A Roman Rhapsody

by Sara Alexander

Before she could answer, should any words have risen to the surface, the waiters entered with vast boards of prosciutto and slices of melon, halved figs drizzled with honey and topped with shavings of Parmesan. The conversation steered around the feasts that followed, creamy risotto, large fresh porcini mushrooms grilled and sprinkled with olive oil and parsley, an obscene Fiorentina steak—in honor of the Florentine film director—large enough to feed the entire table, flanked with Romanesco cauliflower, stuffed zucchini flowers filled with ricotta and anchovies, hunks of pecorino, crisped open fried artichokes sprinkled with coarse salt, and a mound of cicoria greens sautéed with garlic and chili. The colors wafted into view, the smells mouth-watering, salty, savory, deep and full in flavor.

  Alba couldn’t taste a thing.

  Vittorio hovered, unmoving, in her periphery, however much she concentrated on the reams of anecdotes Francesco filled the air with, or the delightful stories of Gianni and the witty interjections of Anna, who wouldn’t let him get away with any exaggeration, much to the delight of the crowd. Francesco’s double act added their own spin, as Florin and Armand added their comic echoes to everything that was said to laughter, which failed to blot the screeching claustrophobia pounding in Alba’s chest.

  How she and Vittorio had managed to avoid each other for all these years was a feat she was proud of. Now she could feel the power of his gaze without even turning her head. What game was he playing? She chided herself for even wondering. He wasn’t playing a thing. His presence alone had churned her back to her ignorant years, when she didn’t read the people the way she did now, when she allowed him to invade her. In all these years she’d forgotten to forgive him, she’d shelved her hurt and now it came blasting through her body like a finale, emphatic, unforgiving, craving attention.

  She would have liked to leave. She would have liked to behave as breezy as he. That was always his trump card, playing the nonchalant, the unaffected, as if nothing around him moved him in any way whatsoever. One would think he was void of feeling altogether, perhaps except for an arrogance that people who didn’t know him attributed to Tuscan pride. Alba knew better.

  “Perhaps I can have you hear a little of what Vittorio has created for me?” Francesco asked, leaning in with a conspiratorial color to his voice.

  “I don’t think I’m the right person to offer an opinion on that, Francesco,” Alba replied, noticing Vittorio make a woman beside him crease with laughter.

  “Nonsense. I would value it above anything. I can give you some of the written music? If you would consider playing it for me I would be indebted.”

  Seeing Alba’s look he backtracked in a hurry. “Forgive me, my darling, it does sound like I’m hiring you to be my repetiteur! Good heavens quite the contrary. I just think Vittorio and I would benefit so from having another ear give it a sounding. Would you consider making me the happiest man in Rome and do so?”

  Francesco was a hard man to refuse. Alba had met her fair share, and if she wasn’t a fan of his work, it would not have been difficult to say no. But she couldn’t silence the part of her that was intrigued to hear how Vittorio’s music had developed. Her spiteful streak imagined pecking at his phrases, hoping to be disappointed and reveling in the fact that he hadn’t become the star he’d longed to be. She blew off the folly of thoughts as churlish and childish. She convinced herself that offering a professional opinion, relating to the person she’d avoided in all forms since the day she ran out of his Parisian apartment building, would be the best way to put his memory out of reach, create one afresh; one where he didn’t hold her tied in strings.

  “I would be happy to have a look, Francesco. Of course, I can’t carve out too much time to do so, but equally I can’t say no to the only man who has made me weep at the cinema, can I?”

  Francesco’s face lit up. He called out to Vittorio across the table. “Wonderful news, boy! Alba will take a glance at the score when we visit the conservatorio. My favorite pianist will be playing through my favorite composer’s work. I think I just died. Salute Romans!” His voice rose above the crowd now. “Waiter! Fill these people’s glasses with the finest champagne you have and don’t let the nasty conductor man pay for it, do you hear?” More laughter. “You have to watch a man with a stick, you know!”

  “We all know!” Anna replied from the other side of the table. Everyone followed Francesco as he stood. He lifted his glass as three waiters ran around to fill everyone’s. Their voices echoed down the hillside beyond, above them a full fat moon. Alba thought the face she spied there, with wine-infused sight, rolled its eyes over her pathetic return to her younger years, tipped off-center by the boy who had taught her to never give herself away like that again. This ought to be her night, but Vittorio’s presence eclipsed the joy that had filled her but moments ago.

  Their eyes met.

  An invisible tunnel of silence formed, around them watercolor voices turning bland and indiscriminate as if more liquid dissolved over them, diluting their pigment and power, leaving two people standing in a frozen moment of time and space. His face was the same, age creasing the edges only a little, a mature breadth to his chest, which Alba had tried to forget. Something flickered across his expression; a spark of contrition or invitation? It disappeared as soon as he’d seen her notice it. If she was as much an adult as she claimed herself to be, she should smile now, show how little of a scar he had left, but the burning sensation of wanting to launch what was nearest to hand at him made her fingers hot. It was a painful anger, because she knew it was directed more at herself than anyone who could ever put it right.

  Mario touched her arm with a gentle hand. “You look a little pale, Alba.”

  “I’m exhausted,” she replied, topping up half the fib with truth.

  “I bet. You were a rocket onstage.”

  Alba let his words ease her away from the glaring pull of Vittorio. The sound of his voice, his accent, took her away from the table in an instant. She was on the Ozieresi streets, screaming out the rules of childhood play.

  The guests started to mingle around the table, in an effort to talk to people they hadn’t had a chance to yet, and in the hopes of digesting a little of the foodie onslaught they had just confronted.

  “So this beautiful man then,” Francesco began, tapping a drunk hand on Mario’s chest, “what’s the real story?”

  “The real story, Signore,” Mario began, “is that Alba nearly killed me when we were twelve.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, attention!” Francesco yelled. “There is gossip afoot.”

  The crowd turned to Mario. Alba watched him face shyness and let it melt away. “No gossip, Signori, just childhood friends reuniting for a meal after many years.”

  “I told you they weren’t lovers,” Florin chimed in.

  “Only because you’d already planned your line of attack,” Armand followed without missing a beat. The guests laughed, then simmered back to their separate conversations.

  “Francesco, I hope you won’t think me rude,” Alba said, “but I am absolutely shattered. I need my bed now. I used to be able to stay out all night.” She noticed there was more honesty in the statement than she’d imagined.

  “I’ve heard the stories, my darling,” Francesco quipped. He took both her hands in his and kissed each. “It has been a magnificent pleasure to sit beside you. Your passion, verve, courage, openness at those keys makes me almost believe in God. It was beyond beauty, my tesoro.”

  Alba let his gush run over her without penetrating.

  “Vittorio!” he called out. Alba watched him walk to his side. “You will listen to what this goddess has to say about your ideas, yes? Don’t be a pouty little boy as usual, no?”

  Alba enjoyed watching Francesco tease Vittorio on his petulance; there was some warped justice to the evening after all.

  “You told me you’d gone to every one of her concerts, no?” Francesco asked. Alba couldn’t tell if he was teasing. “So don’t tell me you’re not going to follow her adv
ice, si?”

  Alba found the resolve to face Vittorio. He didn’t look as diffident as she’d imagined him throughout the meal. His demeanor relaxed beside Francesco. If she wasn’t mistaken, his expression softened, not quite friendly but something close to it. Which one of them was going to mention they had spent years together at the accademia? Why didn’t Francesco appear to know? Was it her place to keep up the pretense, as if it hadn’t been important? Should she take the adult lead and lift his guard with force? Staying silent was like upholding some kind of secret pact, playing into Vittorio’s lead as always.

  “Only one part of what you said is true, Francesco—I’ve enjoyed all your performances, Alba—but don’t confuse that with me taking any musical suggestions lying down,” Vittorio replied at last. His voice was as rich as it had always been. It wove a whisper of memory through Alba’s bones, a desert storm lifting the sand, leaving her unable to throw away a lighthearted mention that they had been lovers, a flick of a thought as if he’d left no dent.

  “Well, good night, gentlemen,” Alba said instead, shaking Francesco’s hand. He pulled her in and kissed her on each cheek. She stretched her hand to Vittorio, determined to have the final, clear-cut gesture. He reached in and kissed her on each cheek. His lips pressed her skin, she felt their fleshy touch soft against her, not skirting the air as was customary for polite farewells. The blood beneath raced up to the spot. She hated the bristle, the twinge of pleasure, an exasperated adolescent’s overexcited reaction. Her body betrayed her. She let the feeling rise and fall, out of her control, refusing to give in to the fear of it unfurling her buried feelings.

  Alba turned away. “Would you like to accompany me, Mario? I don’t really want to be alone just yet.”

  “My pleasure,” Mario whispered, “you’re helping me escape Duchess woman.”

  They said their farewells to the other guests and moved away from the table, winding through the now empty tables of the restaurant, stepping out onto the street outside.

  “I could have called a car,” Alba began, cradling Misha’s bouquet. The flowers had opened a little in the heat and now let off a heady scent. It made her think of his face outside the artists’ entrance. “Do you mind walking? It’s the only thing to make that food digest.”

  Mario ran a hand through his thick short hair. It made Alba think he was searching for a polite way to end their evening.

  “Oh goodness, you have work early in the morning, don’t you? How selfish of me. Here, let’s go back into the restaurant and I can call a car for you?”

  “I’m relying on you to give me a whistle-stop walking tour of this sexy city.”

  Off Alba’s look he corrected himself. “Did I just call a city that? The wine was strong, no? Perhaps this Sardinian shepherd can’t handle civilization after all.”

  “Is that what that woman called you?”

  “Pretty much. I wouldn’t mind but she was flirting and her husband was right next to her.”

  “Perhaps it’s their thing,” Alba replied, as they began a gentle saunter downhill. They walked in silence for a little while, just the tapping of their feet along the tarmac, the city a pool of twinkling lights below them.

  “I can see why you don’t need to come home,” Mario said, his voice full of the Sardinian melancholy Alba allowed herself to admit she’d missed.

  “My father made it clear he didn’t want me there. It stopped being home after that.”

  “He’s really in a worse way than Salvatore says. He loses his temper.”

  Alba made to reply but Mario stepped in. “I know he always did. But now it’s different. He sees betrayals where there aren’t any.”

  “Always did.”

  “Maybe. But now he flips out at the tiniest thing. It’s hard on your brothers. He lives with Marcellino, and his wife is not the kind of woman who is easy, let’s just say.”

  Alba let the words lift and settle, crushing underfoot like crisped autumn leaves.

  “I’m speaking out of turn. I know this. I also know you deserve to know the truth. I don’t think it’s right they don’t tell you. That’s why I insisted Salvatore find you this visit.”

  “This visit?”

  “It’s an annual conference.”

  Alba took a breath and let it out with a sigh. They were approaching the outskirts of the Villa Borghese now, wandering along the piazza that overlooked Piazza del Popolo, the fountain pouring water out onto the turquoise stone pool below.

  “I’ve felt responsible for my father’s anger for too long.” She wiped a hair away from her face, noticing how warm the night air still was, how much she longed to get into a nightshirt and out of her dress.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she said, clamping shut.

  Alba watched something cross Mario’s face.

  “My apartment isn’t far away, let me give you some whiskey so we both have a terrible headache tomorrow?” she asked, a peace branch for pushing away his attempt to reach out to her, to be the spokesperson for her fractured family. It was the least she could do.

  “You drink whiskey, Alba?”

  “You have an opinion on what women drink?”

  “Not anymore. You’ve got that look of violence and Antonietta will not be happy if I come home with a black eye, especially from a woman, then I’ll have a story to try and escape out of.”

  They walked a few steps in silence.

  “That was quite a crowd tonight,” Mario said, turning the conversation away from his home life and back to her.

  “The people you saw tonight? Not all Romans are like that.” Alba was unnerved by how relaxed she felt in his company. “Thank you for being such a good guest. I know a lot of folk from Ozieri would have felt pretty awkward.”

  “Now who’s being patronizing?”

  Alba twisted an embarrassed smile.

  “And yes, you’re right,” Mario qualified, “I’m being an idiot. It’s true though, our lives in Ozieri always seem predestined, sheltered, you know, laid out nice and neat.”

  “How do you mean?” Alba asked, willing him to carry on, understanding what he meant in an instant but needing to hear it from his perspective. She liked the way his head cocked to the side when he thought through a sentiment. It gave him a humility, a gentle wonder. It wasn’t like the definitive way of talking she’d remembered from most of the Sardinian men around her father’s table.

  “You’re born,” he began, as they wound down the steps through the park toward the deserted Piazza del Popolo. “You’re the boy, you learn to be a Boy, capitalize that, stake your territory, protect it, make sure everyone knows you’re the big guy. Then you hit puberty and you’re expected to want to jump into the forest with every girl you can chalk up. You meet a girl who is pretty serious, anxious to get on with the proper thing and it seems attractive, you know, the idea of being adored forever, of providing, of becoming the man you were always designed to be.”

  His voice trailed off a little.

  “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” Alba said.

  “You haven’t. I’ve just never talked about this before. There’s no time to sit and think at home. If I started talking like this people would think I was losing it like your dad.” He stiffened. “Shit, sorry.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  He sighed a half laugh. “I suppose what I’m saying is that you didn’t do all that. You did the opposite of everything expected of you.”

  “I paid a price.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “I don’t know. I think we can judge our debt. Depends how much we let ourselves off the hook, forgive, forget.”

  “Sardinians aren’t famous for either of those.”

  They laughed again. They turned off toward Flaminio and began the walk up toward Prati. It felt wonderful to finish the evening in the company of someone who had known her before all the pomp, all the success, and for whom she had no other feelings other than the comfort of childhood familiarity.
They reached her apartment block.

  “Actually, I’m going to head back, Alba, we have two more meetings first thing. But I could stay here and talk all night.”

  “Thanks for walking back with me.”

  She turned to put the key in the large wooden door that opened up to the courtyard within, palms streaking the night sky with spiky silhouettes. She twisted back to Mario and kissed him on each cheek.

  “Thank you for coming tonight.”

  He nodded.

  “Best hundred thousand lire I ever invested,” he said, turning to start his walk away from her palazzo.

  “What’s that?” she called out.

  He turned back to her. “I said it’s the best money I ever spent.”

  Alba wondered whether he’d drunk more than she thought.

  “When Raffaele came to me in a sweat,” he began, just far enough away to make the distance from her edge toward awkward, “not knowing where to find the money he needed to help you, I pulled a few strings.”

  Alba froze.

  “I’m glad to see he kept to his promise of not telling you. Seeing your expression now has made it even more worth it.”

  “Mario Dettori, are you telling me that you were the one who raised the money for me to come over and study?”

  “I don’t think I could make it up if I tried.”

  Alba opened her mouth to speak.

  “Don’t thank me. And don’t pay me back, if that’s what you’re about to say.”

  “I’ve no idea what I was about to say.”

  He held her gaze.

  “Watching you play has been the highlight of this trip. This year. Congratulations, Alba. You escaped and made a fairy-tale life. I’m trying not to be jealous.”

  Alba felt the desire to let him in on the harsh reality of her day-to-day life, the hours of solitude, her resistance to being alone at other times, the lovers who fed her but little, the magnificence of music that made quotidian life at once confusing and dull. The way she chased the immensity of those emotions and dodged them, and that the boy who had taught her the trappings of love almost ruined her entire evening tonight after the hardest concerto of her life.