Free Silence Is Golden by Laura Mercuri Page B

Emilia.”
    “Hello, Mr. Ferrari.”
    What the hell is he doing here?
    “Didn’t we agree that you’d call me Marcello?” he replies, grinning as if he won the lottery. I quickly put the book away and step in front of the counter.
    “Yes, of course. How can I help you, Marcello?”
    “I wanted to apologize to you about yesterday.”
    “I really should be the one to apologize,” I admit.
    “Oh, no. It was my fault. See, Mr. Moser told me about you, that you were beautiful and kind, and so I wanted to meet you. My question about books by authors from Abruzzo was just an excuse to talk to you, I confess.”
    “It did seem strange that you wanted information you must know that you could probably get from the Internet.”
    “Yeah,” he says, looking down. “I should have been honest from the start. How can I make it up to you?”
    “There’s nothing to forgive. It was my fault too.”
    “So . . . friends?”
    “Sure.”
    “Then how about a nice cup of tea at the corner café? To celebrate our new friendship.”
    Frankly, I find him even more boring than Mr. Moser, but I can’t be a jerk after he was so honest with me, especially after he apologized.
    “Actually, Helga’s not here today, so I can’t really leave the store.”
    “Ah yes, I saw her at school earlier. Perhaps you could just leave a note on the door. We won’t be gone longer than fifteen minutes, I promise.”
    I agree and quickly scrawl a couple of lines on some paper, then tape it on the door. It shouldn’t be a problem; the bookstore isn’t exactly Bren’s most popular spot.
     
    As we make our way to the café, Marcello talks nonstop. I suddenly feel a yearning for Aris’s silence.
    “I started to reread Ovid’s lyrics. It’s been years since I’ve read them. They’re so beautiful and full of poetry.”
    Well, duh, they’re poems. And what did he call them? Lyrics? This guy is such an airhead.
    We enter the café and sit at a table. A waitress immediately greets us. I order a jasmine tea and Marcello orders a coffee.
    “Coffee? Didn’t we come here for tea?” I ask.
    “Actually, I can’t stand tea.”
    “I couldn’t do without it. And I love the ritual of it. The kettle, the teapot, the teacups . . . And I love croissants and cookies—”
    “I don’t eat sweets,” he replies.
    Oh, my. How sad. I look down at the cup of tea that’s just been placed before me, and I pour in milk and sugar.
    “Damn, if you always take your tea like that, you won’t stay skinny much longer,” Marcello comments.
    A comparison between Aris and him pops into my head. Aris had said, “You like it sweet,” in his low, kind, nonjudgmental voice. What am I doing here with this asshole?
    I’m still aware of him sitting next to me, blathering on about lessons, students, and other teachers, but I’m not really listening until I hear him say “Emma.” At that, I look up and ask him apologetically to repeat what he’s just said.
    “I said that Emma, the florist, should pay more attention to her daughter’s behavior. She acts like her daughter’s beyond reproach, but I’ve heard that the girl’s been around . . .”
    “Nonsense!” I reply in disgust. “That’s just cruel gossip. I know both of them, and Giorgia is simply a girl whose head is filled with romantic ideas.”
    “Sorry, but haven’t you only been here for a few months? How can you be so sure?”
    “I’m a good judge of character,” I say, feeling my anger grow.
    “Seriously?” he replies sarcastically. “Aren’t you a little presumptuous, eh?”
    “Better to be presumptuous than be a petty gossip like you!” I blurt out, abruptly rising and bumping the table in my haste. Marcello’s cup of coffee spills on his pants, and he cries out.
    “Ah! It burns!”
    As the waitress rushes over, I flee.
     
    As I walk toward the bookstore, I see Aris far ahead of me. Damn it, he must have read my note. He wouldn’t be able to hear me even if I screamed his name,