her back is to us, her legs slightly visible thanks to the sun shining through her dress. It traces outlines on the long waves of her hair, too, and Francis and I almost run into a cart of zucchinis from distraction. He laughs. “No woman I know in London has the sex appeal of that woman. I’ll have to visit her. Is she still single?”

A sting of jealousy takes me by surprise, and I falter. “Sí.”

His round cheek pinches in with a solitary dimple. “Look at that face! Did something happen between you?”

Looking away to cover the truth, I scoff, “No! Of course not.”

His eyes narrow, but I stop to pick up an heirloom tomato, squeezing it and bringing it to my nose for inspection. From behind me, he asks, in English, “And what of your American girl?”

Handing the tomato to the young girl behind the fruit baskets, I’m reluctant to answer. “She is back home. America – not my home. For now.” To the girl, I say, “Cinque del tuo meglio. Grazie.” She smiles, her fresh face flawless around sweet brown eyes. Her little hands get to work selecting five tomatoes she thinks are superior.

Francis leans in toward me, switching back to Italian. “Are you telling me your American is gone, Sophia is single, and you are here with me? Are you insane? When are you going to wake up?”

I snort, looking to the sun, letting it blur my vision and squint my eyes. “You just asked about Sophia for yourself. Make up your mind.”

He hits me in the ribs and takes the wind out of me, just like he used to do when we were nine. I grunt and smack him and he laughs and jumps back, crying out, “I was asking to make you jealous. You never learn!”

“Learn what?” But he doesn’t answer as he walks off, almost waddling with his size. I frown and pay the girl. “Grazie.”

“Prego!” she says, a shy smile peeking up at me. To the right her mamma sits on a short wooden stool, watching with a proud eye. I nod to her and she to me, before I turn and follow my friend.

“Francis! Wait! How you can move so fast with those extra pounds, I’ll never know!”

He guffaws and calls over his shoulder, “My years of running from lawyers!”

A few feet before I catch up to him, my phone rings, vibrating in my pocket. If it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t have heard the sound over to the afternoon market chatter. I step left to avoid a collision with an old woman wearing a shawl over her head to protect her from the sun.

Annie’s name and photo shine up at me, and I quickly slide to answer. “Bella.”

“Christiano, I’m so sorry I haven’t called earlier.” Her voice is quiet.

She’s speaking in English and for a moment I consider answering her in Italian, but decide against it. “You are calling now. How are you? What has happened with…”

She cuts me off, urgently whispering, “I’m fine. The bar is getting remodeled. We open on Sunday. We’ll be open during construction.”

I look at the dirt rifled with small patches of green weeds beneath my shoes. “That is good. I am glad to hear… No, I am glad to hear your voice . That is what I am glad for. I need to see you, Bella. I want to go there.”

She doesn’t answer at first, then, “Christiano, don’t. I need to tell you something. I’m staying here. For good.”

My blood slows as I wait for more. Francis walks to me, his eyes meeting mine. I shake my head to tell him this is important, not to interrupt. “What has happened that has made you so sure?” She doesn’t answer me. Scowling, I wait, with Francis standing close by. I can feel his support. “Annie! No more silences! I deserve more!”

She starts to cry, and instantly my feelings layer. I want to apologize, and I want to yell. The two are at war, and both are justified.

She chokes out on a sob, “I met someone.”

The market spins around me like a tornado. My fingers whiten around the phone and I pull it away from my ear, staring at it like I don’t understand what it is, or how it could bring so much pain. I bring it back to my ear to hear her say, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!”

“You met someone already who is important enough that you say this to me?”

I wait for her to speak, and little sobs are the only thing I hear. “I’m so sorry, Christiano. I should have told you sooner…”

“What do you mean? How long has this been going on? Bella! Answer me!”

“It’s complicated. I don’t have time to talk right now.”

“I will not accept this.” Hanging up the phone without hearing another word, I look around a collapsed world. Everything looks out of place, twisted by my disorientation. My heart feels like it might explode with pain.

Francis grabs my shoulder, puts his arm around it, and makes my feet walk by guiding me out of the market like this. He lets me go after we’ve cleared away from the crowd. In English he asks, “Why don’t we get blind stinking drunk?”

I say nothing. He pats my back, and we walk silently side by side to his car parked nearby. We spend the afternoon drinking half of the town dry, until Benito, the owner of the bar that employed my Annie for over three years, offers to drive us home. We stumble into his van. As Francis snores between us in the bench seat, I ask Benito, “You knew her well. What should I do?”

He thinks about it and turns the wheel. “That girl loves you. She talked about you all the time. Every night she worked, I had to ask her to shut up about you.”

“You are lying.”

He laughs. “I may be stretching. It was every other night. But Christiano, why are you asking me?” He slows down in front of my gated driveway. Shifting in his chair, he looks at sleeping Francis and then to me. “You want her? Go get her!”

Francis wakes up and looks around, wiping away a bit of drool. “We’re here already?”

“We used a time machine,” Benito dryly says. Francis rolls his eyes and body out of the van, following me to the keypad. Benito rolls down his window and yells, “He can’t mean much to her. She’s confused. You know Annie; she’s just a baby. Go get her!”

I wave him away, slowly pressing in the code. I can only focus on one thing at once. As I straighten my spine to argue, I look to see the taillights turning way down the road.

Francis passes out in one of my guest rooms, and I stumble to my own bed.

I met someone.

I’m sorry.

Before the alcohol takes away my consciousness, I make a decision.