Chapter 19 Michael
Michael
The second punishing date awaits me at the village bar, in Belvedere’s main square.
The Cozzi cousin of the day is already sitting at one of the plastic tables shaded by a faded Cinzano umbrella.
As children, we used to come to this bar to have ice cream after breathy bike rides up and down the hills; over on the wall there’s still an old metal etching with the different types of cones and popsicles and the prices in lira with euro stickers over them.
“Hi,” I greet her, holding out my hand. “Have you been waiting long? You must be Inte . . .”
“Intemerata,” she says. “No, I just got here. I stopped by the rectory to pick up the new songbook. I am a catechist. I direct the children’s choir.”
“Interesting, Intemerata. What an unusual name,” I observe, looking for something to break the ice. We English are masters of small talk.
“In honor of the Madonna,” she replies.
“Isn’t her name Louise Veronica?”
“No, Madonna the Virgin mother of Jesus.”
“Sorry, I tend to confuse them.”
“From the Litany of Loreto, you know? Immaculate Virgin, pray for us. Praised Virgin, pray for us . . . Virgin Intemerata. It means ‘absolute purity and moral integrity.’”
I stop to study her for a moment and notice details that should have been a tell: Intemerata is wearing a long skirt, ballet flats with white stockings, a blouse buttoned tightly to the last buttonhole, and a heavy crucifix around her neck. She’s practically a nun.
“I see . . . Shall we have a drink then?” I propose, nodding to the waiter who is serving the three old men playing cards at the next table. I think they’ve been here as long as the ice cream sign. “What would you like? A glass of wine?”
“I don’t drink wine. It reminds me of the betrayal of Jesus at the Last Supper. I only allow myself the wine blessed at Mass on Sundays.”
This is going well. “What about a spritz?”
“No alcohol for me,” she replies firmly.
“Alcohol leads to sin. When I was sixteen, on holiday at the parish house in Pontremoli with the Little Virgins, we drank Bacardi Breezers and played spin the bottle, and I kissed Massimo, a boy from the Young Apostles of Jesus,” she explains to me in a low voice so as not to let anyone else in on her shameful secret.
“You could go straight to hell for that,” I observe with a hint of sarcasm.
“I know.” Sarcasm she evidently didn’t catch. “I couldn’t sleep from the guilt, so I woke up Don Pietro so I could confess.”
“All’s well that ends well. So, two glasses of Coke?” I ask.
“I can’t; it has sugar. I’ve given up sweets for Sant’ Antonio,” she explains.
I must look perplexed, because she delves deeper.
“Women who pray to Saint Anthony will find a husband. I lit a candle on June thirteenth and made a vow: I will not eat or drink anything sweet if he finds me a husband. I wouldn’t want to ruin everything now that I’m verging on success. ”
“I’m sure it will work,” I encourage her with veiled irony. “Two . . . apple juices?” I venture.
She shakes her head in denial. “Eve.”
“Two sparkling waters,” I finally say to the waiter.
“Would you like ice and lemon with that?” he asks, with a look that I interpret as heartfelt pity.
Intemerata nods and I give the okay. “Ice and lemon! Let’s splurge.” This is going to be a long date.
“You speak Italian very well,” she comments.
“I grew up in a bilingual family and went to an Italian-English school.” I feel knowledgeable enough about education to keep the conversation on this track.
“I studied with nuns,” she replies. “What about religion? Are you Catholic or Anglican?” she asks me.
“I’m not religious.” Her eyes narrow into two angry slits. “But I prefer Catholics to Anglicans.” Betrayal. I don’t deserve to be Her Majesty’s subject. But my life is at stake here.
The waiter comes to rescue me with the two glasses of water, and I practically dive into mine, hoping to drown in the cup.
“What do you think about sex before marriage?”
“Uh, umm . . .” I mumble. What do I think about sex before marriage? That train left the station a while ago.
“I think that sex should be reserved for having children,” she decrees seriously.
“But children are born out of wedlock all the time,” I object, regretting it a second later.
“Who would be so cruel as to give birth to a child in sin? And then how would you dare to have them baptized?” she blurts out.
“Yes, that’s quite the dilemma.”
“I’d like to have four girls and four boys. I’d call the girls Maria Chiara, Maria Benedetta, Maria Gioia, and Maria Incoronata. And I’ll name the boys after the four evangelists: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. What do you think?”
“I might prefer John, Paul, George, and Ringo . . .” But her hardened expression makes me realize she didn’t get the joke. “But your names are beautiful too.”
“Well, parents should be in agreement on what to name their children.”
Stop right there! Whose children? I don’t have time to pour cold water on her enthusiasm before I’m distracted by two figures that enter my field of vision.
One of them is Elisa, in a light-blue flowered dress that skims her thighs with every step, her long, dark-blond hair swaying freely on her back. I refrain from abandoning Intemerata only because Elisa is not alone.
“Who is that?” I ask, pointing to the lanky man in a black suit next to her.
“Elmo Colli,” she replies dryly.
“Do you know him?”
“His family runs the local funeral home. He’s in business with his father. They’ve expanded to other towns too. A real shame he doesn’t come to visit more often.”
“Why is he with Elisa?” I ask, still without looking away from the couple, as if I were a sniper keeping them in range.
“I don’t know, but Elisa and her sister will take anything they can get.”
“Are they dating?” I ask.
“Why do you care?”
I don’t know, but I care.
Elisa and Elmo disappear inside the bakery, and I, inexplicably, feel very annoyed.
“We were saying: We agree on names for the children. Now, I think we might have some issues with the ceremony. I have so many relatives, if I don’t invite them all, they’ll get offended.
And then there’s my mother’s side, from Grosseto, who I absolutely must invite, in part because her sister-in-law Matilde is my godmother . . .”
“Do you know if Elisa went out with anyone after she had Linda? Did she have any boyfriends?” I no longer have any interest in conversing with Intemerata—not that I had any before.
“I never!” she blurts out. “Why are you only interested in discussing Elisa? Here we are, deciding our future. You could at least do me the honor of participating.”
Okay, it’s time to call it quits. To hell with English manners.
“Look, Intemerata, I don’t know what made you think I came here with a ring in my pocket.
I’ve known you for half an hour, and that’s already enough for a lifetime.
I don’t want eight children, I don’t care about your relatives in Grosseto, and above all I very much enjoy sex outside of marriage! ” I explode.
“Bravo!” the old men at the table beside us cheer with applause. “Candidate for mayor!”
Intemerata looks at me in shock, her right hand clutching her rosary. She jumps up, snatching away the songbook so threateningly that I think she’s going to hit me with it. “I’m leaving. You don’t deserve me!” she shouts, and then strides off toward the church.
Maybe she’ll go ask divine justice to punish me.
“Oh, look at Mr. Hot Stuff over there. You have a lot of fun with the ladies, don’t you?” comments one of the old men.
“I have a certain talent,” I reply, bringing the glass of melted ice and water to my lips.
“We’re missing a fourth player. Want to join us?”
“Why not?” I have two very good reasons for accepting. The first is that I really want to drink something other than water. The second is Elisa: She hasn’t left the bakery with what’s-his-name yet, and I wonder what they’re up to.
I change tables and sit with the three players. Two are much older, and the other is at most fifteen years older than I am. He’s wearing mechanic’s overalls with a T-shirt that says “OfficeMax.”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Vanni. I deal the cards because Max doesn’t know how to shuffle them, and Luciano has Parkinson’s. If he deals, the three of cups might end up in Pistoia.”
“I may not be good at dealing cards, but my wife is one happy woman.”
Okay, I feel much more comfortable at this table. “I’ll have a Manhattan,” I order. “Neat.”
“A what?” the bartender asks me. “I have some grappa. At most I can make you a Negroni.”
“Oh, Mario, what are you saying? You can’t say ‘negroni’ anymore. It’s ‘men of considerable stature from sub-Saharan Africa.’”
“Negroni is the surname of the person who invented the drink, you ignoramus!” replies the bartender. “So, what will it be? Grappa or Negroni?”
Grappa? This early? “A Negroni is fine.”
Vanni deals the cards and puts the trump in the center. “Fuckers win with swords,” he announces.
“You made that poor girl take off running,” comments Luciano.
“We had irreconcilable visions for our futures,” I reply. I drop a card and lose my hand.
“Belvedere has a strange air. The good women always leave,” replies Max. He’s joking, but I think I can hear a hint of regret.
“Not all of them,” I observe, my thoughts already turning to Elisa. Even with all her flaws, I can’t help but appreciate her tenacity. Vanni takes another hand with the three of swords, rejoicing with a blasphemy through gritted teeth.
“My wife and I have been married fifty-six years,” says Luciano. “And she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“The Lollobrigida of Belvedere,” comments Vanni, mimicking a busty chest with his hands. “We were all vying for her, but she married this scoundrel here. She said he made her laugh.”
“Laughter is the way to a woman’s heart. Beauty fades, money comes and goes, but if you know how to make your woman laugh, she’ll never leave you.”