Gathered in front of the villa are all the flittering mothers and their dolled-up daughters. They erupt in a stadium cheer at Michael’s presence.
“Maybe you still have time to ...” I say, but not even two seconds later, one of the wives intercepts us and points her finger at us.
“There he is! It’s him!” Her battle cry unleashes the horde in our direction.
“Who are they?” Michael asks me, somewhere between astonished and alarmed.
“The Belvedere welcoming committee.”
“The commit . . . Help!”
One woman grabs his right arm while another takes his left, both tugging in opposite directions.
“Gud mornin’, ar iu? Mai neim is Giliola!” one of the ladies of charity shouts in his ear, attempting to speak English.
“Hai, Maicolle. Du yu laic cantuccini?” Fiorella yells in his general direction, making the gesture of eating with her hand. “Dis is Paola,” she shouts, pointing to her daughter. “Biutiful gorl; sci is singol.”
They all pounce on him, offering him bruschetta, Prato biscuits, and chestnut cake in an orgy of food and screams that makes me giggle. I could put an end to this frenzy, but I won’t.
Revenge is so sweet.
“Oh, you idiots, why are you shouting?” yells Mamma, appearing on the staircase, rolling pin in hand. “Away, away! What’s all the fuss about! The Englishman is not deaf, and he happens to speak Italian very well. Let him go!”
Mamma makes space between the wives and delirious daughters so as to allow Michael to get up, his borrowed shirt all spattered with dirt.
“Sorry ... but who are you people?!” he blurts out, annoyed.
At his question, all chaos breaks out again, so much so that he doesn’t even know which way to turn to shake hands.
The barrage of invitations continues: Some invite him to breakfast, some want him over for dinner, some are expecting him as a guest of honor after Sunday Mass. Every aspiring mother-in-law fights over the days on the calendar.
Michael turns to me, his eyes pleading, hoping I’ll tell him what to do.
And I get an idea.
I jump off my horse and stand next to him. “Please, ladies, don’t fight. Michael’s not going anywhere. He’ll be delighted to accept your invitations.”
He turns to me, stunned. “What? Are you nuts?”
“Do you know the little penance I said I’d make you do? I found it.”
An expression of terror takes over his face. “You don’t think ...”
“Oh, yes. You will indulge in dates with three damsels. No need to thank me.”
“Don’t you think this is a little extreme?”
“Don’t tell me a man who can have the most beautiful women in London is scared off by some gastronomic tête-à-tête in Tuscany? Where is your confidence from last night? Could it possibly be that ... you’re scared?”
“Are you scared?” has always been our way of throwing down the gauntlet, and neither of us can resist the challenge.
“I’ll show you.” Michael grabs the saddle pommel and gets back on his horse. “Ladies, it was a real pleasure.” He mimes a bow in their direction and then moves closer to my ear. “Did you enjoy that raisin roll? You know, Elisa, I think I see a few crumbs on your lip,” he says, pointing.
Fuck.
11
Michael
