Italian for Beginners Read online

Late that afternoon, after I’d slept for nearly six hours, I awoke to an insistent knocking. I dragged myself out of bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and opened the door.

  Karina stood there, looking a little sheepish. “I woke you,” she said.

  I shrugged. “I needed to get up, anyhow,” I said. “Besides, it was much better to wake up to a knock on the door than to a crazy Italian woman sitting on top of me.”

  Karina looked at me for a minute, as though she wasn’t sure whether I was kidding or not. Then she broke into a grin. “You are funny, Miss America,” she said. “Now. Would you like to go with me to pick up Nico from my mother’s apartment?”

  I hesitated and nodded. What else did I have to do?

  Karina waited in the hall while I splashed some water on my face, put on a bit of makeup, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and changed into capris and a striped T-shirt. Karina regarded me with amusement when I emerged from the bathroom.

  “What?” I demanded.

  She laughed. “You look a little like a gondolier.”

  I felt myself flush. “I do not!”

  “Yes, you do.”

  I stared at her for a moment. She just shrugged helplessly, as if she couldn’t be held responsible for simply stating the facts. Grumbling, I went back into the tiny kitchen, picked out a yellow sundress, and changed quickly into it. “Better?” I asked when I emerged.

  “Sì,” she said. “Much.”

  Together, we set off on a brisk walk through another series of winding alleys and side streets. But this time, Karina walked at a normal pace, which allowed me to keep up.

  “You will like my son,” she said. There was something different about her face now. I wasn’t sure whether it was because she’d decided she could trust me or because we were on our way to see the child she loved, but she didn’t look hard, sarcastic, and defensive anymore. “How do you know Michael?” she asked after a moment.

  I sucked in a deep breath. It wasn’t like I couldn’t have anticipated the question. “He’s an acquaintance from New York,” I said tightly. She glanced at me, and I added, “My sister’s wedding reception was at his restaurant. I know him through that.”

  “Ah, yes,” Karina said. “I have heard that his restaurant is beautiful. It is?”

  I nodded. “It is,” I admitted. “How do you know him?”

  “He spent summers here in Roma when he was a boy,” she said. “He was several years older than me, so we were never really that close. But he was always kind to me. I remember he used to teach me English words when I was a little girl. My father, before he died, worked with Michael’s uncle. They worked in a restaurant together before Michael’s uncle owned his own restaurant.”

  I held my breath for a moment and asked a question I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to.

  “Have you met his wife?”

  Karina looked surprised. But then she nodded. “Yes. A few times. Such a beautiful woman. Very kind.”

  “Oh,” I said tightly. I realized a small part of me had been hoping that there was a massive misunderstanding and that she’d say something like, “Wife? What wife? Michael is single and loves tall, brunette American women!”

  We walked in silence the rest of the way.

  Karina’s mother lived in an old building near Piazza Navona, a massive rectangular piazza with a Bernini fountain in its center, framing a tall, slender Egyptian obelisk. The fountain featured four men who reminded me of Greek gods, facing out in stone, water flowing from beneath them. A small gaggle of preschool-age children rode circles around it on tricycles, giggling and shouting things at one another as we passed. As I slowed to gaze at the massive fountain, Karina said, “The four statues at the four corners are supposed to represent rivers in the four corners of the world.” She smiled at me. “Beautiful, no?”

  I nodded. The piazza itself seemed to be brimming with life. Places like this, to me, epitomized the spirit of Rome. Since it was late afternoon, that meant aperitivo time, and all around the bustling square, patrons overflowed from restaurants and waiters hurried back and forth, balancing trays laden with slender, colorful drinks and glasses of wine and prosecco for happily chattering people. Haphazardly placed umbrellas shielded people from the late-day sun, and at various spots around the piazza, painters had set up small easels and were slowly and meticulously sketching the domed buildings or the fountain itself, or using their paintbrushes and palettes to capture the aqua of the fountain’s water or the pale cream of its statues.

  “Ah, Nico!” Karina exclaimed suddenly, holding her arms wide open.

  From across the piazza, a little boy who’d been playing with a soccer ball glanced up, smiled happily, and came running over, leaving the ball abandoned. He was followed a moment later by a woman who looked just like an older version of Karina, a little heavier around the hips and middle but with the same black curls, albeit hers were streaked with gray, and the same wide, beautiful features and olive skin. The woman picked up the soccer ball just as Nico threw himself into his mother’s arms.

  “Mamma!” the boy exclaimed. She scooped him up happily. His hair was fiercely dark like his mother’s, with unruly curls that flopped over his forehead. His cheeks were flushed, and he was wearing an adorable pair of denim overalls over a red-collared shirt.

  “Mio Nico!” Karina exclaimed, hugging him. I smiled. It was as if they’d been separated for months instead of mere hours.

  The little boy rattled off something in rapid Italian, and Karina, still kneeling beside him, smiled and laughed. She pinched his cheek tenderly and stood up. By this point, the older woman had reached the spot where we stood, and she was gazing at me curiously.

  “Cat, this is my mother, Signora Milani.”

  I nodded and smiled at the woman. “Hi. It’s nice to meet you.” The woman looked at me blankly.

  “Mamma,” Karina said, turning to face her mother. She said something in rapid Italian, and I recognized the words la ragazza americana, the American girl, and mio appartamento. The older woman nodded a few times at Karina and then turned to me with a smile.

  “Piacere di conoscerla,” she said. Her eyes, I noticed, were the same as Karina’s: big and piercing, lined with dramatic eyeliner. I recognized one of the common phrases of Italian greeting.

  “Piacere,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

  Karina leaned her head in. “She doesn’t speak much English. But Nico here does.” She gestured for Nico and said to him in English, “Nico, this is my new friend, Cat. She’s going to be staying in our extra apartment.”

  Nico studied me gravely, as if trying to decide whether I met his requirements for tenants. I was struck in that moment by how old and wise his eyes looked. They were big and brown and inquisitive and looked out of place in his young, slender face. “Buon giorno,” he said quite seriously, still studying me with interest.

  “Buon giorno, Nico,” I replied.

  Karina smiled and nudged him. “Nico, she’s from America.”

  His eyes widened into little saucers. “America?” he asked. “Sì?”

  I laughed. “Sì,” I said.

  “But I love America!” he declared in perfect English.

  “Really?” I asked him. I glanced at Karina, who was rolling her eyes and trying to hide a smile. “Have you been there?”

  The little boy shook his head. “No,” he said seriously. “Not yet. But I plan to go someday. I am practicing my English so that I am ready.”

  “Really?” I asked. “You’re very good at it.”

  “Grazie!” He glanced at his mother. Then he looked back at me. “Where do you live in America?”

  “New York City.”

  His eyes widened even farther. “New York City?” he repeated, incredulous. I nodded, and he said, “That is the best place in all of America!”

  Surprised, I laughed again. “Well, I think it is, too.”

  “It is, it is!” he said instantly. “I want to go there someday. Maybe I w
ill live there. I want to be a fireman.”

  “A fireman?”

  “Sì, sì!” he said excitedly. “I see them on the television. The best fire department in the world is in New York, no?”

  I smiled and nodded, feeling a surge of pride for my city. “Yes, they are,” I said. September 11 flashed quickly into my head, and it occurred to me that Nico hadn’t even been born, hadn’t even been a spark in his mother’s eye, when my city had been forever changed. Yet this little boy from halfway around the world still considered our heroes to be his heroes, too.

  “Mamma reads me books in English every night,” he announced. “And we watch American programs on the television. But only some American programs. Mamma says that some are too old for me.”

  “He’s a little too young for sex and violence,” Karina said under her breath, “although half the time, I feel like he’s the parent, and I’m the child.”

  Looking into Nico’s wide, intelligent eyes, I could see exactly what she meant.

  “That’s wonderful that you like my country so much,” I said to Nico after a moment. I didn’t know what to say, but he seemed to be waiting for a reaction.

  He nodded vigorously. “Sì!” he said. “Maybe you will tell me about it someday? I do not know many Americans. Mamma does not like Americans.”

  I glanced at Karina, who had turned a little red. “Nico, that’s not true!” she said. She glanced guiltily at me.

  “But, Mamma, you said—” Nico began.

  “That is enough,” Karina interrupted him smoothly. She shot me a look and said something to him in rapid Italian. He shrugged and muttered something under his breath.

  Karina spoke to her mother for a moment, and the two women exchanged kisses on the cheeks.

  “It is nice meet you,” her mother said haltingly, nodding her head at me. “Nice American.”

  “It is nice to meet you, too,” I said warmly. “Piacere di conoscerla.” She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, too. The action both startled and touched me.

  Karina said a few more things to her mother, and then Nico kissed his grandmother. She handed him his soccer ball, and he waved good-bye as we made our way back across the piazza.

  “Can I hold your hand, Signorina Cat?” Nico asked as he skipped along between Karina and me.

  Karina glanced at me, and I could tell again that she was trying not to smile.

  “Of course,” I said. He tucked his soccer ball under his skinny left arm and grasped my left hand with his right. He continued to skip between us, occasionally looking up at me curiously and squeezing my hand. As we made our way back toward Karina’s neighborhood, Nico alternated between chattering about America (“The taxis are giallo… how you say, yellow?”) and announcing street names (“This is Corsia Agonale!” “Signorina Cat, this is Via del Salvatore!”). He was like a little human GPS.

  “He likes maps almost as much as he likes America,” Karina said, shaking her head.

  “He’s really smart,” I marveled, looking down at Nico, who beamed up at me.

  Karina shook her head. “You’re right,” she said. “In a few more years, I won’t be able to keep up with him.”

  She smiled, but there was something behind her eyes that told me she wasn’t entirely joking.

  “Mamma, I like Signorina Cat!” Nico announced as we turned the corner onto our block and saw the apartment building up ahead. “Can she stay with us for a long time?”

  Karina looked at me. “We shall see,” she said. “But, Nico, you are right. I like Signorina Cat, too.”

  That night, I was sitting in my apartment, rereading Tender Is the Night, my favorite Fitzgerald book, and feeling a little lonely, when there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find Karina standing there with a plate of lasagna in her hand.

  “I put Nico to bed,” she said. “And I thought maybe you had not eaten yet.” She held up the lasagna like a peace offering. I hesitated, but my stomach growled, giving me away. We both laughed.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Thank you.”

  She nodded and followed me into the apartment. Once inside, I hesitated, realizing that there was nowhere for both of us to sit together, unless we balanced on the edge of the bed. Karina must have noticed the same thing.

  “Would you rather come down to my apartment?” she asked. “As long as we talk quietly, we won’t disturb Nico.”

  I nodded, and together we walked downstairs.

  Karina led me into the small dining room, which overlooked the street below from a pretty picture window framed in wispy curtains like the ones that covered the window over my bed. She opened the window, and a breeze wafted in, along with the faint noises of passersby talking on the street below.

  “Before I was pregnant with Nico,” she said with a faraway look in her eye, “Massimo and I would sit at this window and smoke and watch the people on the street below go by. I felt like I knew everything that went on in this neighborhood, all the little secrets. But after Nico, well, I don’t sit at this window much anymore.”

  Karina opened a bottle of chianti and poured us each a glass.

  “Cin cin,” she said, clinking her glass against mine. I repeated the toast and we smiled at each other. We each took a sip, and I savored mine for a moment, feeling the wine warm my throat all the way down.

  “Try the lasagna,” Karina said eagerly.

  I dug my fork into the edge. I took a bite, and my eyes widened. It was truly the best lasagna I’d ever had. “Karina, this is amazing! Did this come from the restaurant?”

  She shook her head. “No. I made it.”

  I took another bite. Indeed, it was delectable. The marriage of parmesan, fresh tomato sauce, garlic, and basil was heavenly. And the layers of pasta were so thin and numerous, I felt almost as if I were eating a Greek baklava instead of a hearty Italian dish. “You made this?”

  She nodded, a little bit of color rising to her cheeks. “It is not a big deal.”

  “Are you kidding?” I asked. “It’s a huge deal! This is incredible!”

  Karina was beaming. “It was nothing,” she said dismissively. “I just like to cook, you understand?”

  I shook my head in astonishment. “You should be doing this professionally,” I said. “Like, at a five-star restaurant.”

  She laughed. “I should be doing a lot of things,” she said. “But I have to support my son. I can’t afford to go to school to become certified as a chef to work at that level. I had a lot of dreams. But life gets in the way, no?”

  I raised an eyebrow and nodded, my mouth full of lasagna again. Karina was right. Life got in the way of a lot of things.

  “So Nico likes you,” Karina said after watching me eat for a moment.

  I smiled. “I like him, too. He’s a really nice boy.”

  “Thank you,” Karina said. She paused and watched me as I tried to scoop up the remaining sauce and cheese on the plate with the edge of my spoon. “You are very good with children,” she added.

  “Thanks.” I pushed the empty plate of lasagna away and put a hand on my stomach. “Karina, that was maybe the best meal I’ve ever eaten.”

  She ignored me. “Why do you not have any children?” she asked instead.

  The question startled me. An unexpected pang shot through me. “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “The time hasn’t been right yet.”

  “But you want children,” Karina said. It was a statement, not a question. I hesitated for a moment, and she added, “I could see it in your eyes. With Nico. You would be a good mother.”

  “I don’t know if that’s what life has in store for me, you know?” I wasn’t getting any younger. I didn’t seem to be able to hold down a relationship. And as much as I wanted a child and loved being around other people’s children, it was something I just wasn’t sure I could handle.

  “Why would you say that?” Karina asked. “You are still so young.” She took a sip of her wine and looked at me intently.

  “I’m not that you
ng. I’m about to turn thirty-five.”

  “ Thirty-five is very young, Cat,” she said simply.

  “I’m just not sure I’d be a good mother,” I admitted. I looked down, but I could feel Karina’s eyes on me, penetrating, piercing. And then, just when I thought we were lapsing back into a comfortable silence where I wouldn’t have to discuss my lack of parenting abilities, she spoke.

  “It’s your mother, isn’t it?” she said.

  I looked up sharply. “What?”

  Her eyes were gentle as she gazed at me. “This is about your mother. The one who left you when you were young. You wrote it on your rental application.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. But my voice wavered, and I knew I didn’t sound resolute.

  Karina sighed. “Cat, you are not your mother,” she said. “You are a different kind of woman.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, startling both of us with the sharp edge to my voice. “How do you know?” I repeated more softly.

  “Because the way you talked to my son,” she said after a moment, “is not the way someone who is capable of leaving talks.”

  I started to interrupt, to say that a twenty-minute conversation was hardly indicative of my ability to be a mother, but she cut me off.

  “You are a kind woman,” she continued. “I was horrible to you, and you forgave me. This Francesco was horrible to you thirteen years ago, and you forgave him. It may not always be a good thing, but you are a woman who tries to make things work. You are a woman who doesn’t walk away.”

  It felt like she had knocked the breath out of me. “But… ,” I began, but I found myself at a loss for words.

  “But what if your mother was that way, too?” Karina filled in gently. “Is that what you are trying to ask?” I nodded; it was exactly what I’d been thinking. Karina shook her head resolutely. “She wasn’t.” I started to protest, but she cut me off. “She wasn’t,” she repeated. “A woman like you would never become a woman who walks away.”

  I let the words settle on me. Karina took another sip of her wine. My mind was swirling. I’d never had this conversation before.

  “Your mother, she is Italian?” she asked after a moment.