“Maybe,” conceded Edo.
“Yes, I feel sure. I myself have been out of the tutoring world for some time, as perhaps you may have noticed.”
Edo, not knowing what to say, said nothing. Luciano nodded again, “But this is a good reminder. Giovanni at the alimentari was just telling me about a young man right outside of Santa Lucia, newly arrived from Morocco. He may be hard to track down, since he’s making his money in the usual newcomer way, returning carts at the Girona SuperConti for the euro deposit and selling tissue packets and tube socks door to door. But perhaps some evening you and I can pay him a visit?”
Edo shifted uncomfortably. “It would be okay for us to just drop in, unannounced?”
Luciano smiled, “I believe you’ll find that Santa Lucia’s rules about propriety are less shared than we assume.”
“Dante! Dante! Signore Sindaco!” Magda rushed to Dante, waving frantically.
Dante rolled his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets. Ignoring her was not going to work. He turned around and stretched his mouth into a smile. “Sì, Magda?”
“I’ve been calling you all down Via Romana! You really should get your hearing checked. It’s annoying to have to chase after you.” Magda leaned over and huffed, her hands on her knees.
Dante took advantage of the moment by rolling his eyes at the bracingly blue sky again. “I apologize. Deep in thought. What can I do for you?”
“Ah,” Magda announced, straightening, “It’s not what you can do for me, it is what I can do for you!”
From anyone else, this might have been welcome news, but Dante knew that Magda’s ideas of what she could do for him always involved some sacrifice on his part. He adjusted his scarf to better cover his throat and a bit of his mouth to avoid the unpleasant airs that often emanated from the German woman. He aimed for a tone of nonchalance, “Oh? What’s on your mind?”
“The Sagra del Cinghiale. The pipe-laying begins on the piazza, what, next week?” Magda didn’t wait for Dante’s nod, but went on. “And it won’t be completed in time for the festival. I know because I’ve been calling the service authority, and after several rounds of them ignoring my calls or pretending they didn’t understand my accent, I finally spoke with a supervisor who said that they don’t expect to be finished before January. And you know Italians, that means March.”
Magda snickered knowingly while Dante scowled. She went on, “Anyway, even in the best of circumstances, it means we can’t hold the festival in the piazza.”
“Yes, I know. My office is looking into other options.”
“Like what?”
“Like roasting the cinghiali on Chiara’s terrazza and setting the tables down the street.”
“Won’t work.”
“What do you mean it won’t work? You may not be aware of this but towns up and down the Italian peninsula hold their feste in the street.”
“I know that.” Magda replied, tartly. “I mean roasting the cinghiali at Bar Birbo won’t work. I talked to Chiara and she agreed that there isn’t enough room on the terrazza for the fire and all the people who like to stand around the roast. Plus, the dripping fat would stain the stones of her terrazza, and you know how much of your ‘famous’,” Magda mimed quotes around the word, “olive oil we go through that night, too. It would be a mess. Besides, the smoke would no doubt invade the bar, and her apartment. Getting out the smell of cinghiale is all but impossible.”
Dante sighed. No doubt Magda had forced this “agreement” for her own ends. His own fault. He should have secured Chiara’s approval earlier. But every time he came in lately she looked at him with a stiff expression on her face, and it did not bode welcoming for favors.
“And you have an alternative.”
“I do, as a matter of fact.” Magda took a breath and smiled broadly. “The castello.”
“The castle?”
“Yes! Isn’t that perfect?”
Dante chuckled, “If we could track down the owner and ask permission perhaps.”
“Oh, pshh,” Magda said with a wave of her hand. “What does that matter?”
“Quite a bit actually, if we want to stay within the confines of the law.”
“Dante, how long has it been since anybody has heard anything, I mean anything, about the owners?”
“Allora, at least thirty years, but—”
“Esatto! What are the odds that he’ll return to Santa Lucia on that specific weekend?”
“Low, of course, but still—”
“Yes! And there’s no place else we can do it! We can’t lose the revenue that the festival brings in. Shops and restaurants make more that weekend than they do the rest of the winter. I myself have had tourists booked in the rental apartment for six months. What do you think will happen if they find out there is no festival?”
“Maybe I can call the service authority again and ask them to put off the work.”
“I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve spoken with everyone there. They have already started, they aren’t going to back out now. Especially since they say that now that they’ve exposed the line, it’s in danger of freezing. They either have to bury what they’ve done, or move forward. What do you think they’ll choose?”
“True,” Dante bit his lip. “There’s the park, I suppose. We could do it there.”
“What are you, insane? With all those overhanging trees? Hardly the place to build a large enough fire to roast multiple cinghiali, not to mention the fire for cooking the sausages and the one under the pot of cinghiale stew.”
As much as he hated to admit it, Magda was probably right.
He ventured, “I’ll consider it.”
“Good,” Magda grinned broadly.
“We’d have to get town approval to use the castle.”
“Once everyone understands that it’s that or no sagra, I’m sure they’ll be on board. No, it’s not ideal, but just from an ownership standpoint. From the perspective of the festival, it is
