Elisa looked at her friend, confused.
“Elisa. I, I’m Muslim.” Fatima waited for a sharp intake of breath at this news.
“I know that.”
“You knew I was Muslim?”
“Well, yes. You leave the room during religion class, so I knew you must not be Catholic. I looked up what religions are common in Morocco, and the book said most people are Muslim. It also said Muslims don’t eat pork, so I just figured . . .”
“But you never said anything.”
“What would I say?”
They walked in silence.
Finally Elisa ventured, “I’m sorry, Fatima, but I still don’t get why you didn’t come to school.”
“Oh, well, when something like this happens, it becomes dangerous for people like me. My brother . . .” Fatima’s voice rose an octave as she tightened her voice around her tears, “he was beat up last night.”
“What! Which brother?”
“Ahmed. He’s a dishwasher at a restaurant in Girona. Some guys saw him dumping the trash in the alley, and they . . . and they . . .”
“Madonna, I’m so, so sorry. Is he okay?”
“Well, he’s no longer the pretty one, at least until the swelling goes down. But he’ll be okay. Anyway, my parents wouldn’t let me come to school today. Mamma took Papà to work this afternoon, so I left. I know I shouldn’t, but I had to get out.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you!”
Fatima smiled weakly. “I don’t think anyone would hurt me here. This happens every time. They keep me out of school until people forget. And they do. So far anyway.”
Elisa considered Fatima’s words. “This isn’t fair.”
“I guess.” Fatima sighed. “I thought if you found out I was Muslim, you might not want to be my friend.”
“That’s weird.”
“I guess.”
“Why would it matter?”
“It doesn’t.”
“Anyway, you’ve seen how awful my family is. You’re still my friend.”
“We never talked about that—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
The girls climbed on the swings and set their legs to pumping.
Fatima said, “I wish it was easier for you.”
Elisa countered, “I wish it was easier for you, too.”
Fatima added, “And for Luciano.”
“How is he?”
Fatima shook her head.
Elisa nodded and fingered the few gathered coins in her pocket. “I hate this. It’s so unfair.”
“I know. But we can help Maestro. We can be with him and show him that the world isn’t all bad.”
“Isn’t it?”
Fatima tried to smile. “You know it’s not.”
Elisa wasn’t so sure. “I’m so mad at Massimo. What an awful man. I always knew he was awful, walking around like he owns this town, giving mean looks when I only accidentally wander into him. Acting like I’m Carosello making pee on his leg.”
Fatima smiled this time for real. “I know, he’s not exactly friendly. But we can’t know what lies beneath.”
Elisa nodded again. She looked over at her friend placidly swinging, eyes fixed on the horizon. Elisa thought about the fact that others who saw Fatima would just see darker skin, exotic eyes, no cross around her neck. If they saw her, and didn’t know her, would they miss the kindness that shone in her face? How could anyone confuse Fatima with a crazy attacker? It was impossible.
But Fatima knew, and she was scared. Was it just because of what happened to her brother, or was Fatima actually in any danger?
The door of Bar Birbo opened and Fabrizio slipped in. Stella and Patrizia, who had been laughing with Chiara, suddenly grew grave at his entrance. They silently stirred their already stirred coffee while darting looks at him.
Fabrizio raised a finger to ask for his customary coffee. Chiara nodded and blushed a little as she ground the beans. She hoped the whirring sound would prevent Fabrizio from noticing Stella and Patrizia’s whispered conferencing, but a quick glance in the mirrored wall showed her that his head was cocked in their direction.
As she handed Fabrizio the coffee, he looked into her eyes with teasing warmth. He thanked her quietly and took his coffee to the table, picking up a newspaper on a wooden spool. He laid the paper down and started shaking his sugar packet as he scanned the headlines.
Chiara stepped back to her friends, wondering if she could play it as cool as Fabrizio. He was so nonplussed, she wondered if she’d imagined the night they’d spent in the groves. But no, it had taken a quarter hour to get the dust off the seat of her pants and the back of her jacket. And the way he’d touched her, softly, reverently, questioningly, no. She couldn’t have made that up. But now, in the cold light of day, why was he so removed?
Stella picked up where she’d left off, but now her voice had an unfamiliar hushed quality. “So anyway, I think the wedding dress looked just like Giulia’s, but Chiara said no.”
Chiara countered, “I didn’t say that. How would I remember Giulia’s wedding dress? How would you? That was a decade ago. I said I didn’t think that she looked just like Giulia.”
Patrizia nodded, “I agree.”
Stella slapped the back of her hand against the front of her other hand and then cringed as the loud smacking sound reverberating through the quiet bar. Fabrizio placidly looked up. Returning his gaze to the paper, he continued to stir sugar into his espresso. Chiara noticed a small smile playing about his lips. She slid her gaze away, back to her friends.
Stella huddled forward, “What? Do you not have eyes? Are you so totally hoodwinked by the hair? Make the new girl a brunette, and you have a carbon copy of his dead wife!”
Chiara watched as Fabrizio “read” the same headline repeatedly, his head angled toward the clutch of women. She wiped the bar and stayed silent, wishing he was less interested in their conversation.
Patrizia said, “There is a resemblance, of course, anyone can see that, but I’d never say she was identical.” She paused. “But I get it, don’t you? I mean, Giulia’s death was so sudden, so awful,
