Then I went to the università.
“In bocca al lupa,” I whispered to Lucy who sat in a small desk a few rows up.
“Studenti,” the proctor said loudly. At nine, they handed out the tests.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. When I opened my eyes, Jung, the Korean man, was staring at me. I wasn’t sure if the thumbs-up sign was universal so I just nodded. Then I began.
I read each question carefully. There was a lot of articoli and congiuntivi. None of it was as hard as I imagined. There was a mock conversation where I need to fill in the blank with an imperativo of sapere. My review with Lisa was worth it.
About an hour in, people started getting up to hand in their papers. We had an hour and a half, and I intended to use all of that time to make sure my essays were perfect. With ten minutes to spare, I looked it over as much as I possibly could. I got up and handed in my test.
“Grazie,” I said stupidly to the proctor. I had two hours until the oral presentation. During that time the tests would be marked. Lucy was waiting for me outside, smoking.
“What did you think?” she asked.
“Not to bad. Can I bum a cigarette?”
‘Of course. What should we do now?”
“Sweat the oral for a while,” I said.
“C’mon it will be fine. Let’s go to Osteria la Chiacchiera and get some ribollita for an early lunch. It will put hair on your chest.”
“Just what I need.”
Lucy prevented me from spending two hours biting my nails. The restaurant had delicious food served in communal-style tables. Gaetano loved it there, too. I looked around wondering, if he was there. He wasn’t, and I considered calling him to tell him about the test. But then I doubted that he would care.
Back at school, Lucy and I were scheduled to go into our oral test together. We sat outside the classroom for a while before we went in. I coughed constantly.
“This is killing me,” I said to Lucy. Then I translated, trying to make light of this whole thing. “Mi fa morire. What do you think of that, huh? Huh? Pretty good, right?”
“Save it for the professori.” Finally, we got called in. I felt as though I was meeting a firing squad. It was just Signora Laza and Signore Pastorino. Lucy went first. She got a 30 on the written exam, pretty damn good. Thirty-two was the highest possible mark. They asked Lucy about a job she had in her country. Of course she did wonderfully. Her speech flowed, and her accent was perfect. I was envious of the way she held her mouth when she spoke.
Then it was my turn. I got my written exam back: 29. Not great, but pretty good. I knew that I would at least get a D, no matter how much I flunked the oral part.
“Okay, Gabriella,” Signora Laza said, smiling. “In one of your papers you told us all about one of the holidays in your country, Thanksgiving. Tell us what you do on that day and why.”
I began to talk about La Festa di Ringraziamento, Thanksgiving. My voice shook, but the words came out comfortably. I painted a picture of the ideal Thanksgiving. I was channeling Norman Rockwell. This was America. I only messed up once, when I described the turkey as a “grande uccellino” which meant “big little bird.” Luckily, I caught myself and apologized. The professors laughed it off, helping my confidence. When my two minutes were up, I looked at Lucy, who smiled. I knew I did a good job.
“Brave!” Signore Pastorino said to both of us.
The professori talked quietly, not exactly hiding what they were saying. Lucy got an A- for the class, based on the conversion they had for Italian grades. The conversation got more heated for my grade. Based on my performance of the final, Signore Pastorino wanted to give me a higher mark. Signora Laza showed him my unimpressive grades from the semester. I realized they could still choose to have me repeat the course if I got a D. They were arguing between a C and a D. I cleared my throat, hoped that I wouldn’t cough and looked into Signora Laza’s eyes.
“Per favore, professoressa, un C.” Signora Laza smiled and shook her head, giving in. Perhaps it was my stirring rendition of “Born in the USA.” I will always be grateful to Springsteen.
“Okay. Non darmi una brutta figura, eh?” Signora didn’t want to look bad to her colleagues if she passed a girl who couldn't speak.
“No, mai,” I said, determined to never make her look bad. I wanted to lay out all the ways I would make her proud, but I didn’t want to talk too much and have them revoke the grade.
“Okay, Gabriella,” Signora Laza said. “C.”
“Grazie, grazie,” I said. I got up and hugged Signora Laza. Lucy laughed loudly, then hugged me, too.
And it was over. I passed the final. Still in shock, I jumped up and down, holding on to Lucy’s shoulders in the lobby.
“A C, I got a C,” I screamed. “I can’t believe it. I also can’t believe I’m this excited about a C. It’s the lowest grade I ever got in college, but I’m super psyched.”
“Even with the grande uccellino,” Lucy said, patting me on the shoulder.
“Even with the grande uccelino,” I said, still disbelieving.
“We should get drunk,” Lucy said.
“I’d love to, but I have to pack and take an overnight train to Paris.”
“Bienvenue,” Lucy said. “Have fun and call me when you get back.”
I smiled through the campo. I ran into Lisa, who was flaunting her B+. She smirked about my C. She was back to her old self. It didn’t bother me too much, though I was compelled to tell Lisa that Lucy got an A-.
Gaetano was at my apartment when I returned. He was sitting at the dining room table with Janine, who was wearing a tank top and cutoffs. It was too cold for the outfit, but Janine didn’t care about comfort as long as she could show off her body.
Both Gaetano and Janine shared the same expression when I came in. They looked at me as though they would like to be caught doing something that they weren’t doing. That we should all feel awkward even though nothing was really going on. Non mi fregga niente.
“Com’è va?” Gaetano asked, wanting to know how the test was.
“Bene.” I stepped into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of acqua con gas that seemed to be flat. There were dishes piled up in the sink.
“You packed?” Janine shouted from the dining room.
“Mostly, just need a couple more things.” I was speaking English fast, not enunciating, not looking at Gaetano.
“Did you see those dishes?” she asked.
“Yeah, none of them are mine. I wash mine. I have a train to catch.”
“I wasn’t saying they were,” Janine said, defensively. “I bet they are from Michelle. She’s selfish. You in a bad mood today, G?”
Wouldn’t you like me to be, I thought, but I smiled and said, “Not at all. How was your exam?”
“Fine, passed. Got a C.”
“Hey, me too.” We slapped each other five. Gaetano laughed, so Janine slapped him five to, but I didn’t. Gaetano looked at me and spoke in Italian. This Janine couldn’t really understand.
“I thought I would walk you to the bus station. Help with your bags.”
“Grazie,” I said on purpose. “I’ll be ready soon.”
“I can’t believe everyone is leaving me,” Janine whined in English.
“Lisa will be here until the middle of the week, right?” Janine just rolled her eyes.
“It’s my birthday, you know. Thursday is my birthday.”
“We’ll celebrate when you I back,” I offered. “It’ll be something to look forward to. It’s too bad your friend cancelled.”
“Yeah, too bad,” Janine said. She turned to Gaetano for sympathy. “Il mio compleano.”
“Quando?”
He wanted to know when her birthday was, and she had to think about how to say Thursday for a second. Frustrated, I helped her and we answered together. “Giovedi.”
“Oh,” said Gaetano with saccharine regret in his voice. He spoke English for Janine’s sake. “We mus’ maka party.”
&nb
sp; “There’s no one to have a party with. Michelle va via. Gabriella va via.” Janine pouted and flicked her hand in a going a way motion.
“Facciamo un picnic,” Gaetano said, ever helpful. I hated him at that moment. He was showing me that men were always disappointing no matter where they are from. And I was interchangeable. One American girl was good as the next, the sluttier the better. He was trying to test me. Fine, fuck him.
“A picnic would be great,” Janine said. She would love that, to have her own little Italian friend just like Michelle and me. It would be better for Gaetano, too, I was certain of that. He could finally get laid.
“Janine, do you have that skirt I leant you the other night?”
“I think so,” Janine said, still kind of smiling at Gaetano.
“Well, I need to pack it for Paris.” Janine got up to get it, leaving Gaetano and me alone in the kitchen. He touched my arm.
“What’s wrong, tesoro?” Tesoro?
“What do you think?” I said. As he was searching my face, Janine returned with this skirt. I pulled my arm free from Gaetano to take the skirt. I only wanted him to know I was annoyed and not give Janine any more satisfaction.
I went to my room to put the skirt in my backpack and packed up my toiletries. Gaetano followed me. My bed wasn’t made, I never made it, but he pulled the blanket back to sit down. He whistled, when he saw the size of my backpack.
“Yeah, it’s big,” I said. “Now I’m sure that you won’t want to carry it.”
“So the test was okay?”
“Yeah, I passed. I did okay.” I wanted to tell him about the “grande uccellino” but I didn’t. He asked about my travel schedule, the train I’d be taking from Firenze. We were sticking to the specifics, exchanging information.
“You should be careful,” he said with a fatherly concern that annoyed me. One minute he acted like he wanted to fuck me, then he ignored me and then he was bringing me chicken and trying to be protective.
“I’ll be fine. I’m ready, if you still want to go.”
“Yes, we could get an espresso if you want
before …”
I looked at my watch. “No, it’s late. I need to get the bus.”
“Okay,” he said. I heaved my backpack on the edge of the bed and stuck my arms through, lifting it up onto my back, with a groan.
“Madonna!” Gaetano said. “That’s a bag.”
The bag made me hunch over a bit. I had to maneuver through the doors out into the kitchen, where Janine was sitting on the windowsill smoking a cigarette. I went through the motions of saying goodbye. I gave her a hug and told her to have a good time. I just wanted to go and be alone for the rest of the night. I wanted to get to it.
Gaetano and Janine kissed goodbye, too. I opened the door. Janine shouted at Gaetano in her stupid accent.
“Chiamami.” Call me? We didn’t even have a phone.
“Okay,” Gaetano said. He placed his hand on the back of my bag as we went down the stairs, trying to help.
“I’m fine,” I said. I was walking as fast as usual, despite how heavy the bag was. I shouldn’t have expected any more from him. It was wrong to be annoyed. He was, as he told me constantly, un uomo italiano. It was impossible for him to have a female friend. It wouldn’t be any different with me. I should have understood that I was not in any way unique, but I wished his standards were higher than Janine.
“Do you want me to get you a drink to take with you on the train?”
“No,” I said. “I can get one on the train.”
At the bus station, he insisted on buying my ticket for me at the biglietteria so I wouldn’t have to maneuver into the office with my bag. Though I didn’t want to ask him for anything else, I was relieved not to deal with mispronouncing the word for ticket again. I had enough language fear for one day.
Once I had the ticket, I tried to say goodbye. He insisted on staying with me until the bus came. He helped me put the backpack under the bus, reminding me to stamp my ticket when I got on, as if I hadn’t taken the bus dozens of times.
He kissed my cheeks. I didn’t kiss him. I couldn’t stop myself from being mad at him, even though he was being kind to me. I was just being bitter and blue.
“Have fun in Parigi, be careful,” he said pulling away to look into my face.
“You, too.” I got on the bus, stamped my ticket and waved at him. I sat across the aisle, so that he could no longer see me.
Somehow I knew that Gaetano was waiting on the curb. Even when I closed my eyes as the bus pulled away, I knew he was watching the bus until he couldn’t see it anymore. In spite of how mean I was and how undeserving, he would stand there watching nothing until I was far away from Siena.
On the overnight train to Paris, I made friends with the conductor. My Italian was improving steadily so that I could express more of my character in the language. The conductor was an older man, who smiled at my open journal and told me that writing down my thoughts every day was a sound idea. When another man tried to sit in my couchette, the conductor called him out. And from there on in, he put only other women into my cabin, winking at me each time, telling the women to sit with his “amica.”
At night, the three women and I pulled the bunks from the wall. We climbed into our beds, smiling at each other but not saying anything. How weird to sleep with strangers. But I was dead tired, so I was out when I hit the pillow.
When the train pulled into the station I still felt like I was in an Italian city, but of course everything was French. I looked around for Kaitlin, and then I saw her bright red hair. She ran toward me with open arms. I pulled her close, squeezed her tight.
“How are you? How was your trip?” Her voice made me feel peace at once.
“Good, good. I’m glad to be here.” My friend regarded me carefully, looking me up and down. How could I have forgotten how I longed to be looked at with that quizzical gaze, those scrunched-up blue eyes? What a familiar comfort it was.
“You look different.” It was almost accusing.
“Yeah, I guess, I’ve been letting my hair grow a bit.”
“You sound different, too.” Kaitlin looked like she might cry.
“Well, I’m not an imposter, K, you just haven’t seen me in three months.”
“You’ve changed; you’re different.” I shrugged and laughed a bit. Had I shaken some sadness she knew? Her suspicion was innate. It was one of her most lovable traits.
“Give me a chance, K, we’ve got a week, you can figure out if I’m for real.” Kaitlin considered this for a few moments and then nodded her head begrudgingly.
“You see you’ve gone soft, Gabriella. You have changed.” I couldn’t have looked that different; it was just because she hadn’t seen me in so long, after seeing me every day back at college.
“I’ll be back to normal tomorrow. I’m just happy to see you today.”
Kaitlin, still suspicious, seemed to accept this. And I hugged her again, confirming that I was softer.
“Enough,” she said, pulling away. “Let’s go. I have plans for us.”
And then Paris. Paris was perfect. It was the end of March, but I kept singing “April in Paris” everywhere I went. This was a city. I loved Siena, but being in Paris made me realize what a sleepy town it was. Paris was where we ate Somali food one night and cheap upper-class French food the next. I spent the week going around Paris. Sometimes I went to class at the Sorbonne with Kaitlin. Sometimes Kaitlin had assignments in one of the many museums, so I managed to get in free with her class.
In the mornings, we woke up together in Kaitlin’s big comfortable bed. We were awakened by the sound of pigeons, a low vibrating hum. They were nesting outside the window of Kaitlin’s room. Every morning Kaitlin screamed, “Fucking pigeons,” before I rolled over and cheerfully said, “Bonjour.” This routine was delightful. I never wanted to leave Paris. I never wanted to be unrecognizable to Kaitlin again.
One day when Kaitlin had exams, I slept later. I ate madelei
nes and drank café au lait with the ninety-year-old woman, Madame Marie, who Kaitlin lived with. I didn’t speak French and Madame could not speak English, but although I couldn’t answer the woman, I understood everything she said. Or rather, I understood what she was trying to communicate without knowing the words. My mind was opening to understand people.That day I used my weekly metro pass to get around the city. I went to the Rodin museum and got trapped there by a rainstorm. I never got to see the sculptures in the garden outside. But I saw enough of Rodin’s white stone embracing bodies within the museum to be affected.
When the rain let up a bit I found a café. I ordered some water and soup. I said carafe d’eaux as Kaitlin taught me and pointed to the vat of liquid behind the counter, hoping it would be a type of soup I liked. I wrote in my journal, looking up at a poster of a large woman’s butt.
I let Jonas come to me then. The letter j exists in the French alphabet unlike the Italian. I was using it a lot as I tried to communicate. Maybe it was Rodin’s sexy frozen sculptures or that seeing Kaitlin reminded me of another time when I didn’t feel so strong. But Jonas sat beside me at the window. I saw his reflection in the glass. I didn’t question it for once. I let myself feel his presence beside me. On this rainy day, he could lie with me in Kaitlin’s bed and listen to the pigeons. He followed me when I left the café, stopped with me in the film bookstore, pointing out a screenplay for me to buy. We walked around the city together, him just talking, finding words to explain it all, to make it okay.
I knew this was Crazy. A disguise of Crazy’s, but it made me feel safer and less alone.
He left when I met up with Kaitlin. He had come and gone again so quickly. This time it was easier because I didn’t fool myself that it could be permanent.
Kaitlin took me to the Jewish part of town. We bought the falafel, and then we went to a jazz club. It was a cliché that must be done, she said. I would have gone for anything.
We sat in the club, drinking wine, chain smoking, losing ourselves in the sounds of the band, in the French woman singing American standards. I had one more night in Paris and I didn’t want to leave.
A Semester Abroad Page 15
