Page 28 of Italy and Forever

Slipping on her favourite fluffy jumper with a cute Japanese character on it, she took a cup of tea out to the balcony and breathed in the glassy air playing with the billows of steam from her mug. Leaning out over the side with the glimpse of the lake, she marvelled at the stillness and the heavy moisture.

The world seemed to have another dimension here, more depth. Or perhaps height. She imagined it felt like a playground to Andreas, who could climb the rocks and trek to the high places where no humans could live.

And Rhys, who photographed them.

She winced at the thought of Rhys. Verbal diarrhoea back in the pub in Weymouth and now actual vomit. And in between, she’d run over him like a steamroller so he’d agree to do this wedding, then she’d seen him naked and been insensitive about his face blindness.

‘Disaster’ was the right word for her and Rhys in the same room.

In the complete silence of the lake, Ginny slowly became aware of the distant burr of an engine. She’d read that the mountain pass just beyond the lake usually closed at the first snow, which hadn’t fallen yet, but the chill overnight suggested it wouldn’t be long, especially up at the pass, which was at higher altitude. Already, traffic in this back corner of Italy was minimal, and at night almost non-existent.

She listened as the noise grew closer, then not one, but two sets of headlights came around the corner, illuminating the pine boughs and cutting through the darkness. When they pulled into the car park of the hotel and Andreas’s two friends, Lucas and Marco, got out, Ginny stifled a withering groan. Two more men were with them, beers in hand.

Andreas’s parents emerged from the other car, his mother Petra’s indulgent smile visible from where Ginny stood. The young men fetched something out of their car, alternately laughing and shushing each other, and after some playful shoving and a few final sips of beer, they began playing… music? Ginny guessed it was music – or it was supposed to be.

Cymbals crashed and an accordion squeaked and sighed. The tin whistle sounded as though the young man were torturing it, rather than playing it, and Ginny wasn’t sure if there was any discernible melody or even rhythm to their cacophony. The percussion instrument was a saucepan with a wooden spoon.

Then they began to sing and even Andreas’s father grimaced. If Ginny’s stomach hadn’t already settled, she might have retched again.

Swearing, she retreated inside and shut the door, but the noise penetrated the glass. Setting her tea down with a sigh, Ginny grabbed her key card and made her way downstairs to find Sophie with her hands over her ears, along with a few other guests in various stages of suffering and distress.

‘I’m beginning to think I should have got more information out of Andreas about these wedding traditions before I agreed to anything!’ she called to Ginny.

‘I’ll get them to stop,’ Ginny yelled back, stomping to the door and pressing the button to open it.

The shriek of the accordion was ten times worse outside, lodging pins in her brain. Crossing her arms against the chill, she faced them and lifted her chin. ‘What’s going on? What do we have to do to make you stop?’

‘Andre-e-e-e-eas!’ Lucas called out, ignoring Ginny completely.

‘Please,’ she persisted.

‘I have to drink with them.’ Andreas appeared at her side, armed with a bottle of something strong and a stack of shot glasses. ‘Basta, Buaba,’ he called out over the noise.

Ginny knew ‘basta’ was Italian for ‘enough’, but combined with what she assumed was a German dialect word, it sounded like an entirely different language. She wondered what Sophie thought of marrying into this little pocket of borderlands with three languages and countless dialects, where every valley was its own little society.

With a final wheeze, the accordion mercifully ceased as Andreas approached to hand out the glasses. When he thrust one into Ginny’s hands, she accepted it without thought. Only when he splashed some of the pungent clear liquid in did she consider the consequences.

‘Er, maybe this isn’t a good idea for my stomach.’ She assumed he’d also heard what had happened after the fly-line.

He just gave her a half-smile. ‘We call this “Katzenmusik”, making a big noise. It means cat music, but in our dialect we pronounce it “Kotznmusig”, which sounds a little like vomit music.’ With a wink, he lifted his glass and waited for her.

With a withering sigh, she clinked hers against his and they all took a sip. The liquor was sweet and fresh on the tongue, but it exploded in her throat. She nearly dropped the rest as she spluttered and coughed, making Andreas’s friends roar with laughter.

She felt, rather than heard, the muted click and turned with a finely brewed glare for Rhys, standing by the doors with his camera to his eye.

‘Why don’t we all come inside?’ Sophie suggested with a wry tone. ‘As long as you promise to leave the tin whistle alone.’

Petra approached and squeezed Sophie’s arm as they made their way into the lobby. ‘I did suggest they skip this particular tradition, but you can imagine what an occasion it is for all of us that Andreas is getting married.’

‘You don’t need to explain that to me,’ Sophie replied. ‘After all his years of insisting he didn’t see the point in marriage, I understand they have a right to say, “I told you so.”’

‘At least we convinced them that eight in the evening was better than two in the morning!’ Petra said. ‘And now we have the accordion here, so we can practise the waltz, like we talked about.’

‘Wait, what waltz?’ Ginny asked, hurrying to catch up to them.

Sophie grimaced. ‘We have to waltz,’ she mumbled.

‘This isn’t on the programme for the reception!’ Ginny said in alarm. ‘Surely with the baby, you don’t have to⁠—’