During their entire move to Europe she had thought about that boy, panicked that her experience would mirror his. What a surprise when her fellow students spoke to her, asked her questions, pulled her hand to join their playground games. When she mumbled that she couldn’t speak Italian, they laughed and tugged her hand all the more insistently. With Luciano’s lessons, and working to open her mind during school to allow the language to sink in, her Italian progressed far more quickly than she expected.
She had thought this would lead to greater intimacy with the Santa Lucia girls. But in fact, they seemed to tire of her once she was no longer novel. Fatima admitted to herself that her initial uneasiness at their fast gestures and loud words probably didn’t help. Nor did the fact that she was never allowed to visit anyone’s house. In fact, it was just since she started fifth grade that she was allowed to walk the five minutes to and from school on her own.
It was no wonder she and Elisa had found each other. Yes, Elisa was Italian and of average appearance and she had lived in the town for probably her whole life, but she was . . . what was the word? Spacey. Dreamy. And that set her apart. While Fatima felt pushed out of the margins, Elisa floated around them. People seemed friendly with her, as they did with Fatima, but they both had been wandering out of school alone while the rest of the students clustered outside the door to make afternoon plans.
Fatima paused in the piazza and breathed in the thinning sunshine. Her days felt entirely different now. She had somebody to sing pop songs with at recess, rolled up paper serving as impromptu microphones. Someone to flip through magazines with and scrutinize the outfits celebrities wore. Someone to make her her first short sleeve shirt. Playing hopscotch on the playground with her arms bare was the most free Fatima had ever felt. Suddenly, the view of her world that had been prized open by the move across the ocean was nudged a little wider. There was so much more to see and experience. She hadn’t realized how much she’d craved having a friend to share that with.
Movement outside the alimentari on the piazza caught her notice. Giovanni, the grocer, was leading Luciano out of the store firmly, his arm tight around Luciano’s shoulders. Fatima frowned and moved toward them.
“Maestro, are you okay?”
Luciano shook his fist at Giovanni, shouting gibberish, “How dare you! Your stench, like a walnut rotted from the core. Acid. Infecting me! You are that poison, you! Your words, vile! Cheating, lying . . . For years I suffered, watching your jars, you evil, shatter—you took her! You took her away from me, and now I’ve got nothing, nothing, and now you have the . . . the . . .” Luciano paused to hunt through his addled brain for words as Giovanni continued to murmur and aim the old man into the center of the piazza, “the consummate venom! Yes, to pack me out of this meat! Where is the . . . the . . . approbation for the aged? Where is the benevolence for the fallen?”
Giovanni turned to Patrizia, who had swiftly appeared behind Fatima, “There are wine bottles everywhere.”
Patrizia nodded, “I’ll take him home. Do you need help cleaning up?”
Giovanni shook his head. “No, Papà’s already got the mop out. You can really take him home? I don’t want to leave him here and have him turn around and come back in.”
Patrizia said, “We were just closing the macelleria for pranzo, but I can get Luciano home first.”
Giovanni sighed, “I tried not to let him near the wine, but . . .”
Luciano stumbled again and yelled at the men gathered on the benches. The pigeons bolted away into the wash-worn sky. Carosello peered up from his tour of the piazza to watch them arc overhead.
Fatima tore at her hangnail. She ventured, “I can take him home.”
Patrizia regarded the child, frowning. “Are you sure, Fatima? He’s not in great shape.”
Fatima reached for Luciano’s elbow to help him balance. “I can do it.”
Patrizia and Giovanni exchanged looks over her head. Patrizia said, “Tell you what, we’ll walk him together.”
Chiara yawned as she entered Bar Birbo. Edoardo glanced up at her and smiled. “Nice pausa?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did you sleep?”
“Surprisingly, yes. I must have needed it. Thanks for handling the lunch rush.”
“No problem, now the bar is ready for you to receive the post-pausa rush.” Edoardo grinned, and started sweeping up the stray sugar packets on the ground. Something bright glinted among the dust and debris. Edoardo stopped and plucked the gold shape into his palm and held it out to Chiara. “Look at this. Does it look familiar?”
Chiara took what looked to be some sort of a jewelry charm and studied it. “Hmm, I don’t think so. Does it mean anything? I’ve never seen this shape before.”
“It looks like a letter, but also not.”
“A ‘Y’ maybe? With an extra prong in the middle? I haven’t seen it either. The gold is heavy though. Looks valuable. Look, the circle at the top is open. Must have fallen off a chain or something.”
Chiara smoothed down her hair. “Who was in while I was upstairs? It would have to be one of those customers who lost it, right? Or I would have seen it when I cleaned up before lunch.”
Edo leaned against the broom while he thought. “Right. Hmm, let’s see. Luciano, but he just barged in and then lumbered out. Looks like he’s in the same state he was yesterday when he busted up Giovanni’s shop. Who else? Giuseppe, Patrizia, Luciano, Magda, Ava, a few tourists—I don’t think they are staying in town—Dante, a couple of vigili, I don’t remember
