Margherita's Notebook (30 page)

Nicola could hardly believe he'd just gone from accuser to accused.

“Don't try to change the subject!” he replied in a fury. “You're the one who took advantage of my good faith—”

“No!” she interrupted him. And that one-syllable word had such a ring of truth that it threw him for a loop. “You're wrong, and this is proof that you don't know me. If I'd known the truth”—she took a step in his direction and looked him straight in the eye—“I would have told you what I thought and, yes, of course, I would have told Giovanale, too! You can be sure about that! But I didn't. I don't play dirty.”

For an instant Nicola thought she was authentic, real, genuine. Just like everything she defended tooth and nail,
from organic lettuce to her feelings. Then he angrily erased that thought: he had facts, he had proof.

“I don't believe you. The phone records speak loud and clear. The message was sent from your phone.”

“Do you really think I would have been so stupid as to do a thing like that?” She looked at him bitterly. “I don't even have Giovanale's number!” she added, almost to herself.

The anger was deflating. Like a soufflé when someone opens the oven door while it's still baking. She wanted to hear nothing else. But she did have one last thing to say.

“If you manipulate wine, then you manipulate people, too. For a moment there, I thought you were different.” She looked deep into his eyes. “I was obviously mistaken. You'll always be someone who can't tell the difference between a
berlingozzo
and a
brigidino
!”

E
veryone has their own way of dealing with sadness. Some give vent to their creativity so they won't have to think, while others clam up and lick their wounds, thinking about every lost second.

Margherita, as always, sought refuge in her cooking.

But something was off this time: her roasts burned, her custard curdled, she added sugar instead of salt or salt instead of sugar. She continued to cook all the same. She had to keep busy so that her mind wouldn't wander. But the delicacies she prepared expressed what was tormenting her inside. Her life had become completely tasteless. No more sweetness, no more spiciness to exalt the senses; everything tasted bland.

Armando, on his part, had holed up in the living room with the curtain drawn so that the light couldn't filter in, where he kept listening to the tango version of “Roxanne” he'd danced to with Giulia.

That morning, having missed him for several days, Italo, Gualtiero, and Serafino had paid a visit to see if he wanted to play a friendly game of poker, something that Armando had never refused.

But today his answer had been, “I want to be alone!”

“Has your mind turned to mush? You spend the whole day locked up in the house listening to this funeral dirge . . .” had been Italo's words.

“Don't make us beg you. You shouldn't betray your old friends this way,” Serafino had added.

“Love those who love you, and answer those who call out to you!” had been Gualtiero's contribution, which had made the three friends burst out laughing.

By way of an answer, Armando had thrown them out of the house, shouting, “You're a bunch of idiots! Get out of my sight! I said no and I mean no! And don't show your faces around here again! I want to be left alone!”

The three of them had left with their tails between their legs, convinced their friend had lost his mind on account of Giulia. Because people were talking in Roccafitta, and everyone knew that Giulia refused to hear his name mentioned.

And so Margherita, having put aside her own sadness, was forced to worry about her father. That all he wanted to do was listen to the tango was something she could understand, but the fact that he'd refused to join the weekly poker game was worrisome. It meant that the situation couldn't be any worse. Like a general about to harangue the troops, she marched over to the stereo and turned the music off.

“That's enough! I've had enough of this song!”

Without a word, Armando walked over to where she
was standing and pulled out another CD. The notes of “Ti amo” by Umberto Tozzi filled the room, and Armando began singing, staring at nothing with an empty gaze.

“No, Papa, not this song!” Margherita said in despair. “What's going on? Please, let's talk, we can't go on like this.”

Armando turned to look at her. “She's right, I'm a good-for-nothing,” he admitted bitterly, and he told his daughter the whole story. “And to think that for once I'd behaved in a gentlemanly way . . .”

Margherita sat down next to him. When he finished talking, she hugged him. “I'm sure this can be fixed. If you want, I can talk to Giulia. I can tell her that the money Salvatore gave you had nothing to do with the bet. You'll see, she'll believe
me.
” She smiled at her father. “One brokenhearted person in the house is enough; two are far too many!”

Armando lowered his eyes and shook his head. “No, Margy, she's right. You're wrong to stick up for me.”

Well, had he or hadn't he made a bet with Salvatore?

“I'm tired of fooling everyone. I've already made enough of a mess of things,” Armando admitted, and he stood up to get his wallet. “The truth is that Salvo lent me that money so that I could go gamble it . . .”

No, Papa! Not again!

“Number 44 still hadn't come up,” he went on, “and I couldn't lose everything. I couldn't lose the house, too.”

“But you told me you'd quit . . .” Margherita was shocked by his words.

“Lies. All lies. I told you a lie when I said I was seeing a psychologist about my gambling addiction. I was hoping the number would come up and I would be able to pay off my debts and straighten everything out.”

“You're out of your mind!” Margherita burst out, feeling the earth move under her feet.

For the first time in many days, Armando smiled at her, although objectively it seemed to be the wrong time to be doing so.

“But I think I'm over it,” he answered, handing Salvatore's money to her. “I didn't gamble away the money. You take it. Now that I've told you everything, I feel a little bit better.”

Too bad I feel like I'm on a one-way ticket to hell! What are we going to do now?

“Do you realize they're going to take away everything we own just because of a stupid unlucky number?” Margherita was furious with herself. “It's all my fault, I should never have left you alone. Mama always said the lottery would be your downfall . . . and I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. Why, Papa?”

If her goal had been to make him feel guilty, she'd succeeded. Despite his recklessness, this time even Armando knew he'd made a mess of things.

“I'm sorry, kiddo . . . ,” he mumbled sorrowfully as he went off to his bedroom to be alone.

All he wanted to do was sleep and not think of anything anymore.

What's better, to know the truth and feel trapped, or to know nothing and end up over a cliff?

Margherita was overcome with anguish and sadness.

In a situation like this, not even cooking will help. There's only one thing that might help: flower therapy.

So Margherita went into her bedroom and looked around on the bookshelf for her handbook of Bach flower remedies.

She quickly leafed through the entries.

Centaury.
Fear of the unknown, lack of willpower.

Hmmm . . . this might work. Fear of the unknown. And who wouldn't be afraid, knowing that someone's going to take away your restaurant and maybe even your house? Then again, I'm not sure I can be accused of lacking willpower . . .

Cerato.
Indecision, lack of confidence in one's own instincts.

That's it! I have no idea what to do. How can I possibly trust my instincts? I believed everything Armando told me and . . .

She thought of Nicola, of the moment she'd let herself go, trusting her instincts, in spite of the fact that they were so different.

The next time someone tells me to “trust my instincts,” I'm going to kill them!

Gentian.
Disheartened about something that has turned life upside down.

Bingo! But can I take all of them at the same time?

Worried about the remedy having the opposite effect, Margherita decided to bide her time. She turned on the radio to get her mind off things, and Roberta Flack singing “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” made her feel like she'd been punched in the stomach.

Margherita couldn't hold back the tears any longer.

Electricity bills, telephone bills, taxes. Armando hid them under the bed, in the closet, behind the pots and pans. He looked around furtively and tucked them away wherever he could. But the more he did so, the more they seemed to multiply. Even the bank manager looked at him reproachfully, his arms folded, a scowl on his face.

“Carletti, you're
going to end up living under a bridge,” he warned him.

“What bridge? There aren't any bridges in Roccafitta!”

“Maybe not in Roccafitta, but there's one left in Genoa, the only one after the flood!”

But this flood was one of biblical proportions. The water kept pouring in from everywhere, the sky, the land, the sea. Armando was about to drown when he saw a ray of light and Erica emerging from it, wearing her apron with the large red checks, a look of disappointment on her face.

“My poor darling, if I'd still been around, none of this would have happened. If I think of my restaurant . . .”

“Erica, I didn't want to! You know me, I was sure everything would be taken care of . . .” Suddenly, Armando no longer felt aggrieved. Erica was back, and he didn't have to worry anymore. She was going to find a solution to their problems. He walked in her direction, but the more he walked, the farther away she seemed to be.

“Wait . . . ,” he shouted, “I need you!”

To which Erica replied, “Liar, what you need is the tango. Dance, Armando, dance . . .”

“I don't know how to dance anymore, my love . . .”

Hearing Erica's tinkling laughter was like a balm for his ears.

“When are you going to stop with the phony baloney?” she reproached him good-naturedly. “You're like a chile pepper, shiny and bright, domineering and aggressive. You'll find the way . . .”

Then she walked toward a large door with a sign over it that said
OTTOL
.

“My love, wait, don't leave me!” Armando cried out, stopping her before she could go inside.

Erica turned around and, before entering, she whispered to him, “Remember Genoa, the bridges and the tango . . . Only once. Never more after that.”

“Erica . . . Erica!”

Armando shouted and woke up with a start. The dream and his wife's words were still clear in his mind. He got up to look for Margherita, but his daughter had taken Artusi for his walk. Armando checked his watch, then he rummaged through the kitchen drawers, took out an envelope, which he put it in his pocket, and took his jacket and left the house.

When he got back, he found Margherita taking a meat loaf out of the oven. It had been her mother's favorite dish. Armando took it to be a good sign, but he didn't want to say so to his daughter. Margherita kept giving him surly looks, so he was especially helpful, setting the table and making sure all the animals were fed.

“There's no point doing all these things, I'm never going to forgive you.”

Armando didn't protest. Margherita had every reason to be furious at him, and he was willing to accept any recriminations. As Margherita was slicing the meat loaf, he turned on the TV.

“Let's watch the news,” he said, putting on channel two.

“Cagliari: 68, 73, 67, 2, 15. Florence: 35, 56, 90, 84, 2, 3,” said the voice that was listing all the numbers that had come up that day.