Massimo stretched his hand across the table, and stroked a line between Isotta’s light eyes and her delicate mouth. His other hand joined the first and together they cupped her face. Impulsively Isotta took one of his hands in her own and turned her face to kiss his palm, slowly, while watching his expression, scared that she had now crossed a line.
Instead, she heard Massimo’s breath turn ragged. He whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”
Isotta stood, so suddenly she surprised not only the waiter passing behind her, but also herself. “Okay.”
Massimo tossed his napkin onto the table and rose, looking down into Isotta’s beseeching eyes. He leaned down and gently pressed his lips close to her ear before whispering, “You won’t regret this.”
Isotta held the table to keep from falling. Massimo pulled away from her and smiled his wide and perfect smile. He took his wallet out of his pocket and dropped a handful of bills on the table.
The sight of the money snapped Isotta out of the spell. “Wait! What about the afternoon meetings?” Massimo wound his arm around her waist and pulled her close before helping her into her coat. “We’ll call in, say that you got food poisoning and I’m taking you home.”
“Am I going home?”
“Oh, I can’t tolerate a two hour train ride. There’s a hotel by the train station, we’ll go there.”
Isotta tried to think, but there seemed to be too much blood in her brain. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Massimo agreed. “Now, I’ll call the bank. While I am doing that, why don’t you pop into that shop and buy us some bottles of water?” Massimo almost held his breath, hoping. If she didn’t do it without complaint, he wasn’t sure this would work.
But she nodded as if hypnotized and made her way through the electric doors of the grocery store. Massimo flipped open his phone and quickly dialed. “Mamma? I’m not coming home tonight.”
“What do you mean you’re not coming home?” His mother’s voice pitched high. “What’s going on?”
Massimo paused, not wanting to break the charm of the moment by speaking of it aloud. “I think I found her.”
He grinned as his mother gasped and said, “Is it like the time in February in Milano?”
He laughed easily. “No, it’s more like the time in July in Perugia. Only better. I was careful.”
“Okay,” his mother answered slowly. “But, what am I supposed to tell Margherita?”
“Tell her, tell her something. It doesn’t matter what. I’ll be home in the morning.”
At this point, you must be wondering, “Who is Margherita? And what does he mean ‘July in Perugia’?” You are right to wonder.
At 1:15 the end-of-day school bell clanged, echoing through the corridor. Elisa clutched her papers to her chest, hefted her backpack onto her shoulder, and bolted out of the classroom.
“Elisa!” a girl’s voice called.
Her steps slowed. At the doorway of the school, she took a breath and turned around.
The Moroccan girl caught up to her and took her hand. Her face watchful, she said, “What Maestro did today? It was ugly.”
Elisa bit her lip and tried to control the tears that threatened to spill over her lashes. She nodded.
“He was always like this?”
Elisa paused, not sure how to answer the question she’d never considered.
The other students eddied around them, a few stopping at this source of stalled movement. Elisa caught the gaze of Mario, one of her classmates. He’d heard the Moroccan girl’s question, and answered, “No, he wasn’t. I mean, he was never really fun. But in fourth grade—before you moved here, maybe?—he started shouting more. And remember, Elisa? When he spanked you?”
It’s true. He did that. It is appalling, isn’t it, how adults can dehumanize children?
The Moroccan girl’s gaze shifted from Mario to Elisa, studying her response. Elisa just nodded again, her chin trembling.
Mario patted Elisa’s shoulder before continuing to the piedibus that would take him to his home in the hills above Santa Lucia where his mother waited with a hot lunch. Elisa watched Mario and his friend Angelo grab hands and run, no doubt racing to the alimentari for candy. Elisa ducked her head trying to force back the easy tears. As her classmates whirled past her, she felt more pats on the shoulder and squeezes of her hand.
Finally, the crowd thinned. Elisa looked up to see the Moroccan girl, her face glowing like good caramel. Elisa mumbled, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”
The girl answered “Fatima,” with a smile that revealed a row of perfect teeth. Elisa wondered if people in Morocco had more teeth than people in Italy.
“I’m Elisa.”
“I know.”
Elisa ventured a smile. “I should know your name. I’m so empty headed.”
“Oh, I don’t think your head is empty. I think you found some better spots to be.”
Elisa laughed.
Fatima tugged Elisa’s hand. “Come on! The fog has gone arrivederci! The sun is happy, let’s get gelato! There are so many kinds! I want to try every gelato flavor in the world. But today I’m getting gianduja. It will be hard to try every flavor because I always get gianduja. It’s my favorite. What’s yours?”
Elisa laughed again at Fatima’s whirling, and increasingly accented, speech. “I like gianduja too. But I can’t.”
“Your mother needs you home?”
Elisa closed her eyes at the thought of her mother getting a phone call in her absence. “No.”
“Then come with me. We’ll get one big one and share it.”
“You have money?” Elisa asked, doubtfully.
Fatima patted the right pocket of her long skirt. “Yes, from helping Mamma with the cleaning.”
At Elisa’s lack of response, Fatima squeezed her hand and pulled her. Making sure she spoke clearly she added, “Come on! If we are going to argue, let’s have it be about which gelato is best with gianduja. I say banana.” Fatima grinned, her cheeks flushed like young persimmons.
Elisa hesitated for barely a moment, before squeezing Fatima’s hand in return. “Banana!
