sunny outside.”
“I’m not in Berlin, Mamma.”
“You aren’t?”
“I’m in Italy,” I say, “doing research on an article. But my car got stuck somewhere in the middle of no—”
“Wait, sweetie—my cell phone is ringing. I’m on call because Isadora went to the hospital. The poor girl, her nerves have finally caught up with her. And we had to admit a Croatian woman with three little kids last night, even though we’re crammed, and it’s only me. Isadora? How are you, dear? Did you—”
“Mamma?”
“Just a second, carissima . I’ll be with you in a moment. What do you mean, Isadora, they’re keeping you in the hospital? For how long? Did they tell you when you can get back to work?”
I fiddle with the radio while listening to Isadora’s hard-luck story, which interests me about as much as the weather in Majorca. I turn the dial all the way to the left and then all the way to the right. All I get is static that’s interrupted twice by crackling voices. It’s no wonder—out here the end of the world seems about to begin.
“I’m sorry, but this was really important,” my mother says, finally talking to me again. “So tell me again, child, why are you standing in the rain while calling me? Please go inside.”
I look up at the convertible’s canvas roof in frustration and shrink deeper into the seat. I’m just glad I managed to find the button for the roof. Otherwise I’d be sitting in a motorized bathtub.
“If you’d been listening to me,” I say, “you’d know that my car broke down on an Italian country road.”
“Italy? Did they send you there on another business trip?” She sounds alarmed, like she always does when the topic of her home country comes up—one of the reasons I didn’t tell her that I not only wrote nasty articles during my last vacation but also did some research into my background. I wasn’t successful, since there are more Coleis in Tuscany than drops in the ocean. It’s strange that she keeps her family such a secret; after all, it’s mine as well. Unfortunately, that’s not the way she looks at it.
“Forget it, Mamma. I just wanted to talk with someone. I didn’t mean to keep you from anything important.”
“Where exactly are you now? Oh, the phone again! These cell phones are the scourge of mankind. Isadora? What else?” My mother’s warm voice, whispering words not intended for me, bubbles through the phone. I can see her in front of me, how she’s probably pacing in the kitchen, her bracelets jingling, the phone jammed between chin and shoulder. Her short, brunette curls bob up and down. Every part of her is in constant motion.
My heart jumps when I hang up and throw the phone into the glove compartment. Really, I didn’t expect anything else. Mamma always worries more about everything and everyone else than she does about those who are right next to her.
Fabrizio
Lombardi has a letter for me. I have no idea how he found me. After I ran in circles in the rain for a while, torn between sorrow and a hot, scary rage, I hid in the men’s room of the town hall. When he pushed a crumpled piece of paper under the stall door, I just stared at it. There it is, next to the puddles of water that have formed at my feet. Lombardi leaves the room with a starched “I wish you well, Signor Camini. You know where you can find me.” Only then do I pick up the envelope. I turn it in my hands, not daring to open it.
My grandmother always subscribed to the erroneous opinion that matrimony was the only lifestyle that’s agreeable to God. I have no idea why she was so fixed on that idea, why she had pursued it with relentless zeal late in her life. I was fourteen when her matchmaking efforts started. The first future Signora Camini was a girl in my class—she was two heads taller than I was, preferred hopping to walking, and had braces. So everyone called her The Brace. I ran away as fast as I could, and Nonna slapped me for it, saying,
“I’m not in Berlin, Mamma.”
“You aren’t?”
“I’m in Italy,” I say, “doing research on an article. But my car got stuck somewhere in the middle of no—”
“Wait, sweetie—my cell phone is ringing. I’m on call because Isadora went to the hospital. The poor girl, her nerves have finally caught up with her. And we had to admit a Croatian woman with three little kids last night, even though we’re crammed, and it’s only me. Isadora? How are you, dear? Did you—”
“Mamma?”
“Just a second, carissima . I’ll be with you in a moment. What do you mean, Isadora, they’re keeping you in the hospital? For how long? Did they tell you when you can get back to work?”
I fiddle with the radio while listening to Isadora’s hard-luck story, which interests me about as much as the weather in Majorca. I turn the dial all the way to the left and then all the way to the right. All I get is static that’s interrupted twice by crackling voices. It’s no wonder—out here the end of the world seems about to begin.
“I’m sorry, but this was really important,” my mother says, finally talking to me again. “So tell me again, child, why are you standing in the rain while calling me? Please go inside.”
I look up at the convertible’s canvas roof in frustration and shrink deeper into the seat. I’m just glad I managed to find the button for the roof. Otherwise I’d be sitting in a motorized bathtub.
“If you’d been listening to me,” I say, “you’d know that my car broke down on an Italian country road.”
“Italy? Did they send you there on another business trip?” She sounds alarmed, like she always does when the topic of her home country comes up—one of the reasons I didn’t tell her that I not only wrote nasty articles during my last vacation but also did some research into my background. I wasn’t successful, since there are more Coleis in Tuscany than drops in the ocean. It’s strange that she keeps her family such a secret; after all, it’s mine as well. Unfortunately, that’s not the way she looks at it.
“Forget it, Mamma. I just wanted to talk with someone. I didn’t mean to keep you from anything important.”
“Where exactly are you now? Oh, the phone again! These cell phones are the scourge of mankind. Isadora? What else?” My mother’s warm voice, whispering words not intended for me, bubbles through the phone. I can see her in front of me, how she’s probably pacing in the kitchen, her bracelets jingling, the phone jammed between chin and shoulder. Her short, brunette curls bob up and down. Every part of her is in constant motion.
My heart jumps when I hang up and throw the phone into the glove compartment. Really, I didn’t expect anything else. Mamma always worries more about everything and everyone else than she does about those who are right next to her.
Fabrizio
Lombardi has a letter for me. I have no idea how he found me. After I ran in circles in the rain for a while, torn between sorrow and a hot, scary rage, I hid in the men’s room of the town hall. When he pushed a crumpled piece of paper under the stall door, I just stared at it. There it is, next to the puddles of water that have formed at my feet. Lombardi leaves the room with a starched “I wish you well, Signor Camini. You know where you can find me.” Only then do I pick up the envelope. I turn it in my hands, not daring to open it.
My grandmother always subscribed to the erroneous opinion that matrimony was the only lifestyle that’s agreeable to God. I have no idea why she was so fixed on that idea, why she had pursued it with relentless zeal late in her life. I was fourteen when her matchmaking efforts started. The first future Signora Camini was a girl in my class—she was two heads taller than I was, preferred hopping to walking, and had braces. So everyone called her The Brace. I ran away as fast as I could, and Nonna slapped me for it, saying,
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