Italian for Beginners Page 21

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next morning, Marco cooked breakfast, and we laughed about how he was obviously not cut out to be a chef; he overdid the eggs, burned the toast, and even spilled the orange juice on the counter.

  “At least the espresso is perfect,” he said with a laugh as he poured me a small cup of thick, dark liquid from a little metal pot on the stove.

  “Hard to believe you own a restaurant,” I teased, examining my charred toast.

  “I know!” He laughed. “I don’t know what I’d ever do if my chef quit. The place would go to ruin.”

  After breakfast, Marco drove me home on his Vespa and kissed me good-bye. “I’m out of town for the next couple of nights, to visit my family in Venezia,” he said. “But when I am back, we should get together.”

  His words gave me a strange sinking feeling. My days here were growing shorter, and it felt profoundly disappointing to know that I couldn’t spend them all with him, although I had no right to expect that. As he smiled at me, there didn’t seem to be any regret in his eyes, though, any disappointment at having to miss some time with me.

  “Okay,” I said. I smiled at him. “Yesterday was amazing. I don’t even know how to thank you.”

  “You can thank me by thinking about things,” he said. “You only live once, and nothing should hold back the adventure.”

  He kissed me again, asked me to come by Pinocchio in a few days, and said good-bye. I watched him as he rode down the street. When he reached the corner, he turned and waved. Then he disappeared.

  I smiled to myself and turned to walk inside. I was startled to see Karina standing in the shadows of the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, regarding me with an amused expression.

  “Well, good morning, Cat,” she said, grinning at me. “I see you have found a souvenir in Rome already.”

  I felt myself turning red. “It’s not what it looks like,” I said. “Nothing happened.”

  I didn’t even know why I was defending myself. But she looked amused by it.

  She laughed. “Then you are crazy!” she exclaimed. “He’s gorgeous! Who is he?”

  “The guy from Pinocchio,” I said. “The one I told you about.” I quickly recapped my day and night with Marco as she stared at me, wide-eyed.

  “Forget Roman Holiday,” she said when I was done. “This sounds like you are starring in your own romance movie.”

  I laughed and shook my head. “I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll see what happens.” I was still thrown by the fact that he was vanishing for a few days. And he hadn’t even thought to ask me to go with him, even though he knew I had nothing scheduled, nothing keeping me here in Rome.

  “So, you watched the movie?” she asked. “And you weren’t upset?”

  I thought for a minute. “No,” I said. “I think I needed that push. And the way he created a whole new set of memories to go along with the movie”—I paused and shook my head—“it was amazing.”

  Karina nodded. “I am glad,” she said. “Good for you.” She reached over to give me a spontaneous hug. “You know, Cat Connelly, I am starting to like you.”

  I showered and changed and headed out on my own for a while, toting my camera. I intended to make my way over to the Trevi Fountain today to shoot there, but instead, I found myself thinking about Roman Holiday. Clearly, it was fiction and thus a silly thing to be taking into consideration. But there was something about Princess Ann’s courage in changing her entire life, if only for a day, that inspired me. How was it that at nearly thirty-five, I’d never done that? Not even for a moment? Sure, it had been somewhat brave to come to Rome—both when I was twenty-one and now—but both times, I knew the arrangement was temporary and wouldn’t really change my life in any major way. Didn’t that mean I was hardly taking a risk at all?

  I was thinking about that when I spotted a barbershop up ahead on the left, just down the block. I stopped in my tracks and stared, thinking of the scene early in the movie where Princess Ann gets her hair chopped off, an act that sort of symbolized a definitive break with her past and with the guarded person she had been all her life.

  I reached up and touched my own brown hair, which fell a few inches below my shoulders in the same haircut I’d had since high school. It was one of those cuts that didn’t really change with the times, just a simple, long-haired style. I’d gotten the ends trimmed, like clockwork, every eight weeks for as long as I could remember. But my hair had almost become a safety blanket, something I identified myself by. Maybe by changing that I could begin to change everything else, too.

  In that moment, I knew it was something I had to do.

  I took a deep breath, and before I could second-guess myself, I darted across the street and pulled open the door of the barbershop.

  Inside, it looked much like the shop where Princess Ann had gotten her locks chopped off. It wasn’t a beauty salon by any stretch of the imagination; it was a pared-down, stark place with four gleaming chairs, two sinks, and three barbers standing around in white smocks. There weren’t any customers there.

  All three men stared at me as I walked in. One said something in Italian, and I shook my head. “Non parlo italiano,” I said. “Parla inglese?”

  Two of the barbers shook their heads, but the third, the youngest of the trio, nodded. “I do,” he said. “A little. I understand a little.”

  “Good.” I sighed in relief. “I would like a haircut, please.”

  He nodded. “I understand,” he said. He gestured for one of the chairs. I sat, and he picked up a small handful of my hair. “A little bit?” he asked, pinching a lock of my hair between his thumb and forefinger, a half inch or so from the bottom.

  I took a deep breath and channeled Princess Ann. “No, higher.”

  He raised his eyebrows and went up an inch.

  “More,” I said.

  He glanced at me skeptically in the mirror. I smiled back. We could be here all day if we played this game. “I’d like it cut into a bob, please,” I said.

  He looked confused. “Non capisco.”

  I lifted my right hand and made a line just below my right ear. “Here,” I said. “I want it to here.”

  “Sì?” he asked, looking uncertain. He said something in rapid Italian, and I told him I didn’t understand. He collected his thoughts and put his hand where mine had been, showing me the length he thought I wanted. “Qui?” he asked skeptically.

  “Sì,” I said. “Qui. Here.”

  He shook his head and said in English, “Okay. I will cut.”

  He didn’t look too sure about it. He walked slowly around me once, examining my hair. He wound up in front of me and held a hand in front of his forehead. “The front, too?” he asked, mimicking bangs.

  I hesitated and nodded. “Sì,” I said. “With bangs.”

  “Come desiderate,” he said. He circled me once more and then leaned in with his scissors. As he began cutting, I watched one huge chunk of my hair fall to the ground. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t watch.

  “Ecco fatto,” he said several minutes later. “I am finished.”

  I cracked open my eyes and looked into the mirror. My jaw dropped as I saw my reflection.

  Gone were my long, plain, stick-straight strands. In their place, a lively, layered bob glistened, with long bangs framing my face.

  “You like, signorina?” the barber asked nervously.

  I reached up in wonderment and touched my hair. I couldn’t stop staring.

  “Signorina?” he prompted, looking worried.

  “I love it,” I said. “I love it.”

  The barber sighed in relief and wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. “È bello,” he said. “It is beautiful.”

  He beamed at me. Smiling, I paid him and sauntered out, feeling the breeze on the back of my neck for the first time as I stepped into the fresh air. Part of me had expected to regret the cut as soon as I emerged back into reality. But as I walked down the street, glancing at my image in shopwindows, I
felt only relief, as though the hair on my head finally reflected who I was meant to be.

  Two nights later, I still hadn’t heard from Marco. He should have been back from Venice by that point, and I figured he was probably busy. But still, I found myself feeling vaguely uneasy, wondering if he’d changed his mind about me just as I began to let myself feel something for him. When Karina sent Nico up at just past six to ask if I wanted to join her for a drink that evening, I jumped at the chance as a way to distract myself from waiting pathetically by the phone.

  A few hours later, after I’d taken a brief nap and changed into a pair of black J Brand jeans and a dark gray tank top, with a pile of faux pearls and black peep-toe heels, Karina appeared at my door.

  “Wow,” she said, looking me up and down and then staring at my hair. “You look amazing.”

  “Thanks,” I said, smiling self-consciously.

  “You cut your hair.”

  I nodded. “It was time for a change.”

  Karina looked at me for a long moment and then smiled slowly. She knew I was talking about more than just my hair. “I am proud of you, bella,” she said.

  Together, we set off down the street, with our heels click-clacking on the cobblestones. Karina was dressed up, too, in a low-cut little black dress. “There is a man named Raffaele who said he would be here tonight,” she mumbled without meeting my eyes. “He is a waiter at another restaurant nearby.”

  “Ah,” I said, smiling at her. “Is this someone you’re interested in?”

  “No!” she snapped immediately. But her red face gave her away. “Maybe,” she amended. “It is foolish, perhaps. But he seems very kind. And he is always so nice to Nico.” She shrugged. “There is a celebration tonight with all of the other waiters from his restaurant. Some party for something or another; he didn’t explain. Raffaele invited me to join them.”

  “Well, that sounds good,” I said. I glanced at her as we hurried down the street and was amused to see that her cheeks still looked a little flushed. The seemingly unflappable Karina was nervous.

  The bar was just off the Piazza della Rotonda, the plaza in front of the Pantheon. In fact, I was surprised I hadn’t noticed it before. But the entrance was nondescript and tucked into the first doorway of an alleyway near the restaurant where I’d eaten with Marco. “This bar is always fun,” Karina said as we walked in. “A lot of the people who work at the restaurants come here.”

  Inside, it was dark and already packed with people. Off to the right was a long wooden bar with three bartenders rushing around behind it. To the left, tucked into a little alcove, was a three-piece band with a guitar player belting out lyrics in English, which, unlike at the last bar I’d gone to with Karina, actually sounded pretty accurate.

  “Come on,” Karina said, grabbing my hand. “There’s Raffaele.”

  She took my hand and led me across the room to a cluster of five athletic-looking men who were all around six feet tall. The man in the center of the group, a dark-haired guy with chiseled features who reminded me of one of the many statues I’d seen around the city, grinned from ear to ear the moment he spotted us.

  “Karina!” he exclaimed as we drew closer. “Siete venute!”

  Karina squeezed my hand once more, glanced at me with a small smile on her face, and stepped forward to kiss the man on both cheeks.

  “Buona sera, Raffaele,” she said. She turned and gestured at me. “Ecco la mia amica, Cat. È una americana.”

  “Ciao, Cat!” Raffaele said pleasantly. He reached out to kiss me politely on both cheeks, then rattled off a few sentences in rapid Italian. I shrugged and looked helplessly at Karina.

  Karina smiled. “Non parla l’italiano,” she said, nodding to me.

  “Ah,” Raffaele said. He thought for a moment. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said formally, in slow, decisive, heavily accented English. “I am learning the English now. It is good with the restaurant.”

  “Your English is very good,” I said, smiling at him.

  “Grazie,” he said. “Thank you.”

  He and Karina introduced me around to the other waiters, all of whom grinned at me and tried to say something in English.

  Karina made an effort to include me in the conversation, but it was clear to me that I was holding her back. She was giggling at Raffaele’s jokes and then making an attempt to translate them for me. I knew she didn’t mind. But I knew I had to be a good friend, too, and make myself scarce for at least a little while.

  I told Karina I was going to get a drink, and after she worriedly asked if I was okay and I assured her that I was, I made my way through the crowded room over to the bar. I ordered a Stella and turned to survey the room. Karina was already in her own little world with Raffaele. She had her head leaned in, listening to something he was saying, and he had his arm wrapped gently around her waist, pulling her close as he spoke into her ear above the din of the bar. Her face was flushed, and she was smiling. She looked happy.

  I sipped my beer and gazed around the room for a while. The band was playing the Beatles’ “Something,” which had always been one of my favorite songs. I smiled and followed along with the words until the tune ended. Then I grabbed my beer and set off to find the bathroom.

  After waiting in a seemingly interminable line to use the women’s stall, I made my way back to Karina’s group. As I approached from the back, I saw that two new people had joined their group, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick shock of dark hair, and a small, balding, older man with stooped shoulders.

  Karina, who was still tucked under Raffaele’s arm, spotted me and waved as I walked toward them. She had just opened her mouth to say something to me when the two newcomers turned around to see who was coming. My eyes locked with those of the younger man, and my jaw dropped. I stopped in my tracks, still a few feet away from the group.

  “Cat?” the man asked, looking just as incredulous as I felt.

  It took me a few seconds to catch my breath. “Michael?” I said.

  Karina grinned at me. “Isn’t this a wonderful surprise, Cat?” she asked. “I had no idea he was going to be in Roma!”

  I didn’t respond. Instead, I continued to stare at Michael Evangelisti. “What are you doing here?” I finally mustered.

  “This is my uncle Armando,” he said, nodding to the older man beside him. The man nodded at me and smiled. “He owns a restaurant right near here. Didn’t I tell you that? These guys are his waiters. Two of them,” he nodded to the two men closest to him, “are my cousins, Gianni and Lorenzo.”

  Karina was looking at me strangely. “I should have remembered to tell you that Raffaele works at Michael’s uncle’s restaurant. I didn’t even think of it.” She paused. “Are you all right?”

  “No,” I whispered, still staring at Michael.

  “Cat, what are you doing here?” Michael repeated.

  “ I—I live right near here,” I stammered uncertainly.

  “She lives in my spare apartment,” Karina clarified. She still looked mystified. “Didn’t you give her my number, Michael?”

  He nodded slowly. “I didn’t realize she had come to stay with you, though.” He paused and looked me straight in the eye. “She hasn’t returned any of my calls.”

  This rubbed me entirely the wrong way. “I wasn’t aware we had anything to talk about,” I said stiffly, my annoyance at him returning now that the initial shock of seeing him had begun to wear off. He looked disturbingly handsome in a dark button-down shirt and dark jeans. His eyes looked brighter than I remembered them, which just made it harder to look away.

  I glanced at Michael and then back at Karina. I hated that there was suddenly an ache in my chest.

  “Cat, we really need to talk,” Michael said quickly. He took a step toward me, but I backed away.

  I ignored him. “So, you didn’t bring your wife and kid on this trip?” I asked. “No mother-in-law?”

  Karina looked startled. Her eyes darted to Michael and then back to me. F
or a moment, I hoped that she’d laugh and tell me I had somehow misunderstood everything. But instead, she didn’t say anything. She just glanced at Michael for a long time and then looked away. Michael stared at me and slowly shook his head.

  “How sad to have to leave them behind,” I said coldly.

  “Cat,” Michael said again. He reached forward to touch my arm, but I shook him off.

  “Karina, I’m not feeling very well,” I said. “I’m going to go home, I think.”

  Karina looked nervously back and forth between Michael and me. “What’s going on?”

  “Why don’t you let your friend Michael explain?” I said. I hated that the ache inside me was growing worse. I shouldn’t be aching for a man like him. I hated that, with as much control as I was able to exert over most of my life, I couldn’t quite seem to master the art of telling my heart to stop wanting something it simply couldn’t have. And I hated that, apparently, this was the universe’s idea of a funny joke, to drop the married man I’d had the most perfect evening of my life with into my path, halfway across the globe.

  “Cat, please, let me explain!” Michael said.

  “There’s really nothing to say,” I said. I forced my eyes away from him and turned back to Karina. “Thank you for inviting me out this evening,” I said with forced formality. “I hope you have a wonderful time.”

  “Cat, you don’t… ,” she began.

  But I cut her off. I took a step forward and kissed her on both cheeks. I told Raffaele it was nice to meet him, and I said good-bye to the other waiters. I nodded to Michael’s uncle, and then I took one last look at Michael’s face. He looked stricken, as if he couldn’t possibly have anticipated that I would still be unwilling to embark on an affair with a married man. It made me feel almost ill.

  “Don’t come after me,” I said to Michael. “I don’t think there’s anything to say.”

  “ But—” he began.

  “No,” I said firmly. And before anyone else could say anything, I turned on my heel and walked quickly away without looking back.