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“I was hoping this girl had followed me down the road. I was calling on her at her mother’s house and invited her to come to my father’s restaurant and I was looking behind me hoping to see her and I did not notice your car when you turned onto the road. I was stupid.”
Marco returned to the driver’s seat and tried to start his car. It sputtered once and twice and then groaned into silence.
“I can have this fixed for you,” the boy insisted. “My cousin fixes things, even cars, though we do not see many. He can come out to do it first thing in the morning if we can get the vehicle off the road for now. The accident was my fault. Please let me take care of you for the night. Come back with me to my home. It is down the road. We will feed you. It is the least I can do. We have empty rooms where the two of you can stay.”
Marco tried to start the car again and was met with silence. His hands gripping the wheel were white with tension. Neither of us wanted to stay the night in Sciacca, but it was getting dark and there were no good options for returning up the mountain. We could have perhaps paid someone to take us, but the price would have been high and the danger of being on the roads so late with a stranger would not have been worth it. There were still many desperate men out of work, all of them looking to find money, to take money, and it would be too easy for the brigands and highwaymen to attack us in the darkness when they could not be easily identified.
“We will need two rooms,” Marco said. “And do you have a telephone?”
“We do not, but there is one not very far from here.”
One public telephone line had recently been installed in our village inside the shop that sold wine and liquor and tobacco, the most visited store in the village. I felt relieved that we could tell Cettina what happened to us.
“Let me get my father’s carriage.” The boy ran off, leaving the two of us alone on the side of the road.
“Wait here,” Marco said. “I always bring something with me in case of an emergency.”
He went to the auto trunk and pulled out a small leather satchel. I assumed it was a gun for our protection and I shivered as he reached into his bag. I’d never seen a handgun in person, and I had no interest in seeing one now even if it was meant to keep us safe. The night was so black I could not make out what was in his hand as he approached me. I shied away from him.
“Have a piece?” he insisted.
In his hand he held a small bar of chocolate. I laughed at how frightened I had been only moments before.
“Yes, please.” The chocolate was hard and difficult to break with my hands.
“Just take a bite,” he encouraged me. I scraped my top teeth along the thick bar of sweetness, letting a piece break away and fall onto my tongue. The explosion of flavor inside my mouth was unlike anything I had ever tasted. There was a spice in the taste, a hint of cinnamon. It was not buttery like the chocolate I’d had before. Individual grains of sugar dissolved on my tongue. I allowed a low moan of pleasure to escape my lips and even though it was too dark to see Marco’s face I knew he was smiling at the sound.
“It is good, yes?”
“Better than good.” I took another bite, sure I would have a stomachache if I ate too much and not caring.
“It is a special chocolate. All the way from Modica on the southeastern part of the island. They make it differently there than anywhere else in the world. They do not use cocoa butter, or so I have been told, I am no expert in the making of chocolate. But they say it is an ancient recipe passed down by Spaniards who lived in eastern Sicily hundreds of years ago. It was taught to them by the native people in Mexico. I have a friend who works with the mayor of the city of Modica and when we meet in Palermo he brings me bars and bars of this. I hide them from my children. Am I a terrible father for keeping them all to myself?”
“Not at all. I am honored you shared them with me.”
“After today and tonight we deserve a little enjoyment.”
I nearly choked on the last bit of chocolate in my mouth, wondering if there was more to the meaning of his words than just the sweetness of the candy.
There was a rumble in the road. We stepped out of the way of the cart that was barreling toward us.
“I am Enzo,” the boy said when we settled next to him, “and my father is grateful that you did not kill me even though he says I deserve it. He wants to feed you and thank you in person. He said not to worry about your car. He has asked his brothers to come and push it to the shop and they will fix it in the morning when the sun rises. It will be good as new. Maybe even better.”
Back at Enzo’s home we were greeted by his stern-looking father and fat mamma, who sat us down by their fire, poured us generous cups of wine, and immediately placed plates of roasted goat in front of us, meat that had just fallen off the bone after soaking in broth all day. I ate it faster than I’d eaten anything in my life. I drank the entire glass of wine and let her fill it up again for me. I hadn’t been drinking much wine since my babies were born. It often gave me a headache, but I welcomed the lightness it brought me. I felt even more relaxed when Marco assured me he had reached Cettina on the phone and all of my boys were safe in a bed in their home waiting for me to return tomorrow.
“Do not forget to get the polpo and the tuna.” I suddenly remembered. “We must return to the fish market tomorrow. We nearly forgot and Cettina will be so angry with me if we don’t bring it back.”
“I am a bad husband. I cannot believe I forgot.”
“You are a wonderful husband. A wonderful man.” I meant it, but the wine was making my tongue loose.
When Marco sat back down, he was slightly closer to me, so close our thighs were nearly touching and I knew I should slide away, but I did not want to. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to feel his skin right up against mine, to lean into him and see what might happen. But no sooner did I have the thought than he stretched his long arms over his head and yawned again.
“We should get to bed.”
“We should,” I agreed.
I felt his eyes on me as I took the stairs in front of him and wondered if he was having the same thoughts I was having. I’d had too much wine. He was married to my best friend. I was married to a man who was across the sea. And yet, feeling his gaze ignited something inside me. I paused at the door to my room and turned to him in the small hallway, knowing there was hardly enough space for the two of us to face one another. What if I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him into me? My heart thrummed against my rib cage. I was certain he could hear it, maybe even see it through my thin smock. The fronts of our bodies were nearly touching as he lowered his head and brushed his lips across my cheek.
