Italian for Beginners Page 10

  So with nowhere else to go, I crossed the street and began walking toward the Pantheon. I made my way down a side street, and as often happened in the twisting, turning alleys of the city, I lost sight of the dome for a moment. I felt strangely lost, even though I knew it must be up ahead still, simply obscured by the buildings along the way. I felt oddly deflated. The road was more uneven here, and it was getting harder to drag my suitcase.

  And then, as if I hadn’t had enough to deal with in one morning, one of the wheels of my suitcase snapped off suddenly and rolled cheerfully away, down the cobbled street, heading straight for a gutter.

  “No!” I cried. I dropped the handle of the suitcase, and the bag flopped decisively on its side as I dashed after the escaping wheel. People around me stopped and stared. I dove for the little black wheel, landing flat on my belly, but I was a second too late; it was already disappearing into the entrance to the sewer.

  “No!” This time it was more of a whimper. I was lying facedown in the middle of the street, covered in dirt, grime, and sweat, gazing into the mouth of a sewer. I closed my eyes for a second, collected myself, and stood up, gathering as much of my dignity as I could. Around me, people were still staring. I saw an old man dressed in faded, suspendered corduroys make a face at another man and wind his index finger in a circle near his ear, making the universal sign for crazy.

  I raised a hand and waved faintly, forcing a smile, like an actress acknowledging her audience. The onlookers turned quickly away, some clearing their throats loudly as they went back to their business, pretending that they hadn’t just been staring at me.

  I brushed what grime I could off my outfit, resigning myself to the fact that I now had a streak of dirt down the front of me to tie my mismatched outfit together. I crossed the street to my tipped-over suitcase, righted it, and with as much pride as I could muster while pulling a one-wheeled suitcase down the street on its side, I held my head high and began walking again, knowing that the suitcase was mere minutes from being ripped wide open, thanks to the harsh cobblestone surface digging into its fabric.

  Scanning the street, I searched desperately for someplace to stop before my suitcase tore, spilling my underwear all over as a final indignity. To my relief, up ahead on the right, I saw a little outdoor café that looked open. I squinted at the sign. Squisito, it read. It was the place where Michael had said his friend Karina worked.

  “Thank God,” I said to myself. I glanced at my watch. It was only ten in the morning; most restaurants in the city didn’t open until at least eleven. But despite the fact that it appeared devoid of customers, the outside tables and chairs were already out, the forest green umbrellas extended as a shield against the sun, and the doors to the interior were all flung open.

  A moment later, after using all the muscle power I could muster to drag the suitcase the remaining half block, I collapsed into one of the outside café seats, pulling my luggage up next to me so that I didn’t block the pathway in and out of the restaurant. I glanced around for a waiter or waitress, and seeing none, I took a moment to flop forward onto the table. The shade of the umbrella felt good, as did the cool stone of the table under my arms and face. I tried to catch my breath and wished desperately that someone would see me soon and bring me a glass of water.

  Okay, Cat, I said to myself. Let’s get a cappuccino and some breakfast and we can go from there. I was trying desperately not to cry.

  What was I doing? Had I really decided to stay in Rome? I tried to comfort myself with the thought that it could be as temporary as I wanted it to be. I could stay a week, for instance, and concoct a story, for the benefit of those back home, that Francesco unfortunately had to depart on an important business trip to somewhere far away and that I’d chosen not to go with him. Or perhaps I could say that he’d been called away suddenly for a family emergency and that I hadn’t wanted to intrude, but that he’d promised to come visit me soon, because he knew he’d miss me terribly.

  Just then, I heard footsteps from the direction of the restaurant. I looked up hopefully, expecting to see a polite waiter making his way toward me with a notepad in hand, maybe even with a glass of water balanced on a tray.

  But instead, the sight that greeted my weary eyes was that of a tall, slender woman, about my age, flying toward me, her gypsy skirt swirling around her like a cloud as her eyes blazed. Her pale cheeks were flushed, and her huge mass of long black curls streaked with red highlights shot haphazardly every which way from her head. As soon as my eyes met hers, she started speaking to me in sharp, rapid Italian, shaking her index finger at me for emphasis, in case I couldn’t tell by her tone that I was being scolded.

  But for what, I didn’t know. I tried in vain to follow her words, but they were so rapidly spoken and they ran together in such sharp staccato that I couldn’t make out more than a bit of what she was saying.

  “Mi dispiace, ma non parlo bene l’italiano,” I said haltingly, using one of the first phrases I’d learned when I spent the summer here. I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Italian very well.

  But this only seemed to anger the crazy-looking woman more. “Oh, I should have known!” she snapped, switching to sharply accented but near-perfect English. She was practically dripping sarcasm as she arrived at my table. “An American woman! Of course! Ah, mi scusi! If you are American, apparently you can go to any café you want and sit down, even if it clearly does not open for another hour! Who am I to tell you no?”

  I stood halfway up and tried to apologize, to explain, but she wouldn’t let me get a word in.

  “Apparently, if you are American, you own the world!” she continued angrily, waving her arms around. I shrank back into my seat, staring at her. She was clearly nuts. “Do rules mean nothing to you in America?” she demanded, still wildly gesticulating. “Do you get to just come over to my country and do what you please?”

  I gaped at her. She raked a hand through her curls and made a disgusted face. “Oh, so you have nothing to say for yourself now, Miss America?” she asked dramatically.

  I found myself without words. I opened and closed my mouth.

  The crazy woman rolled her eyes. “You can’t talk?” she demanded.

  “Well, I—” I began.

  She cut me off. “You are looking so good.” She looked disdainfully at my clothes. “You do not have the words to back up your fashion sense?” She laughed at her own joke.

  “No, I… ,” I began again. I fumbled for words, but I was entirely at a loss. And to my horror, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. No, no, no, I thought to myself desperately.

  But apparently, my tear ducts weren’t listening to the voice in my head, because before I knew it, big, fat teardrops were rolling down my cheeks.

  The woman stared at me for a moment in disbelief. She opened her mouth, and for a moment, I fully expected her to unleash another tirade. Perhaps she’d like to tell me that I was pathetic, that only wimpy Americans cried.

  But instead, her face softened a little, and she said, “Okay, so maybe I was being a little hard on you, but there’s no reason to cry.”

  She looked uncomfortable now. She glanced from side to side. “Really,” she added. “I didn’t mean it.”

  I wiped my tears away angrily and stood up, hating that my dignity was being stripped by the pathetic rivers racing down my cheeks. “It’s not you I’m crying about,” I said, glaring at her. “I was just looking for a friend of a friend who supposedly works here. But I’ve had the worst morning of my life, pretty much, so it’s no big surprise that I’d wander in here and encounter the most unpleasant person in this city.”

  The woman stared at me.

  “So I was just looking for a waitress named Karina, okay?” I continued. “But excuuuuuuuuuse me.” I drew the word out dramatically and made a big show of collecting my things. “I clearly walked into the wrong place. So I’ll just be going now.”

  I grasped the handle of my beat-up suitcase and tried to storm huffily away. But thanks to t
he missing wheel and my growing exhaustion, I could barely budge it. I tried again. No dice. I looked down and noticed that the one remaining wheel had somehow gotten wedged in a crack in the pavement.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered. I tugged again, but to no avail.

  And then, to my surprise, the Italian woman began laughing. I looked up and noticed that the anger had melted from her face.

  “Sit down, sit down,” she said, rolling her eyes as she gestured to the seat I’d just been sitting in. I looked at her uncertainly. “Sit, sit!” she commanded. I glanced at her once more and sank slowly back down into the seat.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I am just so tired of these American tourists who come in here like they own the world. But I have misjudged you, I think.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, no kidding.”

  “Okay then,” she said. “Let me start over. I am Karina. Welcome to Roma.”

  I just stared at her. She was smiling now and looked almost pleasant.

  “Usually, when someone introduces herself, the thing to do is introduce yourself, too,” she said after a moment. “At least in Roma.”

  “You’re Karina?” I continued to regard her warily.

  “That is what I said.”

  I took a deep breath. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “That would not make a funny joke,” she said.

  “No,” I muttered. “No, it wouldn’t.”

  “Do you have a name?” she asked. “Or do I have to guess?”

  I stared at her. I couldn’t imagine what I was still doing here after receiving such a bizarre welcome. But the more she smiled at me, the more my icy exterior melted. There was something oddly warm—albeit crazy—about her. “I’m Cat,” I finally said.

  She looked puzzled. “Cat… like gatto?”

  I sighed. “No. Cat, like short for Caterina.”

  “Ah. Well, Cat-short-for-Caterina. You are welcome to sit here, okay?”

  I just stared at her.

  She cleared her throat and went on. “Really. I am sorry. I will go get you a cappuccino, okay? On me. On the house, as they say in America.”

  I started to protest, but she cut me off with an amused look at my suitcase. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere, anyhow,” she said. “So why don’t you relax for a moment? Okay?”

  I slowly nodded my assent.

  She strode away, her long black curls swishing behind her from side to side. She swung her hips in that well-practiced way many Italian women had and yet Americans didn’t seem to be able to master. Maybe if I’d been able to master that sexy swing, I wouldn’t be sitting at a café table by myself in the middle of the morning with filthy clothes and a tear-streaked face.

  Karina returned a few minutes later carrying two steaming cups.

  “Cappuccino is okay?” she asked, setting one before me. I nodded. She smiled, reached into the pocket of her apron, and emerged a second later with two spoons, two packets of sugar, and two pieces of gold-wrapped dark chocolate. “The best way to drink cappuccino, no?” she said with a wink.

  I felt myself starting to warm to her, but only a little. It was obvious that she was trying to make up for her initial reaction to me. “Thank you,” I said. I put the piece of chocolate into the coffee and stirred until it melted.

  Karina watched me until I took a first sip. “You drink your coffee like me,” she said. “No sugar, just cioccolato.”

  I nodded. I didn’t feel particularly compelled to make conversation with her.

  But Karina didn’t seem to understand this. Instead, she sat down across from me at the table and took a sip of her own coffee. Any passerby would have assumed we were a pair of close friends, out for a morning chat.

  “So,” Karina said after a moment. “You have been sent to me by a friend?”

  I paused, unsure whether I should correct her terminology. I wanted to tell her that Michael was no friend, that he was a cad. But that didn’t seem to be the correct way to ingratiate myself to my prospective landlord. So I nodded. “Michael Evangelisti,” I said.

  Her whole face lit up. “Ah, Michael! I adore him!” She leaned forward and patted my arm. “Any friend of Michael’s is a friend of mine!”

  “Good thing we’re friends then,” I muttered.

  She nodded pleasantly, my sarcasm having flown over her head. “So you are upset, no? Allow me to guess. You have had an encounter with one of our famous Italian men? And you are disappointed?”

  I sighed. “It’s not exactly like that,” I said.

  Karina nodded. “Okay. So tell me.”

  I stared at her for a moment. I didn’t know if I wanted to tell this stranger anything. But what did I have to lose? “I should have known better,” I began. “It’s a guy I dated thirteen years ago. I came back to see him, and it turned out he’d made a mistake. He thought he was e-mailing with a college kid, not me.”

  She looked at me in disbelief. “But you, you are beautiful!” she said. She truly looked astonished. “And surely you know more about the ways of womanhood than a college girl, no?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Probably not,” I said. “I’m not exactly the most feminine person in the world.” I looked pointedly down at my mess of an outfit.

  Karina smiled, but she shook her head. “Nonsense,” she said. “You are more feminine than you realize. And this Italian man, he is an idiot if he doesn’t see it.”

  I looked down at my coffee. “Thank you,” I said softly.

  Karina nodded. “So tell me.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me about him. About this man. About why you are here.”

  I hesitated. I looked at her and was mildly surprised to see her leaning forward and looking at me with intense interest. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  “Sì, assolutamente.”

  I nodded. “Okay.” And so I told her briefly about my history with Francesco, my desire to break out of the dullness of my life in the States, my snap decision to follow my heart to Rome again, and what had happened in the past twenty-four hours. I wasn’t sure why I was being so honest with her, but her mouth fell open in horror when I told her what had happened with him last night and that this morning, he’d told me it had all been a mistake.

  She cursed under her breath in Italian, which made me feel a little better. She seemed to find his behavior as appalling as I did.

  When I was finished, Karina stared at me long and hard. “So you are to stay in Rome, then?”

  I shrugged and shook my head. “I don’t know. I feel like I’ll look like such a failure if I go home. But honestly, I had to loan my sister some money before I left. And now I can’t afford a hotel. It’s why I came here. Michael said you rented rooms.”

  “How much money do you have to spend?”

  I hesitated. “I guess about four hundred euros,” I said. “And that would get me, what, maybe a week in some one-star hotel?” I sighed in discouragement. “If I want to go home sooner than my ticket is booked for, I know I’ll have to pay a big change fee.”

  Karina studied me for a moment. Then a slow smile spread across her face. “Okay. You will stay with me,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My apartment has a small maid’s chamber above it; it is a studio apartment with a separate entrance. I need someone to rent the room. It might as well be you. You look clean—even if you seem to have a little problem matching your clothes.” She paused and smiled. “And you say you can pay. Four hundred euros is fine for one month. So why not?”

  I couldn’t believe I was even considering it. But the offer did sound enticing. And the price was right. “I don’t know,” I said finally. Could I spend the next four weeks living under the roof of this raven-haired lunatic? Although I had to admit that she didn’t seem nearly as crazy now as she had a half hour ago.

  “Okay,” I heard myself say. Karina’s face lit up, and I swallowed hard. “I’ll do it,” I added as confidently as possible.
After all, what did I have to lose?

  Chapter Nine

  An hour later, the restaurant had officially opened for lunch, and I had filled out a four-page, handwritten rental application that Karina had whipped up quickly in the back. Along with asking me for my home address and three references, it also asked me for my favorite food, my worst childhood memory, and my zodiac sign.

  What had I gotten myself into?

  After bringing me a huge cornetto, a little glass bottle of apricot juice, and another cappuccino, Karina came back out on the restaurant’s patio at eleven thirty to see if I’d completed the application.

  “Meraviglioso!” she exclaimed enthusiastically when I handed it to her. She stood there for a moment, reading carefully. Then a shadow passed over her face.

  “Your mother left your family?” she asked, looking at me in surprise.

  I swallowed hard. Why had I even answered the childhood memory question so honestly?

  “I shouldn’t have written that,” I backtracked. “It’s in the past.”

  “No, no,” Karina said. “That is horrible. What kind of a mother leaves her children? I can’t imagine!”

  I swallowed hard.

  Karina continued. “You do not feel this makes you unreliable?”

  “What? No.”

  Karina’s face softened. “I just do not want you to run out on the rent.”

  “I’m not my mother,” I shot back.

  She looked hard at me. “No,” she said after a moment. She nodded. “You are most likely not.” She went back to studying the rental application. “I see you are a Cancer. Good, good. I’m a Pisces. We’re a good match.”

  I raised an eyebrow, expecting her to laugh and say she was just kidding. But she seemed completely serious.

  “Okay,” she said after a moment. “It is decided. You give me half the rent now, the other half in two weeks. Okay?”