He smiled when he saw Fatima appear at the edge of the piazza. She straightened and beamed at him with a mixture of relief and excitement. Tugging Elisa’s hand she said, “There he is!”
Elisa wanted to pull back a bit. Meeting people was always awkward for her, she’d had to do it so rarely. Besides, Luciano seemed so . . . unpredictable. And sometimes he smelled weird. Like vinegar and ashes. But he looked better than usual now—his candyfloss hair was combed and his outfit looked clean, if a little rumpled.
The girls arrived in front of Luciano.
“Ciao, you must be Elisa. I’m delighted to meet you,” said Luciano, leaning forward to drop a polite kiss on each of Elisa’s cheeks.
“Ciao, Maestro. Piacere, it’s nice to meet you, too.”
Fatima stood and grinned.
Luciano gestured up the street, “Fatima tells me that math is a puzzle for you?”
Elisa nodded, “Yes. It feels like everything I learn just falls out of my head.”
Luciano chuckled, “Yes, numbers have a tendency to do that. Slippery rascals.”
Elisa searched Luciano’s face to see if he was making fun of her, but he was grinning easily. She decided she was being jumpy.
Fatima stopped her friends, “I’m just going to run into the forno before they close. Focaccia? Or Maestro would you prefer biscotti?” She asked with a knowing smile.
Luciano chuckled again, “With albicocche.” To Elisa he added, “Fatima knows my weakness for apricot cookies. All sweets, if I’m to be honest.”
Fatima smiled and said, “You two go ahead, I’ll catch up.” Fatima squeezed Elisa’s hand in reassurance and then skipped backward, waving.
Luciano nodded, “So how old are you, Elisa?”
“Eleven.”
“Ah, a good age. I remember it well.”
“You do?”
“Well, not really,” Luciano admitted, with a smile. “It’s just one of those annoying things old people say to sound important. And you live in Santa Lucia?”
“Yes, at the other end, by the park, a little outside the gates.”
“Your parents’ surnames?”
“Lucarelli and Bruno.”
“Hmm. Those names don’t sound familiar. Did they go to school in Santa Lucia?”
“No, they are from Foligno, but moved here because my father got a job at power plant in Girona.”
Luciano nodded, “Do you get to see your extended family often?”
“No, my father isn’t close to his family, and my mother was an only child, and her parents died.”
Elisa kicked herself for using the word. When Fatima had told her about Luciano’s double loss, she warned Elisa not to remind him by mentioning death. He was being so nice, why did she have to go and ruin it? But though Maestro blanched a little, he didn’t look angry. He simply answered, “Allora, it is difficult to be without family.”
Luciano turned into a doorway and said, “Ah, we’ve arrived, eccociqua.”
As he jiggled the doorknob, Fatima’s footsteps hurried up to them. “Here I am! They didn’t have them with albicocche, so I got prugne. I hope that’s okay.”
Elisa said simply, “I love prune.”
Luciano grinned his agreement.
Fatima smiled. “Good. Oh, ciao, Degas!”
A black cat with white on its chest, face, and feet had flung itself on Fatima’s legs. “Elisa, this is Degas, Maestro’s cat.”
Elisa got down on the floor cross-legged and whispered to Degas, “Ciao, micio, ciao kitty.” Degas leapt lightly into her lap and curled into a tight ball, purring.
Fatima laughed, “Trapped by a cat.”
Luciano peered around the corner from where he’d started the kettle for his favorite camomilla tea, and smiled. “It appears he approves of you, Elisa. Do you have pets?”
Elisa scratched the top of Degas’s head and said, “No. My parents never let me. Sometimes I make friends with one of the Santa Lucia cats. But when it starts following me home my brothers chase it off. Or my father does.” A cloud marred Elisa’s bright features.
Luciano nodded before heading back into the kitchen. He called over his shoulder, “That is unfortunate. You clearly have a gift with animals. Or at least my animal. Bring him some mortadella sometime and he’ll cling to you like a caper berry.”
Winking at Elisa, Fatima rubbed her belly. She had just tried mortadella the day before and loved it almost as much as prosciutto. Fatima turned and followed Luciano to the kitchen, “Maestro? Are capers actually sticky? Do you know how to make them?” Elisa wondered if perhaps Fatima was less caper-curious and perhaps just making sure her teacher wasn’t taking out wine. As Elisa stroked the white patch behind the cat’s ear, admiring how such a thin beast could create such a loud rumble of satisfaction, she heard Luciano’s chuckle and response of, “I don’t know, Fatima, to own the truth, I never picked a caper in my life. But they look like they should be sticky, don’t they?” The voices muted to a low burble and then Fatima returned with a broad smile. “Luciano says we can have our snack in the garden, his house is a little . . . cluttered.”
Elisa scanned the room. Her own house was rarely orderly, but this was something else entirely. Teetering stacks of papers and books trampled every available surface. Nothing seemed to have been touched in months. The dust had settled everywhere, cramming crevices. Elisa felt invisible particles clogging her lungs.
This was stupid, ridiculous even! What was she doing in this crazy drunk’s house? Yes, Fatima said he was nice and everything, but Fatima was too trusting, as that dumb coin still weighing down her pocket proved. Even if he wasn’t crazy, how could this help? She couldn’t do school, and was better off figuring out ways to get money. It was almost report card time. Report card time. Elisa couldn’t catch her breath, she pushed the cat off her lap and bolted up.
Fatima furrowed her brows at Elisa.
