My first thought goes to Michael.
I turn around to find it’s actually Lucia.
“I’ll give you a hand,” she offers, placing the empty serving plates on the table.
“It’s okay. I can do it.”
“Fine, but I want to know what’s up with you.”
“Me?” I say in a voice so shrill it’s suspicious. “Nothing.”
“You hardly spoke to me all evening.”
“We were at opposite ends of the table,” I justify myself, knowing that it’s a lie the size of a house.
“Come on, be honest. I don’t want something hanging between us.”
Okay, let’s address the issue. If she wants me to be honest, I will be.
“Come on, Lucia! Elmo Colli?! I hope he’s a mercy date,” I blurt out, doubting myself immediately afterward. “Please tell me you brought him out of pity?”
“No, Elisa. Elmo and I are dating. We’re a couple.”
At her reply, I find myself with so many things I want to say to her that in the end I don’t know which to choose and I’m left gasping for air.
“Don’t make that face.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I say, stunned.
“Do you have to say anything?”
“You do realize who we’re talking about, don’t you? Elmo Colli! The most unctuous, pompous, presumptuous, and all the other worst adjectives ending in-ousa person can be. How on earth can you bear to date him?”
“He also happens to have some good qualities, if you care to look for them,” she objects.
“Don’t you realize he’s only here with you to get to me? Because I rejected him?” I wasn’t too subtle, but it was a safe bet that, slimy as he is, he would choose my only friend in Belvedere as a way of taking revenge.
Lucia’s expression darkens, and she looks down. “Yeah, Elisa, I’m well aware that I’m his fallback, a miserable second choice and that he would have preferred you a hundred times over, but you know what? I’m not offended because I know the truth and I accept it. I harbor no illusions.”
“Lucia, do you think maybe you’ve caught the local wedding fever? I thought at least you would be immune to such anachronistic nonsense.”
“I am also a nearly forty-year-old woman who still lives at home with her parents.”
“And the only alternative is Elmo?” I insist in disbelief.
As we raise our voices, she closes the door so no one can hear us.
“Let me tell you about my situation. Ever since I got my philosophy degree, I’ve been hanging by a thread at the university, which decided not to renew my research grant. I tried to move to Florence, but with the odd jobs I picked up, I barely made the rent and was living in an illegal garage studio apartment, waiting for someone to call to offer substitute teaching work. Like so many others, I was full of hope when I left Belvedere, but I came back because, unlike the others, I didn’t make it.”
“Sooner or later, you will get a permanent position,” I reply.
“Yeah, but when is this ‘later’? Did you know that the average age of entry into a teaching job in Italy is forty-four? Forty-four! I want a job, I want my own money—I want my own family and a real life; I don’t want to wait any longer. I am one hundred and ninety-fourth on the national teacher’s list, which means one hundred and ninety-three teachers have to be placed before I can get a job. How many philosophy teachers could Tuscany need?”
“You speak like someone who has no choice.”
“Do I have one? I’ve tried everything. I can’t keep tutoring for a pittance, plus Elmo offered me a good position.”
“In his company,” I point out.
