Magda repeatedly tucked her hair behind her ears, lost in thought. Was it Gustav who decided that he no longer wanted to share a bed with her, or had that come from her? It seemed to just happen, and she couldn’t remember what had been the catalyst. Perhaps there hadn’t been one. She remembered her wedding night—it hadn’t hurt as much as she’d expected, but she just couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. It seemed like smelly, sticky calisthenics.
Gustav had seemed to enjoy it, though. At least at first. But when he attempted to stretch out their lovemaking, to include caressing and lingering, she just got impatient.
No, she never could see what all the fuss was about.
In any case, that brief spate of sex at the start of their marriage never did lead to children. If it had, she would no doubt be more capable than Patrizia, now trying to distract her grandson with a fan, to no avail. The boy determinedly crouched, peering under the bushes.
Patrizia sighed and looked heavenward, the pleading etched in her eyes.
That was enough. Magda stormed over to the boy and yanked him up by his arm. His mingled shriek of surprise coiled into Patrizia’s yelp of protest. Above their raised voices, Magda shouted, “Your nonna told you to get up!”
Patrizia snatched her grandson’s forearm out of Magda’s grip. “Magda! Stop! What are you doing?”
“I’m teaching your grandson some manners.”
Over the child’s wailing, Patrizia glared and said bitingly, “This is none of your business. He is on his own timetable. It is not your concern.”
“Well, if you don’t make him mind you, how will he ever mind his teacher or his boss? He’ll assume that the world will bend to his will.”
Patrizia paused and caressed her grandson’s head, smoothing his hair. Her eyes narrowed at Magda. “Traumatizing him won’t teach him anything, Magda, except how to fear adults.”
Magda recoiled. Traumatizing?
She regarded the boy hiccuping and using his grandmother’s dress to wipe his tears.
“Well, I didn’t mean to scare him. I just wanted him to listen to you. He does need to listen to you. He can’t assume that he can do whatever he wants, always.”
Patrizia shook her head and then got down on her knees. “Marco? Are you ready for your biscotto now?”
Marco sniffled and nodded. Docilely, he took his grandmother’s hand and followed her out of the piazza. Patrizia threw a glance over her shoulder at Magda as if to say, “See? Kindness works.”
Magda wasn’t convinced. She muttered, “If I hadn’t come along, she’d still be trying to get him off the ground. I made him mind her. It’s the only reason he is being good now.”
She grumbled to herself, “Not sure why I bother. No one is ever grateful.” Insight was never Magda’s strong suit.
Picking up her bag she walked up the hill and into Bar Birbo.
That stranger was in the corner, with his newspaper and now a little notebook. Magda got the distinct feeling that there had been conversation the moment before she walked in, but now the man was furiously writing, and Chiara was polishing the display case glass with more than usual attention. As Magda approached the bar, the sight of a crumpled sugar packet on the floor cued her memory. She started peering around the edges of the bar, where it met the floor.
“Magda? Can I help you with something?” Chiara asked.
“Oh, no . . . I just . . . thought I may have left something.”
“Just now?”
“No. It was . . . never mind.”
Fatima moved slowly through the street, clutching her jacket tighter around herself. She shivered and tried to think warm thoughts—for instance, how her heart had lightened when Mario described The Simpsons, an American TV show he liked. At her intrigued expression, he had offered to stay after school later in the week and bring his big sister’s iPad so they could watch it at the playground.
The memory failed to overcome her internal chilliness. Maybe because seeing Mario after school would mean outright lying to her parents about who she was with. She was able to justify her deviations from Islam in the name of allowing herself to experience her new home, but a violation of this magnitude . . . she couldn’t do it.
Fatima considered going home and pulling the magazine out from under her mattress. Reading about American singers and French fashion models often served as a delicious escape. She shook her head. She wanted to be out as long as possible before her mother came home.
She supposed she would just keep walking, and play her game of trying to notice details she had never seen before. Like the Roman inscription on that wall. Had she really missed that every time she walked past the church? What was it doing here? What did it mean? Fatima drew closer, trying to see if the remains were decipherable, and similar to modern Italian.
“Fatima!” She heard Elisa’s voice hailing her. She turned around to wait for her friend, who was running hard to catch up. Eyes bright from the quick sprint through the cold streets, Elisa panted, “Are you sick? You weren’t at school today.”
“No, I’m okay,” Fatima traced the cobblestone with her toe.
“Oh. Well, then where were you?”
Fatima hesitated.
“Fatima? What is it?”
“I’m just surprised you haven’t figured it out.”
“Figured what out?”
“You must have heard about the bombing at the French embassy in Germany yesterday.”
“Oh. Yes, I did hear about that. But why would you not be in school . . . oh, Madonna mia! Was someone in your family there? Oh, Fatima, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think—”
“No,” Fatima put a hand on Elisa’s arm, then drew her hand around her friend’s elbow and started walking to the park. “No, I didn’t know anybody
