Italian for Beginners (17 page)

“You’re a mess,” Karina noted with a wry smile. “You can’t handle the alcohol?”

“It’s not that,” I protested. “I took a sleeping pill a couple hours ago because I couldn’t fall asleep. I guess it’s not
out of my system yet.”

Karina rolled her eyes. “You Americans,” she said. “You think a pill is the magic answer to everything.”

I shrugged, once again feeling strange to be the one responsible for all of my culture’s apparent shortcomings.

“All right,” Karina said. She smiled and stood up. “We shall go, okay? I don’t want you falling asleep in the streets of Rome.”

I smiled weakly. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be boring.”

“I know.” Karina smiled mischievously. “But sometimes, when you’re really good at something, you don’t have to try.”

Perhaps I should have felt insulted, but I was starting to warm up to Karina’s good-natured ribbing. She seemed to run hot
and cold; one moment, her temper was on fire; the next, she was sweetly understanding; and the moment after that, she was
devilishly sarcastic.

We stood to leave, and I felt unsteady on my feet. It wasn’t quite like the sensation of being drunk, because I was coherent.
It was just that all my limbs felt heavy. It felt as though it took a great effort even to put one foot in front of the other
to follow Karina out onto the street.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Can we take a cab?” I asked weakly, recalling the quite long walk we’d taken to get here.

Karina laughed. “There is a
sciopero
.”

“What?”

“A
sciopero
,” she repeated. “I believe you say it ‘strike’?”

“There’s a strike going on?”

“
Sì.
All transportation workers. Including taxi drivers. Until tomorrow night.”

“They have a strike
schedule
?”

Karina looked surprised. “Of course,” she said. “It is printed in the newspaper. How else do we know they are striking?”

I was puzzled. “But what are they striking for?”

Karina shrugged. “Who knows? Better wages, maybe. Or shorter hours. Or maybe they are just having a
sciopero
because they haven’t had one in a while. Along with
calcio
, it is our national pastime, you know.”

I smiled wanly, wondering how on earth my feet would carry me all the way home before the rest of me collapsed. My head was
spinning a little, and I longed to lie down.

“Come on,” Karina said, taking me by the arm. “It is not that far.”

We started back along the way we’d come, weaving through alleys and side streets. I tried to keep up with Karina, but my tired
limbs couldn’t keep the pace.

“Miss America, I don’t have all night!” she snapped over her shoulder. I could see her temperament changing again. She didn’t
look as warm or as pleasant as she had earlier. “Can’t you keep up?”

“It’s just that I’m so tired.…”

“We’ve already stayed out way too late,” she said sharply, like it was my fault. “Now I’ll be exhausted all day tomorrow at
work.”

“I’m sorry,” I said meekly.

“Phhhh!” She made a noise of annoyance.

I tried to quicken my pace. “So,” I said, trying to make conversation so I stayed awake. “Tell me about Nico.”

“What do you want to know?” She turned a sharp right and then a sharp left into another alley, with me dragging behind, panting
now.

“I don’t know,” I said. “What’s he like?”

“He’s six,” she said. “He’s like a six-year-old.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling dumb.

Karina sighed and slowed down a little bit to wait for me. “He’s very smart,” she said. “He knows how to write his name already,
and he knows how to count in a few different languages. He speaks English and Italian, like me. I want him to be bilingual.”

“Wow,” I marveled. “A bilingual six-year-old?”

“It’s not a big deal.” Her face was a little flushed. “He likes to be read to. I read him Harry Potter every night, in English,
but I leave out the scary scenes. He is too young.”

“What about Nico’s father?” I asked after a moment as I tried to drag my tired feet along after her.

Karina stopped so quickly in her tracks that I almost slammed into her. She turned around and looked at me. “What about his
father?” she asked slowly, her voice suddenly icy and dangerous.

Startled by her sudden coldness, I took an inadvertent step backward. “N-n-othing,” I stammered. “I—I was just wondering where
he is.”

“He is not here,” Karina said. Her eyes had narrowed into two catlike slits as she stared at me.

“Oh,” I said. I struggled for words.

“And it’s not any of
your
business, Miss America.”

I held up my hands defensively and tried a smile. “I was just making conversation.”

But Karina just looked angrier. “This is your idea of conversation?” she demanded. She laughed harshly. “You know what? You
can make your conversation somewhere else. I don’t need someone—especially not some American—coming in and telling me I’ve
made a mess of my son’s life.”

I stared at her, stunned. “But I didn’t mean—”

“Enough!” Karina said sharply, holding up her hand to stop me. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them
again, they were filled with anger and focused on me. “I don’t need you judging me, Miss America. You’re not so perfect, either,
you know.”

And then, before I could say another word, she strode quickly away, her hands clenched in fists by her sides and her hair
swishing rhythmically behind her like a manic pendulum.

“Wait, Karina!” I yelled after her. But she had already turned a corner without looking back, and the sound of my voice echoed
off the buildings lining the alley. A dog started barking somewhere nearby, no doubt awakened by the volume of my voice. I
swallowed hard and hurried along in the direction Karina had gone.

But when I got to the end of the alley and looked right, in the direction I’d seen Karina disappear, the street was empty.
“Karina?” I asked hesitantly. The sound echoed again, bringing on a cacophony of barking dogs. I looked around guiltily and
began walking down the street as quickly as I could, even though my legs were still dragging and I longed to curl up and go
to sleep. “Karina?”

But she was nowhere to be found. I looked down alley after alley, street after street, but there was no trace of her. I couldn’t
even hear the sounds of her footsteps, heels against cobblestones, echoing between the buildings. The street was deathly silent.

Finally, I stopped walking and looked around. I had no idea where I was. We’d gone through such a maze of city streets to
get here that I’d lost all sense of direction. I paused and listened for anything that might give me a clue—a nearby street
filled with traffic noises, for example, or the lapping of the water against the banks of the river Tiber. But all was still.

I began walking again until I saw a small street sign a few blocks ahead. Via Paloma, it read. The name meant nothing to me.
I cursed myself for not bringing my Rome map with me tonight; Karina had been in such a hurry to get going that I’d forgotten
it. Besides, I’d assumed that I’d have her as my guide. I
never
left home without an idea of where I was going.

Don’t panic
, I said to myself.
No reason to panic.

After all, how hard could it be to find a main street and ask for directions?

Twenty long minutes later, I felt on the verge of collapse, but I finally emerged on the Via dei Fori Imperiali. I breathed
a huge sigh of relief. It was a street name I knew; in fact, it was a street that anyone would know had they spent time in
Rome. I knew it cut a straight line across Rome from the Piazza Venezia to the Colosseum. Indeed, I looked right, and behind
me, I could make out the looming ancient structure, dark, hulking, and foreboding in the dead of night. I shuddered and tried
not to think of all the death that had taken place there, all those scenes from the movie
Gladiator
that had stayed imprinted on my mind.

But the road, normally busy, was nearly deserted, probably because of the late hour—it was almost 2 a.m.—and the strike. I
began walking away from the Colosseum, because my rudimentary knowledge of the city indicated that the Pantheon was in that
direction. The crumbling Forum rose up from the shadows to my right. Five minutes later, I saw a young couple hurrying along
on the street toward me. I breathed an enormous sigh of relief.

“Excuse me!” I said, hurrying up to them. “I’m sorry to bother you, but can you tell me where the Pantheon is?”

The couple stopped and looked at me warily. They exchanged glances. Close up, they were younger than I’d thought.

“Cosa?”
the young man asked, squinting at me.

“Um, the Pantheon?” I asked hesitantly. “Where is it?”

The man shook his head. “
Non parlo l’inglese
,” he said uncertainly.

I racked my brain for basic Italian. “Um,
dov’è il panteon
?” I choked out haltingly.

The couple exchanged looks again. Then, the woman began speaking to me in rapid Italian, gesturing wildly and pointing this
way and that. I gazed at her helplessly. “
Non capisco
,” I said miserably. “I don’t understand.”

The woman sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. Her boyfriend said something to me in rapid Italian, gesturing in the direction
I’d been headed.

“It’s that way?” I guess. “The Pantheon is that way?”

“
Sì
,
sì
,” the man said, looking relieved. But I didn’t feel comforted. He didn’t seem to know what I’d just said.

“
Grazie
,” I said finally. They nodded at me and hurried on their way.

I continued walking in the direction they’d pointed, feeling wearier with every step. I wasn’t even sure we’d been communicating.
For all I knew, they were sending me to Vatican City or the Spanish Steps. Besides, I realized, once I found the Pantheon,
how would I find the apartment? I actually had no idea where it was. Karina had led me through a series of back streets, and
although I knew it was only a short walk from the famed dome, I could be wandering the twisting alleys all night trying to
find it.

The realization made me feel even wearier. Exhausted now, I was walking at a snail’s pace, searching in vain for another person
to ask for help. Stupidly, I hadn’t brought my wallet with me, only my passport and forty euros, twenty of which I’d spent
at the bar. I had no choice but to continue on in hopes of stumbling upon my apartment. At least I had thought to bring my
key—the one small saving grace of the evening.

A few minutes later, my exhaustion got the best of me. I could barely put one foot in front of the other anymore. And then,
like a mirage in the desert, I noticed ahead of me a little brick wall, about the height and width of a bench, by the side
of the street. “Thank God,” I murmured. I dragged myself toward it and flopped down on it. I sighed in relief. It felt incredibly
good to sit, to take the weight off my weary feet.

I closed my eyes and sighed. My head was spinning, and with my eyes shut, I felt almost normal for a moment.

“I’ll just sit for a moment,” I murmured to myself.

I leaned back and breathed in deeply, feeling amazed at just how inviting the cold brick surface was. At that moment, it outclassed
my feather bed at home a thousand to one. It was almost unbelievably comfortable.

I opened my eyes and gazed out on the street, turning my head slowly from side to side as I strained to keep my eyelids from
falling again. I vowed I would never take another sleeping pill. This was horrible. I looked around me. The road was deserted
but for a stray car here and there, zooming by.

I’ll just close my eyes for a moment
, I reasoned.
I won’t go to sleep. I’ll just rest here for a second. Then I’ll be on my way. I’ll feel better once I sit for a few minutes.

That train of thought finally gave me permission to close my eyes. I took a few deep breaths and tried to relax. I knew I
should get up and move, but sitting there felt so good. It was such a relief. I was so tired.…

Those were my last thoughts before I drifted off into a blissfully ignorant sleep.

S
trangely, I dreamed of Michael Evangelisti. The dream was vivid, but it was nonsensical. I was on the same little brick wall,
but when I opened my eyes in the dream, it had relocated to the corner of Columbus and West Ninety-third in New York, just
outside Michael’s restaurant. I tried to get up and move, but I found that I was stuck. I couldn’t budge.

Michael came out of the restaurant just then and gazed at me with amusement. “I knew you’d come back,” he said.

I tried to ignore the way his eyes sparkled. “I’m stuck,” I said. “Can you help me?”

“I can help you with a lot of things,” he said. He sat down next to me and folded his right hand over mine. “If only you’d
give me a chance.”

I hesitated. I really did need help getting unstuck from this wall. It was like I’d been superglued there. But what else was
Michael suggesting? “I don’t give chances to married men,” I said coldly.