Italian for Beginners Read online

  “Don’t you think?” Marco asked, concluding a chain of thought I hadn’t entirely heard.

  I shook my head. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “My mind was wandering. What did you say?”

  He laughed. “I’m boring you already?” He winked at me. “I was just saying that I opened the restaurant because I think it’s worth the risk to pursue your dream, even if you don’t know if it will work out. Don’t you think this is the case?”

  I hesitated. “I’m not sure,” I said. I thought of Karina’s words. “Apparently, I like to live life on the safe side.”

  “There is value in that, too,” he said. “But I think that is the difference between living a small life and living a big one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He thought for a second. “I mean, I think it’s perfectly acceptable to live a safe life,” he said. “I wouldn’t have been unhappy if I had stayed in Venezia. I probably would have continued to work in the family restaurant, I would have gotten an apartment in Mestre near my family, and I would have married, had children, played on the family futbol team on the weekends, and one day inherited the restaurant along with my brothers.

  “But,” he continued, “my world would have been so small. You understand? I might have traveled, and I might have done little things here and there. But my dream would have died in my head. And I never would have made any real difference in the world.”

  I nodded. Suddenly, my heart felt like it was pounding. “I know what you mean,” I said softly.

  “But here in Roma, things are different,” he said. “For a year there, I barely had enough money to eat, and I had no time. I was working twenty hours a day setting up the restaurant. And at the beginning, we had no business. It was terrible. I felt like I was going to fail.

  “But I didn’t let go of my dream,” he added. “And today, I am so happy, Cat. My life is not perfect, but it is good. That is all I can ask for.”

  “That’s amazing,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Do you have dreams, too?” he asked. “Beyond what you are doing now?”

  I thought for a minute. “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe I do.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  After an amazing dinner of fried seafood—a Venetian specialty, Marco explained—and a bottle of pinot grigio, followed by espresso and a shared dessert of tiramisu, Marco said that he had another surprise for me, if I would trust him.

  We climbed onto the Vespa and set off through a series of small city streets, eventually winding up on the Via dei Coronari, heading toward the river. I closed my eyes and held on tight as we drew closer to the water. I could smell the salt wafting in through the evening air.

  Marco finally parked the Vespa near the Ponte Sant’Angelo, the marble pedestrian bridge that spans the Tiber with a series of arches, overlooking the Castel Sant’Angelo. It had always been my favorite place in Rome. The bridge is flanked with ten angel statues, all of them holding things like a crown of thorns, a cross, or whips. I’d read somewhere that all ten angels carry instruments of Christ’s crucifixion. Although I wasn’t deeply religious, there was something about the statues that had always moved me.

  “This is one of my favorite places in Rome,” I said to Marco as he took my hand and we began strolling toward the bridge. I briefly remembered discussing it with Michael, the look on his face when I said it was my favorite spot to be alone. But I shook off the thought just as quickly. “How did you know?” I asked Marco.

  He looked surprised. “I didn’t,” he said. “But it is a place I’ve always loved, too.”

  I expected us to cross the bridge toward the towering, cylindrical castello, which looked almost magical bathed in pale yellow light. But instead, Marco took a sharp turn to the right as we reached the bridge and led me down a series of stone steps toward the riverbank below.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  He squeezed my hand and continued down the stairs ahead of me. “You’ll see.”

  As we descended, I could see a small boat docked up ahead. It looked as if it had been hastily strung with several strands of sparkling white lights. Marco shouted something to the man standing on the deck of the boat, and the man waved back.

  “You know him?” I asked.

  Marco nodded and smiled at me. “It’s my friend Nari. He is the only person I know with a boat. I asked him to meet us here.”

  I looked at him, puzzled, as we reached the base of the stairs and began walking toward the boat. “You did? Why?”

  “I looked everywhere for a barge that was hosting a dance tonight,” he said with a mysterious grin, “but I could not find a single one. So I had to make my own.”

  “A barge hosting a dance?”

  “You will understand later,” he said. “But tonight, it is just a dance for two. Well, three, if Nari stays. But I think I can persuade him to go get an espresso while we use his boat.”

  I was completely confused now, but I followed Marco aboard the small white vessel and shook Nari’s hand when we were introduced. The man barely spoke English, so Marco translated a few pleasantries between us and then slipped into a rapid conversation in Italian while I looked around the boat.

  It was small, the kind we might have taken out on Long Island to sunbathe on deck for a few hours in the summer. It looked like there was a small cabin below. There was a big, shiny, wooden wheel toward the back of the boat, and behind it, a motor. On the front of the flat, wooden boat, two small seats were set up, facing the river, and a small stereo was tied to the capstan, presumably so that it didn’t pitch overboard.

  “Nari is going to take my Vespa and go get some coffee,” Marco said finally, turning away from his conversation. Nari, who was standing behind him, nodded to me, smiling. “He said we can use the boat for a couple of hours while he’s gone.”

  “But where are we going?” I asked.

  Marco smiled. “Nowhere.”

  Puzzled, I shook Nari’s hand again and watched as he hopped nimbly from the boat to the bank and made his way up the steep stone stairway toward the bridge. A moment later, he vanished, and I turned to Marco.

  He smiled and offered me his hand. “Would you care to dance?”

  I laughed. “Here?”

  “Where better?”

  I paused, shrugged, and put my hand in his. He bent to turn on the stereo with his free hand, and then he fiddled for a moment with the tuner until he found a station playing what sounded like old-time, big band era classics. “Perfetto,” he murmured. “Shall we?”

  He pulled me onto the makeshift dance floor and put his right hand on my waist. He lifted my right arm in the air, into a proper ballroom dancing stance, and together, we slowly swayed for a moment. The song changed, and Marco smiled, twirled me around, and dipped me. When he pulled me back up again, he moved his left arm to my back and drew me closer.

  We swayed that way to the music for a few songs, without saying a word. I pressed my head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat as we rocked back and forth to the music, with the boat moving gently beneath us. I looked out on the river and at the glowing Castel Sant’Angelo on the opposite bank, its windows blazing bright, its cross seemingly illuminated from within. It looked like a magical palace under a dark sky full of bright stars. Up above, the moon was nearly full and filtered down onto the water, where its diluted reflection rippled and winked at us. Occasionally, a small boat would motor by, or we’d hear a faraway voice from the bridge above, but for the most part, it felt like we were all alone in the midst of this city of two and a half million people.

  “This is amazing,” I murmured.

  “Yes,” Marco agreed. “It is.”

  I looked up, and slowly, he tilted his head down, and his eyes met mine. We stood holding each other for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes. And then, in what felt like slow motion, he slowly lowered his head and touched his lips to mine for the first time.

  I don’t know whether it was the fairy-t
ale setting in the shadows of a glowing castle, or whether it was the soft romance of the music, or whether it was simply the way a first kiss with the right person was supposed to feel, but when Marco kissed me, gently at first, it felt like magic.

  I don’t know how long we stood on the deck of the boat, swaying in the moonlight and kissing each other. It might have been mere moments; it might have been an hour. Time seemed to collapse around us, and I didn’t care. Marco didn’t seem to be in a hurry to make this more than what it was. There seemed to be no rush, no urgency. Being forced to savor the moment that way was absolutely delicious.

  Finally, Marco pulled away and gazed down at me. “You are an incredible kisser,” he said softly.

  “You, too,” I said. I smiled up at him, my heart pounding like it had earlier at the Mouth of Truth, but for entirely different reasons this time.

  Marco stroked my hair. “Let us sit and enjoy the moonlight on the river for a little while,” he said.

  We settled on the bow of the boat, facing out to the river, Marco’s arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders. We sat in silence for a while, then Marco turned and pointed up to the bridge. “Do you know the story of the angels that guard the Ponte Sant’Angelo?” he asked.

  I shook my head and he continued.

  “Long ago, the bridge was called the bridge of St. Peter, because it was the bridge that pilgrims used to reach the Basilica di San Pietro,” he began. “But, as legend has it, an angel appeared above the castle to announce the end of the plague, which is why the castle and the bridge were both renamed. Angels became very important to the meaning of the bridge after that.

  “In the late sixteen hundreds, Bernini launched a program to create ten angels to watch over the bridge, at the request of the pope,” he continued. “The ten angels, sculpted under his guidance by his students, carry the tools of Christ’s crucifixion. They are said to watch over the city, angels guarding Rome from all evil.”

  “That’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Sì,” Marco said. “As are you.” He kissed me on the top of the head. I smiled into the darkness and closed my eyes.

  A few moments later, we heard footsteps behind us and turned to see Nari returning with a paper bag in his hand. He smiled at us and stepped aboard the boat as we stood up. He and Marco chatted for a few minutes, and he handed the bag to Marco.

  “He brought us two cannoli from the café,” Marco said.

  “Oh, grazie,” I said to Nari, smiling at him.

  “Prego,” he replied.

  He and Marco chatted for a moment more, and then Marco took my hand. “Are you ready to go? I have something else I’d like to show you.”

  I shook my head and laughed. “There’s more?”

  Marco smiled. “If you don’t mind.”

  I smiled and nodded. After saying good-bye to Nari, we made our way back up the stone steps and climbed onto Marco’s Vespa. Twenty minutes later, we were walking through the door to his tiny apartment. He poured us each a glass of wine and offered me a seat on the couch. He sat down beside me.

  “Cin cin,” he said, raising his glass to me. I met his eyes, and he added in a slow, deliberate voice, “To making the ghosts go away.”

  I clinked glasses with him, but I wasn’t sure what he meant. Then, he leaned back on the sofa and studied me carefully.

  “I was thinking a lot about what you said about your mother and her family here,” he said, “and about getting rid of ghosts.”

  I swallowed hard. “Yes,” I said. I looked down. “It sounds silly. But I’m not sure that I’m ready.”

  Marco nodded. “Yes, you are,” he said firmly. He put his wineglass down and stood up. He crossed the room to a small bookshelf in the corner and pulled out a DVD. “Roman Holiday,” he said, holding it up for me to see. “I think we should watch it.”

  I stared at the box in his hand as though it contained anthrax. “Why?”

  “Do you trust me?” he asked, instead of answering my question.

  I hesitated. “I think so,” I said. “Yes.”

  “Then trust me about this,” he said.

  I regarded him warily.

  He smiled gently and went on. “You will understand when you watch the movie,” he said. “But I wanted to change the meaning of it for you. I think you will find now that when you watch Roman Holiday, it won’t just be about your family. It will be like a souvenir of today.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “You will,” he said.

  I took a deep breath. I looked at the DVD case in his hand. Audrey Hepburn, who reminded me so much of my mother, beamed happily out, perched on a scooter, her arms wrapped around Gregory Peck, with the Colosseum in the background.

  I looked down at my lap. My mind was reeling, my heart pounding. It was ridiculous; I knew it was just a movie. But it was a movie that had haunted me since I was twelve, something that represented everything I loved and hated, everything I’d had and lost. But Marco knew that. And maybe he was right.

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes briefly. “Okay.”

  Marco smiled at me. “Good.” He put the movie in the player, pushed PLAY, and sat down on the couch beside me. He put his arm around me and pulled me close. “This is a good thing, I think,” he said. “But if you want to stop, just tell me. We will stop anytime.”

  I nodded. “I think I’m okay,” I said.

  The movie began, and I felt strangely empty as I watched the opening sequence of Audrey Hepburn’s character, Princess Ann, traveling around Europe to various dignitary appearances. I smiled slightly as she struggled through an official appearance in Rome, and later, as she gazed out her window at the sparkling city below, I felt a swell of pride that Rome was, for the time being, my adopted city, too.

  “Are you okay?” Marco asked, squeezing my shoulder.

  “So far.” I nodded. And I was. But I still didn’t understand what Marco meant.

  On the screen, the princess snuck out of her room, hitched a ride into Rome, and wound up sleepily wandering streets that looked familiar to me. When she finally settled in for an inadvertent nap on a little brick wall near the Forum, my eyes widened.

  “Oh, my God, that’s right around where you found me, isn’t it?” I asked, looking up at Marco.

  He laughed. “Now you see why I was so convinced that you were just another American trying to reenact the movie,” he said.

  I stared. “Oh, no,” I murmured, shaking my head in disbelief.

  I laughed as Joe Bradley happened upon Princess Ann and had an exchange that sounded eerily similar to the one I’d had when I first met Marco. And then, when Joe Bradley was forced to take the princess back to his small apartment, I turned to Marco again.

  “This is unbelievable,” I said. I sank back into Marco’s arms to watch the movie, but to my surprise, I found that instead of desperately trying to scan the crowd of extras for the faces of my grandparents, and instead of disliking the Princess Ann character based on everything she represented to me, I was watching the movie to pick out the places Marco and I had gone together.

  I watched in disbelief as the adventure we had today unfolded on the screen in black and white. Joe Bradley took Princess Ann on a Vespa ride to the Colosseum, and I understood why Marco had made the comment he did about wishing he had more time to take me inside. As they whizzed through the outdoor market, knocking things over, I understood why Marco had made his strange detour through vendor stalls today and why he’d made the comment about not having an American Press card. I laughed aloud as Joe Bradley and Princess Ann visited the Mouth of Truth, shook my head in wonderment as they dined just across from the Pantheon, and finally, felt tears in my eyes as they made their way down the steps near the Ponte Sant’Angelo to a big dance party on a barge in the river.

  “You did all of that for me?” I asked as Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn danced together on the deck of the barge.

  Marco nodded. “I wanted you to be able to look at th
is movie as something other than the movie that represented your mother,” he said. “Now it’s about you and your time in Roma. Good memories, I hope, to replace the bad ones.”

  We watched in silence as the movie ended, and my eyes filled with tears in the final scene.

  We sat quietly while the final credits rolled in the darkness. I felt shaken. Roman Holiday had always represented something larger than life to me, and now, it had taken on a different meaning entirely. It felt disconcerting, as if I really had let go of something.

  “Did you like the movie?” Marco asked.

  I hesitated for a moment. “Yes,” I said. “I really did.” And I meant it.

  “Good,” he said. “But the rest, it is up to you.”

  I looked up at him. His face was illuminated oddly with the black-and-white light of the TV screen, making it appear almost as if we were in our own black-and-white movie. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that this movie, it was your most important ghost, right?” he said. “And now, you have faced it. And you are okay. The world has not ended. You are still here. So the rest, the rest is up to you.”

  “The rest?”

  “You have two more weeks in Rome, right?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Then figure out how you can change your life in that time,” he said. “Stop being haunted by the past.”

  I thought about his words for a moment and nodded. “I’ll try,” I said.

  He looked me in the eye. “You have the power to change things,” he said. “It starts here, in Roma.”

  I spent the night with Marco that night, both of us pressed together in his bed, unlike the last time, when he’d stretched out on the uncomfortable couch. We kissed for a while, but nothing happened beyond that. I was an emotional wreck, and Marco knew it. I dozed off for a while and woke up with tears running down my cheeks. Marco was already awake, wiping them away. He pulled me closer, and when I fell asleep again, I slept deeply, feeling safer than I had in ages.