"Was she from Ethiopia?"
"No, she wasn't from Ethiopia, smart guy. She was from right around here. From Castelpoggio. And they took her by train to Camp Apocalypse." She ate another cracker and swallowed it down with water from a plastic bottle.
The Professor chewed his lip, then took the bottle from her and had a drink himself. It was never clear to him when she was honestly telling him something she thought, and when she was just working to get a reaction out of him. He wasn't even that sure about her singing. Sometimes, when they were on stage at one of the Atlanta bars they played—Nunbetta Barbecue, Blues Station, The Five Spot—he'd hear her voice over the rest of the band, its hard, sharp timbre almost visual to him, like a piece of broken metal poking through the top of a tent. Still, playing with Desire gave him a credibility he'd never enjoyed in any of the all-white blues bands he'd been in. "Auschwitz," he said, at last. "Not Apocalypse."
"That's what I said."
"No, it isn't. You know it isn't."
"Are you telling me I don't know what I said?"
"I just know what I heard."
"You need to listen better."
"You need to talk better."
"Wait," he said. "I just figured it out. Not god. Guard."
She wasn't paying any attention. Sometimes she ignored him totally, as if to make sure he understood that however many degrees he might have, whatever the objective difference between them in terms of achievement and status, she was still the one in charge. Instead, she took out a compact, flipped it open, and examined her eyes.
"Guard," he repeated. "There's a guard in carozza eleven. In case we need him."
"What makes you think the train god is a him?" she asked. "That's sexist."
"You're right. Of course. The train god might just as well be a woman."
But she'd closed her eyes again and wasn't listening. She was psychic. Her mama was, and her grandma, too. She was just changing the subject. He wanted to tell her that it was all right, no one expected her to be sophisticated, to know, for example, what the Via Flaminia was, or to understand much about the Roman Empire. Yesterday, they had hired a driver to take them to see the Roman bridge that was Castelpoggio's only real claim to fame—the Professor had suggested they walk, but the icy stare he earned for that made him regret even trying to be funny—and Desire had barely looked at the thing. "You have to use your imagination," he'd said. "This was a major bridge along one of the most important roads of the ancient world. It's an engineering accomplishment of stunning proportions." He had to admit, he'd found it a bit underwhelming himself, what with the view marred by the smokestacks of some chemical production facility in the background, and the bridge itself little more than a deteriorated arch in the middle of a ravine. Still, he took her lack of participation personally. In the face of what had happened, the embarrassment of coming all this way for nothing, it seemed she could at least try to appear to be enjoying herself. Instead, she was punishing him, or trying to. Because, against all reason and evidence, she wanted this whole thing to be his fault.
"This little girl's name was Mary," said Desire.
"Please. Enough."
"You should try to open up your mind. It would do you some good. There's a lot going on that you don't even see or feel." She ate part of another cracker. "It might improve your playing."
"Mary, in Italy, would be Maria. And the country isn't exactly brimming over with black people, in case you hadn't noticed. There was one camp, I believe, in Trieste. But it would have been for Jews, and it's in the opposite direction."
"Oh," she said. "You own this discussion, huh?"
"You can't just make up stuff about history."
"I know what I know," she said.
He looked at his watch, a recent gift from her, as it happened. Their flight back was tomorrow afternoon. There was just the rest of today to get through, and all of tomorrow morning. He'd been suggesting things to do ever since dinner Friday evening, when they'd sat in the courtyard of the hotel in Castelpoggio trying to make out the menu, trying not to feel like complete fools. The manager, who seemed to comprehend the situation, had comped them appetizers and a bottle of wine. "Black Days," he said. "Was last year very nice, but not so many people. This year—" he waved his hand like a magician making something disappear.
A poster had come in the mail back in February, with The Blues Brothers Band and Les McCann listed right on it, as well as "Special Guests." "That's us," Desire had said, pointing to it. "Special Guests." They would play with a house band, no need to bring a rhythm section. She'd already sent Mr. Tommaso a song list. In Castelpoggio, the first afternoon, the Professor had found the same poster on the side of a building, ripped and weathered and clearly a year old. What had happened? He didn't know. Perhaps one of the headliners had canceled, leaving Mr. Tommaso with no show, just supporting acts. With the exception of their hotel in Rome, Desire had handled all the details—tickets, reservations; she refused to say anything about how or if she was being reimbursed. The Professor suspected the thing had been a scam from the start, with Tommaso collecting money from sponsors and then ducking out. He'd read enough about Italy to know that underneath its shiny modern exterior, corruption was still a simple fact of life.
Desire had spent most of Saturday in the hotel, sulking, while the Professor had gone out walking the steep medieval streets in a light rain. Sunday, they'd had the trip to the bridge. Desire had expressed an interest in shopping, but of course everything was closed. This morning, leaving for the train, she'd gone into a hardware store and spent ten minutes picking up items—a piece of cutlery, a packet of screws—considering them as if appreciating the local art. It had nearly driven the Professor to distraction.
He knew how they'd get through the next twenty-four hours. They would find a wine store, get some carryout goodies—cheeses and sausages and whatnot—and hide themselves away in their hotel room. They could just watch TV. Desire liked television. Perhaps they'd fool around. And then at some point—on the plane, probably—he'd break it to her that things could no longer go on this way. Music was one thing, but the rest of it, the relationship part, that was over.
"I don't know why they'd call something Black Days and then go and hire the Blues Brothers anyway," she said.
"I guess it's more the concept of black," said the Professor. "Although I think there may be one or two black members of the band. Their music is certainly African American."
"I want to see the skeletons," she said.
"You don't." Ever since she'd noticed the photo in their guidebook of the Capuchin crypt in Rome, with all the bones on display, she'd been claiming interest, but it would be like with the raw oysters. She'd never had one, and kept saying over and over how she wanted to try. So, a few weeks ago, he'd taken her out to a bar that served them. The sight of the plate had clearly disgusted her, but she'd gone ahead anyway and, on his instruction, let one slide down her throat. Instantly, she'd turned ashen and had to run to the bathroom.
"Don't tell me what I do or don't."
"Sorry." He looked around to see if other passengers were paying attention to this. A man with silvery hair and a nice suit made notes in a small, fancy-looking book. A woman was chatting on her cell phone. A boy in a soccer jersey stared sullenly into a magazine.
"And, you need to understand something. Black isn't a concept."
"Of course not. I didn't mean it that way. You know that."
"You saw the way people looked at me in Castelpoggio."
He understood she'd felt conspicuous, and perhaps there had been a few stares, but for the most part, it had been his impression that people had treated her like anyone else. It was a small town—of course they were going to stare at strangers. "Well," he said, "they canceled Black Days."
"I am aware of that fact."
"So, people were wondering about you."
"They should wonder," she said.
Two months earlier, in late April, the Professor's Chair had called him into his office to
let him know that his one-year contract would not be renewed.
"There were complaints," he said. "I guess you missed a few classes."
"For legitimate reasons. A person can get a cold, you know."
The Chair was a large man, a devotee of barbecue, an expert on Civil War–era munitions, and a devourer of licorice as a substitute for cigarettes. The Professor had always assumed him to be on his side. Collinswood was a small, Christian college; the Professor—whose degree was actually in American Studies—taught three sections of American history to dutiful students who clearly suspected him of something.
"It's pretty well known around the department that you're playing in a band."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing. I'm a music lover myself." He sucked thoughtfully on his Twizzler. He opened department meetings, as required, with a prayer, but the Professor thought he detected at least a degree of irony in his delivery. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've got my marching orders from the dean. But I'm interested. What kind of band is this?"
"Blues," he said. "I'm a guitarist."
He nodded. "You ever heard of Little Luther? My wife and I used to go see him play sometimes. Tiny guy, wears red suits and bolo ties and cowboy boots—very stylish. Skin dark as coffee beans. I mean, like, French roast."
"Nope," said the Professor. "I don't know him."
"We used to see him sometimes at this joint on Piedmont. I thought he was pretty good. Real authentic."
"I'm with Desire Jones," he said.
"I think I've seen that name. Thought it was pronounced the other way. You know, with an accent."
"Nope. No accent."
"Ah," said the Chair.
"So, that's it?"
"I'm afraid so. Yes."
They were both silent. Finally, the Professor put his index finger and thumb to his forehead and brought them forward in a hat-tipping gesture—something he'd never done before in his life—and left the office.
That night, at their gig at Nunbetta Barbecue, he had begun an Etta James song, "Jump into My Fire," which was how they always opened, and Desire had lowered her head and looked at him coldly through her fake eyelashes. She sat back down at a table, leaving him and Scott and T-Man, the bassist and drummer, to play the song as an instrumental. Neither of them seemed surprised—they'd grown used to Desire's moodiness. The Professor went to the microphone and announced, in his best MC voice, Ladies and gentlemen, let's give it up for Miss Desire Jones! There were only ten people in the place, but their applause was enough to move her. "I thank you," she said, floating to the front. "My chirruns thanks you. My grandchirruns thanks you. And now, I'd like to sing an old favorite of mine, 'House of the Rising Sun.'"
The Professor felt he was being jabbed slowly with a long knife. He hated the song, and she knew he hated it. He hit the chords with angry, abrupt downstrokes, as if it were a punk anthem, literally punching the tune into submission. He'd had a job, one with a possible future, and he'd blown it for this. He was an idiot. But then, within a few measures, a transformation occurred. His anger and hers seemed to meet and come to some agreement. It was not unlike what happened when they made love, a strange chemistry that never failed to take him by surprise.
"You didn't call me today," she said, at the break. They sat in a red upholstered booth with beers and a basket of peanuts.
"I don't have to call you."
"No," she said. "I guess you don't. But you could. Am I right?"
"Desire—"
"Uh-uh-uh-uh. Answer the question. Could you call me?"
"I got fired," he said.
"I don't want to hear about that," she said. "Don't tell me that. What about tenure?"
"Tenure?" he said. "I don't have tenure."
"Well, maybe you should look into it."
He cracked a peanut open one-handed. "You're right," he said. "I'll look into it."
Their hotel in Rome was the same one they'd stayed at after arriving, Albergo Rosso, near the Campo dei Fiori, and it hadn't gotten any nicer while they were away. The Professor had found it for them on the Internet, where it looked just fine, centrally located, all that. But the place was run down, the reception staff rude. This was his failure, and Desire had made sure to let him know about it, pretending not to hear when he said things, staring off into space. There was a lounge on the second floor with an upright piano and some dingy furniture, its walls decorated with black-and-white photographs of the Forum, the Coliseum, Trajan's column.
"I have the strangest feeling I've been here before," she said when they were checked into their new room.
"Uncanny," he said, opening the shutters and looking down. In the piazza below, there were two bars. One had tables set out, but at the moment only one person sat at one, a woman in a sun hat drinking a glass of something.
"I'm hungry," she said. "I hate this Italian food." She looked at herself in the gold-flecked mirror, picking at something in her eye. "Worst pizza I've had in my life."
"You have to stop comparing it to the U.S. It's a different concept."
"I don't care for the concept." She put on her down-home voice. "I want me a plate of ribs. Fried chicken and potato salad."
"We can find that. An 'American'-themed place with a plaster statue of George Bush outside wearing a lone star apron and holding a barbecue fork."
"That sounds better to me than another plate of spaceship, or whatever you call that stuff we had last night."
"Rocket. Arugula. It's not really that exotic. Even my boys eat it."
"How do you know what they eat?"
"Don't try to get to me about them, all right? I'm good with them."
"They think you're like Batman, huh? Teacher in the day, and then you put on your personamus at night and become Captain Guitar."
"My what?"
"Personamus. Just like I'm Desire. That's my personamus. You've got one. Everyone's got one."
"Where do you think the guitar would be safer?" he asked. "In the closet or under the bed?"
"Closet. You don't think that's a word?"
"I didn't say that."
"You don't say a lot of things." She went and closed the shutters again. "Come on. I want to eat, and then I want to see some dead people."
They took a cab to the Capuchin crypt. "You're going to hate this," the Professor told her as he paid the driver from his dwindling funds.
"Please stop telling me what you think I think."
The admission fee was five euros each. They followed the crowd in to the series of rooms, each decorated in a different way with bones. Entire bodies were on display, still in their robes, faces remarkably human still, although desiccated and ghoulish, the eyes still seeming to stare despite the absence of eyeballs. They admired a chandelier made out of bones. There were altars made of piles of skulls. The Professor wanted to make a joke, but couldn't think of anything. The group of tourists they were moving through the place with was mostly silent, except for the occasional gasp of disbelief.
He stood behind her as she examined the reclining body of a monk in his cell. Without saying anything, he backed up, letting a young couple—Germans, from the look of them—take his place. It would be so easy just to leave her here. He imagined the afternoon he might have on his own, unencumbered by her. Perhaps he'd visit a museum, or some churches. Or maybe just find a place to sit and drink espresso and look out at the people passing by. Rome was full of fashionable, beautiful women. Why did he have to be stuck taking care of someone who worked at a bank, ate too many doughnuts, and was on a first-name basis with the stars of any number of reality television shows?
Desire turned around looking for him, then came over. "You scared?" she whispered.
"Are you?"
She shook her head, but her face had lost some color, and he knew she wasn't handling it well. "It's awful," she said. "Why would anyone do this?"
"They saw death differently. We're too influenced by horror movies." Still, he felt it too. It was one thing to look at
a single skeleton, quite another to see an entire chandelier made of scapulae.
"I need to get out of here," said Desire.
"There's more," he said. "Come on."
"I'm serious. We have to go."
"What did I tell you?" asked the Professor, and followed her retreating form out past the guard, to whom he gave a pleasant grazie. He stopped to buy a couple of postcards for the boys, then proceeded out onto the Via Veneto.
When he got outside, he found her leaning against the wall of the building, her eyes obscured by her big sunglasses. "Desire?" he said.
"Oh, my god," she said.
"Just outside the original city boundaries are the catacombs. Probably two million bodies buried there."
"I don't want to hear it, all right? Please, just take me home."
Back at the hotel, they took naps on separate beds. He awoke to the sounds of her in the shower, so he sat in the chair by the window and went through the various restaurant recommendations in his guidebook, many of which he'd read aloud to Desire at least twice already.
She emerged fully dressed from the tiny bathroom. When they had sex it was always with the lights off. She might not have been beautiful, but he loved the feel of her, the surprising muscularity of her thighs and calves, the delicate lavender smell of her skin.
"Something's not right with that shower," she said, adjusting her metallic gold blouse. "Or the toilet, neither."
"We can go across the river," he suggested. "The book says there are lots of restaurants in Trastevere."
She turned away. He approached, reaching around, pressing himself up against her. She made a tiny sound, an intake of breath combined with what he took to be a moan, and understanding this as surrender, he moved closer. She put her hands down on the writing desk by the wall, her head dipped toward the informational brochures spread across it. Then she spun around and slapped him hard on the mouth.
"What the hell?" he said. "What's the matter?"
"You know what's the matter."
"I do?" He wondered if it were possible she could have somehow seen into him. He was pretty sure his lip was bleeding.
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