“Fucking bum,” Adriano said underneath his breath as he watched the door close behind Nicodemo. “Istink. Imagine. I buy the best shit there is.”
Adriano was pissed at Nicodemo, who had told him that he stunk and would attract flies out in the heat once he started to sweat.
Fabrizio cleared his throat to get our attention. He was all business. He directed us to a man named Fabio, who put us to work at once. We were all given buckets and gloves and told not to let the fruit drop, if we could help it. After we filled our buckets, we were to report to Fabrizio and the buckets would be poured into a bag. We were to keep picking until the day was over.
It wasn’t easy work. Some of the rocks were steep, and the trees grew at an odd angle, so it took balance to keep from falling over or dropping the fruit. Sometimes branches would fall between the crevices, and I would have to stick my hand between to retrieve them. I always checked for snakes before I did.
I was quiet as I did my job, getting lost in the rhythm of it. Sometimes I would study the workings of the trees. They seemed to have deep root systems, usually with short trunks, and long, resinous branches. The leaves were like velvet and leather. The pistachios were about the size of olives and grew in pink clusters. The men called the plantsscornabecco, and the shell after it had been separated from its husktignosella.
It was easy to forget about the issues in New York while I got lost in the work. I could’ve been a different man— a man with regular problems.
Other times, the need to take care of the Scarpones only grew with the silence that consumed my mind. It wasn’t even words that came to mind but a color. Red. It was time to bleed them fucking dry.
The urge to find Alcina was so strong that I could taste it in my mouth, like the cool water Tito gave us to drink on our lunch break.
Tito stood next to Adriano, Nunzio, and me, surveying the land under the shade of his wide-brimmed cap. We were working in a more secluded location, and I wondered if it was because Tito requested it—keeping me hidden but not.
“It is wondrous how Mother Nature works.” He nodded to Mount Etna, smoke billowing out against the blue sky from its tip. “You have such a disruptive force—bigger than this entire town—yet it still gives us the best of what it is. Look at the fruit it offers.”
Adriano wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Is this all we get to eat?” He lifted the basket that Tito had brought out with cheeses, crackers, meats, and fruits. He was sprawled out on the ground, half sitting, half lying down. His cheeks were red, and nothing was coming out of his pores but sweat now.
Nunzio nodded toward the volcano, ignoring Adriano. “A volcano reminds me of an Italian woman,” he said. “Fire in her veins, but even after she scalds you with her temper, she feeds you the best.”
Tito smiled. “I would have to agree.”
“A woman kicks me in the balls and then feeds me grapes after in bed as an apology.” Adriano lifted a bunch of them, taking the bottom one in his mouth. “I’d accept it.”
I grinned at the face Nunzio made. Then I took off the long-sleeved shirt I wore over my t-shirt, balling it up, using it as a pillow. I set my hands behind my head as an extra layer, closing my eyes. I fell asleep with the sun hot on my face. A few minutes later, I woke up to the sound of a long, low whistle from Adriano. I followed the sound until I met the cause of it.
A few women walked toward us with a group of children around them.
“I’d give up pasta to be with any of those women alone,” Adriano said, sitting up on his elbows, watching as they walked closer.
“That’s not a woman,” I said, staring at one in particular. “That’s a fucking weapon.”
She was holding hands with a little girl she’d called Calogera. Most of the woman’s long, dark brown hair was behind a scarf, but small tendrils fell from the sides, skimming her neck, where I imagined the pulse of her artery would pound against my mouth when I put it there.
The wind blew against her, rustling the dress on her body, and it sent a sweet scent in the air around me. The dress reminded me of the ones Angela usually wore, but it hugged every one of this woman’s curves. The cross she wore around her neck caught the bright light and glowed gold against her tan skin.
Even in the old-style dress, she hit all the right notes.
I was Orlando Furioso when I looked at her. The sway of those hips—I licked my lips, and I could taste lemon and chocolate.
It wasn’t even her face or body that was the weapon. It was those cat-shaped eyes, dark and full of secrets, that were dangerous. As unpredictable as any man I’d ever stood against.
When she was close enough and turned them on me, she stopped, even though the little girl kept pulling on her hand to keep walking. On one rough tug, she went, following the group of women who had walked ahead.
Nunzio nudged me. He nudged me again.
“She is taken,” I heard Tito say in Italian. Laughter after he’d said it. Someone said the word moonstruck. And then, “cugino sei cotto.”Cousin, you’re cooked.
She looked over her shoulder at me before she turned away again, moving further and further away, going deeper into the orchard.
“Her name,” I said.
“Angelica,” Nicodemo said, appearing beside me.
I grinned at that but said nothing.
