Absolute Zero_Misadventures From A Broad

by Margaret Lashley

  “This is an Amaro, a digestive,” Friedrich explained. He handed me a glass. “Drink it slowly.”

  I held the glass to my nose and sniffed. It smelled like medicine. I took a sip. It tasted like Aunt Patsy’s homemade kerosene pickles. Yuck!

  “This must be an acquired taste.”

  “Yes, perhaps it is,” said Friedrich. “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want.”

  “Thanks.” I set the glass on the counter. “I’ll give it another try in a minute.”

  My comment seemed to amuse Friedrich. He smiled and patted a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. “Shall we go outside?”

  “Sure.”

  I picked up my drink and followed the German out of the lobby’s side exit door into the purple twilight. We found seats by the unlit pool and exchanged small talk until the sky grew so dark all I could make out was the small, red glow from his lit cigarette.

  “Are you married?” he asked.

  “Not anymore.”

  “So you are divorced. Me as well. Do you have kinder...uh...kids?”

  “No. You?”

  “No. What are you doing here, on this trip?”

  “I don’t know. Exploring, I guess.”

  “What are you exploring?”

  Maybe it was the Amaro, but something had me all mixed up like kale in a NutriBullet. For the first time in forever, I felt a familiar attraction – a chemistry – between myself and a man. I glanced at the big blue suitcase that contained everything I’d brought with me. I strained my eyes to see the man across from me who held nothing but mystery. Part of me wanted to go to my room and get into my luggage. Part of me wanted to go to his room and get into his pants.

  “It’s late, Friedrich. I need to go.”

  I stood up and wheeled my suitcase behind me. As I took the last step toward the hotel entryway, Friedrich’s hand reached from behind me and opened the door.

  “Would you like to go to Matera with me on your day off?” he asked.

  “As long as I don’t have to drink an Amaro afterward.”

  The corner of Friedrich's lip curled upward and he gave me a quick nod.

  Chapter Seven

  Ironically, teaching class with by-the-book Frank turned out to hold some interesting lessons for me as well. Frank wanted – no, needed – everything to follow a certain set of rules. It had taken me nearly forty years, but I’d finally wised up enough to figure out that life just didn’t work that way. Frank was in his sixties. Intelligent. Educated, too. I would have thought he’d have been smart enough to see he was fighting a hopeless battle. I guess my Uncle Jack was right: Old dogs can’t learn new tricks if they’re not willing to let go of the same old bones they keep pickin’.

  Italy was not America. And Italian schools were most certainly not like those in the States. Frank was ruled by his watch. Italians wore them merely as fashion statements. In Room 301, our teacher began class only when she was good and darn ready. Students came and went as they pleased throughout the day. No permission was requested or required. It wasn’t uncommon for our English lessons to be interrupted by students from other classes. They’d pop by to make announcements, talk to friends, or sell tickets for an upcoming football (soccer) game.

  Whenever any of our young, hunky students got hungry, they would whip out a homemade sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil and chomp away. At any given time during the class, a random young man would get up and leave, then return a few minutes later carrying a white paper bag full of warm panini. Class would grind to a halt as the sandwiches were divvied up and passed around the room like an impromptu picnic.

  Side conversations during our lessons proved as impossible to thwart as a hive of killer bees. The buzz would start slowly, with one handsome darling whispering to another. Before long, three or four young men would be talking earnestly amongst each other. Another would join in by yelling something across the room. Soon, the noise would grow to such a din that Frank and I could hardly hear ourselves speaking. Eventually, the long-suffering teacher would reach her limit. She’d slap a plastic ruler on her desk and yell, “Basta.” The room would go quiet for about a minute. Then the whole process would start over again.

  The relaxed environment and constant distractions drove Frank bonkers. I’d be the first to confess, I enjoyed a good portion of satisfaction watching him struggle in vain to keep his no-nonsense composure. The first tell-tale sign Frank was losing it would be the squinting of his eyes. Next his jaw would tighten. Finally, his face would grow as red as a Roma tomato.

  To be fair, I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only one who derived secret pleasure from watching Frank’s grandiose plans disintegrate and his blustering self-importance backfire in his face. In fact, I was quite certain a few of the boys made a contest of setting him off. Why else would they wink at me when Frank, vying for attention, tapped his chalk so hard on the blackboard that it broke to pieces? Frank’s egomaniacal attempts to seize power and control didn’t mean squat to our budding, tech-school cuties. In more ways than one, they just didn’t speak Frank’s language.

  In fact, they appeared quite incapable of either rivalry or power struggles. Even when we divided them into groups to compete against each other in games, these good-natured young men helped each other when someone was struggling, regardless of which team they were playing on.

  When someone did well, he was bombarded by a round of hoots, hand-slaps and hugs. If someone couldn’t see the blackboard, he was invited to come and sit on the lap of another student with a better view. And when a game was over and Frank announced the winning team, every single one of them hollered out cheers of victory and patted each other on the back. After all the cutthroat capitalism I’d endured in the business world, it was truly an inspiring spectacle to behold.

  Frank kind of summed up everything I saw wrong with men and the US in general. I guess that’s why I’d found it so funny to watch him struggle in vain in an environment that didn’t cater to his sort. I’d had to bite my lip so often to keep from laughing that my bottom teeth had made a semi-permanent indentation on the inside of my lower lip.

  Today I watched a red-faced, frustrated Frank try to teach a young stud in tight yellow pants and a smiley-face shirt how to pronounce the word bird correctly.

  “Beard,” said the Adonis in Gucci loafers.

  “It’s BUUUURD, not beard,” Frank corrected impatiently. He pulled on his own chin and jutted it forward above his leathery, turkey neck. “BUUURD.”

  “Burt,” replied the brown-eyed cutie. He laughed and pulled on his own firm, stubbly chin.

  A vein began to throb on Frank’s age-spotted forehead. I looked away to keep from snickering. When I did, my eyes landed on a calendar taped to the classroom wall. It must have been hanging there the whole time, but I’d never noticed it before. Above the numbered squares outlining the month, a voluptuous, brunette bombshell in a bathing suit too small to cover a Dollar Store IOU eyed me alluringly from atop the shiny chrome motorcycle she straddled.

  Signorina Maggio (Miss May) was the kind of cheesecake not found in any bakery. I grinned. We were definitely not in the Bible Belt anymore.

  AFTER CLASS ON THURSDAY, all six of us WOW volunteers loaded up in a van we’d hired and headed to Ostuni. Geographically, Italy was, quite appropriately, shaped like a thigh-high stiletto boot. Ostuni was located more or less where the heel connected at the back. If that boot had been made in Ostuni, it would have been creamy white, because everything in the ancient town was fashioned out of vanilla-colored rock. Dubbed the white city by the locals, Ostuni’s houses, churches, and even its streets were constructed of the same smooth, eggshell-hued stone. As we drove through the town in the glare of the midday sun, the effect was almost blinding.

  The van stopped and we all donned our sunglasses and tumbled out into the street. We followed the driver like ducklings through the bright, white haze toward the arched doorway of a local trattoria. Despite the heat outside, the interior of the restau
rant was as dark and cool as a cavern.

  I marveled at the contrast, and at the genius of the architects who’d constructed this place of solid rock four or five centuries ago with nothing more than picks and knives. I wondered if any of the people seated at the tables around us were progeny of those clever forefathers. In Europe, it seemed, anything was possible.

  We were seated at a rustic, wooden table for six. I looked around at what the locals were eating. When the waiter asked for my order, I pointed at the plates with the best-looking meals. The waiter smiled and scribbled on his notepad.

  “I’ll have what she’s having,” said Berta.

  The waiter gave the old woman a blank stare.

  “Doo-ay,” I said, and held up a thumb and index finger.

  The waiter looked over at me and nodded. “Prego.” He made a check mark on his pad.

  “Make it three, Val,” Tina said.

  I held up three fingers. “Trey.”

  “And wine. Don’t forget the wine!” Berta added.

  “Red or white?”

  “Red!” the two women said simultaneously.

  “Per favore, vino rosso. Trey.”

  The waiter wrote in his pad, then turned to Peter.

  “Val, how do you say ‘hamburger’ in Italian?” he asked me.

  “I have no idea, Peter.”

  Peter’s face scrunched up like he was sucking on a sourball. “How about spaghetti and meatballs?”

  “Uh...spaghetti, I guess. Bolognese?”

  “I’ll have spaghetti Baloney, then,” Peter informed the waiter. “And a Budweiser.”

  The waiter sighed and scribbled, then turned to Frank. “Signor, prego.”

  “Oh no. Ladies first,” Frank corrected the waiter. “What would you like, Val?”

  I was about to say I already ordered, but then I remembered Val II’s name wasn’t really Val II. It was just Val, like mine.

  “Oh, I don’t know Frank,” Val II said. She leaned in until her fake boobs brushed Frank’s arm. “What are you having?”

  Geeze. Really?

  “Order something already,” yelled Tina. “We’re starving over here!”

  Frank shot Tina a nasty look, then smiled patronizingly at the waiter.

  “Well, the lady here and I will both have the ‘pesky dell gee orno’.”

  Tina and Berta both kicked me under the table. To be honest, I was kind of glad they did. The pain in my shins kept me from laughing out loud.

  “Scusi mi?” asked the confused waiter.

  Frank’s face grew redder than usual. “I said we’ll both have the pesky dell gee orno.”

  The waiter looked over at me pleadingly. I guess he thought, out of this bunch, I was his best hope.

  “Signora, aiutare?”

  I didn’t know what the waiter said, but any fool could understand what he meant.

  “Frank, what is it you want? Show me on the menu.”

  “It’s not on the menu,” Frank groused. “It’s on the board right there!”

  Frank stabbed an angry finger at a chalkboard placard perched on an easel. Written in blue chalk were the words; Pesce del giorno.

  “See?” Frank argued. “Pesky dell gee orno.”

  The waiter finally got it and burst out laughing.

  “Doo-ay,” I said.

  Between giggling fits, the waiter marked in his notepad.

  “There goes your tip,” Frank barked at the waiter as he disappeared into the kitchen.

  “He doesn’t understand you, Frank,” I said. “Besides, here in Europe they pay wait staff a living wage. They don’t have to live on tips like they do back home.”

  “That kind of defeats the purpose of good service, doesn’t it?” Val II said snippily. Frank patted her hand in agreement.

  “No. It defeats the ability of people to work for slave wages. And their lives don’t depend on the moods and whims of the people they have to cater to.”

  “Oh, what do you know about it?” sneered Frank.

  “Plenty. I waited my way through college, Frank. What about you?”

  “I’ll have you know –”

  “All right everybody. Simmer down!” Berta interrupted. “If you two want to argue the point, do it on your own time. I’m too old for this crap.” Berta glanced over our heads and smiled. “Besides, the wine is on its way.”

  The waiter brought a huge pitcher of red wine. He poured everyone a glass except Peter. He handed the lanky, liver-lipped accountant a can of beer. Peter looked pleased as punch.

  “All right!” he exclaimed. “You know what? And this is a fact. Here in Italy, Budweiser is imported beer.”

  “Look at you, mister international man about town,” Tina said derisively.

  As usual, subtlety was wasted on Peter. “Why thank you, Tina.” He held up his can of Bud. “Cheers, everybody.”

  We all raised our glasses and toasted. A few minutes later, the waiter set our plates before us. Peter got his spaghetti, Frank and Val II their fish in cream sauce. Berta, Tina and I got a colorful plate of insalata caprese and a bowl of fresh cherries. The salad’s soft, milky mozzarella, juicy red tomatoes, and fragrant green basil blended together to deliver the perfect taste of Italy.

  “I think this is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth,” Berta said.

  “You sure about that?” Tina taunted. Then she took a bite and nearly moaned. “Oh my gawd! This is delicious!”

  “Told ya,” Berta sneered.

  I took a bite of a large, plump, burgundy-hued cherry. It was so fresh and crisp it crunched like an apple. The sweet, dark juice flooded my mouth.

  “Oh, wow! Try the cherries, girls!”

  Tina popped one in her open maw. “They’re like an orgasm in your mouth!”

  Berta grabbed one and bit into it. “I never tasted an orgasm as good as this. Mmmmm! Fantasic!”

  “Excuse me, ladies,” Frank said. “Could you keep it down? We’re trying to eat like civilized people over here.”

  Berta, Tina and I glanced into each other’s eyes and burst out laughing. Frank’s face turned as dark red as one of our delicious cherries. Val II could have burned a hole in a boulder with her stare. Peter was oblivious, reading the ingredients on his can of Bud.

  AFTER FINISHING OUR simple feast, Tina, Berta and I went for a short walk around the town center of Ostuni. Peter had wanted to tag along, but Tina had given him the heave-ho, saying it was a girls-only afternoon. Berta was keen on checking out the famous Mother Church where it was said the bones of Saint Nicholas (Santa Claus!) were buried. I thought, What the heck. It would make a good Christmas story to tell my cousins’ kids. Then I realized if I told them Saint Nick was buried there, I’d be informing them Santa Clause was dead. On second thought, maybe not such a good idea.

  As we made our way in the direction of the church, we stopped at a few tourist shops to check out Ostuni’s other claim to fame – whistling birds made of clay. Tina haggled with an old shopkeeper in a tired blue headscarf and faded sack dress. As their debate grew more animated, Berta and I meandered toward the adjoining shops to browse amongst fancy lace tablecloths, colorful pottery and garish, orange-and-green Fuji Film stands.

  “Who needs all this crap?” I asked. I showed Berta a plastic finger puppet of the pope.

  “Guess you gotta make religion entertaining nowadays. Get ’em while their young.”

  Her comment struck a nerve.

  “That sounds pretty jaded. I’m a Southern Baptist survivor. You?”

  “Got you beat, kid. Ex nun.”

  “No way!”

  “Yeah. But don’t let the cat out of the bag, okay?”

  “Sure. But I’m curious. Why not?”

  “I guess I’m just not in the habit of caring about it anymore.”

  “Was that a joke?”

  “Was it funny?”

  “Meh.”

  Berta shrugged. “Oh well.”

  We both gave up shopping and sat on a bench in the middle of t
he square to people-watch. A minute or so later, Tina walked up holding a crudely made clay bird. She put her lips to its butt and blew. An anemic whistling noise wafted out.

  “Well that’s some quality crap-manship right there,” Berta said.

  Tina hiked up a corner of her lip. “Yeah. I guess they don’t make them like they used to.”

  “You can say that again, kid,” Berta replied. “Ready to go find that church?”

  “Nah, I’m not into it. But I think it’s right over there.”

  Tina pointed to a spot over our heads. Berta and I turned around and saw a thick, rectangular church spire rising at least fifty feet above the other white stone buildings surrounding it.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” said Berta, slapping on her sunglasses. “I recognize it from my travel book.”

  “I’m gonna go get a gelato,” Tina said. “I’ll catch you guys back at the van.”

  “Be careful,” I said. “The Italian strangler. He could be anywhere.”

  Tina snorted with laughter. “Oh Val. You’re such a putz. I just made that up to get a rise out of you.”

  “Not cool. You really scared me.”

  “Come on. Relax. Nothing bad’s gonna happen.”

  Tina went her way and Berta and I headed in the direction of the church. As we drew nearer, we could make out more details on the chunky spire. It had a triangular-shaped top covered in terracotta tiles. Two statues of praying saints flanked its upper corners.

  “Recognize either of them?” I asked Berta.

  She snorted out a laugh. “I –”

  “Guys! Wait!”

  We turned and saw Tina running down the narrow alley toward us.

  “You...won’t...believe it!” she said between gasps for breath.

  “What?”

  “I...just...saw....”

  “Who? The strangler?” I asked.

  “No. Red and...Frank...beside the...gelato shop...making out!”

  “Who’s Red?” asked Berta.