It was indecent.
If she were Dante, she would not put up with it.
Her head whipped around to find the mayor. There he was, standing with Giuseppe slicing one of the cinghiale. Dante should be warned. His wife’s shameful behavior should be exposed! The mayor was a cuckold! But a soft voice, more of a footfall, really, whispered that being the author of someone’s misery would hardly make her feel better. The thought smarted, like a slap. She turned on her heel, and marched down the stairs, tossing her full plate into the trash can.
Back at home, she’d thrown together a can of tuna with a handful of rice salad and parked herself on her garden bench with her plate and a half-glass of wine.
She listened to the sounds of a giddy crowd. Someone had brought an accordion. Cheers greeted the first full notes of music. No one noticed that the person who had been the savior of this whole festival was absent. Nobody. She may as well be invisible.
“Magda?”
A voice called from her garden gate. Magda wiped the stupid tear that was threatening to spill over her lower eyelid.
“Chiara? What is it?”
“There you are! I was looking around the festival for you, but didn’t see you, and wondered if you were okay.”
“Oh. That was nice of you. But I don’t want to take you away from all your millions of fans.”
Chiara laughed bitterly. “Can I join you?”
“Sure. No, wait, let me get the wine and bring it out.”
“No, no . . . you look so settled and comfortable. I’ll grab it. In the kitchen?”
“Yes. Glasses to the left of the sink.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Magda looked out over the valley, the lights of Girona winking in the distance, not unlike the flickering of firelight. A soft breeze moved the hair curling against the nape of her neck. The gate creaked, announcing Chiara’s presence.
“I brought the bottle. In case you needed another glass.”
“I’m still on this one, but thank you.”
“Of course.” Chiara sat down next to Magda with a sigh. Even in the half-light of the garden lamp, Magda thought Chiara looked beautiful. She wished it didn’t make her irritable. It was considerate of Chiara to come visit.
“So Magda, you didn’t feel up for the sagra?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Well, that’s a lie. Something . . . happened today. And it brought back a lot of memories. Of my husband.”
“You never talk about that.”
“What is there to say?”
“I don’t know. I’d be furious.”
“Are you furious at your husband?”
“Of course I am. When I’m not feeling relieved that I don’t have to pretend I care what he thinks anymore. In any case, for all I know he’s dead.”
Chiara snorted. “Well, I guess our circumstances are different. After all, Francesco didn’t disappear in a foreign country. He went to jail for having sex with a prostitute.”
“A 13-year-old prostitute.”
“Thank you, Magda. I was on the verge of forgetting. How helpful to have that reminder.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it as a barb, just that the man was clearly trash. What kind of man lusts after little girls? Who pays those mothers for the privilege of rutting on whores-in-training who want to buy the latest cell phone? Really, I see it as a blessing that that man is out of your life.”
“Do you?” Chiara took a breath, and continued, “Because I see it as there must be something deeply wrong with me that my husband would do that.”
Magda turned toward Chiara. “Chiara. You can’t be serious. You can’t possibly see this as your fault?”
“Sometimes I do. I guess when I’m lonely.”
“That’s just crazy,” Magda huffed, conveniently forgetting that in weaker moments, she herself had implicated Chiara. “So all the wives of the other men who got caught as part of that sting, they are all complicit, too?”
“Well, I never thought of that.”
“Think about it then.”
Chiara mulled quietly, swirling her wine before taking a sip. “No, I would never blame those wives.”
“Esatto!” Magda said, triumphantly.
A scream cut through the thickening night air.
Magda and Chiara looked at each other, their expressions suddenly twin-like with furrowed eyebrows and gaping mouths.
Chiara stood, “What was that? Somebody excited?”
Magda stood beside her, “No, it can’t be. I know what that scream means.”
Chiara’s head tipped to the side, but before she could ask, Magda answered, steel in her voice, “I grew up in a household that cherished that sound. Someone is terrified.”
Magda’s heart leapt into her throat and she began bolting toward the sound, repeated now, over and over by more voices, in heightening volumes. Chiara took a moment to grasp what Magda had just revealed and put it together with what she knew of Magda’s background and the episode with the amulet. Then she ran, hard on Magda’s heels.
As small shouts of surprise gurgled like soap bubbles, popping in the increasing heat, Edo leapt up and addressed the table of tourists. “Don’t panic! Everyone form a line. Let’s go, now!”
Edo assisted an older woman, disentangling her from the bench and table that were suddenly a knotted maze. He felt momentarily grateful that they were at the edge of the sagra, adjacent to the stairs. Fear was nipping at his ankles, and he was desperate to get the tourists out so he could join the townspeople fighting the fire. He held out his arms wide, as if herding spooked livestock, and ushered the group down the steps.
He shouted to be heard above the chaos, “Everyone, go to the piazza. Do not leave Santa Lucia! The fire
