Chapter 32
Elisa
I’m rinsing dishes to load into the dishwasher, when I hear footsteps in the kitchen.
My first thought goes to Michael.
I turn around to find it’s actually Lucia.
“I’ll give you a hand,” she offers, placing the empty serving plates on the table.
“It’s okay. I can do it.”
“Fine, but I want to know what’s up with you.”
“Me?” I say in a voice so shrill it’s suspicious. “Nothing.”
“You hardly spoke to me all evening.”
“We were at opposite ends of the table,” I justify myself, knowing that it’s a lie the size of a house.
“Come on, be honest. I don’t want something hanging between us.”
Okay, let’s address the issue. If she wants me to be honest, I will be.
“Come on, Lucia! Elmo Colli?! I hope he’s a mercy date,” I blurt out, doubting myself immediately afterward. “Please tell me you brought him out of pity?”
“No, Elisa. Elmo and I are dating. We’re a couple.”
At her reply, I find myself with so many things I want to say to her that in the end I don’t know which to choose and I’m left gasping for air.
“Don’t make that face.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I say, stunned.
“Do you have to say anything?”
“You do realize who we’re talking about, don’t you? Elmo Colli! The most unctuous, pompous, presumptuous, and all the other worst adjectives ending in -ous a person can be. How on earth can you bear to date him?”
“He also happens to have some good qualities, if you care to look for them,” she objects.
“Don’t you realize he’s only here with you to get to me? Because I rejected him?” I wasn’t too subtle, but it was a safe bet that, slimy as he is, he would choose my only friend in Belvedere as a way of taking revenge.
Lucia’s expression darkens, and she looks down. “Yeah, Elisa, I’m well aware that I’m his fallback, a miserable second choice and that he would have preferred you a hundred times over, but you know what? I’m not offended because I know the truth and I accept it. I harbor no illusions.”
“Lucia, do you think maybe you’ve caught the local wedding fever? I thought at least you would be immune to such anachronistic nonsense.”
“I am also a nearly forty-year-old woman who still lives at home with her parents.”
“And the only alternative is Elmo?” I insist in disbelief.
As we raise our voices, she closes the door so no one can hear us.
“Let me tell you about my situation. Ever since I got my philosophy degree, I’ve been hanging by a thread at the university, which decided not to renew my research grant.
I tried to move to Florence, but with the odd jobs I picked up, I barely made the rent and was living in an illegal garage studio apartment, waiting for someone to call to offer substitute teaching work.
Like so many others, I was full of hope when I left Belvedere, but I came back because, unlike the others, I didn’t make it. ”
“Sooner or later, you will get a permanent position,” I reply.
“Yeah, but when is this ‘later’? Did you know that the average age of entry into a teaching job in Italy is forty-four? Forty-four! I want a job, I want my own money—I want my own family and a real life; I don’t want to wait any longer.
I am one hundred and ninety-fourth on the national teacher’s list, which means one hundred and ninety-three teachers have to be placed before I can get a job.
How many philosophy teachers could Tuscany need? ”
“You speak like someone who has no choice.”
“Do I have one? I’ve tried everything. I can’t keep tutoring for a pittance, plus Elmo offered me a good position.”
“In his company,” I point out.
“What’s the harm? It won’t be the carnival in Rio, but someone has to care for the dead.”
“So that’s all there is to it? You’re seeing him because he offered you a job?”
“I happen to like Elmo too. He is an honest, polite man, and he’s relatively cultured, which doesn’t hurt. He may not be Brad Pitt, but at least he is not the type to abandon his own kid.”
One shot, one target. She aimed straight for me and didn’t miss.
“I’m not asking you to jump for joy, but at least respect my choice, Elisa. Or if you can’t, at least avoid criticizing me—you’re in no position to do so.”
“Lucia, I just want to see you happy.”
“Well, I will be. Much happier than I am now.”
I shake my head, not understanding the path she’s decided to take. “I thought you were stronger than this.”
“Oh, sorry, Elisa, have I disappointed you? You know what? Have you ever wondered why it’s so hard to get along with you?
Why you hardly have any friends? Because you are judgmental.
You look down on everyone from your ivory tower, deciding who is worthy and who isn’t, but you never question yourself. ”
“Sorry if I expressed a doubt.”
“No, you didn’t express a doubt. You’ve openly insulted me and the person I’m with because we don’t have the same grandiose plans for our future, as if you have it all figured out.
I don’t want to have to be mean, but I’ll say this: Look at your life with a little less arrogance and you’ll see that it’s not too different from mine.
And decide if you’re okay with being alone and working on a vineyard that isn’t even yours. ”
“It is fine with me,” I state with conviction, crossing my arms assertively.
“Perfect, then there’s nothing left to discuss,” she decrees with the same severity with which she calmed our arguments as kids, back when she used to babysit us.
“I’m happy with my life, you’re happy with yours, so we’re all happy.
I have to go. Tomorrow morning, if you feel like it, we can have breakfast, calmly, at the bakery, before I start moving my things to Forte. ”
She leaves without another word, and I remain there, frozen in place, in the middle of the kitchen that looks like a battlefield.
Feeling a little dejected, I start to scrape leftovers into the dustbin so violently that it tips and spills part of its contents.
“Damn it,” I mutter to myself, bending down to clean up the mess.
Among the crumbs, lettuce leaves, crusts, and celery stalks, I find a balled-up piece of paper, which I open.
I don’t know if we can be a good couple, but we certainly have some good times together, you and me.
I also like it when we fight.
If you want, I’ll wait for you in my room tomorrow morning, early, while everyone is still asleep.
Michael
“Am I judgmental?” I ask Giada as soon as she turns on the light and enters her room, where I’ve been waiting for at least an hour.
“God! You scared me!” she exclaims with a leap.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Um, yes, you are,” she says bluntly.
“Gee, thanks,” I reply resentfully.
“Why do you care? I thought it was your most prized character trait.”
“I think I criticized Lucia a little too freely for dating Elmo,” I confess.
“No offense, Elisa, but it’s really none of your business,” she says, undressing. And as she takes off her dress, I notice that she’s naked underneath.
“What happened to your underwear?”
“That’s none of your business either,” she replies, sticking out her tongue. “If you must know, Charles has it. He’s leaving tomorrow, and I’d like him to remember me.”
“What a refined souvenir . . .”
“We were just saying a second ago how judgmental you are.”
“I’m sorry, but you don’t find it strange that she and Elmo got together?” I ask, returning to the main topic.
“Believe it or not, they seem like a pretty balanced couple to me: She’s patient, sweet, maternal, and introverted, and Elmo needs someone like that.
And he’s old-fashioned and over the top, which makes her feel safe and appreciated.
His fake compliments may disgust you, but evidently that’s what she needs.
I’m not a psychologist, but that’s how I see it.
” My sister flops down on the bed, her legs propped up against the headboard to “reverse the circulation,” as she always says, and fight cellulite.
“I’ll try to be less judgmental,” I sigh.
“And maybe less touchy,” she adds. “By the way . . . why was your lipstick all smeared when we arrived?” she asks me with a sly smile. “Confess.”
I narrow my eyes and clench my fists as if what I’m about to say could hurt me. “Michael and I kissed.”
“What!” she exclaims, jumping up. “And this is how I find out?!”
“And it wasn’t the first time,” I add.
She grabs a pillow and throws it at my face. “You’re such a coward. You couldn’t even tell your own sister!”
“I have no idea what the hell we’re doing.”
Giada raises her hand like a telephone receiver to her ear.
“Hello? I’d like to talk to Elisa’s libido. Can you pass the phone? I have to explain what two healthy and robust adults do when they’re attracted to each other.”
“Not funny.”
“When was the first time?”
“Thursday afternoon,” I sigh. “In the cellar. I dropped the flashlight, the darkness and the wine did the rest . . .” I trip on the words, thinking back to that moment.
“The rest, what?” Giada urges me. “This is no time for suspense.”
“If the broken glasses hadn’t brought me to my senses, I’m pretty sure we would have gone far beyond a kiss.”
Giada looks at me with a mischievous expression. “More than a kiss, huh? Then I guess it wasn’t such an innocent little thing.”
“Innocent is the last word I’d use to describe him.”
“And then what happened?” she urges.
“Nothing. I ran away.”
“Very mature,” she observes.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen again.”
“Until tonight.”
“I never thought making pici could be such an erotic experience. At a certain point he slammed me onto the floured cutting board and . . . and then nothing, then you arrived.”
“How did you leave it?” she asks, gripped by curiosity.
“How did we leave it? Halfway through, Giada. Halfway through.”
“Once is a mistake, twice, on the other hand . . . you know what they say: Things come in threes.”
“With a fourth sure to follow,” I conclude. I decide it’s best I don’t tell her about tomorrow morning’s secret rendezvous.