“Val. The other one, I mean,” said Tina. “Here. Look!”
Tina handed me her cell phone. There, in full technicolor, was a shot of Frank and Val II up against an alley wall, lips locked, Frank’s hand fondling a bag of silicone.
Chapter Eight
I squirmed impatiently through breakfast like a kid waiting on the ice cream truck. I tried to hide it, but an unfamiliar nervousness made my stomach flop like a pancake on a trampoline. It was Friday, my day off, and I had plans to spend the day with Friedrich.
“Hey, kid. What’s up?”
Berta sat down next to me, a paper cup of vending machine coffee in her hand. “Any sign of the love turds this morning?”
“No, thank goodness. But Berta, I’m dying to ask. How did you go from being a nun to a psychologist? That’s a big switch.”
Berta shrugged the shoulders of her lime-green shirt.
“If you think about it, it’s not that big a leap. As a sister, I had people spilling their guts to me all the time. They expected me to have all the answers. I didn’t. But I wanted to. So I traded in the convent for college. Got my degree. Then I sat in an office and listened to people tell me the same kind of problems. I still didn’t have the answers. But I did have a plaque on the wall and a bill to slap in their hand afterward.”
“Do you think it’s possible for people to change? Fundamentally?”
“Well, I’ve looked at human nature from both sides of the fence. I’d have to say yes, it’s possible. But it’s not probable. In my experience, people tend to stay who they are, Val.”
AFTER BREAKFAST, I went back to my room to get ready for my trip with Friedrich. I fidgeted with my face and hair in the bathroom mirror. I tried to convince myself my nervousness was all about Matera, but I wasn’t fooling anyone. I felt as awkward and unprepared as a first-grader in hand-me-downs. What was I going to say to this strange German man? I was lousy at playing mind games, and I’d been told more than once by Clarice that I had the flirting skills of a maladjusted gerbil. After the Tuesday-night fiasco with Dominik, I was more convinced than ever that I was playing with fire. I didn’t have a clue how to talk to a man on a date.
Hold it right there, Val. This isn’t a date. It’s just a day trip with a man who volunteered to be your tour guide for a few hours.
“Basta!” I said aloud to my reflection. I tried to mimic the classroom teacher’s scowl. If I’d had a hold of a ruler, I’d have slapped my hand with it.
I closed the door to my room and headed to the lobby to meet Friedrich. On the ride down in the pint-sized elevator, my stomach flopped like a bad contestant in a pancake cook-off. I got out and saw Friedrich waiting for me. He greeted me across the lobby with that familiar head nod of his.
“Goot morning, Val,”
“Good morning, Friedrich.”
“I checked. It is a nice day today. As they say, ‘When angels travel, the weather is always good.”
I wasn’t sure what to read into the remark, so I just smiled and nodded. Friedrich ushered me out the door and toward his car pulled up just outside. Friedrich’s shiny, silver Peugeot was parked alongside a dingy white minivan. The van driver turned the ignition and a belch of white smoke enveloped me. I waved it away and noticed that the van was packed with my fellow WOW volunteers.
Through the van window, I saw Berta wave at me. Val II’s mouth formed a deep frown, and she shook her head disapprovingly from side to side. Frank sat beside her, a blue vein throbbed on his forehead. Peter sat up front with the driver, and was busy adjusting the radio knobs.
I felt a bit scandalous as I climbed into Friedrich’s convertible. Tina rolled down a window on the beat-up old van.
“Have fun, Val! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
I smirked. Friedrich turned the ignition. As we rolled away, I turned and slowly waved at them like the Queen of England acknowledging her subjects. I caught a glimpse of Val II burning up in the backseat. I snickered. I felt...deliciously naughty. And that in itself felt darn good. After we’d cleared the van, Friedrich stepped on the gas and we peeled out of the driveway with a squeal of rubber.
“Goot. You have on goot walking shoes,” Friedrich said, nodding his approval. “I was afraid, you being American, that you would wear high heels.”
“At my age, I’d rather be comfortable than glamorous.”
Friedrich smiled. “So, how old are you?”
“Forty-one.” I wasn’t taken aback in the slightest by his question. In Europe, age didn’t seem to be a diabolical, shameful secret a woman had to keep from everyone – especially herself.
“So...you are older than me. I thought you were younger.” Friedrich’s tone was matter-of-fact, not disappointed.
“How much younger?” I asked playfully, fishing for a compliment.
“At least ten years less.”
“Oh! So, how old are you?”
“Forty,” he said. “I am born in Mertz. A fish.”
It took me a moment to realize that he meant March, and that he was a Pisces.
“Oh, my birthday is in April. I’m an Aires.”
“Oh, ja. A ram.” Friedrich’s lips formed a half smile. “So you are almost a year older than me.”
“Yes, and since I am the oldest, that means you must do what I say,” I joked.
Friedrich’s right eyebrow rose slightly. “Zo, what would you have me to do?”
Was he flirting with me?
“Take me to Matera, of course!”
“Right away, madam.” Friedrich mashed the gas pedal and shifted into a higher gear.
Powder-puff clouds lolled lazily in the blue sky as we whizzed past undulating hills striped with vineyards and olive orchards. Fig trees with bright green fruits as big as pears hung over curves in the road. Ripe cherries filled the air with a sweet, earthy aroma. Italy was doing its best to convince me it was one big picture-postcard.
Friedrich played a CD of his favorite Italian opera as we chatted. I learned that his job had taken him all over the world. He’d lived in Boston, Finland, Indonesia and Egypt, to name a few places. For the last two years, he’d called the Hotel Bella Vista home, and had fallen in love with the warm weather and easy-paced life of Italy.
“I am not the typical German blockhead,” he explained. “I am open to new ideas and new ways of doing things.”
He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself as much as me, and his hard face contradicted his words. His gaze was often distant, as if his thoughts were somewhere else. Awkward silence forced me to think of something to say.
“Is this a date?” I blurted. I immediately wanted to kick myself.
“This is not a date.” Friedrich answered. His voice had a hard, warning tone.
“I only meant –” I attempted to backpedal, but Friedrich saved me the trouble.
“Val,” he said in a softer tone, “you are only here for one more week. There is no time for dating. There is only time for us to enjoy each other’s company.”
His honest words caused the nervousness I’d been feeling to evaporate. He was right. This was a time to enjoy the moment. I breathed in and felt my whole body relax.
“That sounds like an excellent plan.” I turned and grinned at him.
Friedrich studied my face intently for a moment. Satisfied, he gave me one quick nod, then faced the road ahead.
WHEN WE ARRIVED AT the narrow, gravel road leading up to Matera, its entry was blocked by a policeman standing guard in front of a barricade. Higher up the hillside we could see a scattering of trailers and trucks and a few men milling about.
The policeman and Friedrich spoke for a few minutes. He then translated to me that a movie was being filmed at the site, so we couldn’t enter. Friedrich spoke with the policeman again. I had no idea what Friedrich said, but by the time the conversation was finished, the policeman’s face expression had hardened. He moved the barricade for us and let us through.
Friedrich maneuvered the Peugeot slowly past th
e film crew to the top of a flat mesa. From there, we picked our way on foot through rocks and boulders to the mouth of a gaping ravine. Across an expansive, rock-strewn valley, jutting out from the opposing mountain face, was a primitive village carved right out of the mountainside.
The craggy, light-colored stone was dotted with dark holes that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be the pane-less windows and gaping doorways of abandoned dwellings. The buildings had been excavated from solid rock, one atop the other, and climbed like stone steps up the side of the ravine. The effect was spooky and raw, and reminded me of exposed catacombs. As we drew nearer, the primitive openings stared blankly back at us like a jumbled stack of huge grey skulls. The wind howled over the scene and seemed to carry with it the haunting voices of the people who once dwelled there.
A shiver went up my spine as we stood staring at the silent, pensive city.
“The movie, The Passion of the Christ, was filmed at Matera a few years ago,” said Friedrich. “I watched the movie and it destroyed me.”
“What do you mean?”
“It took me to a dark place,” he said. “I have come back here many times since, to sort through my thoughts. This place makes me question my beliefs.”
“What are your beliefs?”
“We live. We suffer. We die. Only God knows the meaning for it.”
I stood silent, unable to speak or to take my eyes off the mournful place.
“Finally, you are without words,” Friedrich said.
He was right. But my mind was not without thoughts. Ancient, mournful Matera. How many loves have you known and lost?
“Are you ready?” Friedrich asked.
I nodded. He drove us to the other side of the ravine and into Matera itself. We parked, then trekked on foot, following narrow stone walkways through the wistful ghost town of solid rock. We walked past wells full of stagnant water. We tread on paths that meandered along the side of the mountain. We crossed over the flat rooftops of hidden houses carved into the rock underfoot.
The cave-like dwellings ranged from small, one-room hovels to grand, multi-room apartments laid out similarly to more modern homes. Despite the scorching sun, inside each room was surprisingly cool. When I placed my hand on an interior wall of solid-rock, it was cold to the touch.
Matera had appeared sullen and grey from the opposite side of the ravine. But in its midst, I found it was not as dreary as I’d feared. Even though the spirits of the dead seemed to whisper mournfully around the place, new life sprang up from everywhere.
Bright green moss and lichens of pink and yellow dotted the stone walls like mosaic tiles. Orange-red poppies, small white daisies and purple stalks of sage scrambled for footing among the cracks in the rock walls and steps. Overhead, swallows dove bat-like into narrow openings in the rocks, carrying insects for their young. A few stray cats sat on the sunny rooftops and drooled with anticipation of a meal on the wing.
Toward the end of the walk, to my great surprise, I discovered that not all of the structures were abandoned after all. Some of the houses and shops were still being inhabited by artists and shepherds. Friedrich and I walked by several buildings in which men sat at crude wooden tables, creating miniature models of Matera from plaster and stone. Sitting beside many of these craftsmen were young apprentices, learning the trade.
It turned out that Matera was not a dead city. Still, my overall impression of the place remained wistful, serious and sad. I felt relieved when Friedrich finally turned to me and said, “Let’s go.”
Chapter Nine
I awoke Saturday morning with the tattered cobwebs of Matera still clinging to my brain. Just like a masterful piece of art, Matera had changed my mood. I was in a deep funk. The startling contrast between Matera’s cold, sullen rock and the hardscrabble hopefulness of its new inhabitants had me comparing my own life experiences. Italy versus Florida. More specifically, American men versus Italian ones.
It wasn’t looking good for the Americans.
At breakfast, Peter, the pasty tax collector, continued his miscalculations on the best way to get into Tina’s tight, tattered pants. It was painful to observe – like watching a guy strap on rollerblades and head down a mountain. Everyone but the dummy on wheels knew there was zero chance it would end well.
“Did anyone ever tell you how dangerous you are?” Peter asked Tina. He stuffed a giant wad of croissant into his mouth, then grinned at her, exposing the mashed beige goo oozing from between his long, yellowish horse teeth.
Tina turned my way and rolled her eyes. She tugged at the bottom of her shoulder-length black hair and pulled it across her face, trying to create a screen between her and the offending scene. Oblivious, Peter poked Tina’s shoulder with a greasy finger. She let out a big sigh and turned to face the clueless cretin.
“Well? Did they?” Peter asked.
“Oh, were you talking to me?” Tina’s voice contained not a whisper of interest.
“You betcha!”
Peter appeared ridiculously confident for a man of his dubious looks and charm. Tina let out the loudest sigh I’d ever heard.
“No, I guess not, Peter. No one ever has told me I’m dangerous.”
“Well, you are!” Peter wagged his eyebrows obscenely.
Tina shot me a WTF look. “Why?” she asked, her face already cringing in anticipation of his forthcoming reply.
“Because you have a dynamite smile!”
Peter laughed loudly, then sat back in his chair and folded his gangly arms across his chest, impressed with his own cleverness. Tina stood abruptly. The legs of her chair screeched across the terrazzo floor. She rolled her eyes at me again and headed toward the exit door.
Peter’s eyes followed Tina across the room while his mouth chewed on the croissant like a cow on a cud. His eyebrows knitted together in confusion, then went slack, as if he’d arrived at a solution to the problem at hand. A sly smile flashed onto his lips and he pinched his chin. He rubbed his hands together quickly, stood up and took off in Tina’s direction. As he left, a trail of croissant crumbs fell from his clothes like flakes of brown snow.
Typical American male, I thought. Tina had to be at least a decade younger than Peter. And on the looks scale, she was at least a nine. Peter was pushing a five, and that was with extra credit for having a job and all of his original body parts. American men seemed to think they deserved the best, no matter how little they offered in return.
As Peter disappeared out the door, Giuseppe arrived in his crisp suit carrying a warm smile and a steaming-hot cappuccino. I returned the smile and thanked him. I made a note on my mental scorecard: Americans zero. Italians one.
Despite the caffeine rush, my Matera-inspired funk deepened. I thought about my first husband. I’d married Ricky so that God would grant me permission to have sex. Why he’d married me, I still couldn’t say. A few months after our honeymoon, I’d caught him in bed with a red-headed girl who worked the candy counter at the movie theater he’d managed. At the age of nineteen, I’d been dumped for a younger woman. I’d been devastated at the time, but looking back on it now, I was grateful for the favor. Ricky had shown me his true colors before I’d gotten in too deep. The divorce had taken a year – a lot longer than the marriage had lasted.
I took a deep breath and let it out. As bad as that time had been, it had brought me a lot of clarity. I’d made the decision that I would never be dependent solely on someone else ever again. I went to college. I waited tables and paid my own way through school. I got a degree in Communications. Despite the fact that I was the only person in my family to ever earn a college degree, my single-handed feat went uncelebrated. Actually, I think it was seen as more of an embarrassment by my family than an accomplishment.
After college, I’d gotten a job writing copy for an advertising agency. That’s where I’d met Jimmy. He’d been fun and approachable and made me laugh. He wasn’t handsome, and was eleven years older than me. He’d also been a bit of a cheapskate, and therefore n
ever wooed me in a traditional sense.
But he’d taken the time to be my friend first, and that was a novelty for me. I’d married him because, after five years of dating, he’d been the nicest man I’d met in a very long lineup of deadbeats and jerks. Romance never was Jimmy’s style, and he didn’t change that on account of me. After fifteen years of a nice, boring, and nearly sex-free partnership, I’d ached to the bone for something more. Intimacy. Passion. The real deal.
“Are you ready?”
I peeked out of my grey cloud of memories. Frank was standing in front of me, tapping on his watch.
“It’s time to go.”
“Frank, why don’t we try something new today,” I suggested as we walked through the lobby.
“What do you mean?” Frank groused. He kicked a stone off the sidewalk into the cobbled street.
“While the students are reading their English assignments, I could write down the words they are having trouble with most, and we could go over them afterward.”
“What’s wrong with what we have been doing? I think my idea of having them make sentences with English words is better.”
“It’s a good lesson. I just think we could use some variety – to break things up a little.”
“Are you saying it’s boring?”
I watched his neck turn pink. “I was just thinking –”
“Do me a favor. Don’t think. We’re doing it the way we’ve been doing it.”
“But I –”
“Don’t you get it? End of discussion, Val.” He shook his head at me like I’d been crazy to even consider questioning his ideas. “Case closed.”
TODAY, JUST AS WE HAD done every day, Frank and I stood in front of the classroom and had our gorgeous students make up sentences using three English words pulled, literally, out of a hat. One pair of young men had pulled the words music, math and candy from the black fedora. Their sentence made me blush.
“Miss Val is as sweet as candy, and she likes music but we hate math.”
Absolute Zero_Misadventures From A Broad Page 8
