away from me by the giant sweaty hands of a complete and utter deadbeat, but if I can help someone else find happiness, I will. Itâs what Eduardo would want.â
At this, the widow Rossellini woke herself up with a rumbling snore. âI donât feel so well,â she said.
âYour colourâs not good,â agreed the widow sitting next to her.
âSheâs not been feeling so great the last few weeks,â chimed in another.
âHer daughterâs been trying for months to get her to go to, you know, the microwave ,â whispered another.
âThe microwave?â repeated Fiorella.
The widows fell silent. The microwave was their euphemism for the glistening hospital block that had been built just a few years before, a couple of miles south of the town. Rising out of the pristine landscape very much like a shiny modern kitchen appliance, once women their age went into it, they were likely to shrivel and, if not disappear altogether, emerge a shadow of their former selvesâif they were lucky. The unlucky ones emerged a shadow of their former selves minus an arm, it was rumoured, a bosom, or an internal organ. Those even less fortunate never emerged at all.
Women their age would do anything to avoid going into the microwave.
âShe just needs a week or two in bed to get her colour back,â said the widow sitting next to her. âIâll take her home and sit with her a while.â
âIâll help,â said someone else, as the widow Rossellini was indeed very unsteady on her feet.
âMe too,â piped up another.
âWell, looks like there could be an opening after all,â Fiorella said cheerfully as the room started to empty, and before Violetta couldgive her an old-fashioned tune-up for her rudeness and insensitivity, Luciana jumped in with uncustomary presumption.
âYes, at least temporarily, it seems there is,â she said. âFiorella Fiorucci, would you care to join our league?â
âYou bet,â came the answer. âBut do you have anything to eat other than this cantucci ? I swiped some from over by the ginger supper and itâs horrible. What do you put in it? Cement? All the vin santo in Christendom isnât going to help that, let me tell you.â
She moved off to help herself to the small amount of vin santo that was still available anyway, at which Violetta turned angrily to her sister.
âWhat on earth were you thinking?â she asked.
âI was thinking she has a certain something,â Luciana answered.
âThat she does,â Violetta answered. âBut it is the wrong sort of something.â
Chapter 7
T he last-minute complications of deserting her life on such short notice required a lot more work than Lily had anticipated, her tightly packed schedule being almost as time-consuming to cancel as it was to keep.
Luckily Tipsy Tourism stretched to business class and she slept fitfully on the flight, with the help of more than her fair share of champagne, but arrived in rainy Rome feeling tired and aghast that one important aspect of coming to Italy she had overlooked was that everyone spoke Italian.
Not only could she not understand a word, she couldnât even follow the gesticulations, which she was sure could be blamed for how she ended up in the worldâs smallest rental car. It was a Fiat 500 but 500 of what? she asked. She had never seen a car so small. It was the size of a sneaker. Her baggage only just fit in the tiny trunk, and she had to put the seat back as far as it would go to accommodate her long legs.
She spent the first half hour driving around the airport parking lot trying to find the exit and then pressed the wrong button on her rented GPS so that it would only operate with a voice proclaiming to be Dermott in what she thought was an Irish accent.
She could make little sense of anything other than left and right , but in fact these two words turned out to be enough to
At this, the widow Rossellini woke herself up with a rumbling snore. âI donât feel so well,â she said.
âYour colourâs not good,â agreed the widow sitting next to her.
âSheâs not been feeling so great the last few weeks,â chimed in another.
âHer daughterâs been trying for months to get her to go to, you know, the microwave ,â whispered another.
âThe microwave?â repeated Fiorella.
The widows fell silent. The microwave was their euphemism for the glistening hospital block that had been built just a few years before, a couple of miles south of the town. Rising out of the pristine landscape very much like a shiny modern kitchen appliance, once women their age went into it, they were likely to shrivel and, if not disappear altogether, emerge a shadow of their former selvesâif they were lucky. The unlucky ones emerged a shadow of their former selves minus an arm, it was rumoured, a bosom, or an internal organ. Those even less fortunate never emerged at all.
Women their age would do anything to avoid going into the microwave.
âShe just needs a week or two in bed to get her colour back,â said the widow sitting next to her. âIâll take her home and sit with her a while.â
âIâll help,â said someone else, as the widow Rossellini was indeed very unsteady on her feet.
âMe too,â piped up another.
âWell, looks like there could be an opening after all,â Fiorella said cheerfully as the room started to empty, and before Violetta couldgive her an old-fashioned tune-up for her rudeness and insensitivity, Luciana jumped in with uncustomary presumption.
âYes, at least temporarily, it seems there is,â she said. âFiorella Fiorucci, would you care to join our league?â
âYou bet,â came the answer. âBut do you have anything to eat other than this cantucci ? I swiped some from over by the ginger supper and itâs horrible. What do you put in it? Cement? All the vin santo in Christendom isnât going to help that, let me tell you.â
She moved off to help herself to the small amount of vin santo that was still available anyway, at which Violetta turned angrily to her sister.
âWhat on earth were you thinking?â she asked.
âI was thinking she has a certain something,â Luciana answered.
âThat she does,â Violetta answered. âBut it is the wrong sort of something.â
Chapter 7
T he last-minute complications of deserting her life on such short notice required a lot more work than Lily had anticipated, her tightly packed schedule being almost as time-consuming to cancel as it was to keep.
Luckily Tipsy Tourism stretched to business class and she slept fitfully on the flight, with the help of more than her fair share of champagne, but arrived in rainy Rome feeling tired and aghast that one important aspect of coming to Italy she had overlooked was that everyone spoke Italian.
Not only could she not understand a word, she couldnât even follow the gesticulations, which she was sure could be blamed for how she ended up in the worldâs smallest rental car. It was a Fiat 500 but 500 of what? she asked. She had never seen a car so small. It was the size of a sneaker. Her baggage only just fit in the tiny trunk, and she had to put the seat back as far as it would go to accommodate her long legs.
She spent the first half hour driving around the airport parking lot trying to find the exit and then pressed the wrong button on her rented GPS so that it would only operate with a voice proclaiming to be Dermott in what she thought was an Irish accent.
She could make little sense of anything other than left and right , but in fact these two words turned out to be enough to
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