Chapter 4: The Cinquecento in the Driveway

MARGHERITA

“I really am sorry; I can see I’ve been thoughtless.” Azzurra’s expression suddenly changed to alertness. “I’ll ask again later; you two have another visitor.”

I barely caught that last phrase before our guest shimmered and re-formed. Her blue-green hair deepened to glossy black with blue highlights; her gown dimmed from iridescent aqua to dark silver as her overall turquoise glow faded.

“I’ll get it,” she announced, standing up and walking away to our front door. After her third step, we heard the “bong” of our doorbell.

“How did she...?” I asked Frank, foolishly. She’d been demonstrating “powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men,” to copy the description of Superman in his old TV show. Could she leap tall buildings in a single bound? I shook my head, trying to get my brain back on track, but Azzurra weirded me out again.

She was chattering away in rapid Italian (I think it was Italian) with a guy. I couldn’t see into the foyer, but he sounded like Jacob Hamblin, our neighbor on the left.

They joined us; it was Jacob after all. We stood up to greet him, and he took a seat on our sofa with Azzurra as if the two were old friends. Switching to English, Azzurra cleverly explained her cover story for our benefit.

“I was just explaining to Jacob that I’m Frank’s cousin, Azzurra Collodi, on a long-term American visit from Europe. Apparently, I parked my Cinquecento in the wrong place.”

Jacob took over, then. It turned out a lot of information was exchanged at our door.

“I came over here to see you because somebody had parked a blue-green Fiat 500 partly in my driveway. I did remember seeing all kinds of bad driving when I was over in Tuscany. Anyways, I wondered if you might have an idea who belonged to that little bug-shaped car. Azzurra confessed, and she also admitted she was from the area east of Florence as well.”

Frank looked our neighbor in the eye. “That’s all well and good. But what’s going on with your voice? You sounded as if you grew up eating nothing but pasta and gelato, you know, Peg’s favorites. Until just now, you spoke 100% red-blooded American. You’re a secret communist? Confess!”

Frank softened his bluster with a smile, but I understood his confusion.

“Okay, I’ll explain. I’m from Utah—where some people think Republicans are left-wing radicals. When I was young and foolish, the Mormon church sent me to Tuscany as a missionary with a set of translated scriptures, and I learned Italian mostly by immersion.”

On the one hand, he conveyed a “I must have been out of my mind” feeling about proselytizing. On the other, he took pride in learning the language and spending time with the Italian people.

“Oh, dopey me, you’re Frank Capello; I should have realized your heritage from your name.”

My husband didn’t agree with Jacob’s supposition. “No, I’m an American—not an Italian-American. Even my grandparents spoke English, although with an accent.”

Azzurra appeared wounded. “Oh, sorry, Azzurra, I don’t mean Americans are better than Italians. I just don’t have a personal connection or much knowledge of Italy.”

Watching them, I saw Azzurra’s lips curl into a knowing, subtle smile. The message was clear on her face: ‘No offense taken, but I’m going to fix that language deficit for you soon, Frank.’ Meanwhile, my mind was caught up in a paradox.

“Why would a supernatural being be driving and parking a car?”

In addition to that, another paradox troubled me, so I decided to mention it.

“Jacob, we’ve known each other for a while. If you’re a Mormon, how come I’ve been seeing you drinking beer and cups of coffee? Are you going to tell me you’re just bad at being Mormon?”

“Yes, no, uh, I WAS bad at it and officially left the church. I’ll just say, in that community where I was raised, your life is organized and programmed starting when you’re a small child: high school, mission, marriage, college, kids, and a job.”