“But it’s half a mile away!”
“Get moving! It’s good for your health,” he encourages me. “That’ll be seventy-two euros.”
During my hike along the dusty drive, as I lug my suitcase over the stones, I thinkWho got you into this mess?And immediately after:Damn you, Charles.
I mentally list all the alternatives to this drudgery that I could have chosen for my month off:
1. A holiday in the Caribbean, under a palm tree, a mojito in hand
2. A trip on the Trans-Siberian Railway from Moscow to Vladivostok and back
3. Volunteering in India
4. A quantum physics class
5. Collecting tangerines on a kibbutz
After a thousand curses, I arrive at the villa. It looks exactly the same. I grab the aged brass ring hanging from the jaws of the lion and knock. Nothing.
I knock again, harder, but nothing. Tired, dusty, and impatient, I pick up the phone to call Charles but realize it’s still in Airplane Mode. As soon as I switch it off, I find a message from him.
We’re all in town for the Festival of the Assumption. Meet us there.
At this moment, my desire to take part in a village festival is zero. But since the alternative is to stay here, perched on the steps until my friend returns, I decide I might as well join them.
6
Elisa
“How many more years do you think they’ll have us manning the drinks station?” I ask Lucia, my faithful sidekick for every tedious village social gathering.
“As long as we can tell red from white through our cataracts and Alzheimer’s doesn’t stop us from counting change,” she replies, replacing an empty barrel.
The mid-August festival is one of four cardinal points of Belvedere’s social life, together with patron saint’s day, the spring fair, and the grape harvest.
Those considered undesirable for marriage, like Lucia and me—me because I wear the scarlet letter of single motherhood and Lucia because she’s too close to forty—are made to set up the gazebos or serve drinks while the village’s aspiring brides show off on the dance floor, hoping to catch the eye of a fellow reveler. From here, at least, I can keep watch over the corner where my daughter has gathered with her classmates, even though she always tends to be a little left out. It’s partly my fault, since I don’t let her go out in midriff tops and cutoffs like the other girls, but she’s only thirteen, for goodness’ sake!
“The smiling singles are somehow never stuck behind the counter all evening,” I observe. “Their looks would be ruined by tomato jelly–stained aprons and hygienic hairnets.”
Belvedere village festivals tend to attract curious people from San Casciano to Castelnuovo Berardenga and even from as far as Florence: a truly great opportunity to trawl for a husband.
It’s not rare, in fact, for someone to end up showered with rice within six months of one of these events.
“Pity the wives seem to overlook the fact not all the men dance, but they all have at least one drink,” Lucia giggles.
“Not Carletto,” I say, nodding toward my rediscovered childhood friend, on whom everyone was transfixed. “He doesn’t drink.”
Lucia raises her eyes to the sky, making the sign of the cross.
“Begone, Satan.”
“He was always a good boy ... too good. He used to take the blame when Michael and I stirred up trouble. He was incapable of lying and gave in to the slightest questioning.”
“Handsome, rich, and a little dumb: everything it takes to win golden bachelor of the year. Though from the looks of things, he only has eyes for your sister.”
My sister usually dodges these village festivals like stones; on Saturdays she has a nail art masterclass in Florence, and when it’s over, she goes with her classmates around the city, as she calls it. Tonight, however, not only is she here but she’s dragging Carletto onto the dance floor song after song. “She looks like she’s never had so much fun in her life.”
“The Cozzi cousins are definitely not having fun.”
