Lisa left the room. Janine had already moved on.
“We should have drunk something before shouldn’t we? Now we’ll be totally sober,” she said, looking at me because she thought like everyone else that I had some sort of high tolerance because of the big beers I bought. “Fuck it, they’ll buy us drinks.”
They were waiting. Roberto’s friends were both shorter than Michelle and me, but we were instructed to sit on their laps in the backseat of the tiny car; Gennaro (under me) and Mauro (under Michelle). It was true enough about the room in the car. All the cars in this country seemed smaller. But I liked being packed into the car like this, the smell of the male cologne, testosterone. My sense of smell was sharpening. I was picking up not just people’s scents but their intentions.
The Tendenza was like nowhere I had ever been. It was a giant warehouse space with people dancing everywhere. Even Michelle and Janine, who went clubbing at home, were in shock. Everyone was given a number when they went in that they had to put on. The bouncers pinned the numbers close to our breasts, and the Italian boys put drinks in our hands. Roberto unpinned Janine’s number and put it on the waistband of her skirt, the skirt she borrowed from me. We downed our first drinks and got others at the bar before heading onto the dance floor. The Italian boys paid for everything
The numbers were projected on a screen, and if you saw your number, you had a note waiting from an admirer. It was a literary meat market. The club was blowing purple smoke onto the dancers. The Italian boys were delighted. They kept saying “è bello, è bello, no?” They loved it. I wished I could say surreal in Italian. I thought that it was probably something obvious like surealistico or something, but if it wasn’t I would have to try to explain it to them. They would want to understand me; it would be complicated. Sometimes it was better not to even bother trying to communicate unless you had a lot of time.
Janine started dancing seductively against Roberto. The rest of us danced on the outskirts. I liked these boys, liked that they didn’t try to get too close. Michelle and I danced closer together. There were also scantily clad professionals, mostly women, who were dancing on a stage in the center of the club.
I felt Janine’s hand on my shoulder. She was pointing up toward the screen with the numbers. I looked at the number pinned to my shirt. My number was flashing across the screen, and there was Michelle’s, as yet no sign of Janine’s. I was really curious about what the letters might say. Michelle couldn’t contain her excitement.
“Come on, G, let’s check out our letters.” Michelle was drunk already, but her enthusiasm was clear and contagious. She pulled me over to the bar for another drink and then onto the stage, where you got the letters. It was mobbed, but we each found a pile of letters for our numbers. I translated the letters for both of us. They had a common theme, I saw you from across the floor. You are beautiful, I would like to meet you. As I read these to Michelle I put on a fake Italian accent and we both laughed, hysterically.
Janine ran over, pretended to look annoyed.
“I got one of those letters. Roberto is pissed. He’s so Italian.”
“Look, G, our numbers are up again,” said Michelle, smiling. “Let’s check our stash.”
We both had bigger piles than before. Janine had three. I translated these again in the same accent. There were some new admirers and some from the last batch who were upset that we didn’t respond. Michelle enjoyed this a little too much, and Janine took her lack of letters a little too personally.
“It’s because I have to wear my fucking number on my skirt. He’ll be mad if I don’t.” Janine was making excuses, trying to convince herself more than us. Michelle nodded.
“You should get another drink, Janine, and then you won’t care what he thinks.” She didn’t sound as sympathetic to Janine as usual. Michelle was different tonight, more independent, no longer simply Janine’s appendage. “Let’s get another drink, G.”
When we got back to the guys, they looked at us sheepishly. I accused them of writing the letters, but they denied it. They asked us if we want to smoke hash.
“Do we want to smoke some hash?” I translated for Michelle.
“Sure. I mean I guess. I never smoked hash, have you?”
“Once,” I said, “it fucked me up. Though it may have been because I was doing a lot of other stuff. But I think it can really fuck you up.”
“Let’s get fucked up.” Michelle said, widening her eyes. I had the feeling that she would have been up for anything. “Let’s do it.”
And so the four of us went off into a little dark corner with a low lounge. We smoked a cigarette laced with a bunch of hash. Homemade by Gennaro. We passed it around. Mauro taught Michelle how to inhale it.
The last time I smoked hash, I was a wreck. I literally could not move. This time I began to feel a haze, but it worked with the lights and scented smoke that filled the club. I suspected from Michelle’s expression that she felt the same way. We went back to the floor and danced together, not speaking, not smiling, just moving. This was the closest I had ever felt to Michelle. Those times we sat awkwardly together in bars we lacked this energy that floated between us as we danced now
When Janine found us, I didn’t care about anything. I realized that I usually was aware of my looks around her, because of the way she always looked me up and down. Now, when she did it, it meant nothing. I just wanted to get back to dancing. I couldn’t focus on her face. Michelle could handle it.
“We’re gonna go. His ex-girlfriend is here”. Across the dance floor I saw Roberto talking furiously to an Italian girl with long brown hair. She had that regal look that I noticed on some of the women in Siena.
“Are you guys ready?” Janine expected us to be. I nodded, assuming that Michelle would want to leave. But Michelle hesitated.
“I’m having fun, Janine. I don’t feel like watching you guys fight all night. G, don’t you want to stay?” I didn’t really want to get involved, but I wanted to stay. I was getting fucked up, and I didn’t want to feel Janine’s bad jealous vibe.
“Well, how are you guys going to get home? Roberto has the car.”
“There’s a bus. Pam took it she told me,” Michelle said.
Janine shook her head and said, “Pam.” Information not shared between them. It might have been the first time that Janine realized that Michelle was her own person and not just a sidekick. Maybe the first time for Michelle, too. “Fine then. Stay.”
She walked away from us. I looked at Michelle, but Michelle betrayed nothing, she looked like any other pretty fucked-up foreign girl. So Michelle and I began to dance again.
“We are leaving,” said Mauro to Michelle. It was half a question. I started to translate for Michelle, but she understood him.
“We aren’t leaving,” said Michelle in hesitant Italian. Mauro, the spokesperson, turned to Gennaro to confer. They were confused. Michelle said her next sentence in English but slowly loudly, using her hands. “We are not going. We dance. Janine and Roberto go away to fight and…” Here, she shrugged her shoulders, making us laugh.
“We stay, too,” said Gennaro, suddenly confident in his language skills. He grabbed my hands and led me back onto the dance floor. “We dance.”
And we danced to the electronic music peppered with dirty English phrases. We danced and smelled the sweet sweat of everyone in the club, and even though we saw our numbers going by again, we didn’t bother to check the letters. Our minds were heavy from the hash, and we could only concentrate on dancing. It was wonderful to be this far from my thoughts. I could have done this every day. I was dancing in the purple smoke, and everything fit together.
When the lights came on in the club, my feet were killing me and my mouth was dry. I begged the barista for a glass of water. I shared it with Michelle like it was some great dance prize. I hadn’t really thought through how we could get home. I just believed that Michelle was certain of the bus. It was not like me to take someone else’s word for it. I only agreed to get
away from Janine.
“So how are we going to get home?” I asked. “Is there really a bus?”
“There was. I don’t know how late it runs,” Michelle said. I didn’t think my feet could handle the walk home to Siena. I had no idea where we were, just that it took us twenty minutes in a car. I wondered if I could find one of the couches and pass out until morning.
Gennaro and Mauro brought another guy over to meet us. He was dressed formally in a suit and tie, his face was sweaty and he kept wiping it with a handkerchief.
“I am Sandrino.” He shook both of our hands and kissed us on both cheeks. I wasn’t sure I was in the mood to be charming.
“Sandrino will port us home in macchina,” said Mauro in his broken English. It was all going to work out. Sandrino had a car, God love him. Michelle and I smiled and said, grazie. I tried to show my appreciation by working the e in the word as I had heard the Italians do all month.
In the car, Gennaro and Mauro insisted that they resume positions with us on their laps, even though there was enough room in this car not to. We maintained our pairing by name. This satisfied everyone. Gennaro and I sat up front with Sandrino. I rolled down the window, stuck my hand out into the sky. I slipped off my shoes, and Gennaro called me americana and said something to Sandrino that I couldn’t understand.
I heard Michelle and Mauro in the backseat; heard Mauro enjoying whatever was happening. Sounds of zippers and elastic. Michelle would puke this all up later. Another finger in another hole.
But I would be fine if I kept my face to the window, turned into the blackness of the night. Then I wouldn’t have to see what they were doing. I wouldn’t have minded kissing Gennaro, he was sweet enough, but then I would have had to turn my face. Besides, I liked the way it was, his hand tightening and releasing on the space above my hip, fingers close to my breast. He whispered in my ear, against my neck, soothing the ring from the club’s loud music. I was bella and the song was bella, no? That was what he said. And I believed him for a minute that everything was beautiful.
The last time I smoked hash back at school it was a dirty brown ball in a pipe. It was not cut with any tobacco. I could not move then. Kaitlin propped me against a wall and I stayed. I watched Kaitlin drinking and dancing, getting on with her life. I knew that if anyone came up to me against the wall, Kaitlin would be over immediately. I put my trust in Kaitlin.
Kaitlin took me home that night. I asked Kaitlin why Jonas didn’t care about me anymore. It was the only time I said something like that. The only time I admitted to anyone how much I hurt. Kaitlin shook her head. How could she explain it? Hadn’t she tried to warn me? She stripped off my clothes, leaving on the bra and panties he would have taken of. She let me stay in her bed, the bottom bunk in the dorm room we shared. I wanted Kaitlin to climb in next to me, to feel someone else there, but Kaitlin climbed to the top. She never answered my question. Maybe there was no answer
Sandrino dropped us off in Piazza del Mercato. Kisses all around and Mauro got out of the car and tried to impress us with his English. He said hi to both of us as we left, thinking this was a true translation of ciao. Michelle and I didn’t bother to explain it to him but laughed all the way up Banca di Sopra. The city was empty. It was ours.
We stopped at the statue of the she-wolf and took off our shoes.
The cobblestones were freezing. We ran giggling through the streets. Bruised and blistered feet against stone. Our sweat dried cold on our skin. We smelled freshly baking bread, and we peered through a window at a baker. When he waved at us, we scampered off. We didn’t feel like ourselves. We had too good a time with strangers. We, too, were strangers to each other.
In the apartment, we drank more water and I left Michelle alone in the kitchen to find and eat whatever she would.
In my room I felt lucky that I was back in my bed, that Sandrino had a car, and that I was in this country far away from anyone who really knew me. I was happy that for a little while, with my head turned out to fresh air, I felt beautiful.
I fell asleep before I could hear any of the noises from my roommates that might make me sad. I fell asleep before Crazy could remind me that I wasn’t okay after all, that I never would be again.
FEBBRAIO
6.
Sometimes in the mornings a ghost awakened me. This ghost was tricky. He convinced me over and over again that he was really there. Breath against my ear, fingers clutching my arm, hand moving up the inside of my leg.
Wake up! Wake up!
I refused, shook my head, sometimes I cried. I never wanted to open my eyes. I didn’t want to find it was the draft from the window, a twisted blanket, my own hand. I begged him not to bother me, to just go away. The ghost continued. Think of how nice it will be, me here with you, here in your bed. Don’t you want to see me? How much fun could we have? And I fell for it always. Holding my breath, I opened my eyes expectantly to see I was alone, of course. It was only Crazy up to her old tempting tricks.
He didn’t come every morning, but he did come. And I began to feel a sense of normalcy in that bed, whether he was there or not.
I wished that Jonas was one of those boys I could have hooked up with and gotten over like it was nothing but a warm end to a happy night. He wasn’t, though. Things started slowly, and I found that I liked him, talking to him, the way he phrased things, the random song lyrics he sang, always meeting my eye. The time I asked him why he was a history major and he sang, “You don’t know your past, you won’t know your future.”
After that time in the student union when he turned down my dinner invitation, we had a class together. On cold mornings a bus ran from our dorm to the class at 9 A.M. It took longer to get to class on the bus, but you avoided the cold. It was one of the prerequisites everyone had to take. It was a dumb class that pretended to be about biology, but was really a way to get us info on contraception and STDS.
I waited for him on those mornings, letting buses pass until the last minute, but he always came. We sat together and talked. Our travel mugs of flavored coffee scented our ride. Side by side, I made him laugh and he made me laugh and I don’t remember most of the things we said to each other, just the laughing.
And then one morning, I overslept and hustled down to the bus stop as a bus passed before me. Cursing, I thought about running after it, trying to catch it at the next stop, but nothing said he would even be on that bus. Why should I be out of breath when I got on the bus at the wrong stop? When the bus passed in front of me, I looked at the bus stop and there he was waiting. He was waiting for me, too.
“You looked worried there for a minute,” he said.
“I was,” I admitted.
“Don’t worry.” We stood so close to each other then, grinning. I should have been worried, but I wanted to believe.
And then I knew that everything wasn’t just on my side and it was only a matter of time, if I waited as I had all those mornings, something would happen between us.
There were no buses in Siena to make the frigid five-minute walk to school any easier. The days slipped into a little routine. It was not exactly a comfortable routine, because I never knew what sort of unanswerable question was going to be presented to me and in what ways I would make a small fool out of myself, but at least I had an idea what the day would be like.
I dressed quickly in the cold. Sometimes when I had a lot of time, I made an espresso in the macchinetta loading it with sugar, but mostly I drank instant American coffee in the morning. Michelle, who lived on coffee, showed me how to make it taste better by loading it with cinnamon. For the rest of my life, I will call cinnamon canella the way we did in that apartment.
I was learning to cook for myself, too. My meals were simple, pasta with fresh vegetables or vegetables on the pizza crust I got at the supermarket. I relied heavily on the delicious Tuscan olive oil. It made everything taste better. I stopped at the COOP supermarket once a week to stock up on basics. Every other day, except Wednesdays when everything was closed
in the afternoons, I went to the forno for bread or the frutti vendolo for vegetables. I tried not to say too much and double-checked in the dizionario how to ask for exactly what I wanted.
Sometimes, I felt normal, almost hopeful. But other days, because of the weather and because of the strange looks people gave me when I spoke, I felt like an alien. Sometimes, several people would gather behind a counter and try to guess what I was talking about. Once one of the men at the frutti vendolo started speaking to me in German, assuming that was my accent. When I explained that I was americana and not tedesca, he looked at me like I was just stupid and didn’t even understand my own language. The easiest thing to do on days like that was to hide out in my room, write in my journal and contemplate what I would make to eat the next day and if I would feel better.
But often, I couldn’t take the cold apartment. I felt stifled and so I walked in spite of the weather. My walk was no longer my own. I used to walk with confidence. Jonas said he could see me all the way across the quad. My walk was something he liked about me, and now I didn’t have it anymore.
Instead of swinging my arms, I clasped my hands together. I didn’t trust Crazy not to sneak up next to me and take my hand as she once had. I didn’t trust my actions. I no longer believed I could gauge who people were. My instincts had failed me before.
My roommates and I usually didn’t go to class together. Janine cut class and had a habit of trying to convince everyone else to do the same. Lisa was always early. Michelle ran in the morning to avoid the attention she got from men when she ran in the afternoon, so she was always late.
I felt like my class was pointless, that I was never going to learn the language. The words I heard, the grammar rules were all white noise floating around me. I wondered if babies felt like this when they didn’t know what the adults were saying.
A Semester Abroad Page 6
