“I’m quitting? Why am I quitting? I hadn’t planned on quitting.”
“You really plan to commute across Umbria on a daily basis?”
“Well, no, of course not, but I thought I’d transfer to your branch. I’ve already talked to my boss, I mean I know it’ll mean a demotion . . .”
Massimo shoved his hands in his pockets and glared down at Isotta. Her heart chilled. He frowned and said, “That was presumptuous.”
“I . . . I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
Massimo rubbed his forehead and tipped his head back as if to gain sustenance from the sky.
“Massimo, I’m sorry, but . . . why shouldn’t I work here?”
“Are you serious? Can you imagine the speculation if you worked? The gossip about how I can’t support my wife? Besides, how can you be Margherita’s mother if you are gone eight hours a day?”
Isotta bit her lip. “I hadn’t considered that.”
“Isotta . . . you are going to have to start thinking like a mother.”
“But, I’m not her mother, Massimo.”
“Yes, you are.”
Luciano pulled his rolling cart up the street. It was heavy, not with bottles of wine, but with cans of tomatoes and packages of yogurt and pasta and a few links of Giuseppe’s chicken salsiccia. He found himself looking forward to eating a Saturday dinner he took time to prepare. It felt good to hunger for something, and feel capable of providing it for himself. He waved at Edo serving coffee to Patrizia, while Chiara stood beside her friend. Edo grinned, and, waving, called out, “Ciao! Maestro!”
Luciano smiled. He knew what Edo must have thought about him, what they all thought about him. That he was a drunk, an embarrassment to the town. It was a point of pride among his countrymen that they never became the gibbering drunks they saw in so many American films. That shame and ridicule at his fall into drink, none of it had touched him. There had been an ocean of pain between him and the rest of the world and everything that mattered to him lay within that ocean.
Well, almost everything. Once in awhile something had seemed to glide over the vastness into his heart. Like Fatima. Her uncomplicated trust and curiosity somehow reminded him of who he was even when the wine obliterated everything else. Many times the thought of Fatima’s expression if she saw him stumbling in the street kept him from reaching for the bottle until past dark. Some of those days he saw her, and some of those days he didn’t. But the times when he resisted the siren call of the wine and then saw her, and they shared a few moments of gentle conversation, those times made it easier and easier to wait longer and longer periods before popping open a bottle. Once it was popped, he would leave it dry. That was a surety.
Now there was also Elisa. His heart moved in pain. She was a quicksilver—sometimes her eyes were wide and earnest as she followed his pencil scribing formulas. Sometimes they were shuttered. He knew from teaching children for more than thirty years that skittishness was often a sign of trauma. Probably constant trauma.
He heard a car squeal into the parking lot at the edge of town, just past his house. He chuckled. Teenagers. Always in a hurry. They’d pass him in a few moments, shoving each other while making sure their hair remained meticulously styled. Unless they were headed into the groves for a spot of unsupervised fun. He hoped they avoided his plot. He hated finding the leavings of revelry in the form of trampled grass and crippled boughs.
His thoughts drifted back to Elisa. Whenever he saw her now, his eyes scanned her limbs for bruises. He never found any. Whoever was hurting the child was either calculated in the injury or left internal scars. Probably the latter. From talking to Elisa, it was clear that she saw herself as stupid. But she wasn’t. Math wasn’t her gift, but she made leaps of logic and connection when he spoke of the Via Flaminia that were advanced for a child much older than herself. Plus, there was her artistic talent. He wondered how to get her to trust him enough to let him keep one of her sketches. He wanted to show it to old friends who worked at a gallery in Spoleto. Of course, that would necessitate calling people he hadn’t spoken to in more than a year. But he was sure to get his phone turned back on within a month or so, and the thought of dialing now caused no more than a ripple of discomfort.
Lost in his thoughts, he was brought up short by shadows coming toward him. Probably those teenagers. He squinted into the streaming light and realized that two people were approaching in a more reserved fashion than adolescents prone to careening and swaggering. He moved to the side of the street to allow the couple to pass unimpeded.
As they came nearer, they were no longer silhouetted. He realized it was Massimo. Massimo with Giulia.
His breath caught. It was Giulia! It was! His girl! With her head glowing like an angel!
His hand went to his heart and then tentatively reached for the apparition.
But as she neared, he realized it wasn’t his daughter. Of course not, only a foolish old man would imagine it. This woman was blond, hence the crown of light he confused with a halo. And her features were watery, only her luminous eyes stood out from her plain face. Not Giulia. Who was she?
Her eyes met his as she passed him. He stepped back further, aghast. No, she wasn’t his beloved, but what was this faded copy of his daughter doing with Massimo? Their gaze broke, and he heard the woman murmur a question to Massimo, who
