Benito shakes his head. “You cannot decide, out of the blue, to bulldoze centuries-old buildings to make a buck,Papà.”
“Izzy.” Raffaello smirks in my direction, including me in an argument I have no wish to be a part of. “If you suddenly had the opportunity to make your town not just a destination but a true modern city, would you not take it?”
I look back and forth between the two Farentino men. Up until now, Benito was advocating for a similar turn for La Musa. It’s nice to find him on my side. “I don’t know if you really want my opinion.”
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the conversation halts when Vincenzo enters the room. “Signore Farentino! Come sta?” Vincenzo goes in forthe hug, which knocks Raffaello off balance ever so slightly. Vincenzo beams. “Izzy, I know this man forquanto?Nearly my whole life. After school my wife and I tried big-city life in Roma—”
“Good to see you again, Vincenzo,” Raffaello bellows, putting a stop to the friendly conversation. If Vincenzo is bothered by his harsh tone, he doesn’t show it, happily bouncing over to the espresso machine to make himself a shot while Raffaello readjusts to be certain his presence looms over us at all times. While Benito emphasized that his parents relished small-town life, I’m getting the sense that part of the appeal for his father was feeling like a big fish in a small pond.
“Izzy, the rumors around town are that we have you to thank for an upcoming tourist boom.” Vincenzo fiddles with the machine that whirs to life as it cranks out hot espresso. “Isn’t that so fantastic?”
Raffaello claps his hands together. “Ah, yes, the tourists who will come here, see the state of things, turn around, leave, and never come back.” He looks pointedly at me and I wonder how such a callous, horrible man created Benito and Lucia. Or how someone as warm and wonderful as Anita ever fell in love with him.
Benito sits up straighter. “Izzy has said from the beginning that all La Musa needs is more awareness, not to become something it is not. As someone who picked this town of all the towns in Italy to travel to, I think we should listen to her.”
My heart squeezes. “It’s true. I did say that.”
This seems to appease Raffaello a little bit as he sits at a barstool. “You made the town, how do you put it, ‘go viral,’” he says, contemplating. “You really think it can become the next trendy travel destination. The new Positano?”
I nod. “Yes. No tourists travel to Italy to see a modern, Westernized city.”
Raffaello claps his hands together. “So you’re who’s put such ideas into my son’s head.” He turns to Benito and scolds him in Italian. I can’t make out any of the words, but I think I heartraditore. Traitor.
“Izzy makes our town better.” Vincenzo pauses, turning to me. “She’s excellent company.”
Raffaello ignores him. “Well, then who am I to stand in the way. It seems you have it all figured out.” His tone teeters on the very edges of sarcasm. If I weren’t so skilled at dissecting boomer male patronization, I might think he’s telling the truth. I look over at Benito and he lets out the slightest of smiles.
“Then I suppose my visit was all for naught.” Raffaello leans back on the counter and takes out his cell phone. “I heard my son was dragging his feet on the development deals I’d started, and now I know why.”
Benito stares him down. “I thought you came back forMamma.”
Raffaello sighs heavily and stands up. “Visits can have more than one purpose.” He walks over to Benito. “You must learn not to dissect everyone’s words to find meaning that suits your narrative.” He shakes his head and leaves the room.
Vincenzo and I wordlessly engage in a brief conversation of“What the fuck was that?”Benito fixes his gaze straight ahead but I can tell behind his stoic expression that he’s reeling. “You ok?” I ask.
He abruptly looks up. “Fine.” His phone rings and he steps outside to answer it.
“Minestra riscaldata, that’s Benito and Raffaello.” Vincenzo raises his eyebrows skeptically.
“What is that?”
“Another phrase for you. Reheated soup is never as good.” He side-eyes toward the front of the house where Raffaello is and I’m stunned by the impressive display of shade from always-affable Vincenzo.
“You think there’s no salvaging their relationship?”
Vincenzo shrugs. “I know I’ve never seen anyone in that family as happy as in the half year their patriarch’s been gone.”
If this is Benito happier, what was he like before? He doesn’t exude joy as it is. The biggest I’ve ever seen him smile was, well, that day in the rain. Now, if Raffaello is back for good, I fear I’ll never see him smile like that again.
“Izzy!” I hear my name when I exit Valeria’s wine shop a week later and a chill travels down my spine. The increase in tourists hasn’t happened overnight, but there definitely are tourists here, which is a change in itself, and it makes me nervous. I’ve yet to be recognized, thanks to my knowledge of La Musa’s back alleys, and it’s only a matter of time. I look up hesitantly and am relieved to see Giac walking toward me.
“Giac,buona sera,” I say. He’s wearing bright peach pants and a white linen shirt, his satchel bag slung over his shoulder as always. “I thought you’d be back in Perugia for the weekend?”
He shakes his head. “Myziais out of town so I’m using the opportunity for peace and quiet.”
“Don’t you have that at home?” I ask.
“No, I live with my family. . . four younger brothers and sisters running around.” He shudders. “It’s chaos.” I make another mental note to thank my parents for never giving me a sibling. “Want to grab a drink?”
