“How much time do you have?” asks Giada, the only one who hasn’t tried to demolish my idea.
“I got Michael to give me one month—oh, and he knows Linda is my daughter, so there’s no point in continuing to pretend. I’ll try to get this rolling as soon as possible.”
My sister takes my hand, and her perfect, enameled fingers intertwine with mine, which are tattered by manual labor. “Do you think you can do it?”
“If I don’t try, I’ll never know.”
We are interrupted by the doorbell, and I get up to open the door, mostly to get out of the situation.
“Hi, Elisa. What a pleasure to see you.”
Dark, greasy hair raked across his forehead to hide his receding hairline, sunken cheeks, hooked nose, drooping shoulders, and a prominent paunch in spite of his lean physique.
It’s Elmo.
19
Michael
The second punishing date awaits me at the village bar, in Belvedere’s main square.
The Cozzi cousin of the day is already sitting at one of the plastic tables shaded by a faded Cinzano umbrella.
As children, we used to come to this bar to have ice cream after breathy bike rides up and down the hills; over on the wall there’s still an old metal etching with the different types of cones and popsicles and the prices in lira with euro stickers over them.
“Hi,” I greet her, holding out my hand. “Have you been waiting long? You must be Inte ...”
“Intemerata,” she says. “No, I just got here. I stopped by the rectory to pick up the new songbook. I am a catechist. I direct the children’s choir.”
“Interesting, Intemerata. What an unusual name,” I observe, looking for something to break the ice. We English are masters of small talk.
“In honor of the Madonna,” she replies.
“Isn’t her name Louise Veronica?”
“No, Madonna the Virgin mother of Jesus.”
“Sorry, I tend to confuse them.”
“From the Litany of Loreto, you know? Immaculate Virgin, pray for us. Praised Virgin, pray for us ... Virgin Intemerata. It means ‘absolute purity and moral integrity.’”
I stop to study her for a moment and notice details that should have been a tell: Intemerata is wearing a long skirt, ballet flats with white stockings, a blouse buttoned tightly to the last buttonhole, and a heavy crucifix around her neck. She’s practically a nun.
“I see ... Shall we have a drink then?” I propose, nodding to the waiter who is serving the three old men playing cards at the next table. I think they’ve been here as long as the ice cream sign. “What would you like? A glass of wine?”
“I don’t drink wine. It reminds me of the betrayal of Jesus at the Last Supper. I only allow myself the wine blessed at Mass on Sundays.”
This is going well. “What about a spritz?”
“No alcohol for me,” she replies firmly. “Alcohol leads to sin. When I was sixteen, on holiday at the parish house in Pontremoli with the Little Virgins, we drank Bacardi Breezers and played spin the bottle, and I kissed Massimo, a boy from the Young Apostles of Jesus,” she explains to me in a low voice so as not to let anyone else in on her shameful secret.
“You could go straight to hell for that,” I observe with a hint of sarcasm.
“I know.” Sarcasm she evidently didn’t catch. “I couldn’t sleep from the guilt, so I woke up Don Pietro so I could confess.”
“All’s well that ends well. So, two glasses of Coke?” I ask.
“I can’t; it has sugar. I’ve given up sweets for Sant’ Antonio,” she explains. I must look perplexed, because she delves deeper. “Women who pray to Saint Anthony will find a husband. I lit a candle on June thirteenth and made a vow: I will not eat or drink anything sweet if he finds me a husband. I wouldn’t want to ruin everything now that I’m verging on success.”
