Roman Crazy (23 page)

Some of the original paint had faded so significantly that it was only under a fine light and a pair of strongly magnified glasses that I could see the intention behind the lines, and recover it as best as I could. Between the hog being hoisted above the boiling cauldron and then the bristles being scrubbed off,
there was a curious swirl of blue mixed into a scene that was composed entirely of reds and browns, yellows, and a bit of green to depict the hayfields in the background.

This swirl of blue appeared again in a scene of a gaggle of geese walking before a maid on their way to market, and once more in the corner of a field of ripe dusky olive trees. I'd begun to look for it, wondering about who it was that made his presence, however small and inconsequential it might have been, known to anyone who cared to look for it.

Who was he? What did he like? What did he love? Did he love his job, spending his days in some rich man's villa composing scenes of country peasant life? Did he dream of someday painting in a grander house, in a church, or even in the Vatican across town? Or was he simply a tradesman, happy to be working and putting food on his family's table and unable to conceive that a twenty-first-century woman dressed in denim overalls and pigtails with a device strapped to her arm linked to two tinier devices embedded near her eardrums would smile to herself as she uncovered another blue swirl as she hummed along to the tune of “Sure Shot” by the Beastie Boys.

Setting my tools down and stretching my back, I took a step back and regarded my work. Three quarters of the frescoes had been recovered and restored, and looked damn fine if I did say so myself. I was covered in drippy lime, fingers aching, skin cracked from the wet plaster drying repeatedly and taking every ounce of moisture from my hands along with it, and I couldn't remember a finer day.

“Why haven't you been doing this longer?”

Startled, I whirled around, finding Maria standing next to me and regarding my frescoes with a confused look on her face. I tugged the earbuds out, asking her to repeat what she'd said.

“I say, why haven't you been doing this longer? Or rather, all along?”

“Oh,” I said, hitting pause on my music and scrunching up my nose. “Um, well, I took some time off after college and, well, got married, and I always planned to go back to work but there just never seemed to be a good time to go back and then—”

“Mmm-hmm.” She nodded, stepping away from me and toward the work I'd been doing today. She scrutinized the colors, the depth, where I'd had to embellish and where I'd had to re-create almost entirely. She leaned close to the plaster, closer, so close I was afraid she'd come away with a coat of green on the tip of her nose.

It'd match the one I was sporting. I also liked to lean in.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said once more, mostly to herself. I wanted to rock on my heels. I wanted to chew on my braid. But instead I stood up straight and waited for her critique.

“Very good, Avery.” She nodded, casting me a sideways smile. “Very good.”

I beamed! I'd come to realize that a
good
from Maria was the equivalent of an American
awesome!
A
very good
? I'd kicked some serious fresco ass today . . .

She began to walk away, but then turned just before she left. “You get married again if you want, but you don't stop doing this.” She gestured to the wall. “Yes?”

“Yes,” I answered, butterflies springing to life inside my belly. But right now wasn't the time to celebrate, it was time to get back to work . . .

“. . . AND THEN SHE SAID,
‘Very good, Avery,' in that quiet, stern way she has; you know how she can sound.”

“I do. A
very good
is high praise from her,” Marcello said, echoing my thoughts from earlier.

“I know!” I chattered, threading my arm through his as we walked down the street outside the concert. People were already lined up, mostly couples, but a few families here and there, and some tourists.

Tourists. I could spot them now.

“She told me I should keep on doing what I'm doing.”

“And will you?”

I pondered this as he led me into the courtyard. “I don't know; I mean, I'd like to. I don't know if I can.” He steered us toward the ticket line, but I patted my pocket. “Don't need to stand in line there, mister, I've got it covered.”

“Covered?”

“Yep,” I said, pulling the tickets out of my pocket. “I stopped by earlier this week and picked them up. I didn't want us to have to wait in line.”

“You bought the tickets, yes?”

“I did,” I answered, nodding toward an attendant who was tearing them and showing people to their seats. “Anyway, if the opportunity came up to do some more restoration work I would definitely be interested, but we'll have to wait and see what she says afterward. If she'd recommend me for another job.” We arrived down toward the front, and I was pleased to see our seats were in the third row, pretty much right in the center. “Wow, I got us great seats, huh?”

“Great seats. Huh,” Marcello echoed, pausing to brush them both off before allowing me to sit down. I knew that
huh
.

“What's the matter with the seats?” I asked him in a low voice, leaning close.

“There is nothing the matter with the seats,” he replied, not
taking his eyes from the stage. “I was planning on buying the tickets. I would also have gotten great seats.”

“But I already bought them,” I said, confused.

He
huh
'd again. “You bought the tickets.”

“Why do I feel like there's something I'm missing?”

“You invited me to this concert, you should have let me buy the tickets.”

“Wait, you're pissed because I paid?”

His jaw clenched. That meant I was right.

“Holy 1952, women are allowed to purchase concert tickets, they're even allowed to purchase tickets for their fella.”

“You are making fun of me.”

“A little bit.” I placed my hand on his knee, patting it. “It's not a big deal. I bought the tickets not to supplant your masculinity, but because I didn't want to stand in that line, that line that's still as long as it was when we first got here, mind you, so look who had a great idea about buying tickets early?”

He frowned, finally looking down at me. “I would prefer to pay for things, for us, when we are out.”

I shook my head. “I appreciate that, Marcello, and I'm sure that's the way things are done here, but if I want to do something nice for you, for us, even if that means shelling out a little cash here and there, I'll do it.”

“But—”

I placed my finger over his lips. “I know you're used to getting your own way, and you likely still will, most of the time. But let this one go, okay? Let's just enjoy the music.”

I watched his face as he listened to me, really listened to me and let my words sink in. My Italian man was old school, even more so than I realized sometimes. And I loved being taken care of by him, I'd never deny it. But I'd also been taken care of by
someone for a very long time, and it was something that eventually made me feel small, weak, unable to make decisions for myself.

Did me paying for tickets to a Gershwin concert equal letting an entire marriage go by where I let my husband handle every single dollar that came into the house? No. No way. Not even close.

But it was a tiny foothold that I'd gained tonight, without even knowing it. I wasn't going to apologize for paying for something. And I'd make sure however old school Marcello was that he knew where I stood on things like this.

I'd take a tiny foothold.

The lights dimmed, the music began, and I kept my hand on his knee throughout the concert. Sometime around “They Can't Take That Away from Me,” his hand covered mine, weaving his fingertips in between mine and holding tight. I grinned into the darkness.

WHAT DOES ONE WEAR
to learn how to make homemade pasta? I asked my closet, rejecting dress after dress. I finally settled on an outfit, got dressed, and waited for Marcello to arrive. I sat, then stood, then sat again. Wait, was I pacing? I was pacing now, why was I pacing?

What was I feeling? It wasn't nerves exactly, but something close to nerves. Excited? Yes. Antsy? Definitely. I had the lovely thrill running through me, a thrill that ran faster whenever I thought of his face, his eyes, his lips. His laugh.

Mmm . . . I got it.

Anticipation.

What we were doing, here, now, in Rome, was something new.
We
were trying something new.

Dating.

It was something we'd skipped the first time, although not on purpose. We went from zero to naked in no time flat. Back then, we couldn't help ourselves. Our hormones were not our own, and they ran the show. But this time, on our reunion tour? Consciously or unconsciously, we both wanted to savor this, experience this together like an actual couple.

I wanted to be more of a proper girlfriend and cook dinner for us, something local and luscious, but even though I'd taken classes in the art of French cooking, I was missing something in my repertoire. An authentic Italian meal.

There were flyers all over town catering to expatriates, those studying abroad, or long-term vacationers. Italian Home Cooking was by and large the most highly recommended on TripAdvisor.

I was banking on extra points from the teacher since I was bringing my own Tuscan son. Marcello wasn't sure at first. He insisted he could teach me how to make pasta, gnocchi, and that incredible thick, crusty Italian bread I'd been served at every meal since arriving in Rome, but he'd yet to actually teach me a thing. In the kitchen that is.

A text came in from Marcello, letting me know he was late leaving the office and he'd meet me at the studio. A quick walk through Trastevere lead me to a bright, spacious building. The layout was perfect—every utensil I needed, piles of veggies that could rival the farmers' markets, and a crush of eager students all sipping wine were scattered around the room.

At the center was a long banquet table set with glasses, plates, and baskets waiting for us to complete our meal and enjoy the feast we would make together. Exactly the kind of atmosphere I'd been hoping for when I signed us up.

Photos of previous happy classes dominated one wall. Students posing with their wine, their dinners, or with the chef. He reminded me a bit of Marcello, with a genuine smile in every picture. Our menu was written on a chalkboard in the kitchen. Pasta Bolognese, chicken cacciatore, Italian broccoli, roasted potatoes, and tiramisu for dessert. My stomach growled in anticipation.

Marcello strolled in, turning heads as he moved toward me. “You want to learn to cook like an Italian, why am I not just teaching you? I am Italian, no?” he said, kissing my cheeks quickly.

“Will I end up naked before we make dinner?” I whispered, pouring him a glass of wine from the nearby table.

“I cannot guarantee that,” he told me, taking a sip and winking over the glass.

I laughed and kissed him soundly, loving the sweet wine on his lips.

The instructor, looking every bit the Italian chef, came out from the back of the room and welcomed all of us to class His assistant handed out aprons along with a small instruction card, followed by a tour of the kitchens, which were pristine.

And now it was time to get to work. We were going to rotate through stations so that everyone got to have a hand in the preparation instead of one group getting to do one thing beginning to end.

To his credit, Marcello paid attention, even offering to chop parsley when the chef asked for volunteers. “Remember, you eat with your eyes first,” Chef Andrea said, explaining that we needed to be careful and take pride in our work. “We don't want any ugly food. These may be rustic dishes, but you want them to look appetizing.”

“
You
look appetizing,” Marcello whispered, his breath smelling faintly like the wine and basil he was chewing on.

“Stop,” I admonished, trying to concentrate on my very glamorous task of chopping garlic.

“Good, good. Remember, celery, carrots, and onions for the Bolognese. No garlic. No matter what anyone say, garlic is
not
in everything.” Chef Andrea laughed, repeating the veggie list. “Just most things,” he added, scooping up a handful of garlic and lifting it to his nose.

The groups worked quietly, sipping wine, laughing here and there, but everyone paying very close attention to detail. A videographer bounced around documenting the class for the local American college, hoping to bring in new students. He caught me dipping my finger in the tiramisu filling and feeding it to Marcello.

“Avery, good job. You two move to the pasta next,” the assistant said, pointing to the stainless steel tables with an old-fashioned crank pasta machine.

We peeled potatoes, slathering them with olive oil and rosemary before lining a baking sheet with them. We pureed sauce, cut pasta, rolled gnocchi down tiny lined wooden boards, and stuffed chickens with lemons, garlic, and onions.

The class wasn't just about learning how to do each step but
about
the food. Why the garlic is good for your heart. What makes a traditional Bolognese versus a knockoff version. Why some recipes differed by region. The chef took every question and answered it as if it was the most important thing he'd ever heard.

My apron was covered in semolina and Marcello had a smudge of tomato sauce on his cheek, but we got off easy. Some students had nicks from the ultrasharp knives and sported bandages
on their thumbs. Others had imbibed a bit too much wine and had to sit out and wait for dinner.

In the end, we had perfectly al dente gnocchi that we scooped from the boiling water just as they started to float, freshly shaved pecorino in bowls for sprinkling over our hearty pappardelle Bolognese. The potatoes were steaming in a ceramic bowl, the rosemary perfuming the room. Silver platters held the chicken, peppers, and cacciatore sauce.