Bella Fortuna (31 page)

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Authors: Rosanna Chiofalo

BOOK: Bella Fortuna
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He looks at me again, smiling furtively this time. The man is absolutely flirting with me! Why am I shocked? This is Italy, after all—land of the playboy extraordinaire. I'd seen it often enough when I visited Sicily. Men on their
motorinos
would whistle at my sisters and me, making suggestive comments. One summer, we were hounded relentlessly whenever we went to the beach.
The notorious DeLuca temper is beginning to flare up inside of me. The nerve! And he has a girlfriend. The redhead I'd seen with him earlier had to be his lover.
“So since we are such a small group, let's start off with introductions. We'll go around and you can give me your name and tell me briefly in a sentence or two what brought you to Venezia. Let's begin with you,
signorina
.”
He points at me. I have to give him credit. The man certainly does not waste any time. The other tourists in the group look at me and smile. I clear my throat.
“My name is Valentina. I'm here on vacation, of course, as I'm sure everyone else here is.”
Everyone laughs. That's all he's getting out of me. If the celebrity—or Stefano whatever-his-last-name-is—thinks he's going to get to know me, he has no idea who he's dealing with.
Stefano smiles. “Ahhh, you get me,
signorina
.”
Obviously, he meant to say, “You got me.” Though he doesn't have a heavy accent, and his English is as good as most of the other Venetians' English, he still seems to struggle at times to find the correct word.
“What I should have said maybe was how did you decide to choose Venice over all of the other beautiful cities in Italy?”
He isn't letting me off the hook.
“I've always wanted to come to Venice. I also took a course in college on the art and architecture of Venice, and I'd like to see the masterpieces that I studied.”
Stefano's eyes glow when I say this for some bizarre reason.
“
Brava! Grazie molto,
Valentina. And you, sir, what is your name and why Venice?”
He nods at the gentleman behind me, giving him permission to speak.
“Venice is the city of all cities. This is my third time here.”
The man goes into a lengthy description of why he keeps coming back to Venice. But Stefano doesn't seem to mind, especially since his mind is elsewhere. He's blatantly staring at me again. I pretend not to notice, but my peripheral vision definitely can see he hasn't taken his eyes off me since the tourist behind me has begun speaking. I can't help thinking I've wasted the extra money in purchasing this tour since this playboy of a guide isn't curtailing people's comments, and this is a timed tour. But no sooner have I thought this when Stefano announces, “We'll end about ten minutes later to accommodate for the introductions. Can everyone stay an extra ten minutes? If not, you are welcome to leave, and I will do my best to con . . . con . . . condense the tour into the time allotted.”
Everyone murmurs that they can spare an extra ten minutes beyond the original duration of the tour.
“Let us begin.”
Stefano manages to keep his eyes off me for the rest of the tour. His knowledge is comprehensive, and in addition to giving us detailed information on the art and architecture of St. Mark's Basilica, he also outlines Venice's history and the history of the Basilica. One fact I find especially fascinating is the story of how St. Mark's body had been stolen from its original resting place in Alexandria, Egypt. The knights who had stolen the body covered the saint's remains with pork to deter the Muslims from searching for it. Disgusted at the sight of the pork, the Arabs did not detect St. Mark's corpse, and the knights brought the saint's relics to Venice. The original church, which would later become St. Mark's Basilica, was initially built in honor of the saint and to house his remains.
“I'm sure many of you might have noticed already the winged lion on the center arch of St. Mark's Basilica and on many other buildings in Venice. You can also find these lions on buildings in Verona, Chioggia, Vicenza, and other parts of the Veneto. The lion indicated that these cities were part of the Venetian empire.”
As Stefano talks about Venice's majestic symbol, it's my turn to stare at him. I'm still floored by his beautiful green eyes. His sense of style is impeccable, and his knowledge is beyond impressive. But there's something else that is intriguing about him. Like the dark, gilded interior of the Basilica that offers glimpses of light in its shadows, Stefano appears to be a mysterious enigma I can't help wanting to know more about.
17
Land of the Gigolo
A
s the tour is winding down, I decide to make a discreet exit. The tourists in my group advance to inspect the Pala d'Oro, the magnificent tenth-century altarpiece comprised of precious stones and gilded panels. I remain still until I am well behind the group. Then I tiptoe to the nearest exit and walk out into Piazza San Marco.
Flocks of pigeons line the
piazza
. My stomach is grumbling, but I don't want a heavy midday meal that will slow me down for my afternoon of exploring as much as I can of San Marco. I pull out of my purse a little notebook in which I have a list of recommended restaurants, cafés, and bars that I had looked up on the Internet before I left New York. Following my street map, I make my way toward Calle delle Botteghe, where Trattoria da Fiore is located. Known for its
cicchetti,
or tapas, Trattoria da Fiore is also popular for its
bacaro—
a separate space apart from its main dining room reserved for patrons who wish to just have tapas and a drink. A light snack and a good glass of wine are all I'll need to refuel and continue my sightseeing.
A cozy, inviting space, Trattoria da Fiore is bustling with both tourists and even locals. As the waiter leads me to my table, several men who are seated in the main dining room follow me with their eyes. Even one septuagenarian winks at me. I will have to get used to being ogled during my stay in Venice.
After perusing the menu, I order a glass of white wine from the local Veneto region and for my
cicchetti,
I can't resist the fried zucchini blossoms and a sampling of fried fish that includes prawns, sardines, and squid. When the waiter brings out the
cicchetti,
I am embarrassed since the portions are quite generous even though it's supposed to be just a light snack. How odd must this look that I am here alone with all this food before me?
I thank the waiter, who doesn't seem to notice or care that I am to consume this huge feast alone. Taking a bite out of the flaky fried zucchini blossom, I am taken back to the summer when I'd first visited Sicily with my family, and my aunt had made this same mysterious culinary delight. I watched as Zia Pia dipped each zucchini blossom into an egg-and-bread-crumb batter and then fried the flowers until they turned amber in color. The zucchini blossoms wake up every taste bud in my mouth. I close my eyes, savoring the flavors. Then I take a sip of my wine, which is the perfect complement to my dish.
“They are heavenly, aren't they?”
I open my eyes and almost jump at the sight before me.
The celebrity! Uhhh . . . I mean the tour guide. I have to stop referring to him as “the celebrity” now that I know he's the farthest thing from a celebrity. How had he found me? I'd left the tour a full ten minutes before it was due to end, and that was not allowing for the extra time Stefano said he would offer to make up for the lengthy tourists' introductions.
Speechless, I just nod my head in greeting.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
Somehow I manage to squeak out, “No, of course not.”
But how I do mind. My relaxed, blissful state from just a moment ago is far in my memory now as my nerves take over.
“Ciao, Stefano. Che bevi?”
“Un bicchiero di
Prosecco,
per favore. Grazie.”
Of course the waiter knows him. It seems everyone knows Stefano in Venice. Maybe he is a celebrity—to the local Venetians, at least.
Stefano returns his gaze to me and smiles. As if reading my mind, he says, “I come here almost every afternoon after my tours.”
I can't help wondering if he isn't just explaining the waiter knowing him, but is also attempting to validate finding me in here. Had he perhaps ended the tour earlier and seen me walk in this direction? I dismiss the notion. Stefano is a handsome man, and Venice is filled with gorgeous women. He doesn't need to follow an American tourist just to add another notch to his belt. Then again this
is
Italy, land of the gigolos and playboys.
“Excuse me a moment while I take a look at the menu.”
“I have more than enough
cicchetti
for both of us. Please help yourself. I was not expecting the portions to be so large. I could never finish this all by myself.”
Stefano seems to hesitate. He shrugs his shoulders. “Okay. But I must order my favorite
cicchetti
. I get them every time I come. And you must try them as well. I insist.”
Stefano motions for the waiter and orders fried
polpetti,
or meatballs. I notice the waiter slides his gaze toward me and then back at Stefano as they share some sort of man speak with their eyes. The waiter is smiling furtively. I pretend not to notice as I take a bite of my prawn.
“Valentina, is this your first time to Venice or Italy?”
“It's my first time in Venice, but I've been to Rome, Florence, and Sicily.”
“Sicily?”
The waiter brings Stefano's glass of Prosecco. I watch as he greedily drinks the bubbly drink.
“Excuse me. I get so thirsty after giving a tour. All the talking I do.”
He smiles again, but this time it's more of a shy smile. Can it be this cocky man is actually a bit flustered?
Whenever I notice people's discomfort, it's always been my tendency to put them at ease.
“I enjoyed your tour very much.”
His eyes register surprise, then delight. The embarrassment from a moment ago is completely forgotten as his smile deepens, and his eyes narrow, looking at me in the same intense manner he had when we first met.
“Thank you. It helps to get some . . . ehhh, how do you Americans call it? Feed . . . feed . . .”
“Feedback.”
“Yes, thank you! Feedback. I'm sorry. My English isn't the best.”
“No, you speak English very well. It's natural to forget a phrase here and there, especially in our language that has so many idioms.”
“You are too kind—and beautiful.”
My cheeks flush crimson immediately. What is the matter with me, giving this stranger not one but two compliments? Quick mental note:
Restrain yourself, Valentina.
“I hope you do not mind me saying so.”
“No, thank you.”
I take several sips of my wine, hoping to hide behind the glass until my cheeks return to their normal color.
“Polpette di carne,”
the waiter announces as he returns and sets down on the table Stefano's
cicchetti
.
“They smell just like my mother's.”
“Your mother makes these?” Stefano sounds surprised.
“Yes. We do have meatballs in America.” The sarcasm is evident in my voice.
“Of course.”
Stefano sinks his fork into one of the fried meatballs that aren't coated with sauce, and places it on my plate.
“Have you ever had them without sauce and alone, unaccompanied by pasta?”
“That's the best way to have them. When I was little, every Sunday afternoon when my mother made dinner, I always asked her to save a meatball for me before she placed them in the tomato sauce.”
“So your mother made pasta every Sunday?”
“Yes, like any other Italian mother.”
“So you are of Italian descent? I should have known. Your looks are more exotic than American.”
“My parents were born in Sicily and immigrated to America after they were married.”
“
Da vero? Siciliana?
That's right. You mentioned you had been to Sicily.
Allora lei capisce Italiano?
”
“Si, molto bene.”
“So I do not have to struggle for the right English word when I talk to you.”
I smile. “I guess not.”
He smiles back.
“So why did you leave the tour early if you were enjoying it?”
Darn! He's got me. How am I going to explain that?
“I didn't leave the tour early because I wasn't enjoying it anymore.” As I talk, I search my brain for the right excuse. “It's just that I wasn't feeling well. I needed to eat something.”
I pray he can't tell I'm lying. Stefano nods his head, seemingly accepting my excuse.
“Two hours can be a long time for a tour, especially in the morning.”
He raises his glass toward our waiter, signaling for him to bring him another drink.
“Would you like another drink as well?”
“No, thank you. I'm fine.”
“Valentina, how long is your stay in Venezia?”
I like the way my name sounds on his tongue. He utters each syllable slowly, almost as if he's taking pleasure in reciting my name.
“I'll be here for three weeks. I only arrived yesterday.”
Stefano's eyes seem to brighten at this information.
“Are you planning on taking any other tours?”
“Yes, I'm thinking of taking a tour of a few of the churches that house some of the art I studied in college, and I'd also like to take a tour of Il Palazzo Ducale and maybe a walking tour of the city if I can find one.”
“Of course, we have walking tours of the city. I offer them. I can give you a generous discount if you take my walking tour.”
“That's kind of you, but that's not necessary. You hardly know me. I can't expect you to give me a discount.”
“Nonsense! You are a guest in my city. It would be my pleasure. I have a walking tour this evening, right after
siesta
. Why don't you take that one? We meet in front of Basilica San Marco at five o'clock.”
What can be the harm in taking a tour with him? There will be other tourists, and as I'd learned from the tour of the Basilica this morning, he's very knowledgeable. I'll probably learn so much on this tour as well.
“Okay. Where do I purchase the ticket?”
“You can buy them from me. Since this is a walking tour of the city, I operate independently.”
I pull my wallet out of my purse, wanting to pay him now for the ticket. But Stefano places his hand on mine. His touch sends a thousand butterflies loose in my stomach.
“Pay me later. No rush to do so now.”
“Grazie.”
His hand lingers on mine. He gives it a little squeeze before he lets go. My heart is absolutely racing. I've never met a man who is so forward like him.
“Where do you live in America?”
“New York.”
“Ahhh . . . New York! I have always wanted to go there.”
“It's an amazing city. But not as beautiful as Venice.”
“No city is as beautiful as
La Serenissima
. She's in . . . in her own state.”
He meant to say, “She's in her own class.” I can't help smiling whenever he trips over the English language. There‘s something cute about it. Maybe because it stands out in stark contrast to the persona of style and confidence he exudes.
“How about you? Are you from Venice?”
“No. You'll find that many people who work in Venice aren't from here. I'm from Calabria.”
It's my turn to sound surprised.
“Calabria?”
I can't help hearing my mother's voice right then: “Those Calabresi are so pigheaded.” I never understood why my mother had always had it in for people from Calabria.
“You sound surprised. Or should I say disappointed? I know. Calabria does not sound as glamorous as Venice.”
He shrugs his shoulders and holds out his palms when he says this as if he's apologizing.
“No, it's not that. I just assumed you were from Venice since you work here. That's all. I'm also familiar with Calabria, but only briefly since I take
il traghetto
from Calabria to Messina whenever I visit my relatives in Sicily. It's beautiful. And the two cities are so close to each other. We're practically neighbors.”
“Isn't that ferry ride over to Sicily gorgeous?”
“Yes, I look forward to it every time I go. People have asked me why I don't just fly to Palermo now that Alitalia has a direct flight from New York, but I'd rather fly from Rome to Calabria so I can take that ferry ride.”
“I used to work on that
traghetto
when I was a boy. And I never got tired of the beautiful scene.”
Scenery,
I correct in my head.
He samples some of my fried fish and eats two of the zucchini blossoms. He's right; the meatballs are very good. We talk some more about Calabria and Sicily. When we are finished with our
cicchetti,
he glances at his watch.

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