by Kitty Parker
Donning the protective headgear, I hiked up my skirt (to a respectable degree, of course) and sat down behind Andreas. Gently, he reached back and fixed my arms about his waist.
"Hold tightly, mia cara."
As he fished the key to the Vespa out of the pocket of his blazer and stuck it in the ignition, I lay my head against his back, turning it so that I was facing the windows of the hotel lounge. To my great surprise, I could see Kurt seated in a red armchair, an open book (Eat the Rich by P.J. O'Rourke, incidentally one of my favorites and not one that I would have considered particularly common among eighteen year-olds, as it was non-fiction and about economics) held up in front of him. His eyes, however, were focused directly on me. He was staring at me so intently that I almost worried that he would somehow burn holes through the plate glass that separated us.
With a small roar, the engine of the Vespa came to life and Andreas pulled away from the curb, whisking me away from the hotel and Kurt, whom I watched become smaller and smaller until he disappeared from sight completely. We turned onto the tree-lined avenue that ran the length of the Tiber River (which, bizarrely enough, had different names depending on which bridge we were near) and began heading in what I guessed was a northerly direction, judging by the position of the evening sun. Still holding tightly to my date, I appreciated what I could of the scenic beauty while we whizzed by it. I did note, however, as Andreas stopped to allow a group of Japanese tourists to cross the street, that there was a good amount of gunk in the river.
We eventually turned off of the avenue along the Tiber and onto what appeared to be a main road. The slope of the pavement gradually increased as we headed up toward an open plaza with a gigantic stone pillar ringed by four fountains at its center. As we got closer, I noted that the bizarre statue was topped with a cross and had markings that looked suspiciously like hieroglyphs engraved on its surface.
Andreas pulled off to the side of the street just as it met up with the plaza and put his Vespa into park. He shut it off and carefully locked it, then pulled off his helmet. I followed suit, shaking my long mane of blonde hair loose.
"Where are we?" I inquired.
"The Piazza di Popolo," he answered, getting off of the bike and smiling warmly at me. "There is a wonderful ristorante here called 'Gusto where I thought we might have dinner."
I swung a leg over the Vespa, being careful not to allow my skirt to fly up, and hopped to my feet. "Sounds great."
He offered me his arm once again. "They also have a fantastico wine bar. Do you like wine, mia cara?"
"Oh yes," I replied as we began to walk, arm-in-arm, across the piazza. "Besides, it seems wrong somehow to be in Italy and not have wine."
"Very true," he chuckled. "I will only have one glass, though. I must be sober to drive."
"That's very wise of you, Andreas," I commented sincerely.
He grinned. "Grazie, Lotte."
Once we had crossed the plaza, we began to stroll down another side street. Curious, as per usual, I took the time to study my surroundings, taking in the shops and houses pressed up against each other like colorful building blocks dotted with windows. Andreas remained quiet, allowing me to process the visual information flooding my mind.
We eventually came to what had to be the most bizarre-looking piazza I had ever seen. It was lined on two sides by the nasty "urban renewal" sort of architecture that one would generally associate with the sixties, Soviet housing plans, and Boston's horrifically ugly (and incredibly unpopular) city hall. I could only assume that this was the work of Benito Mussolini or some similarly aesthetically-challenged dipshit. On a third side stood two Baroque churches that looked completely out of place, even though they had undoubtedly been present for centuries before the "modern" architecture crowded in. On the fourth and last side of the piazza was a building with positively gigantic windows that had to have been built within the last decade. Inside, there appeared to be some sort of marble box covered in carvings, though I had no idea what that might be. Finally, in the center of the square, smack in the middle of a large plot of grass and surrounded by a ditch, sat a weird, circular land mass like some giant zit on the face of the piazza. It was adorned by a ring of cypress trees and seemed to have some sort of ruin in the middle. Altogether, the plaza was the strangest mishmash of architectural styles I'd ever seen.
"Where are we?" I inquired, a note of skepticism in my voice.
Andreas chuckled. "This is the Piazza Augusto Imperatore. Do not worry, I also think that it is strange."
I smiled, impressed by his ability to discern what I was thinking. He led me to one of the buildings on the far side of the piazza, and we passed through the doorway and into a busy, friendly-looking pizzeria with wooden tables and old-fashioned brick walls. Instead of sitting, however, we climbed up a wooden staircase to what appeared to be a more formal part of the restaurant, in that the tables were covered with white linen and the walls were lined with interesting, abstract art. There was also one wall covered completely by bottles upon bottles of wine.
With a good amount of bustle, a maître d' approached us and greeted us (I assumed, anyway) in a rather nasally Italian voice.
Andreas responded. I simply stood and smiled, pretending that I knew what was going on.
With a nod, the maître d' pulled two menus from a nearby stack and led us to a table directly beneath a rather strange painting of naked people dancing around a large plate of pasta. Like a true gentleman, Andreas pulled out my chair for me before sitting down himself. It wasn't as though I couldn't do such things for myself, of course. I simply happened to enjoy being on the receiving end of such gallant gestures.
Once Andreas and I were settled, a boy of about sixteen, in full waiter's garb, made his way over to our table. "Buona sera," he greeted us warmly. "Mi chiamo Matteo. Sono il cameriere suo."
As Andreas politely asked him to speak in English, I thought I saw a familiar face out of the corner of my eye. My head whipped around so fast that I was honestly surprised that I didn't pull a muscle in my neck. Upon closer inspection of the person in question, however, I found him to be merely a random Italian man enjoying a night out with his friends.
He wasn't Kurt.
Oddly disappointed, I turned my attention back to Matteo, who was listing the evening's specials as best he could with his rather fragmented English. "The-a special of tonight-a pasta is-a fettuccini cook-a in Chinese wok-pan con mozzarella formaggio, sesame, and-a mint leaves. I come-a back-e in minute for order drinks, sì?"
"Sì, grazie," I replied.
Somewhat surprised that I could say anything at all in Italian (and clearly relieved to be finished reciting specials), Matteo left.
"Would you like to order some wine, mia cara?" asked Andreas. "As I have told you, this ristorante has very good varieties."
"That sounds wonderful." I smiled, picking up the wine menu and taking a few moments to peruse its contents. "What do you think? Red or white?"
He gave the matter some thought before deciding. "White."
Nodding, I gave the menu another look. "I think I'll have a glass of this chardonnay, then."
"Excellent choice, mia cara," he commented as I indicated the wine on the list. "I will join you."
"So, while we wait for Matteo, why don't you tell me a bit about yourself," I suggested.
He grinned. "What would you like to know?"
I tapped my chin thoughtfully. "Well, you said that you were in university here. What are you studying?"
"International relations," he answered. "I would love to work in the United Nations someday."
I was impressed by his ambition. "That must be why you speak English so well," I noted. "It really is practically flawless, you know."
I was pleased to see a slight blush appear on his cheeks. "No, no, it is not that good," he insisted.
"Stop being so modest," I teased. "You underestimate yourself."
He chuckled. "Perhaps so, but it is never good to become too arrogant
."
I nodded. "True."
"What about you, mia Lotte?" he asked. "Are you in university as well?"
"I will be in the fall," I replied.
He propped his chin on his hand and gazed at me interestedly. "Where?"
"At Harvard University. It's just outside of Boston."
"Harvard!" he exclaimed. "Mia cara, you must be a genius."
Now it was my turn to blush. "Nah…"
"Ah, now you are underestimating yourself," he declared, triumphantly pointing out my hypocrisy. "What are you going to study?"
I shrugged. "I'm not quite sure, actually. I'm thinking about either economics or biology, but I also really love film. I really have no idea what I'm going to do."
He smiled warmly. "You have time yet, mia cara."
Just then, Matteo returned with a notepad to take our drink orders. In his smooth, rich Italian, Andreas ordered the chardonnay that I had picked out. Matteo hastily scribbled it down, then disappeared once again.
"So, Lotte," Andreas began. "Have you had chardonnay before, or did you just pick it out at random?"
"I've had it before," I answered. "I'm actually quite fond of it."
He raised an eyebrow in an amused manner. "How old are you?"
I mirrored his actions, wondering what my age had to do with my taste in wine. "I'll be nineteen in October."
"Ah, so you have been drinking illegally," he teased.
I stared at him quizzically.
"The drinking age in America is twenty-one, yes?"
"Oh," I chuckled. "Yeah, it is. I don't agree with it, though."
He grinned. "I wouldn't, either, if I were an American."
"I just use cultural differences as my excuse," I went on.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not originally from America," I explained. "I'm German."
"Really?" he asked, intrigued. "Where in Germany are you from?"
"Aschaffenburg," I answered. "It's a city in northern Bavaria. I moved to America when I was seven."
"I went to Berlin two years ago with a friend. It is a wonderful city."
I nodded. "It is. Most of my dad's family lives there, so I know it fairly well."
Matteo returned with our wine. "Are you-e ready to make an order?"
I hadn't even thought of that. Recalling the description of the pasta special, I decided that it sounded appetizing. Besides, it wasn't as though I could read the menu. "Andreas, have you decided?" I asked politely.
He nodded. "Have you, mia cara?"
I made a small, affirmative noise, then turned to Matteo, who was waiting expectantly. "I'd like the pasta special, per favore."
Andreas ordered his entre as well, though I had no idea what it was. As soon as Matteo had vanished through the kitchen door, he coiled his fingers delicately around the stem of his wine glass and lifted it.
"A toast?" he suggested.
I raised my glass as well. "What should we drink to?"
He thought about it. "Life, love happiness."
"Life, love, happiness," I repeated.
We clinked our glasses together.
As we drank, the Italian man I'd seen earlier walked by with his friends and headed toward the wooden stairs. He really was strikingly similar to Kurt. My stomach suddenly filled with a bizarre fluttering sensation.
You're just hungry, I tried to convince myself. I decided to go to the bathroom to calm myself down.
I stood up from the table. "I'll be right back. I just need to use the restroom quickly. You know, to wash my hands and whatnot."
Andreas chuckled warmly. "Now?"
"Haven't you heard?" I joked, grinning. "It makes the food come faster."
* * *
To say that I was amazed by Andreas's good taste would be a massive understatement.
After we had finished our dinner, he had taken me across the Tiber River to a jazz club called Alexanderplatz (coincidentally the name of a huge plaza in Berlin). The trio playing there that night was absolutely phenomenal.
"This place is amazing," I declared, leaning back in my chair and applauding as the musicians finished a song. "I love jazz."
Andreas beamed. "I did not know whether or not you enjoyed this sort of music. When you told me you were from Germany, mia cara, it reminded me of this club because of the name."
I found his hand and gave it a squeeze. "I'm really glad that you took me here. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm just going to pop over to the bar and grab a beer."
Quick as a flash, he reached into his pocket and stuffed a five-euro note in my hand. "Please, I insist," he persisted when I began to protest.
I rolled my eyes playfully. "Fine," I teased. "But only because you have a cute accent."
Chuckling, he shooed me off to the bar.
With a huge grin, I headed over and examined the list of beers. I looked around for the bartender and spotted him way down at the other end. Just as I was about to shout for him, I caught sight of a tall figure with light brown hair slumped over on the bar.
This time, it really was Kurt.
"Scheiße," I hissed, ducking before he had the opportunity to see me. I could feel a distinct tightening in my chest and I placed two fingers against my neck, determining that my pulse was indeed racing.
There was a throat-clearing noise from somewhere above me.
I looked up, embarrassed to find the bartender staring at me in the sort of way one would stare at a twelve year-old who has just introduced his imaginary friend, Dwayne.
"Er…hi…" I trailed off, straightening up slightly. "Um…sorry."
"Can I help you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
I blushed. "Can I have a Beck's, please?"
Muttering something in Italian (probably about psychotic tourists or something along those lines), he reached below the counter. I attempted to shrink into the shadows as much as possible to avoid being seen by Kurt or Adam, whom I noticed was sitting next to him with a rather solemn look on his face.
"Three euros, please." The bartender clunked my beer on the wood in front of me. I handed him the note that Andreas had given me and received a two-euro coin in return. Grabbing my drink, I headed back to my seat as quickly as I could without causing a scene.
In spite of the tangled mess of nerves that my insides were quickly becoming, I smiled at Andreas as I gave him his change. "Thanks."
"It is nothing, mia cara," he answered.
I took a sip of my beer.
As the night wore on, the two of us fell into a comfortable silence, listening to the smooth jazz that gave the entire venue a cool, relaxed feel. At some point, Andreas draped his arm around my shoulders. I allowed him to keep it there (he was my date, after all), but I couldn't stop my eyes from wandering over to the bar every few minutes. They seemed to travel there of their own accord to rest upon a certain boy.
Over the course of the evening, I studied him.
He seemed to be, as the saying goes, completely down in the dumps. Not once did a smile grace his face, nor did the music lift his spirits (which was telling, as Kurt, like me, was definitely a jazz person). Adam would occasionally mutter something to him with a sympathetic look on his face, but whatever he was saying went in one ear and out the other. Kurt simply sat and stewed in his own misery.
I felt like a complete bitch.
It practically broke my heart to see him so upset. I watched him sulk for two straight hours. In that time period, he consumed eight beers.
In the eleven years I had known him, I had never seen him so vulnerable.
I wanted nothing more than to run over to him, throw my arms around him, and beg him to stop, but I was too afraid to actually do it. After all, if he saw me there with Andreas, the potential for complete disaster would have been greatly magnified.
As Kurt was about to order his ninth beer, Adam finally dragged him away from the bar. Kurt put up a struggle at first, then resigned himself to leaning against his best friend and stumbling drunkenly out of the clu
b.
I silently thanked God that Adam had prevented him from drinking himself into a coma.
It was one in the morning by that point. I attempted to let the music fill my soul and carry me away from my troubles. Unfortunately, it didn't work. I simply sat there for another half-hour, feeling like a horrible person, before deciding that I'd had enough.
I gave the best fake yawn that I was capable of.
"Are you getting tired, mia cara?" asked Andreas sweetly.
I smiled lightly, attempted to look sleepy, and nodded.
He returned my smile warmly. "I will take you home, then." Taking my hand, he helped me to my feet, and we made our exit as quietly as we were able.
As we rumbled along the streets of Rome on Andreas's Vespa, I became lost in my own thoughts. The image of Kurt drunk and miserable kept flashing through my mind. It was truly a heart-wrenching visual, and I had to fight down the tears that prickled ominously in the corners of my eyes.
"We are there, mia cara," Andreas informed me, gently prodding me. Having zoned out completely, I was surprised to find myself in front of my hotel lobby.
"Oh," I deadpanned, gingerly dismounting the Vespa.
He chuckled warmly. "You are very tired, I can see that. You should go to sleep."
"I will," I assured him as he walked me to the door.
He stopped moving and turned to face me. "I had a wonderful time tonight, dolcezza."
I gave him a genuine smile. As much as Kurt's misery had pained me, I really had enjoyed the evening. "So did I."
He brushed my cheek gently. "May I come to your concert?"
My smile widened. "I would love that. Here…" I fished around in my purse, finally extracting one of the cards that everyone in the choir and orchestra had been given with the times and places of each of our concerts written on them (I was fairly certain that Mr. Faulkner hoped we would distribute them among the people of the cities we visited in order to gain a large audience).
Andreas silently read the card before nodding. "I will be there, mia cara."
"I'll look forward to seeing you," I replied.
"And I will look forward to hearing your beautiful voice again." He graced me with an affectionate smile. "Goodnight, mia Lotte."
