I liked my professoressa Signora Laza. She was sienese sienese, truly from Siena. Her neighborhood was the contrada of bruco, the caterpillar. She prided herself, as most Sienese did, on her contrada and on the fact that in Siena, the Italian language was truest. While other regions had dialects, the Italian they spoke in Siena was closest to standard Italian.
Signora Laza must have thought I was pretty dumb. I was never a bad student in my language, but in her class I dreaded being called on. When I had to read aloud, it was a disaster. Signora Laza constantly corrected me, looking at me over her glasses. It was humbling to be one of the worst students in her class.
In the language lab, we all wore headphones, listened to lessons, and repeated words into microphones. We sat in our separate cocoon of desks, connected to our weird audio players. It was bizarre and Big Brother-ish. Signora Laza could listen in to whomever she wanted, and her voice often came into my headphones, correcting my pronunciation. I was always on edge and ready. I constantly snuck glances over my partition at the top of Signora Laza’s head, but she was busy bent down, trolling for mistakes. And there was no warning when she would get to me. I was a language experiment gone wrong.
In addition to Lucy, there was another American, Pete, in my class, but he wasn’t from my group. There was a Greek opera singer, a beautiful aging German car saleswoman, a married artsy Japanese couple, three Koreans and two women from Spain. I tried to talk to them all at the obligatory pausa where we went to the café for cappuccino. I was constantly amazed that we could communicate in a language that belonged to none of us. Though I wanted to get to know all these new faces, I mostly spent the pausa chatting with Lucy and trying to secure from her that I understood what was going on.
After the pausa, class went quicker. Sometimes we had a surprise quiz that I suspected gave Signora Laza a thrill. And then class was over by noon and I had the day to myself unless I had my culture class with the group.
The culture class was led by Arturo and was either an hour and a half lesson on Sienese culture and history or a brisk walk to one of the myriad freezing churches to stare at frescoes and Gothic architecture.
Kaitlin would have loved it, she was an Art History major, but to me, it was all dates and names and different meaningless design eras. Sometimes I wanted to block out all the facts that were constantly provided. I would have been just as happy to walk around and look at the churches without knowing anything. I would have liked to stare into the eyes of the various depictions of Mary and Jesus and try to draw my own conclusions.
Slowly but surely, however, almost by osmosis, the names of these artists became ingrained in my head. I could have led a tour around Siena and wowed people with my knowledge. But as far as I knew, no one was coming to visit.
Everything came to a boil one day when I was sitting at the dining room table trying to conjugate verbs into all the nineteen different tenses. My quiet was shattered by the sounds of pots crashing onto the floor. It was Janine, who had discovered Lisa’s dishes in the sink and threw them across the kitchen.
“Lisa, you fucking porca butana, can’t you clean up your shit?” I had to give Janine credit, she spoke Italian for shit, but she knew how to curse in a variety of dialects, thanks to the men she fucked. Half the time I had no idea who she was calling what, but she managed a convincing accent.
Lisa ran out of the hall that was her room. She was shaking and on the verge of tears. She was not used to conflict. This kind of venom and volume intimidated me, too. “I was going to clean them.”
“Fucking when?” Janine screamed. “You need fucking twenty pots to make that shitty canned soup you buy, and I can’t even have a plate of pasta.”
“Could you guys lower your voices? I’m trying to study,” I said. Janine barely glanced at me.
“I’m sick and tired of everyone being such a slob around here.”
“I clean my dishes,” I said. This was true most of the time and luckily, had been that night. “And be careful with those pots. I don’t want to have to buy more.”
“I know, I know, you’re on a budget,” Janine said, smirking. I shook my head and turned back to my book, trying to decide if I should just go hide out in my room like Michelle was doing.
We had been letting things go for a while at Via Stalloreggi. Anonymous messages were left around the apartment about the state of cleanliness. Our floor was sticky and dirty. Occasionally, one of us got fed up and bitterly cleaned up for someone else. I knew this row had been coming for a while. I just didn’t want to deal
“Well, you take toilet paper out of our bathroom so you won’t have to buy it,” Lisa said. She sounded like a child tattling to her kindergarten teacher. This comment was directed as much to me as to Janine. I was supposed to rise up and join forces against Janine.
“You are such a cheap ugly bitch, Lisa,” Janine said before I could decide whether or not I was going to join in. Then Janine stomped to her room and slammed the door. Lisa looked at me for a second and then went to the kitchen to clean up all her pots and wonder if what Janine said was true.
After that, we had a tense house meeting to set up a schedule for cleaning and supply buying. We divvied up responsibilities and vowed that everyone would clean their own dishes. We stuck to it for about three days before we all started slipping.
And someone started stealing food. We were all buying our own food. And we all complained of food theft, but someone was lying. It wasn’t me. It could have been Michelle, who was always making excuses not to eat. I doubted that it was Lisa because she had an annoying habit of asking to sample whatever anyone was eating. Whether it was a freshly made meal or a piece of bread that I was certain she knew the taste of, she wanted to try everyone else’s food. Behind her back we called her the “Can I have a bite?” girl.
I started thinking about carrying my food around in my backpack the same way I carried my journal, but it seemed a little extreme.
Every day, I longed for letters from home. Finally, the first group came in a giant batch. I get seven letters at once at the university. They were all sent on different days; two were sent ten days apart. I got news of Kaitlin settling in to Paris and other letters from friends back at college.
From then on, I got mail a lot. Sometimes letters came twice a day and at other times there was nothing for days. Sciopero, said the constantly changing person behind the desk when there was a drought. They used the word for strike as if it could explain away anything.
“How can they go on strike so often?” I asked the roommates.
“All of Italy goes on strike all the time; it’s very political here,” Lisa explained pretentiously. She fancied herself in touch with the political climate of Italy. She flaunted that she read Espresso, the newsmagazine, while the rest of us—when we had extra money—picked up Italian women’s magazines that gave you freebies like lip gloss. I didn’t believe that anyone in Italy understood the political situation, including the Italians.
My roommates resented all the mail I got. Sometimes, they checked under my name at the università and reported I had four letters waiting. I started to enjoy sitting at the table with my letters piled beside me, fingering them as Janine sipped cups of tea, watching me because we had no TV. In a way, I flaunted the letters. It was proof that people back home missed me. It was almost a challenge to the rest of the roommates. A reminder that eventually we would be home and I would be back in the circle of people who loved me. I didn’t like those thoughts I had, but this weird female way was becoming a part of my world. I was turning again into someone I didn’t know.
In the letters I wrote back home, I focused on only the good things. I described how beautiful my apartment was and my classes at the università. I told them that people were nice. That really meant nothing, it was so abstract, but I knew this was what my friends wanted to hear. I mentioned that I was constantly at a bar or eating a delicious meal. These little tidbits I would like to get back to Jonas. I want him to hear in passing wh
at a good time I was having, how wonderful it all was.
I wanted to believe that across an ocean, I could still affect him.
One day, Gaetano was waiting for me outside of the università on his vespa. It was freezing, and I wondered how long he’d been there studying the studenti, looking for me. His leather jacket couldn’t possibly keep him that warm.
“Ciao.” I said.
“You didn’t call.” He revved the bike.
“I know. It was Olivia that had your number. Remember? Because I don’t have a phone.” I offered him excuses in my muddled, confused Italian.
“Quanto sei forba,” he said and I didn’t understand. “Let’s get panini.”
“I have to some stuff to do,” I said, trying the Italian. “Plus, I need to do my homework.”
“Dinner, then. I can help you with your homework,” he said slowly so I would understand. “I will pick you up at your apartment at eight.”
Before I could think of a reason not to go, Lisa was beside us, speaking to both of us in Italian. She was managing to work the passato remoto that she learned in class into the conversation, even though it didn’t seem appropriate. When I looked at Gaetano, he rolled his eyes, which made me laugh.
“Devo andare via, ragazze,” he said to us, making an excuse to leave. He looked at me. “Ci vediamo stasera.”
“Okay, see you tonight,” I agreed. Lisa reminded me of all the reasons I didn’t want to be home. “I’ll bring my homework.”
He came early and laughed at my bare feet when I opened the door. Michelle and Lisa had just gotten into a fight about Lisa making a mess of the stove. A large part of the fight consisted of slamming pots and sighing. I couldn’t wait to get out the apartment.
“I’ll just get my shoes,” I said, leaving him in the dining room to be interrogated by Lisa, who perked up at the prospect of showing off more Italian. He looked me up and down, approvingly when I came back to the kitchen, but I ignored it.
He took me to a brick-oven pizzeria on Viale Cortatone, near the Upim department store. We ordered a pizza with a fried egg on top, and he got a bottle of wine. He stared at me the whole time, even when he was eating, but he spoke to me in a way that I could understand. He spoke slowly, pausing to see if I followed, attempting to find the English word when I didn’t. He used his hands a lot.
He described his medical studies. It seemed kind of easy compared to what I thought American universities were like. He didn’t have class all the time. And it was hard to believe that someone who chain-smoked the way he did could ever be a doctor.
He told me about his town in the south of Italy. It was at the arch of the foot, he said (well, showed me, tracing the boot that is Italy on the white tablecloth with his fingers). In his town, life was simpler he said, people were kind and more open than people up north. There were never any plans made; you just saw people walking in passing, in giro, and you were happy about it.
“You must see my country,” he said. I was confused about how he said the word; I thought meant country, paese, to mean his town, but after awhile I got it. To him, it was a whole different country; he wanted me to understand that. He raised his fork up at me as he chewed; he was holding it in his left hand. “You don’t want to see my country?”
“Sure, but you know,” I spoke Italian slowly, trying not to say it wrong, “I have a boyfriend.”
“I know.”
“Okay, good. So you understand I just want to be friends right? That’s okay. If we just go out as friends?”
“I have no friends that are women only, girlfriends.” I looked down at my pizza. This was a mistake. I should go home. It was too bad because I was starting to have fun, starting to follow. He was an attractive man, but I wasn’t ready to be with anyone yet. I just didn’t know if my body could stand to be touched by anyone else. I didn’t know if my mind could handle another relationship.
“You know why American girls come to Italy?” he asked at last.
I wanted to say in my most sarcastic way, “I have no idea.” But I didn’t know how to convey that the way I wanted, so instead I said something I was more used to saying, “No, I don’t know.”
“There are three reasons,” he said, holding up his thumb and first two fingers. He paused, trying to play up the drama. I didn’t say anything. “Do you want to know?”
“If you want to tell me.” He laughed and shook his hand at me.
“The reasons are…” He cleared his throat.
“Before I die,” I tried to say or something like it. I could tell he understood what I meant. And I was glad to, at last, get my point across in another language.
“Number one to buy shoes,” he said.
“I understand that.”
“To say they have.” I shook my head, rolled my eyes.
“And finally,” he switched to English so I could really understand, “to fuck Italian boy.”
I took a sip of my wine. I wondered if I was ever going to get my homework done.
“What do you think of that?” he asked. He was quite satisfied with himself.
“I don’t know.” The place we were in was too nice to be talking about this. “Who told you that? An Australian?”
“Well, what is your reason?”
“If you want me to pick one from those choices, I guess, for the experience. I’m Italian-American. I wanted to see this country.”
“This isn’t your country. Your people aren’t from this country.”
“Stesa.” I said, certain I was screwing up.
“It’s not the same,” he said correcting me. “They are different. Completely.”
“Okay.”
“I could teach you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“And your roommates? Quella bionda? What’s her reason?” I didn’t know what he heard about Janine. I wasn’t sure what I should tell him.
“You know if you are foreign or from the south everyone knows everything in Siena. They talk.” Then he cursed in dialect.
“I haven’t done anything they could talk about.” I said.
“Not yet.”
I wasn’t sure how to say I wouldn’t. I still wasn’t comfortable in futuro. I shrugged my shoulders. I held out my homework worksheet. “Do you want to help me or not?”
“Allora,” he took the worksheet and filled in the answers.
“No, can you explain it?”
And he did. He went over each question with me, explaining the reason for each answer slowly, so that I understood. And I did understand. I actually got it. The rules made sense for a change. For a little while, the tension I felt around him lifted.
We split a dessert, torta della nonna. He kept touching his pack of cigarettes, his finger running up and down the side. It was making me uncomfortable, just like the way he kept looking at me. I felt like he was trying to figure me out. I had already been figured out. It wasn’t pretty. I wouldn’t let it happen again. I didn’t need anyone else looking me in the eye. I asked him for a cigarette, so he would stop.
“You can just take what you want,” he said. He handed me a smoke and held out a silver lighter for me.
“Grazie,” I said, letting the e ring out a little more at the end. He laughed and I thought I messed up again, over-accentuated if that was possible to do in Italian. “What?”
“You Americans always say thank you. You must not say thank you to your friends. You want to be friends? For your friends it must be a gift for them to give to you. To say thank you is unnecessary. Never to your friends. Okay?” He said friends, amici, with a smirk.
“Okay.”
When I finished my espresso, I took another cigarette without asking.
“Brava,” he said. This was the first of many lessons I would learn from him.
We left the restaurant. I was ready for bed. I felt the wine when I stood. He parked his vespa somewhere outside the walls and asked me if I wanted to take a ride. I still didn’t trust him.
“No, I’ll just wa
lk back home.”
“Okay. I’ll go with you.” We started walking together; we cut through the campo and up the hill, chatting the entire way. I was surprised to carry on the conversation for so long. It was easy to understand him. It relaxed me or maybe it was the wine. It was cool to be out with someone, to be able to talk and understand this language. It was not just another night in a bar drinking or sitting at home wishing, again, that I had a TV or some other distraction.
At my portone, he kissed me formally on both cheeks. “Okay, bella, amica, ci vediamo.”
“Ciao,” I said waving. Then I decided to test my sarcasm in Italian. “On second thought, I guess I wouldn’t mind a pair of Italian shoes.”
He laughed and called me pazza, crazy, kissing me once more on each cheek.
I rushed up the stairs, trying to beat the electric timer on the light as usual. And, for once, I did. I was smiling and out of breath when I walked into my apartment.
“Looks like someone had a little sesso on their date,” Janine said from the dining room table. For once her schoolbooks were spread before her. Lisa was eating a package of cookies, shoving them into her mouth one after another. I could hear Michelle listening to some female singer behind the closed door of their room. It would have been nice if one of them were Kaitlin. I just wanted to get some girl talk.
“No, no sex, it wasn’t like that. It was just nice to go out, you know, talk one-on-one to one of them. We’re just friends.”
Janine, who had appointed herself an expert on Italian men since she slept with several of them, raised an eyebrow and said, “Do Italian men know how to just be friends?”
“Do American?” I asked.
“Well, I had a little friendly sesso tonight with a hot Italian who didn’t want to be friends. Now I have to conjugate verbs.” Make that more proof for Gaetano’s theory, I thought. I heard the kettle in the kitchen, and Lisa got up for some tea.
A Semester Abroad Page 7
