Margherita's Notebook Read Free

respected? Were the ingredients all natural? Did the milk come from select dairies? Did the aging process take place in a controlled environment? Were they sure there was no contamination of the aquifers?
    As she fired off these questions, the smile on the man’s face gradually faded away.
    â€œAll you’re supposed to worry about is selling the product, nothing else,” he answered drily.
    â€œAre you saying you won’t answer my questions? You can’t expect me to convince people to buy something without knowing whether it’s genuine, or whether it might be harmful to their health?”
    He glared at her and said, “Okay, then, you’re free to go.”
    Margherita was thrown for a loop. “Go where?”
    â€œHome. This interview is over.”

    Margherita found herself back on the street. She was dazed, but she was also aware of the anger building up inside her. She fished her cell phone out of her handbag and called Francesco. He’d understand, she was sure of that.
    Instead, he was furious. “I can’t believe it! It was a done deal! What the hell got into you?”
    Margherita felt like she’d been wronged twice.
    â€œIt’s just that I didn’t want to sell something without knowing what’s in it!” She defended herself.
    â€œYou never change. You’ll never change!”
    For a second, Margherita thought they’d been cut off. Then she realized what had really happened: he’d hung up on her.
    He hung up in my face.
    She stared at the screen for a few seconds, unable to move.
    Meanwhile, it had started to rain, to pour in fact. The roar of the rain that now poured down on her was the perfect sound track for her mood. To get out of the rain, she slipped into the first grocery store she could find. As she wandered aimlessly along the aisles, between the towering walls of all kinds of food with labels that were often written in an incomprehensible language, she realized it hadn’t been such a good idea to come into the store. She kept thinking about the interview, about the probably low-quality products that she would have had to promote, and, most important, about Francesco’s reaction. A wave of nausea came over her, so she left the store quickly, elbowingher way through the people standing in line at the registers. Never before had she wanted so much to be in Roccafitta. Home.
    When she got back to the apartment, the elevator wasn’t working. Again. The fourth time this week. As she braced herself for the eight-story climb (to be multiplied by two, since she would have to take Artusi out for his walk later), she noticed a letter sticking out of the mailbox. She pulled it out, opened it, and started reading. Suddenly, she stopped. The warning in the horoscope she’d heard that morning came back like an undigested onion.
    She reread the unequivocal words: Eviction Notice. Everything around her started spinning. She shut her eyes.
    â€œBreathe in. Breathe out. Slowly. Breathe in, breathe out . . . ,” she repeated like a mantra.
    â€œIs everything all right?”
    Startled, Margherita spun around to find Meg standing behind her. Meg was Francesco’s English teacher. (“Being fluent in a foreign language is crucial to my work,” he’d told her. “And I’ve found a teacher who’s a native speaker and whose prices are affordable. I’m sure you see my point, don’t you, love?” And she had said nothing about the fact that they were already having a hard time making ends meet . . .)
    As Margherita nodded hello, she wondered what Meg could be doing there at this time of day. Had something happened?
    â€œHi, Meg . . . is there a problem?”
    Meg looked her in the eye.
    â€œYes, there is. We need to talk.”

    Dumbfounded, that’s how she felt. Stunned. Meg’s words had been like a blow to the head. How could she possibly not have