Italian for Beginners Page 17

  “Me, too.”

  He smiled at me and turned on the camera. I showed him how to access the images, and he began flipping silently through the pictures I’d taken that morning, pausing for several seconds on each one.

  His silence made me nervous. I sipped my espresso, wondering what he was thinking or what he’d say. I shouldn’t have cared so much; it wasn’t as though I was a professional photographer or anything, or that he was a photography critic. But somehow his opinion seemed very, very important to me.

  He reached the end of the morning’s shots and studied the last one longer than the others. Then he handed the camera back to me and looked at me for a long time.

  “What?” I finally asked with a nervous laugh.

  He shook his head.

  “You hated them, right?” I guessed. “You thought they were terrible? That I did a really pathetic job of capturing the most beautiful church in your city?” I laughed to soften the words.

  But Marco just shook his head again. “No,” he said finally. “The photos are amazing. I’m astonished.”

  I was taken aback. “Astonished?”

  He nodded. “They are very professional. The kind that someone would hang on their walls to remember a trip forever. The kind that a stranger would buy because the colors reach out to them.”

  I swallowed hard. “That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” I admitted.

  Marco laughed at this. “That can’t possibly be true, Cat. I am just speaking the truth. You shouldn’t be so modest.”

  I looked down at my lap, feeling silly and a little overwhelmed. “Well, thank you,” I said after a minute. I took my camera back, turned it off, put it in its case, and placed it into my bag as he watched me curiously.

  We sipped our coffee in silence.

  “What time do you open?” I asked after a moment in an attempt to change the subject.

  “Usually? Noon,” Marco said. “But this morning was a nice exception.”

  “So you have to get here early and set things up?”

  He nodded. “The staff is very small. But you did not come here to talk about the operation of Pinocchio, did you?”

  I laughed. “No. I suppose not. I came to say sorry.”

  “Sorry?”

  “For the other night. It was a really weird situation to put you in, and it was incredibly nice of you to take me home with you the way you did. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose another Joe Bradley would have come along,” Marco said, regarding me in amusement.

  “I told you I haven’t seen that movie,” I said.

  “Yes, about that,” Marco said. He leaned forward. “You must be the only American who has ever come to Rome without seeing the film.”

  I shrugged. “So?” I realized I sounded defensive, and I tried to soften the sharp word with a small smile.

  Now Marco looked intrigued. Too intrigued. “Why?” he asked simply.

  “Why what?”

  “Why haven’t you seen it?”

  “I just haven’t gotten around to it.” I averted my eyes.

  Marco shook his head. “I don’t believe that. What is the real reason?”

  I considered this for a moment. The real reason sounded stupid to me, and I had no doubt it would sound stupid to him, too. “I just don’t like Audrey Hepburn.”

  Now he was staring at me like I was completely insane. I regretted saying anything. He wouldn’t understand. No one would.

  “What?” Marco asked with a laugh. “How can you not like Audrey Hepburn?”

  I shrugged. “I just don’t, okay?” I mumbled.

  Marco looked skeptical. “No,” he said. “Not okay. There must be a reason.”

  I shrugged and looked down.

  “You don’t like her haircut?” he asked.

  I laughed, despite myself. “No, her hair is fine.”

  “She’s too small, and small people make you uneasy?”

  I laughed again. “No.”

  He thought for a moment. “She reminds you of a woman you once loved?”

  I looked up sharply. He was grinning at me, obviously kidding. The smile fell from his face after a moment, though, when I didn’t respond.

  “Oh,” he said. He looked embarrassed. “I didn’t mean. I mean, I didn’t realize…” His voice trailed off and he fiddled with his espresso cup for a moment. “I mean, I just assumed you liked men.”

  I laughed, despite myself. “I do!” I assured him.

  “Oh,” he said. He looked confused. “Um, and women?” he asked.

  “No!” I exclaimed. I shook my head. “It’s not like that.”

  I could see from the expression on his face that I wasn’t explaining myself well enough; he obviously thought now that I’d had a torrid love affair with an Audrey Hepburn look-alike. “Okay,” he said uncertainly.

  I sighed and closed my eyes. “My mother,” I said finally. I couldn’t believe I was talking about the woman for the second time in the space of twenty-four hours. I hardly ever mentioned her, and most of the time, I succeeded in banishing her from my mind.

  “Your mother?” Marco asked. He looked just as confused, but at least he didn’t seem to be creating any imaginary lesbian scenarios for me anymore.

  “Yeah,” I said. I glanced at him. He was looking at me intently, waiting for me to finish. “My mother’s name was Audrey,” I said finally. “Her parents were both extras in Roman Holiday. They lived here in Rome, and they met on the set. My mother’s mother, my grandmother, I guess, apparently idolized Audrey Hepburn. When she became pregnant, she had to marry my grandfather quickly to avoid a scandal. They named the baby Audrey, after their favorite movie star. In fact, her middle name is even Hepburn. Audrey Hepburn Verdicchio. How about that? And strangely enough, she grew up looking a lot like her namesake.”

  I felt a strange pang as I said the words. It was the story my mother had told me many times during my early childhood—minus the out-of-wedlock pregnancy part, which my father had filled in later. My mother had always said it was the most romantic thing in the world. And she had worshipped the ground the beloved actress walked on. When I was younger, I had begged to watch the movies my mother talked about so often, especially Roman Holiday, of course. But she’d told me I was too young and could see them when I was a teenager.

  Of course, my mother had disappeared from our lives a year before I turned thirteen. And by the time she came back, I had sworn off Audrey Hepburn forever, illogically lumping her in with my mother as someone who was to be avoided at all costs.

  I looked up at Marco after a moment.

  He still looked confused. “That’s interesting,” he said finally. I could tell he didn’t understand but was trying to.

  I hesitated again. “My mother left us when I was almost twelve,” I said.

  “Oh,” Marco said. His eyes looked genuinely sad, which touched me in a strange way. “I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged.

  “Where is she now?” he asked. “Back here in Rome?”

  I sighed. I hated having to say the words. “She died,” I said simply. “A long time ago.”

  “Dio mio,” Marco said softly. He sat back in his chair without taking his eyes off me. I was suddenly aware of how still and silent the restaurant seemed. The quiet made me uncomfortable. I shifted nervously, waiting for what he had to say. “I’m so sorry, Cat,” he said finally, his voice soft and his eyes wide. “I had no idea.”

  “It’s fine.” I waved my hand dismissively.

  “No, it is not,” Marco said. “And I made it worse by insisting on talking about Roman Holiday with you. Che idiota!”

  I smiled. “You’re not an idiot. How would you know that I had some weird issue with Audrey Hepburn?”

  He groaned. “You must have wanted to hit me.”

  “No! Not at all.” I paused and smiled again. “I just didn’t know what you were talking about. So see? I really wasn’t trying t
o be Princess Ann or whatever. And I still have no clue who Joe Bradley is, although I’m assuming he’s a character from Roman Holiday.”

  Marco smiled. “Yes, he is.”

  “Well,” I said. “Maybe I’ll watch it someday.”

  “Yes?” Marco looked skeptical.

  I thought about it for a moment. “Maybe,” I said finally. “Maybe it’s time to stop letting my life be ruled by ghosts.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I spent the next three days wandering the streets of Rome with my camera slung over my shoulder. I trekked through the dust of the Forum to capture the way the light reflects on the crumbling ruins. I spent almost a full day in Vatican City, photographing everything from the columns that line Saint Peter’s Square to the statues that sit atop the basilica. I shot nearly a hundred photos at the Colosseum and detailed the Spanish Steps and Bernini’s Fountain of the Barcaccia, which sits at the foot of the steps.

  But the most shots I got were the ones I hadn’t planned, the ones that were on the way to the tourist sites.

  On the way to the Forum, I crouched in a doorway and took pictures of a lone boy kicking a ball around a fountain in the Piazza Barberini. En route to Vatican City, I photographed two old men smoking pipes in the entrance to a butcher shop and a trio of giggling teen girls in a huddle, pointing furtively to a trio of boys across the way who were pretending not to notice. Before I reached the Spanish Steps, I captured two little girls with gap-toothed grins, jumping rope while singing “Se Sei Felice Tu Lo Sai,” the Italian version of “If You’re Happy and You Know It.” By the time I wandered home late the third afternoon, having taken the long route past the Tiber so that I could snap some shots of the river glistening in the sun with the gritty Trastevere neighborhood rising up behind it, I had taken over five hundred photographs.

  Best of all, I felt so exhilarated from all the picture taking that I’d managed to keep my mind off the things I’d discussed with Marco and Karina. Anytime my mother popped into my head or I saw a Roman woman with a haircut that looked like my mother’s perennial Audrey Hepburn bob, I simply refocused, adjusted the aperture, and lost myself in the world I could see through the lens. I loved the control that gave me, the way I could select the things that mattered and exclude the things that didn’t.

  I’d never felt so free in all my life. And to my surprise, I liked the feeling.

  After returning home on the third day, I booted up my computer, plugged in a USB cord, set my camera to automatically upload all the pictures on its SD card, and finally sat down to call New York.

  I called Becky first. I felt guilty that I’d dropped off the map for a few days, but in truth, they could have called me on my cell if they needed me.

  Becky answered on the first ring, her voice sounding cheerful and much closer than it should have, given the miles and the ocean between us.

  “Hi, Sis!” I chirped, happy to hear her voice. “It’s me!”

  “Cat! Where are you?” she demanded instantly.

  I was taken aback. “In Rome. You know that.”

  “But I called you yesterday! Your cell didn’t work, so I called that Francesco guy since you gave me his number, but he said you’d moved out! I’ve been worried sick!”

  I paused and clicked to the e-mail box on my laptop. I scanned the twenty-seven new messages I’d received since yesterday. None were from my sister.

  “But, Becky, if you were worried, why didn’t you e-mail?” I asked.

  She made a huffing sound and said, “I shouldn’t have to play detective to track you down!”

  I rolled my eyes. She was right; but I also shouldn’t have to report back to her—or anyone, for that matter—either. That was one of the beautiful, liberating things about being single. But I didn’t want to pick a fight with her now. Not over this. Not from four thousand miles away. So instead, I just said, “I’m sorry. I’ll call the cell phone company and see what the problem is. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  “Well,” Becky said. “You did. You can’t just go disappearing like that. What if Daddy or I had needed you?”

  “But you didn’t, did you?” I asked in a small voice.

  “That’s not the point.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay.” I paused. “So. How’s married life?”

  As I knew would be the case, the change of topic worked perfectly, and Becky launched into a fast-paced, bubbly, long-winded tale about how Jay had tried to vacuum the carpet the other day but had tripped over the power cord and knocked over a lamp, which made her so mad because it was her favorite lamp in all the world.

  When she was done, she was silent for a moment and then asked, “So? How are you? What’s new?”

  It was strange, I thought, that she hadn’t asked about Francesco. Or why I was no longer living there. But I figured I had to tell her anyhow.

  “Well, I’m actually living in a little apartment near the Pantheon for the next few weeks,” I said. I took a deep breath. “Things didn’t exactly work out with Francesco.”

  Becky was silent for so long that I thought we’d been disconnected. “Hello?” I finally asked tentatively into the silence.

  “I’m here,” she said. “I just can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  “What? What do you mean?” I was taken aback. It was about the last thing I had expected her to say.

  Becky sighed dramatically. “Come on, Cat,” she said. “You go all the way over there and then you blow it with the guy you went to see?”

  I was silent for a long moment, mostly because my jaw had dropped and I couldn’t quite seem to get it to cooperate. Finally, I managed to squeak out, “What?”

  “Well, no offense, Cat. And I’m just saying this because I love you and I’m worried about you. But don’t you think you’re being a little too picky? I mean, you keep choosing all these guys and then changing your mind about them.”

  “Becky, I didn’t change my mind about Francesco,” I said. I shook my head. I didn’t even know where to begin. She had never understood the concept of breaking up with men you knew were wrong for you; her philosophy was more along the lines of staying with them as long as they did things for you. “He changed his mind about me,” I added softly.

  Becky was silent for a minute. “Are you sure you didn’t just push him away?” she asked softly. “Like you do sometimes?”

  I could feel my skin beginning to crawl. “No, Becky,” I said through gritted teeth. “I didn’t push him away.”

  “Don’t get defensive,” Becky said. “I’m just trying to help. Because I love you.”

  I closed my eyes for a minute and tried to calm down. “I know,” I said finally.

  “So when are you coming home?”

  “In two and a half weeks. Same date as I originally planned.”

  Silence. “You’re staying?” she finally asked.

  “I like it here, Becky,” I said. “I feel happy here. And it’s nice to take a break.”

  “Is there another guy?”

  I shook my head. Apparently, that’s all she could think of. “No,” I said. As soon as the word was out of my mouth, I thought of Marco. Did he count?

  “So you’re just alone?”

  “Yes. And I’m happy.”

  “Okay.” She paused. “Well. That’s good.”

  “Thanks,” I said simply. For the first time in a while, I was feeling pretty secure about the decision I’d made.

  “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you!” Becky said suddenly.

  “That guy who owns the restaurant where the reception was? Michael? He called to ask about you.”

  My heart stopped for a moment. “What?”

  “Yeah, well, he had my cell phone number from when we were planning the reception, and he just called out of the blue to ask if I knew how to get in touch with you.”

  “And what did you say?” I asked carefully.

  “I told him you were in Rome with your old boyfriend.” She giggled.

  I swallowed h
ard. “And what did he say?”

  “What does it matter? He’s married, Cat.”

  “I know.” I paused. “But what did he say?”

  “He got all silent for a minute, and then he mumbled something about how he hadn’t realized you had a boyfriend, but he wanted to clear up a misunderstanding with you.”

  I shook my head. “A misunderstanding?”

  “Yeah. Look, Cat, you’re not thinking about getting involved with some married guy, right?”

  “No!” I exclaimed.

  “Because, I mean, now that I’m married, I would be personally offended.” Cat sniffed.

  I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. As usual, it was all about her.

  “I would never do that,” I said. “You know that.”

  “Yeah, well.” She made another huffing noise and said, “I just don’t want to hear later that you got involved with him over there in Rome.”

  “In Rome?”

  “He said he was going over for work. But it’s not like he has any way to find you.”

  I closed my eyes. I was staying in his friend’s apartment. Of course he could find me. My heart was suddenly pounding rapidly, and my palms felt sweaty. “Did he say when he was coming?”

  “I don’t know. This week, I think? Besides, why does it matter?”

  “Of course. It doesn’t.” I blinked a few times and tried to steady myself. “Well, I’d better get going.”

  “Oh, right,” Becky chirped, back to her cheerful self.

  “Will you tell Dad I said hi? And let him know that I’ve moved apartments and will try to get my cell phone working?” I didn’t think I could handle a second family conversation today about what a failure I was.

  “No problem. Talk to you soon!” And with that, the phone clicked off on her end.

  I sat holding the phone for a while until it started making noises at me. Then I slowly set it back down in the receiver and turned back to my computer.

  I watched blankly for a while as my photos loaded, each one crystallizing momentarily on the screen as the files were saved. It was like being in the middle of a slide show, reliving my past three days in Rome. The longer I watched, the more I began to breathe again. The photos relaxed me, reminded me of where I was, outside the pressures of having a boyfriend, of dealing with Francesco, of thinking about Michael.