Taking Tuscany (7 page)

Around noon the next day, the bread man arrives with our fresh bread delivery—but that's not all he brings us.

“A. J., what's wrong?” Daddy asks.

“I'm not sure you want to know.”

Dino snatches the newspaper
from my hands. “Oh man—that's our
mom!”

Daddy grabs the paper from Dino and reads aloud: “Sofia Loren impostor takes Rome for a ride.”

The front-page story explains how everyone fell for the grand movie star appearance at the fashion show, until reports verified that the real Loren was nowhere near Rome. By then the impostor was nowhere to be found.

Suddenly the front door flies open. “I'm home,” Mama yells.

We all jump up and show her the morning paper.

“I know all about it—saw it over coffee this morning and fled for the hills. Everybody just lay low until they call the dogs off—I don't think anyone followed me here.” She pulls off her dark glasses and head scarf. Then she beams and says, “So did you all see me?”

“Soph,” Daddy says, “you looked terrific, but don't you think you took it a little too far this time—I mean you created a real mob scene.”

“Yeah, Mama, you could go to jail for pretending to be someone famous and disrupting the public like that.”

Mama waves us all off with her hand. “Jail, schmail. Nobody seems to understand that I did absolutely nothing illegal at all. There I was, minding my own business, trying to see my own daughter in her big fashion show, and some nut yelled out, ‘It's Sofia Loren!' Everybody went crazy.”

“Well, you didn't have to play along with it,” I tell her.

“Listen up, toots. They would have mobbed me either way—just as they would if the real Sofia tried to deny it—they'd think she was just trying to get the paparazzi off her back. Now, I had the choice of having everyone touch and paw me to death, or sign autographs.”

“But you could be arrested for forging her signature.”

“A. J., you should know by now that I only sign my first name—which happens to be
Sophia.
” She gives me her most innocent smile.

5

Villa Rosa

Mama has been whirling around her guesthouse all week like a spinning top; scrubbing, polishing, decorating. Her first reservation for the
Ritz
, as us kids have dubbed it, is for a family of three from Kansas. Daddy says it's probably Dorothy, Auntie Em, and Toto, too.

“No, this is the Rizzatti family,” Mama tells him. “He's a doctor from the States who has relatives here they've come to visit. They're only staying with us for the night to break up their long drive.”

“The Rizzattis visit the Ritz.”
Hmm.
Could be a good name for a novel.

Mama takes a good glance around. “Well, everything is ready to go—except for that big blue eyesore on the hill, but not much can be done about that.”

“Don't worry, Soph, I've got you covered. I planted the dynamite pack—it's ready to blow the minute the Sophronias leave town.”

I'm visualizing the big blue palace exploding over the hills of Tuscany.

“Don't bother,” Mama says, “they'd just rebuild it and paint it something worse—like lime green.”

I take all this to mean that Mama is still not on speaking terms with her sister.

“Mama, what will there be to do for all of the guests that stay here? It's not like there's anything exciting to do out here on this boring hilltop. Wouldn't they rather stay in Florence or Rome, where all the action is?”

Mama is still fluffing and straightening everything for the hundredth time. “Oh, some guests will just want the peace and quiet of the countryside. Others will use our place as base camp to visit Florence and Pisa and all the tourist attractions. We're centrally located to many of the big cathedrals and, of course, the
David
.”

Oh, yes, let's not forget the
David.
When we first moved here that's all everyone ever asked me—have you been to see the
David?
The
David,
the
David,
the
David.
Finally, we went to see the
David—
on a rainy afternoon—the same time an Italian cruise line bused their tourists in to see it. So there we stood, in the pouring rain for hours, behind five hundred matching red umbrellas, all sporting the cruise-ship logo. After dripping like drenched rats all afternoon, we finally got to see the
David
. Stomping inside, sopping wet, I found myself staring at a
buck naked
statue of a man, showing
everything—
and I mean
everything.

I remember thinking
, So
this
is what everyone stood hours in the rain to see—some naked guy made of stone?
Ewww.
Is the world full of nuts or what? I don't know what I expected. Maybe some huge statue made of gold, with velvet robes and the crown jewels. It was, after all,
King
David. For Pete's sake, at least put a fig leaf on the king. Maybe this is where they got the idea for that fairy tale—
The Emperor's New Clothes.

Mama even bought a two-foot tall marble replica of David and put him in her bathroom beside the bathtub. I guess if you're naked, the bathroom is the right room to be in. Now, why a married woman would want a statue of another man—naked—I just don't get it. Even Nonna, who is obsessed with statues, refused to get one of the
David
. When she saw it in Mama's bathroom, she tied a handkerchief around his waist, and said only a pervert would want a statue of that. The
David
is one thing Nonna and I have always agreed on—maybe the
only
thing we've ever agreed on.

As far as the whole tourist scene goes, I have seen it all: the frescoes, the
duomo
in Florence, the Ponte Vecchio bridge over the River Arno, you name it—I've seen it. We've even been to what Benji calls the Leaning Tower of Pizza, in Pisa. So now that we've seen everything there is to see in Italy, I'd say it's time to go back home. I just can't get anyone else to see it that way.

Saturday afternoon I'm lounging out on the terrace engrossed in a five-hundred-page Russian saga, when a small black sports car roars up our hill and pulls in front of Mama's pink villa. Now when I say pink, I don't mean bright pink like bubble-gum pink. I mean a soft pink called
rosa
—like rose-petal pink. That's why she's decided to name it
Villa Rosa
, but the rest of us still call it the Ritz
.
I'm watching a man and woman pile out of the car with suitcases. A small girl climbs out behind them. The mother hands her a little crutch, which she uses to limp toward the guesthouse. The girl's complexion is much darker than her parents'. My guess is she's around nine or ten years old.

Mama greets the new guests with the warm welcome spiel, while Daddy hauls their luggage into the guest suite. I suddenly realize that this motel business is going to add a whole new dimension to my life. I'll have people to journal about again, just like when the summer people came to Indian Island.

Mama's chatting up a storm under the grape arbor with Mrs. Rizzatti. “You might think about taking a little dip in the pool this evening. Very refreshing on a day like today. My kids just live for the water. I'll bet your daughter likes to swim too …”

Oh, Mama, come on, the poor kid can hardly walk
.

“Rosa
loves
to swim.”

Figures.

Leaving the family in peace, Mama reappears on the terrace. “The Rizzattis will be joining us for supper tonight. Can I get your head out of that book long enough to help set the table?”

That's part of Mama's welcome package; the first meal is with us. This way the guests can see who they're stuck with for their vacation. Wait 'til they meet Nonna.

“Before you start on the table, could you please hunt up a tray for Nonna? I think we'll serve her supper in her own place tonight.”

Wise choice
.
“So what's the story with that little girl?”

“Isn't she a doll? Apparently they adopted her last year from an orphanage in Guatemala.”

“And what about her leg?”

“I'm pretty sure they adopted that, too.” Mama snickers.

I give her a straight face. The last thing I want to do is encourage her warped sense of humor.

“According to Mrs. Rizzatti, Dr. Rizzatti performed surgery on little Rosa while he was on a medical mission, and they ended up adopting her. Poor little thing will always walk with a limp. They gave her an Italian middle name, Bella, so she's
Rosa Bella,
meaning beautiful rose.”

That much I figured out.

“They brought her to Italy to meet their relatives, and booked Villa Rosa because of the name.”

“Rosa Bella Visits Villa Rosa.”
I like it. I think I'll add that to the new novel lineup—after
Moon over Milan
and
The Secret Lives of Nuns.

I have been put in charge of arranging the candles and place settings in the formal dining room. The table looks like something the knights of the round table ate at—except it's not round. But it is seriously long, and can hold up to fifty people. These Italians are used to big gatherings. We have some pretty neat old candlesticks, dishes, and fancy silverware that we found in the cupboards when we moved in here. It all goes with the medieval-castle theme going on in this place. I hope these folks are into “old.”

Mama's decided on spaghetti for supper, since it's the one traditional Italian dish that everyone, especially Americans, seem to like. True Italian spaghetti is nothing like American spaghetti. Italian spaghetti is mostly pasta with a little sauce. American spaghetti is a little pasta drenched in sauce. Mama likes to hit somewhere between the two, then goes wild with the Parmesan cheese.

The guests arrive at our front door just as Mama's placing steaming bowls on the table. “Go call your brothers to the table, A. J., and I'll get the door.”

“Dino, Benji, J. R., come-n-get-it!” I holler from the back door.

Mama yanks me back inside. “Angelina, did I ask you to call Rin Tin Tin to supper, or your brothers?”

Is there a difference?

Benji and Dino tromp through the back door, dripping wet. They know by Mama's glare that they'd better shape up and dry off before they come to the table. We were all given
the talk
at breakfast on how to pretend we're from a dignified family who grew up with manners; the best actor wins a prize when the guests go home.

Once the boys reappear—looking like cherubs from heaven—Daddy asks a blessing over our guests and our food. I can't help staring at little Rosa. She looks across the table at me with those big brown eyes. How anyone could give up a child like that I do not understand.

It's nice to be able to speak English with these folks. The best part is Mrs. Rizzatti is a Southerner and has a full-blown Southern accent, which just soothes me to the core. “So, A. J.,” she says, “where do y'all ride horses 'round here?”

Every time she talks I smile over at Mama and beam. I know it reminds her of the summer at Indian Island when I intentionally talked with a Southern accent and drove her nuts. When I answer Mrs. Rizzatti, I glance over at Mama and say, “Just over yonder a piece,” and point up the road.

I can read Mama like a book. Right about now she's thinking,
Watch it, you're walking a pretty fine line, toots.

Halfway through supper Nonna wanders in wearing her bathrobe and slippers, holding her empty tray. “Well, it seems I've missed the party.”

“This is my mother, Juliana,” Mama interjects.

“Lovely to meet you,” Mrs. Rizzatti replies. “Won't you join us?”

Nonna sets her tray on the counter and says, “Oh, no, I'm not allowed at the family table anymore. I've been shunned for some time now.” She tosses her silverware in the sink, causing a loud clank when it hits the porcelain. “Well, back to my dungeon.” Nonna sighs, and shuffles out. Daddy smiles. Benji giggles. Mama sighs back.

After supper I'm reading by the pool while the boys dive for rings. Little Rosa comes hobbling down the hill in her bathing suit. “How can she swim with that leg of hers?” Benji whispers.

“We'll find out, I guess.” I stick a feather in my book and move over by the shallow end. Rosa may need some help getting into the water. When she reaches the patio, she limps right past me to the deep end, executes a perfect swan dive, and comes up swimming like a fish. I'm standing here gawking like an idiot.

“Want to dive for rings with us?” Benji asks her.

“Sure!” Her face lights right up.

I toss the rings in the deep end for her, thinking she might get one at a time. Kicking her crooked little leg like mad, Rosa comes up holding all four rings. I can't help myself from clapping. Dino and Benji are clapping too. “Rosa, does your leg hurt when you swim?” Benji asks.