Flirting in Italian (25 page)

I sort of expect Elisa to launch into a screed of unpleasantness, and have braced myself accordingly. But actually, she doesn’t say a word until we turn between the high stone gateposts and into the long, winding private dirt road that leads up to the castello. It’s dark, shaded by the cypresses that grow close together on either side, one of those drives that you can see from far away across the olive groves and vineyards, even from the village, a double line of tall, narrow
trees like tapering black candles signaling a road that rises to an important house. I imagine all the bats folded up inside the cypresses, hanging inside the densely packed branches, protected from the sun by the thick foliage, waiting for night to come so they can unfurl their wings and fly out to hunt for dinner.

“You are learning Italian?” Elisa finally says.

I consider this, debating my response, and reply:

“Yes, a little. We’re all studying hard.”

“From my mother,” she says, sneeringly. “She is a good teacher of Italian?”

“I don’t know,” I say simply. “I haven’t got anyone else to compare her with.”

I’m wondering if Elisa is trying to lure me into saying something that she can repeat to Catia and get me into trouble. I’m not going to fall for that trick. Having been to an all-girls’ school has made me very familiar with it. I know, from talking to people who go to mixed schools, that it’s different there. But the single-sex aspect of St. Tabby’s means that you develop very close friendships, cliques, and rivalries, and it’s not just among the girls; the teachers get sucked into it too, or even, in some cases, drive it. There’s a handful of teachers at St. Tabby’s who definitely have their pets and their hates, as we call them, and the girls who are the pets play it for all it’s worth, sucking up to the teachers and even bad-mouthing other girls to win more approval.

“Do you think she has a good accent?” Elisa says snarkily, jerking the car around a tight ascending curve, its engine whining at the high gear it’s in.

I honestly don’t know how to answer this. I turn to look
at her, not understanding what she wants from me. And I realize that instead of keeping her eyes on the road, she’s staring straight at me; I let out an awful little embarrassing whinny of horror and jerk my gaze back to the windscreen again, hoping desperately that she’ll follow suit before she drives into one of the drainage ditches on either side of the road, or into one of the cypresses.

“You don’t know very much about my mother,” Elisa says with great pleasure, her voice full of malice. “She likes to pretend. She is so
fasulla
. False. Everything about her is false.”

I’m dying to ask what she means but I bite my tongue, because I sense that the more silent I am, the less I seem to care, the more she will talk.

“My mother, she is not Italian,” Elisa says, dragging the wheel around to take another curve. “You don’t know that,
non è vero
? My mother is American.”

“
What?
Are you joking?” I blurt out.

Okay, she’s got that much satisfaction from me. I couldn’t help the exclamation of surprise. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Elisa’s lipsticked mouth narrow in pleasure.

“Si,”
she says, delightedly stepping on the accelerator. The Fiat bounds over a bump in the road, and I shove out my foot, bracing my leg against the interior wall of the car, not wanting to let her see me grip the seat to steady myself.

“American,” Elisa continues. “But she never says that. Her name is Catherine, but she change it to Catia because that is Italian. It is so sad, tragic. She want to be something she is not. And because she is not a real Italian, she does
not know how to keep her Italian husband. That is why my father leaves to live in Florence.”

I’m genuinely taken aback by Elisa’s revelation. Never in a million years would I have guessed Catia wasn’t Italian.

“She meet my father in Florence, she is studying art and the language, like all of you foreign girls,” Elisa says, with a nasty twist to the last few words. “She leave everything in America behind, she marry him and immediately she decide she is Italian. No more America. She hate it when I say she is American, or I tell her she say a word wrong in Italian. She did not want to teach us English. English would be useful to me and Leonardo. Just to know. But no, she teaches Italian to
stranieri
—foreigners. It’s stupid,
no?
She never go back to America, she never take me or Leonardo to meet her family there, she forget them all. She care only for herself.”

I stare at Elisa as she continues contemptuously:

“She is stupid and ridiculous. No one else care that she is American but her. Even my father, he think she is ridiculous. He have an Italian girlfriend now. A real Italian, not a false one like my mother.”

We’ve reached the top of the drive now. Elisa doesn’t turn into the parking area, however; with a squeal of brakes and a groan from the gearbox, she snaps the Fiat into a ninety-degree turn and sends it between the walls, through the gateway, in a tight scary loop till she comes to a halt sideways, on the cobbled courtyard where the family leaves their cars.

“Ecco,”
she says. “Here you are. And now you know.”

I simply don’t know how to respond to her stream of angry revelations. I’m reeling from this new information.

It makes Catia seem what Elisa’s called her, fake. She’s deceived us, effectively, and that makes me feel really weird, insecure. It makes me feel sad for Catia too. Why should she pretend so hard to be something she isn’t, and alienate her own children in the process? I’m overwhelmed with confusion. I wish Kelly were here so I’d have someone to share the surprise with. Paige and Kendra, as Americans, will be even more freaked out, I imagine.

Elisa makes no move to turn off the engine or get out. I realize with great relief that I can get away from her: she doesn’t intend to come inside, to hear whatever the principessa and Catia have to say to me. I scramble out before she can change her mind. Closing the car door, I smell burning rubber from whatever bit of her car’s engine—the clutch?—she’s overstrained from driving so fast up the hill to get rid of me as quickly as possible.

But Elisa has to have the last word. She swings the car around farther in its circle, pointing it at the gateway, and rolls down her window, propping her heavily bangled arm on the frame as she says:

“Luca is not here,” with a fake smile. “You can see, his car is away. You are disappointed, I think.”

She gestures at the parking area, where there’s only the small, dented old white Panda.

“You said that last time,” I snap, “and he showed up anyway. Some Italian guys prefer foreign girls,” I add. “Like your dad did when he married your mum. Luca obviously does too.”

It’s my turn to stun her into silence. I turn on my heel and walk swiftly up the raised path toward the castello’s
main entrance. Behind me, I hear Elisa’s car shoot out of the gateway so fast I almost expect to hear a crunching noise as she grinds her chassis against the stone of the wall. I’ve pressed the button for the bell and am listening to the awful pulse of the electric scream slowly die away when something occurs to me.

As Elisa just pointed out, the only car parked in the courtyard is the Panda, which I honestly don’t think can possibly belong to the principessa; it’s far too ancient and sagging. And where’s Catia’s jeep? True, she might have left it in the parking lot, but it’s so big I think I would have seen it as we passed, even at the high speed Elisa was driving.

Did Elisa lie to me? Did her mother not ring her after all? But why on earth would she lure me here and leave me when no one’s here but—

The little door inside the bigger door swings open. And standing there, in her black dress and awful shoes, is Maria. The housekeeper.

I have a moment of sheer, absolute panic as I look at Maria’s small dark figure. Memories of films I’ve seen, books I’ve read—
Rebecca
in the forefront, with awful Mrs. Danvers the housekeeper, in her black dress and pulled-back hair, whispering over Mrs. de Winter’s shoulder as she stands at the edge of the window frame, egging her on to jump. Horrible, scary old bat. And here I am, with neither Catia’s nor the principessa’s car visible, and just Maria in the castello—Elisa’s long gone already, not that I’d accept a lift back from her.…

I can walk back down
, I think quickly.
At least to the village, it’s all downhill and mostly in the shade. I don’t have to stay here. Maria can’t make me
.

And then I see that she isn’t standing back to let me in, but is still firmly planted in the center of the doorway, her wrinkled brown face creased into a tracery of fine lines, looking taken aback. Surprised. Not at all as if she’s expecting me, as if she’s lured me here to do something awful to me.

Which is pleasantly reassuring.

“Signorina?”
she says, frowning in puzzlement.
“Ma cosa fa qui? La signora non c’è.”

She’s asking what I’m doing here. I summon up the fragments of Italian I’ve managed to grasp so far, and say:

“Elisa mi porta qui. Dice Signora Catia e la principessa qui. Per vedere me.”

God, that was terrible. Really bad Italian. But I’ve managed to explain, because she’s frowning deeper, in an I’m-thinking-about-this way, not a what-on-earth-did-you-just-say way, and she says in her croaky voice:

“Ma loro non ci sono.”
They’re not here.
“Non capisco.”
I don’t understand.

She raises her shoulders and lets them fall in the big, theatrical way Italians shrug, as if they’re pantomiming it. She doesn’t move from the doorway. I shift my feet on the hot cobblestones, which are beginning to warm up the thin soles of my sandals. A bead of sweat runs down from my hairline, melting unpleasantly against the plastic of my sunglasses, which are clammy on my lightly sweating skin. I didn’t put on sunblock, and I can feel my forehead, the bridge of my nose, starting to get pink.

“Posso venire?”
I ask, which I think just means “Can I come?” but I can’t remember how you say “inside.”
“Caldo,”
I add, which I know means “hot.”

I gesture up at the sky, a clear bowl of swimming-pool-tile bright blue upended over us, not a wisp of cloud to shelter me from the scorching afternoon sun.
What am I going to do if she doesn’t let me in?
I brought my phone; Kelly and I agreed I’d text her urgently if anything bad started happening, though I don’t think either of us had a clue what she could do to help.
I’ll find some shade, sit out here, and text Kelly
, I decide.
Then I’ll start walking down to the village
. I don’t have any money on me, I can’t even buy a coffee at the bar. I suppose I’ll have to walk all the way back to Villa Barbiano.

Doubtfully, I look down at my sandals, which are decorated with lots of silver studs, definitely designed for prettiness rather than long walks on dirt roads. I have the nasty feeling that forty minutes of walking—because that’s how long it will take me, minimum—is going to give me some awful blisters.

Maria sighs, and I look back at her. She’s shuffling away, down the corridor, which seems pitch-black from the bright courtyard.

“Vieni,”
she calls over her shoulder.
“Puoi aspettare in cucina.”

“Come,”
I decode. And something about kitchen—
“cucina”
is “kitchen,” and
“aspettare”
means “wait.”
You can wait in the kitchen
.

Well, she’s not exactly rolling out the red carpet, but again, that’s reassuring; I certainly don’t get the feeling she’s planned this in advance. I walk inside, and the cool of the stone walls and floor is an instant relief after the hot sun,
like entering an air-conditioned shop. I sigh in pleasure, pushing my sunglasses once more to the crown of my head.

Then I turn, knowing that I’m expected to shut the door. And that’s the hard part. My hands don’t want to move. For a long moment, I simply stand there, arms by my sides, looking at the bright rectangle of the open doorframe.

In or out? It’s not too late to change your mind, Violet
. Instinctively, I know that nothing bad will happen to me outside, nothing worse than sunburn and sore feet, and perhaps the social embarrassment of having lugged myself home in the blazing sun rather than wait, like any sensible person, for my hostess and her friend, who are doubtless just stuck in traffic or had a flat tire or something equally explainable.

But I also know, just as instinctively, that here is where the answers lie. Here, inside the castello. And the only way I’m going to get them is by being brave. Not by running away.

I take a deep breath, reach out, and close the door behind me. It squeaks shut with such an ominous,
Young Frankenstein
, horror-film groan of rusty hinges that I can’t help smiling, despite my nerves being on edge. The castello is not some awful, lurking trap. Maria is not Mrs. Danvers from
Rebecca
. And more than likely, no one gave me yew poison either—that was Kelly and Benedetta working themselves into a big, silly flap.

I wonder quickly if I should text Kelly to let her know what’s happening. But Maria’s disappeared from sight, shuffling off on her clog-shoes somewhere deep in the bowels of the castello, and I turn and run after her, hoping the kitchen
isn’t too hard to find. I know all too well what can happen if you take a wrong turn in this place.…

I’m a bit taken aback, frankly, at the state of the castello kitchen. I remember Catia telling Maria she ought to get the creaky door hinges oiled. She didn’t tell Maria she should dust, but it was everywhere, on the brass fittings of the pictures, collecting in the frames, on the inlaid table in the hall. Maria can’t possibly be responsible for having to clean this entire place herself; even someone young and enthusiastic, without slow clumpy shoes, wouldn’t be able to manage it. I suppose there was no reason to expect the kitchen to be any cleaner than the rest of the castello. My shock is more that it’s like walking back in time, stepping through a portal and going back fifty years.

It’s huge, with a cavernous ceiling, and a gigantic, ancient range, its enameled sides peeling away, the roof above it black with soot. The fridge is equally enormous and old, humming so noisily it’s like having a third person in the room. Next to it is a butcher’s block, sagging in the middle with age; it’s been used so much over the years that it’s no longer flat. I don’t know how anyone can even cut bread on it. The wood is greasy and dark and, to be honest, pretty revolting.

I look away swiftly to the walls, which are lined with shelves and random credenzas, display cabinets stuffed with china and glass, like a bric-a-brac collection in an old-fashioned antique shop. Jelly molds hang high up on
one wall, beautiful, elaborate copper shapes now green at the edges with tarnish and festooned with cobwebs. I stare around me with my head tilted back, mouth open in amazement, taking this all in.

Maria’s at the range, putting a huge old kettle on one of the hobs, a dirty old rag wrapped around its handle so she doesn’t burn herself. I stand awkwardly near the door, not knowing what to do with myself. Part of me thinks that they should clear out all this old stuff, put in a nice new kitchen, and start afresh; the other part is fascinated by all the random stuff in the cabinets—whose glass, I notice, is also smudged and sooty. I peer more closely at one. Teapots. Lots of teapots, delicate and exquisitely painted, but most with brown stains—age or neglect, I don’t know. Some have matching cups and saucers, very small by comparison with the ones people use now, the saucers with scalloped edges, decorated in pale greens and blues and pinks.

I think of the tea parties little girls have with their dolls and their friends. Or the Mad Hatter’s tea party in
Alice in Wonderland
. If I’d grown up here I would have pestered the adults nonstop to let me take all this china out and play with it. I picture myself sitting outside on the grass, a cloth spread out, my dolls sitting in a circle, Milly and Lily-Rose with their dolls too, all of us with utterly serious faces as we choose our favorite pieces and assign them to the perfect recipient.

“Siediti,”
Maria says, and I spin around to see her lugging the kettle onto a trivet in the center of the kitchen table. I dash over to help her but she shoots me such a withering look that I retreat, and sink into the chair she’s pointing
out. The table is made out of a slab of wood as thick as my forearm, battered and covered with so many dark burns that in places they merge together.

The kettle clatters down onto the trivet, iron clashing against iron. Maria turns away again, retrieving a teapot and two cups. The teapot’s enameled and chipped; no nice china for me, I notice with some amusement. She grabs a bunch of herbs from the butcher’s block and leans across the table, pretty much rubbing them in my face. I rear back in shock, the sharp fresh odor of peppermint rising to my nostrils, the edges of the big mint leaves rough and tickly against my skin.

She nods with satisfaction, her cheeks creasing in a half smile, takes off the lid of the teapot, and shoves the entire bunch of mint inside, cramming it down. Then she heaves up the kettle, shooting me another warning glance not to help, and pours a stream of boiling water over the herbs to steep them.

“Infusione alla menta,”
she says, sinking down into a creaky old armchair opposite me.
“Fa bene allo stomaco.”

She pats her tummy, hidden under the black folds of her dress. I nod. My mum drinks a lot of mint tea. She’s really into herbal stuff and health foods.

“Menta.”
I repeat the word for “mint.” I’ve seen it in ads here, for chewing gum.

“Si.”
Maria nods approvingly.

The mint smells delicious as it heats up, fresh and green. I remind myself I need to wait until Maria drinks it too, just in case.

“La principessa è come mia figlia,”
Maria says, her black
eyes intent on me, wanting me to understand what she says.
“Capisci? Come mia figlia.”

“Figlia,”
I think, means “daughter.” I take my time, piecing the words I’ve heard together: the princess, she’s saying, is her daughter? No,
“come.”
Which means “like.”
The princess is like her daughter
. I’ve got it.

“Principessa come figlia,”
I say, forgetting the word for “your” but pointing at her to hopefully convey it instead. The downside of learning a language is that you feel like an idiot stumbling over the words, bodging a sentence together as badly as a three-year-old. The upside is the pride in actually being able to communicate, no matter how basic your words are: I feel a huge rush of achievement as Maria nods vigorously in approval.

“Si! Si! Lei è come la mia figlia! E Luca, è come il mio figlio anche,”
she says, her eyes still fixed on mine, the dark pupils boring into me like twin electric drills.

I think I’m blushing at the mention of Luca. It’s so awful when you have a crush on someone, the way that you long to hear his name spoken, going out of your way to drop it into conversation, or leading the subject around to him in the hopes that someone else will mention him first and give you the excuse to talk about him. And hearing his name just once isn’t enough. It’s like a drug, you want it again and again. I look at her expectantly, wanting her to keep talking about him.

“È un bravo ragazzo,”
Maria says, nodding again, agreeing with her own words.

I know that: it means he’s a good boy. And to my surprise, part of me immediately thinks:
I’m not so sure
. I remember his
words to me, the last time I was here:
Sometimes I am not very nice
.

No. I’m honestly not sure whether Luca is a good boy
.

But I look around me again and think,
This is where Luca lives, in this eerie Gothic castle with all its treasures decaying
. It must be like living in a museum that no one visits. Pictures dusty, rugs fading, collections of stained crockery in the kitchen, which is sort of filthy itself. Just the principessa and Maria for company, and honestly, they’re a very odd pair.
No wonder he’s the way he is
, I think. I know he’s the same age as Andrea and Leonardo, nineteen, but he seems older. More grown up, less carefree. Cynical, even bitter sometimes. I think of the way Luca talked about his father, how much he hates the situation between his parents. What must his childhood have been like, growing up here?

Maria’s reached out to the teapot, swirling it in practiced circles, making sure the water infuses completely through the mint leaves. Then she picks it up and pours it into first her own mug, then my own. Steam rises from the mugs, deliciously scented, and the pale green transparent liquid is so pretty I almost hesitate when Maria opens a jar of honey, spoons out a dollop, stirs it into her mug, then pushes the jar across the table to me; it seems a shame to ruin the lovely color of the infusion.