“Do you know him? Is he handsome?” asks Giliola.
“Is he rich?” wonders Fiorella.
“Is he spoiled?” Angela, who had stepped out moments earlier, is back on the threshold, ravenous for details. What did I say about the Belvedere women having a radar when it comes to men?
“I actually haven’t heard from him in years,” I say, trying to extract myself from their circle.
“Let’s just hope he’s not gay; otherwise, you ladies will be left salivating.”
“If he’sa homosexual, he can stay in London,” Viola declares. “We have no time to waste here.”
From what I can remember, Carletto was not, in fact,a homosexual. At least he wasn’t fifteen years ago.
“Mariana”—Giliola pulls Mamma by the wrist—“could you do us a favor? Tell us when he arrives.”
“Tell you what?” Mamma feigns confusion, but she knows exactly what they want. “Why?”
“So we can come to Le Giuggiole with an excuse to meet him!”
“Great idea,” says Fiorella. “My Paola can make him somecantucci!” Ah, Paola’s famous cantucci, better described asreinforced concrete.
“And I’ll make him some profiteroles!” echoes Angela.
These women are in “take him by the throat” mode. In other words, if he doesn’t ask their daughters out, they’ll strangle him.
“Oh, just listen to yourselves. We have work to do. We hardly have time for this nonsense,” Mamma says, bristling. Knowing her, she’s hardly eager to share such precious information.
“Of course. Elisa, tell your mother to do us the favor. Mariana, don’t be selfish,” Viola insists.
“I’ll talk to her,” I lie, to neutralize them, knowing that otherwise I’ll never get out of here.
“Good girl.”
As we leave, Mamma links arms with me and whispers thoughtfully into my ear: “Don’t say a word to anyone. We need to go straight home and start cleaning, including under the furniture, and prepare the primary suite, and bake two cakes—no, three—and warn Giada so she can get her hair done ... And we need to iron her lace dress, the one that brings out her eyes. And you, Elisa, get busy and make yourself presentable, for once.”
“Mamma, please don’t you start too,” I sigh.
No sooner have we left than Fiorella tracks us down and slips me a rolled-up ten-euro bill. “Make sure I’m the first to know,” she says, eyeing me with complicity.
I can’t take any more.
I hop on my blue Vespa Rally without bothering to fasten my helmet and speed off at full throttle. The sputtering muffler releases a cloud of gray smoke and the stench of burned oil, invoking a “Mamma mia!” from the elders sitting outside Mario’s bar, while Mamma shouts after me from the bakery door: “You forgot the bread, dear!”
But I don’t dare turn back for it.
1
Michael
“This had better be important, making me run here from the office like it’s a national emergency.” That’s how I greet Charles, my best friend, as I join him on the treadmills at the gym.
“It’s Saturday, for the love of God. Do you ever relax?”
“It’s Saturday?” I ask, stunned.
“See? You’re so strung out on work, you don’t even know what day it is.”
I’d been sure it was Friday. So that’s why my assistant, Penny, was so annoyed when I dragged her out of bed at seven this morning with a barrage of urgent messages.
