Italian for Beginners Page 16

  Surprised, I nodded. “How did you know that?”

  Karina smiled. “Because you have the Italian spirit,” she said. “And you haven’t been here long enough to have earned it on your own.”

  I smiled and shook my head. We were silent for another moment. I sipped my wine, lost in my own world.

  Then Karina spoke again. “Is she from Roma?”

  “Yes,” I said simply.

  “Is she here now?”

  I felt another pang. I realized I hadn’t told Karina what had happened after my mother walked away. “No,” I said. “She died. When I was eighteen.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” I said. It was my rote response.

  She looked at me for a long moment. “This explains a lot.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “This is why you came to Rome the first time, no? Thirteen years ago?”

  I shook my head. “No. She was already gone.”

  “Sì,” Karina said. “But you came to be with her past, didn’t you? To discover where she came from? Where you came from?”

  I opened my mouth to protest. But Karina was looking at me as if she could see right through me. “Maybe,” I admitted.

  “Does she have family here?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “You never found them?”

  I hesitated. “I never looked,” I admitted.

  Karina arched an eyebrow at me. “Why?”

  “I wanted to,” I said. I thought for a minute. “I think maybe I planned to when I came here. But I don’t know. I was scared, I guess.”

  “Scared of what?”

  I shrugged. That they wouldn’t want me. That they would see whatever my mother saw in me that made me so easy to leave.

  I felt choked up that moment. I couldn’t force the words out.

  “She didn’t leave because of you,” Karina said.

  “I know.” I waved her words away like I was swatting flies.

  “No, you don’t know,” she said. “She didn’t leave because of you.” She repeated the words slowly, enunciating as best she could in a firm voice.

  I looked down at my lap and tried not to cry. I felt humiliated, stripped bare.

  “Well,” Karina said after a moment. She clapped her hands together decisively. “We will find them, then.”

  “What?” I looked at her in confusion.

  “But it is what you are here for, no?” Karina asked.

  “No!” I exclaimed. “That’s all in the past. I came here to see Francesco.”

  “And yet you are still here,” Karina said. “There is something in this city that won’t let you leave.”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  But Karina just shrugged, as if finding my mother’s family was already a foregone conclusion. “It is the only way you will see the situation for what it is.”

  She stood up before I could protest and walked my empty plate into the kitchen. I stared after her, open-mouthed, wondering what had just happened.

  When she returned, it was as if someone had flipped a switch. She was smiling again, and she poured us each some more wine. “So,” she said brightly. “Are you going to tell me where you went last night? Or am I going to have to pull that out of you, too?”

  Her abrupt change of subject jarred me. But I was so relieved to move away from talking about my mother that I almost didn’t mind being asked about the previous night.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I mumbled, looking down.

  “Hmm,” Karina said. “Who is he?”

  I stared at her. “Who is who?” I asked, hating how guilty I sounded.

  “The man you went home with?” she asked with a hint of a smile. “I assume you went home with a man.”

  “Not exactly,” I said. She looked at me in surprise. “I mean, I did,” I clarified. “But not in the way you would think.”

  Slowly, I told her the story of Marco defending me in the bar and then finding me on the bench and of how convinced he was that I was trying to reenact a scene from Roman Holiday. Karina was curious, too, why I’d never seen the famous film, but as I had with Marco, I dodged the question. I couldn’t handle another Dr. Karina psychoanalysis tonight.

  “So he was handsome?” she asked when I was done.

  I felt the color rise to my cheeks. “Yeah.”

  “And kind.”

  “Well, yes,” I said. “You’d have to be to take home a lost stranger with no ulterior motives, right?”

  “Then you will go see him.”

  “What?”

  Karina smiled patiently. “Tomorrow. You will go see him. At Pinocchio. I know this restaurant. It is close to here. You will go see him and meet him properly.”

  I hesitated. “I can’t.”

  “Phhhh!” Karina made a dismissive noise. “Of course you can! And you will!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, I woke up at eight. Apparently, my body was finally beginning to adjust to Italian time. I lay in bed for a little while, listening to the morning street noises below and thinking about what I’d do with my day. I wasn’t used to having nothing planned. But today was blissfully, entirely free. I made a mental note to call my father and sister to check in and let them know where I was staying. They could certainly reach me on my cell if they needed to, but I supposed it would be smart to tell them that I had stormed out of Francesco’s and was now staying with a crazy Italian woman.

  An hour later, after a long shower, I headed out of the building in a cream-colored sundress and my gladiator sandals, with my brown leather bag slung over my shoulder and my hair back in a ponytail. It was going to be a hot day, and I planned to do a lot of walking around the Eternal City. Before I left, I tucked the address of Pinocchio in my wallet, just in case. But would I really go there? I was sure Marco was just being polite, and I certainly didn’t want to out myself as a fool by showing up there like I thought his invitation was a genuine one.

  Still, Karina had seemed convinced that I had nothing to lose. And maybe she was right.

  I started off at the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva, just a stone’s throw from the Pantheon. We had passed it on the way home with Nico yesterday, and it had piqued my interest. I’d always heard of it, but I’d never gone inside. The summer I lived here, I’d been dually absorbed in my studies and in studying Francesco, and I hadn’t seen nearly as much of the city as I should have. Sure, I’d done the obligatory trips to the Pantheon, the Forum, the Colosseum, and Vatican City, but I’d missed so much of the heart of the city. I vowed to make up for that this time around.

  The outside of the church was relatively unimpressive; the cream facade was plain and rectangular, punctuated by three dark doorways and three circular windows. In front of the church was a curious statue, a stout Egyptian obelisk that reminded me of the Bernini statue from the Piazza Navona, growing from the body of a somber, tusked elephant on a pedestal. I stopped and gazed at it for a while; it appeared oddly out of place in Rome, and particularly in front of a church, as it seemed to have no religious significance. I searched my mind for a Bible story about an elephant in Egypt, but I came up empty.

  Shrugging, I checked my watch. It was just past nine, and I wasn’t sure whether the church would be open yet. But the front door pushed in easily, and I entered, my eyes adjusting to the interior light.

  I blinked a few times and stared. Nothing about the plain, unassuming facade could have prepared me for the stunning interior of the church. It seemed to stretch on for the length of a football field, a series of columns that held aloft brilliant blue vaults that reminded me of canopies over a childhood bed. The ceiling shone with golden stars and paintings of cherubic angels, separated by red ribs that arched toward gilded domes. The marble floor glistened and led toward an altar that shone with several tall candles, backlit by pale stained glass windows.

  I took an English-language brochure from the receptacle near the doorway and sat down in a bac
k pew to read. The church, it said, was the only Gothic church in Rome, and it had been built atop the ruins of an ancient temple dedicated to the goddess Minerva. Completed nearly 650 years ago, it housed the remains of Saint Catherine of Siena, who had died nearby. There was also a Michelangelo statue housed here, to the left of the main altar.

  I fished in my shoulder bag for my camera and pulled it out gingerly. I hadn’t used it since Becky’s wedding. It felt nice to have it in my hands again. I always felt different, somehow, when I could see the world through its lens.

  I glanced around, wondering if I’d run into a nun or a priest who would scold me. But the church seemed to be empty. And I figured that as long as I left the flash off, I wouldn’t be doing any harm.

  I walked toward the altar, stopping here and there to take pictures of the expanse, which seemed bathed in the ceiling’s brilliant blue color. I adjusted the aperture and shutter speed a few times, almost by rote, until the pictures were coming out perfectly, almost jumping off the two-inch screen. I smiled at the images appearing and then focused on the lovely ceiling for another series of shots. I didn’t want to forget the power of standing beneath the canopied, stardusted sky conceived centuries ago.

  By the time I reached the altar, I was fully absorbed in what I was doing. I snapped photo after photo of the light pouring in from the stained glass, of the candles flickering on the massive pedestal. I got close-ups of some of the intricately detailed rose windows, of the massive columns, of the walls full of religious artwork.

  To the left of the altar was the Michelangelo statue I’d read about in the brochure, a larger-than-life marble likeness of Christ looking over his left shoulder while clutching the cross on which he’d be crucified. I gazed at it for a while before beginning to take pictures. I was transfixed by the incredible realness of the statue. Although I’d gone to Catholic school, I wasn’t exactly the most religious person in the world. But there was something about seeing the resoluteness Michelangelo had sculpted onto his Christ’s face, about the way the man was standing, as if embracing his fate instead of running from it, that made emotion swell within me. I stared for a long time.

  I raised the camera and began shooting, zooming in alternately on the statue’s face, on his strong hands grasping the cross, on his perfectly formed knees, and on his realistic feet, which seemed slightly more worn than the rest of the statue. I marveled at the visual contrast between the pale marble of the statue and the darker, shadowed marble of the wall behind it. I knew without looking at the screen that these would be amazing images.

  By the time I emerged from the church into the morning sunlight a little while later, I felt breathless and exhilarated. It had been weeks since I’d last worked with my camera, and even though I was on the other side of the world, I somehow felt more at home than I had in a very long time. While I had my camera out, I took several shots of the elephant statue and of the church’s facade. I also snapped a few street shots, just normal Romans going about their daily business, before finally putting the camera back in its case and slipping it into my shoulder bag.

  I sighed and checked my watch. It was ten thirty. I stared in disbelief. I’d been in the church for nearly an hour and a half? It didn’t seem possible.

  I felt my stomach growling as I stood outside in the sunshine, and I realized I hadn’t eaten yet. It was still early, but I knew I could make my way back toward the apartment, where there was a bakery open all day. Or I could try to find my way to Pinocchio and see if Marco was there. My heart jumped a little as I considered it. I took a deep breath. Why not?

  I checked the address and then located it on the map of Rome I’d brought with me. It wasn’t far. I thought about it for a moment, checked my makeup and hair in the compact mirror I dug out of my bag, and headed off in that direction.

  Ten minutes of twisting, cobbled streets later, I found myself standing down the block from the restaurant, a tiny corner spot with a pale red canopy bearing the restaurant’s name and a little picture of its long-nosed namesake. I took a deep breath and started toward the place.

  I wasn’t sure whether it was open or not; there didn’t seem to be anyone there. I walked through the little outside courtyard and cracked open the door. The dimly lit interior, filled with closely spaced, red-clothed tables, was empty, too. Of course; like most Roman restaurants, it probably didn’t open until at least eleven, if not later.

  I sighed and turned away. I was just about to leave when Marco came bustling out of the kitchen, balancing a tray full of dishes and whistling as he swooped out through the swinging kitchen door and made his way to the busing station. He put the tray down, picked up a towel, and, still whistling, began drying dishes. He didn’t even look up.

  I watched him for a moment. I couldn’t help admiring, as I had the other day, the smooth contours of his tanned face, the way his broad shoulders filled out his crisp white shirt, the way his black pants hugged his hips beneath his apron. He looked so happy, so content, that I almost didn’t want to disrupt him. The longer I watched, though, without saying anything, the sillier I felt. This was stupid. What was I doing? It had been a mistake to come.

  I began to back up toward the door, hoping to tiptoe away unnoticed. Unfortunately, in my hurry to escape, I managed to smash into the hostess stand, sending a stack of menus crashing to the floor with a tremendous thud.

  Marco looked up in surprise, and as his eyes met mine, he blinked a few times in recognition. I held my breath, waiting for a reaction.

  “Cat!” he exclaimed. He broke into a huge, infectious grin. “You’re here!”

  “Um, yes,” I confirmed unnecessarily. I bent down to pick up the menus, my leather shoulder bag flopping to the floor beside me noisily. I couldn’t have felt more conspicuous. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled as I hastily gathered the menus into a stack.

  Marco crossed the restaurant quickly. He bent down at my side and touched my shoulder. “It’s fine, Cat,” he said. “That’s a terrible place for the menus anyhow, don’t you think?”

  It sounded almost patronizing, but when I snuck a look at his face, his eyes just looked kind, and a little amused. I swallowed hard.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, still squatting awkwardly in the center of a pile of menus. “I shouldn’t have come in. You’re obviously closed, so—”

  “Cat, it is nice to see you,” Marco interrupted firmly. He scooped the remainder of the menus into his arms and smiled at me. “Please, why are you worrying?”

  I straightened up and handed Marco the menus I’d gathered. “I, um, just wanted to say thank you again,” I said hastily. “So, um, I’m sorry. I’ll be on my way now. It was nice to see you.”

  Marco looked at me for a moment with a half smile on his face. Then he said patiently, “Cat, stop being silly. Have a seat. I’ll brew you some coffee, and we have a wide assortment of pastries. Okay?”

  I hesitated. “But you’re closed.”

  “And now we are open,” he said right away. “For you, anyhow.”

  I opened my mouth to protest again, but he cut me off with a raised hand and a smile. “Stop,” he said. “You are here now. No reason for you not to eat. You look hungry.”

  I began to protest, but Marco was already picking up my bag from the floor and gesturing for me to follow him across the restaurant to a seat by the window. “What do you carry in here, Cat?” he asked as he walked. He pretended that the bag was pulling him down with its weight, and he turned to grin at me over his shoulder. “It feels like you are walking around with a ton of bricks!”

  “It’s a camera,” I mumbled, feeling silly.

  “You are a photographer?” he asked.

  “No,” I said quickly, embarrassed. “I mean, it’s just something I like to do for fun, you know?”

  Marco nodded. He pulled out a seat for me and waited while I sat down.

  “I’ll return in a moment with your coffee.”

  “You really don’t have to—” I began.

  B
ut Marco cut me off again. “I never do anything because I have to,” he said. “I do things because I want to. You should, too.”

  His words silenced me long enough for him to walk away. I watched him go, my heart pounding.

  Marco returned a moment later with two cups of hot, steaming espresso. “Princess Ann,” he said formally, winking at me as he set mine down in front of me. He eyed the chair opposite mine. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  He smiled and put his mug down. “Wonderful,” he said. “What can I get you for your prima colazione, for breakfast?”

  “Oh, no, just the coffee’s fine.”

  “I insist. We have many pastries. What will it be? How about a cornetto?”

  “If you’re sure…”

  “I am.” He got up and returned a moment later with two cornettos. He handed me one and put the other plate beside his coffee. He sat down and regarded me seriously. “So, Cat, what brings you here this morning?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing,” I said. I took a bite of the croissantlike pastry, which was perfectly flaky and, oddly, reminded me a little of Karina’s lasagna from last night.

  “You were taking photographs?” he asked, nodding at my bag. He took a bite of his own croissant and leaned back in his chair, looking perfectly relaxed.

  I hesitated and nodded. “Yes. Of Santa Maria sopra Minerva Church near the Pantheon. Do you know it?”

  Marco smiled. “Of course. It’s beautiful. Did you see the Michelangelo?”

  I nodded. “It’s amazing.”

  “Sì.” He paused and gestured to my bag. “May I see? The photos?”

  I hesitated. “They’re not really that good.”

  “I’m sure they’re fine.”

  I paused and shrugged. I dug into my bag and pulled out the camera, feeling silly. I handed it to Marco, who took it out of its case and examined it carefully, turning the camera over in his hands a few times.

  “This is nice,” he said.

  “Do you know cameras?” I asked.

  He nodded. “A little. I took a course at university. Photography has always interested me.”