“Ah, being kept by a woman--every man's dream. Chocolate.” Paolo said.
“Me too,” Tonino squeaked.
“Fine. Please hand me my purse,” Sally requested as she reached through the driver’s side window to take her bag from Paolo.
She eventually returned trying to juggle her purse, three ice cream cones--two chocolate and one vanilla--and a sheaf of falling napkins. She was holding everything in both hands, close to her chest for stability.
“Here, quick,” she said as she passed the cones through the driver's side window to Paolo.
Except they didn't go through.
It was hard to tell whose face registered the more goofy surprise as the cones smashed into the now closed driver’s side window back onto the front of Sally's dress. For a moment, all of life stood still.
Then, in the back seat Tonino began to convulse with laugher. He squealed and coughed and cried and flung his arms, and eventually lie down on his back, kicking his thin legs in the air.
If Sally and Paolo hadn't been laughing so hard themselves they would have been worried whether Tonino could laugh like that and still breathe.
Paolo could hardly manage to roll down the sticky, creamy car window to take the flattened cones from Sally. They were laughing so hard that people passing by saw them and started laughing too. When it was all over, they were a unique combination of exhausted and refreshed that comes from serious laughing. Paolo had managed to save most of each cone, and as they sat quietly licking up the melting drippings and rolling their tongues around the remainder of the semi-solid sweet, cold creme, every once in awhile one of them would giggle.
Tonino got the hiccups and they all went home weary and happy for no reason at all.
CHAPTER FORTY
Sally couldn't imagine that life could ever be better. When they were having dinner, just the two of them in the secluded Piazza dei Fiori, eating spaghetti under a sky that looked fake with stars, Sally felt she was in the Disney movie, so impossibly idealized was the setting.
“Too much?” the waiter asked, concerned as Sally allowed him to continue loading her plate with pasta.
“For her, that's a contradiction in terms,” Paolo told the waiter, who smiled strangely at Sally.
“Don't talk to me about contradictions,” Sally told Paolo. “The biggest is all these signs around town saying 'Vota Communista'!”
Rome was in one its of its frequent voting frenzies. Romans loved politics the way Americans loved baseball. Sally was startled when she first saw the signs advertising Communism as a voting choice. With America's Cold War in full swing, she couldn't imagine a democratic country would ever make Communism an option. She had been taught that even Communists didn't want Communism. But Italy was a hotbed of improbabilities that worked, and which Sally had learned to accept: marble carved to feel like flesh and satin; commas instead of decimal points to indicate money; the time told in 24 hours (“Let's meet at twenty hours.”) And the class system where some people did nothing, and everyone did everything else.
But Sally was no longer the infatuated tourist. She had become truly intimate with Italy, struggling with its daily difficulties and sharing its warmth, its beauty, and its human-ness at a new depth of appreciation. She even gave in and went through the long and annoying process of being fitted for a custom-tailored suit, a little green beauty that highlighted her good parts so perfectly it seemed to ignore her flaws. No wonder everyone in Italy looked so fine. In fact her friends were beginning to tell her she had become more Roman than the Romans, which she took as a compliment. And then realized that it hadn't been given that way.
But one group of people who didn't think she was more Roman than the Romans was the police. Sally's visa had run out a long time ago, and her friend from the American Embassy was constantly pressing her to get it extended at Police Headquarters.
“It's better to be safe than sorry,” she told Sally.
“But how would they ever know?!”
“You know how. When you travel in Italy, don’t you always have to leave your passport with the hotel clerk?”
“Yes. And I am very uneasy about that. So much could go wrong, and then where would I be?”
“Precisely. Why don't you try to get yourself legitimatized here as best you can. You already are working without permission, and involved with a man who will never be unmarried and can never protect your status here.”
Sally was not happy about the characterization of her life as being in such a shaky state. And even though she hadn't completely lost that typical attitude of the American abroad that everywhere else in the world was just a toy town, she knew she shouldn't so flamboyantly disregard the laws of another country. A country she was more and more adopting as her own.
So Sally to decided sign up, as required, at a nearby police station and entered the large white marble building of the Questura with the sense of having another Italian adventure.
She had visions that through the registration process, handsome young Italian policemen would charm and entertain her, as all Italians usually did. In this fantasy, she would get a taste of this other side of Roman life, take her newly-stamped legal documents and leave, telling everyone at dinner about her pleasant and typically warm-hearted brush with the law.
But bureaucracies are universal.
It was after the long mid-day break, yet the building was eerily quiet and empty. She could only hear the echo of her own footsteps down the dreary hall. The first policeman she encountered was seated slovenly at a desk and had an air of perpetual disgust about him. At first, he didn't even understand what Sally wanted. Finally, he told her to go sit in a chair and wait. She did, and was very uneasy about being the only civilian there. Perhaps they were the only two people in the whole building, she thought. Where was the bustling chaos of crime, of high-strung Italian domestic disputes, of lost dogs? Perhaps they moved the police work to another building and this was just an annex? And why was she at a police station? Was wanting to stay longer in Italy a crime? Was she in the right place? Did the man really understand why she was here? What was the correct procedure, she asked him.
“Wait. Wait.” he told her.
The waiting would not have been so difficult except she knew she was going to have to lie. She had a great story all worked out and was afraid she would lose it in the waiting:
Why didn't she report sooner?
She didn't know she had to; someone just mentioned it to her the other day.
Why was she in Italy so long?
She hadn't planned to stay; it just happened. Italy is so beautiful. You know how it is.
No, she didn't work. No, she never worked in Rome. Yes, she knew it was illegal to work at a job an Italian could have. Yes, she had her own money. After all, she was an American.
Where did she live? No, not in a hotel. In her own apartment? Well, yes, but a friend from the American Embassy asked her to mind it for a co-worker who went home on leave (oh god, will they check this?).
How long did she want to stay?
Er-ah-mmm-well, until, until she finished the book she was writing, on Italy, of course, and she wasn't sure how long that would.......
“Venga! Come here!” A head from a doorway down the hall commanded her. She smiled at him as she entered the small room with only a table, some chairs, and a file cabinet. He didn't smile back.
She sat in a chair. He had taken his jacket off, and sat on the table above her. A large gun in a holster over his shoulder was his most prominent feature. Sally suddenly felt as if she were visiting a parole officer. Is he serious about this gun! Sally thought. I only want a piece of paper. Isn't there just a form I can fill out, or something?
“Tell me,” he commanded. Sally did. He remained motionless. When she finished, he said “Tell me again why you didn't report before this.”
Sally wondered why he was so cranky. True, it was right after the siesta and it made Romans feel like they had two mornings a day. And they always co
mplained about the afternoon heat. Sally loved the heat.
“So. You know, you've been here a very long time without permission,” he chastised.
“I'm sorry. I didn't know I should report. Is it a problem?”
“Yes. It's a problem.”
Sally was speechless. Which was probably a good thing, because he suddenly went to the file cabinet, his gun weighing down his arm. What could be so wrong, Sally thought. So, I'm lying...that's expected here! Maybe it's something else. Suddenly Sally remembered the Italian Secret Service man who had tapped her phone.
She met him at a press luncheon for the important Arezzo Music Festival over a year ago. She had been given a reporter friend's invitation and thought it would be fun. He was there securing Italy's Prime Minister who would launch the opening ceremonies.
She couldn't remember which one of them saw the other first. He was so gorgeous she was afraid he noticed her jaw drop. Under his chock of falling, thick black curls were the darkest, deepest, brown eyes she had ever seen...panther's eyes. And they locked onto hers and never got off.
When he finally spoke to her, she realized immediately that she disliked him. Too late; he was everywhere that she was in Arezzo and also when she got back to Rome. He became oppressive and a little frightening. He would call her up and jealously question her about all her phone conversations. It was only when it was clear that he had tapped her phone and she threatened to report him to his wife did he stop. She never saw him or heard from him again.
But what might she have said on the phone then that could hurt her now. Nothing, she was sure. Suppose he had made something up for spite, or that there was something she said that she didn't realize could be reported to the police. Did they have a file on her? Is this where the gun-toting interrogator went?
The policeman finally came back to the table with an official paper, wrote a date, stamped it and barked, “You have a little while longer. If you want to stay beyond that, don't fail to report next time!”
“Thank you. I won't” Sally said, and rushed out of the building.
When she was securely out in the Roman sunshine, she noticed that he had stamped the document for only another month. Sally stayed far beyond that time and never went back to report again.
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
Why should she risk going back? Life was too magical.
Tonino was better. Paolo was working again. Sally had an interview for a new job with an American company, which might make her “legal.” And Paolo was teaching Sally a kind of love that American culture had discouraged in her: open, sensual, full of laughter and affection.
Whenever they went out with friends, Paolo would insist on sitting next to her, even when he could be surrounded by other women, whom he naturally attracted.
Paolo too was enjoying himself so much he jokingly decided to see what a famed Roman oracle called “The Mouth Of Truth” would say about their future. The renowned “Boca della Verita'” was actually a stone demon face with a large wide open mouth carved into a wall. Legend had it that if you put your hand in the demon's mouth and it didn't bite it off, you were telling the truth.
“So put your hand in,” Sally told him. Paolo did.
“Do you really love me?” Sally asked.
“You don't need this kind of proof,” Paolo said, “Only someone who seriously loved you, could put up with you. Ouch!!” Paolo pretended the mouth bit him, and they both laughed.
“Now you,” he said. Sally did.
Surprisingly Paolo asked in English: “Are you 'skylarking' me?” Sally was flabbergasted.
“What??!! When and where did you learn English?!”
“I wanted to surprise you,” he said in Italian. “I'm trying to teach myself by looking up words in Shakespeare and Melville. Although I could probably learn English from the way you speak Italian.”
“That's wonderful. But you're doing it the hard way, for sure! You can't possibly know what 'skylarking' means. I barely do!”
“It means,” Paolo said very seriously, “...to make sport of, tease, pull a merry prank...”
Sally's mood suddenly changed. “I'm confused....,” she said, “...why would you ask me that...?”
“I want to make sure you are not just another American tourist who is out to have a grand Italian love affair, and then go home.”
Sally was taken aback. “I'm not,” she said.
The Mouth of Truth did not bite her hand.
But it should have.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
Time became condensed and rolled into one glorious mosaic of trust, laughter, and love.
They strolled the little island in the middle of the Tiber River; they saw modern art against the Medieval background of Spoleto where they were invited to a stranger's wedding simply because they were there; they heard Verdi's “Requiem” in the same spot the ancient Romans saw Greek plays; Sally took Paolo to his first supermarket and laundromat. She had found them out of desperation in the made-up town at the edge of Rome where the last Olympics had been held. They went to the Borghese Museum in the park and Paolo showed her the painting of the naked cherub he thought looked like her. And they even got chased by a bull.
Well, almost.
On yet another perfect day, the three of them went on a picnic. Far from the city they found a big field with cows. They slid under the fence, settling on a small, grassy ridge under a tree.
They spread out the blanket, which for some reason Tonino found fascinating to jump on before he took his shoes off. They laid out the sumptuous food they brought in bags from the trunk of the car, and threw down the soccer ball that Paolo and Tonino would eventually not be able to resist kicking around. Sally brought a copy of Newsweek to explore the mysteries of the country she left behind.
Paolo was just popping the cork off the wine bottle when suddenly he stopped and quietly said, “Let's go!”
“Go where?”
“Now. Go. Grab all this stuff”---he shoved Tonino's shoes at him----”don't look back and walk slowly. Hurry! Now!”
As she and Tonino did as they were told, Sally looked at the field of cows. At its edge had progressed a large bull, who for now was still, but eyeing them intently.
“Oh, no!” Sally cried, “I've never even been in a field with cows before and now I'm going to get killed by a bull!!”
“Killed, Poppa?” Tonino asked.
“No one is going to get killed. Come on. Forget all the food. Move fast, but DON'T RUN,” Paolo said. He made sure they went first and put himself between them and the bull if need be.
The bull had sauntered closer to them and then stopped again. Still and glowering.
They skittled under the fence, and made it back safely to the car. They were all pale.
“I'm sorry we had to leave your ball,” Paolo said.
“It's OK,” Tonino squeaked.
Since they were miles from Rome with no lunch, they stopped at a small local cafe where the event started to seem funny.
“Good thing you weren't relying on me...I wouldn't know a bull from a cow,” Sally said. “Hey! How do I know you weren't 'skylarking' me?!”
“He left my ball,” Tonino stated.
“That should convince you,” Paolo smiled.
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
They were quiet and content on the ride back to Rome. In fact, Sally felt so cozy, so enveloped in family, that she said, “How would you all like to hear a bedtime story?”
“Hmmmm....” Paolo said.
“I don't mean one of those stories,” Sally told him.
“What story?” Tonino perked up.
“How about 'Goldilocks and the Three Bears'?” Sally asked Tonino.
“Yes!” cried Tonino.
“OK,” Sally said, “but I only know it in English.”
“Oh,” Tonino said, disappointed.
“That's alright,” Paolo said. “Tell us anyway. We know the story. Right, Tonino?”
“I guess so.”
“Once upon a time.....” Sally began. She so dramatized the familiar tale that in spite of it being in English, Tonino was riveted throughout. When she got to the part “...and this one is just right!,” both Tonino and Paolo laughed because while they didn't understand the words, they knew what part that was. Sally went along and then growled in a voice worthy of Poppa Bear, “...AND WHO'S BEEN SLEEPING IN MY BED??!” She looked over at Paolo, but this time he was unaware. She enjoyed her private joke.
“Again! Again!” Tonino requested when she was finished, “Do it again!”
She did, but before Goldilocks could get to bed for the second time, they were home. Paolo pulled up to the parking space and they each got out, slowly and languidly, all tired from the exciting day and the long ride. Sally was about to lock up her side of the car, when out from the shadows an arm sprang around her neck and got her in a chokehold.
“No!” screamed Tonino, “No!”
Sally didn't know what had happened or what was going on. While she was squirming to pull the arm away from her neck, she was vaguely aware that Paolo broke into a fierce run from the other side of the car. And that Tonino continued his anguished pleading:
“Don't do it, Mamma! Please don't do it!”
Paolo grabbed the woman, who continued to kick and curse. This helped Sally break the hold and turn around just in time to get a sock in the face, and have her beaded necklace ripped and splatter all over the ground. Paolo finally subdued the woman by sheer force, but she continued to rant and spit. All the while, Tonino was standing to the side, his thin shoulders hunched forlornly, his eyes down. He was sobbing profusely.
“Take Tonino upstairs,” Paolo commanded Sally.
Sally put her hand gently on his shaking shoulders to guide him upstairs. But he didn't move. He just stood in front of the tumultuous, disheveled woman who was his mother, with his eyes down. Sobbing.
“How dare you put your son through this!?” Paolo hissed at her. “Come on! Go home!” he said, as he marched, struggling with her, down the street away from them. As Paolo led Tonino's mother away, the devastated young boy passively accepted Sally's hug and moved along with her upstairs. Sally could see that Tonino had gotten the worst blow, shocked and torn between his harmed friend and his harming mother and upset by his father's need to physically subdue her.
“I'm sorry, Sally,” Tonino stammered when they got inside. “I'm sorry that she hurt you.”