Margherita's Notebook (6 page)

“Margherita, darling! Listen to me. I need to talk to you . . . please . . .” His tone became beseeching, almost desperate. The
hangdog look on his face completed the picture.

The guy's a real artist, he's almost better than I am.
The thought escaped Armando, who immediately tried to censor it.
What am I thinking? This is my daughter we're talking about!
He went and stood before his son-in-law, in the role that suited him the least, that of the strict head of the family.

“If you don't want to talk to him, I'll send him away!” he thundered, trying to sound credible.

Strangely enough, Margherita appeared to be quite calm.

“Don't worry, Papa, you can leave us alone.”

Armando, puzzled, looked back and forth from Margherita to Francesco.

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

Armando hastily abandoned the battlefield, well aware that the role of peacemaker was not suited to him. What's more, there was a conflict of interests here: while on the one hand he was afraid his daughter would give in again, on the other he couldn't help rooting for Francesco.

After her father left the room, Margherita looked at her husband and gave him a broad smile. He hugged her, looking like he was about to cry. Then, as he always did, he hit the ground running. “My love, I knew you'd understand . . . I didn't know how to explain it to you . . . I'm in love with two women. I'm in love with you, but with her, too. Naturally, each of you in a different way, but I
do
love both of you! Forgive me for not telling you about Meg, but I didn't know how . . . I know, I know, I'm a coward, a liar, a jerk, a worm, the ugliest thing on earth . . . but now I want to fix everything . . . I want to act like a man . . . I want . . . I want . . .” His voice petered out in a whimper somewhere between the
comical and the pathetic. Suddenly, after his improvised monologue, he was at a loss for words. For a second, he was afraid he'd said a whole slew of stupid things, so, with hope in his eyes, he looked at Margherita. She'd know what to do, she always did! Margherita burst out laughing. “In other words, you don't want to give up anything. You want me, you want her, you want the best of both worlds, right?

Francesco breathed a sigh of relief. A smile shone on his face, the face of a grown-up kid. His Margherita had understood, and now everything would fall back into place.

“More or less. There must be a way . . . right?” he answered innocently.

“Well, I suppose you could alternate: one day with me, the next with Meg, and so on. You can be a part-time husband. A modern, democratic solution. What do you say?

“Brilliant . . . I didn't even dare make the suggestion.”

Margherita couldn't believe her ears. She could feel the anger boiling like milk in a saucepan over a flame that's too high.

“Did you actually believe I was serious?”

Francesco looked at her, confused, a smile still lingering on his lips.

“Well, I thought . . .”

And that was when Margherita exploded.

“Did you really think I would be willing to share you with your mistress? Did you think I would play the part of Penelope, while you had your fling? Or did you
think
”—she pronounced the word slowly and with all the sarcasm she could muster—“that you could maybe even suggest a threesome?”

Francesco took a step back, frightened by this outburst of anger. Where had his Margherita gone? Who was this
stranger looking at him as though she wanted to disintegrate him?

“No, I—”

She had no intention of letting him speak.

“If you were a member of the human race, you would have known I would never put up with such a thing. Do you at least know how to
read
?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“But what? There is no
but
, no subtext, there's nothing to
understand.
I left you that letter to tell you one thing: It's
over
! It took Meg to help me find the courage and the strength to admit it to myself. So hurray for Meg, hurray for your great, fabulous love! I'm finally free. Get it?”

Francesco, who was feeling more and more lost, mumbled, “No, I don't . . .”

Margherita stared at him, exasperated, and wondered why she suddenly found it so easy to say that she wasn't in love with him anymore.

“Let me try a different approach. I have no intention of continuing to be your mother, your sister, or your friend. I care about you, but I won't go back to you for one simple reason: I do not love you anymore.”

“But
I
love you!”

“Exactly.
I, I, I.
”

He looked at her without comprehension.

And she gave up trying to explain it to him. She was finally seeing him for what he was: a spoiled, selfish little boy.

Francesco had tears in his eyes, and in a trembling voice asked her, “What am I going to do now?”

Margherita looked him in the eye. And then she smiled. “Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.”

She turned her back and left him alone.

Francesco stood there, shell-shocked, motionless, unable to utter a sound. That was how Armando, who had watched the scene from a safe distance, found him.

“Drink this. Eighty proof. You'll see, it'll pick up your spirits,” he said, handing him a glass of Chianti grappa.

“Did you hear what she said? She wasn't . . . she wasn't herself!”

Francesco tossed down the liquor in a gulp. Armando filled his glass again.

“Francesco, I like you, you know that. But really, what did you expect?”

His son-in-law looked at him hopelessly.

“I don't know, I was hoping she'd understand, that she'd see it my way, that . . .”

At a loss for words, he gulped down another glass and collapsed onto the sofa.

Armando sat down next to him, poured him a third glass of liquor, and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Even Margherita's mother, when she couldn't stand me and my philandering anymore, would say she wanted to leave me . . .”

“Oh?” Francesco replied, a dazed look in his eyes.

“Too many flings, too many absences . . . I could never make her feel secure.” Armando's eyes were glistening. “When the cancer took her away from me four years ago, I felt guilty. I wasn't a good husband.”

This time it was Francesco who put his hand on Armando's shoulder.

“I wouldn't say that, come on . . .” His speech was slurred.

“But it's true!” his father-in-law replied heatedly, after pouring
himself a generous glass of grappa. “I've always been too shallow, even with Margherita. Yes, all right, I was good at playing games with her, at being fun, always, I was carefree, good at making her laugh, good at turning everything into a big party. But as for everything else? Terrible.”

“What're you saying? She idolizes you!”

“You're right, and that's why she went out and found a carbon copy,” Armando remarked bitterly. “But I will confess one thing, don't take it the wrong way, I'm happy that she figured it out in time and that now she can find a man she can count on. By now she should know what she really wants in a man . . . at least, I hope so.”

Francesco, who by this time was completely drunk, howled, “Margherita with another man!”

This was followed by yet another glass.

Later, when Margherita returned home in the company of Asparagio, Ratatouille, and Artusi, she found her husband on the sofa in what appeared to be a state of profound unconsciousness. Not even Artusi's enthusiastic licks could bring him around. All he managed to do was grunt twice and utter a series of inarticulate sounds, before falling fast asleep again.

“What did you give him, Armando?” Margherita asked her father reproachfully.

He gave her an innocent look. “What do you think I gave him? A shot of something to pick him up.”

Margherita turned to look at Francesco.

“He's plastered.”

Armando assumed a guilty air.

“Maybe the grappa was a little strong,” he admitted. Then he gave her a big smile. “But he really needed it.”

Margherita rolled her eyes. There was no point arguing
with her father, too. She looked at Francesco again, who stirred as he muttered things like, “No, Margherita, no . . . please. Yes, Meg, my Meg . . .”

“Clearly, he can't drive back to Rome in this state.”

Armando nodded.

“And clearly I don't intend to let him sleep in my bed.”

“So where shall we put him?”

Margherita pointed to the sofa.

“He'll be perfectly fine right where he is.”

A
familiar sound, one that reminded her of her childhood, just like the pink wallpaper in her old bedroom, the humming of the boiler, and the chirping of the blackbirds in the garden—reached Margherita as she lay still half asleep and curled up in the bed she'd slept in when she was a little girl. It was the
click clack
of the coffee machine that Armando had been setting up every morning for as long as she could remember. Margherita opened her eyes, and it all came rushing back to her: her last day in Rome, the eviction letter, Meg . . . and Francesco drunk downstairs.

I'll never make it. Or maybe I just don't want to make it. I don't want to have to endure another pathetic scene.

Margherita got dressed and headed for the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Armando greeted her, smiling. “Coffee?” He handed her a mug just as he'd always done, without waiting for her to answer.

“Thanks,” said
Margherita, taking a small jar of cinnamon from one of the shelves. Armando shook his head and smiled, amused.

“Sorry, kiddo. Five years aren't long enough for me to have forgotten my daughter's habits. You can kick me for that, I deserve it,” he joked.

Margherita laughed, snapped the cinnamon stick in half, and dunked it in the coffee.

Armando handed her his mug and she flavored his, too.

In the sunlit kitchen, the two of them savored a moment of quiet understanding that was as warm and familiar as the aroma of the freshly brewed coffee.

“Would you do something for me?” Margherita asked her father.

“Are you asking me to take care of him?” Armando said, his head pointing toward the living room from which the irregular rhythm of snoring could be heard.

“Yes, please.”

“What should I say to him?”

“That it's better if he heads back to Rome, back to his Meg,” replied Margherita without hesitating. “And tell him to stay there, because I don't need him anymore.”

Armando nodded and made no further comment.

“I'm going out for a walk.”

“Have a nice one, darling.”

Margherita smiled tensely, then she gave her father a kiss on the cheek that smelled of fresh aftershave.

“Ciao, Pa . . . I mean, Armando. And thanks.”

Outside, the air smelled of approaching summer. The sun was warm, the colors were bright, and the scent of mown
grass was in the air. Everything felt new, and Margherita's body felt like it was made of bubbles.

I'm free.

She strolled down the narrow streets of the town. She felt like running, jumping. For the first time in a long time, Margherita felt light, drunk with the colors and the fragrances of this place that made her feel so good, so much at home. As she walked, she recognized faces she knew well, and ones that she knew less well but were still familiar. Then, the customary stop at Serafino's bakery.

“Welcome back, Margherita! I just took this
cecina
out of the oven. Here,” the old baker greeted her and offered her a slice of pizza topped with cured ham. Margherita bit into it hungrily. Another reminder of her childhood.

“Oh, wow, I need to learn how to make this!”

It reminded her of her mother.

“It's an old recipe, sweetheart, but a simple one: A cup of water, a cup of chickpea flour, a few drops of oil. But remember these three secrets: you have to let it rest overnight, roll it out so it's very thin, and bake it on a copper sheet. That's the only way it'll be crisp and tasty.”

It was as if she could still hear her mother's voice—warm, with a weak
c
and
g
typical of the Florentine accent.

Margherita said good-bye to Serafino and continued on her way. At the very top of the town, overlooking the valley, with the sea in the distance, there was an old building with a faded sign:
ERICA'S.
Closed. The doors and windows barred. The family restaurant. Actually, her mother's restaurant (where Armando's job was simply that of PR man, especially with the female tourists). The place had been shut for years, but Margherita always kept the key with her, like a lucky charm.