Joe sat up and reached to the floor for his underwear. “I’m going to go put on the ball game, OK?”
Was he forgetting about her? Or maybe he thought she had already finished. “Sure - yeah, OK,” said Lily, confused and fighting back tears of disappointment.
She heard him open and close the refrigerator door. Soda fizzled, ice cubes clinked, cellophane ripped open, the television buzzed to life.
“Wow! What a play!” said the baseball commentator.
Lily waited for her desire to subside, but her body continued to pulsate with it, as though Joe were still there, moving against her, urging it to life. Longing to resolve the passion that begged for just a little more, just one more moment, she inched her hands down to where Joe had been, wondering if she should get up and go into the bathroom first, yet knowing he would not get up from the couch at least until the next commercial.
“Hey, Lil!” Joe called from the living room. “Can you make me a grilled tuna sandwich? I love the way you do it.”
Lily jumped up from the bed.
“Sure, baby,” she said. “I’ll be right there.” She tiptoed into the dining area and retrieved her clothes from the floor. It was just as well. She would rather wait for Joe so she could share the thrill with him; it would be worth it.
3. Iris
“Piccolina! Paolo has a confession to make,” Gregorio called to Iris from the balcony, where he was pouring their guests a drink from a bottle of chilled Pigato d’Albenga. Iris had chosen the wine for the evening, as she did whenever they had company.
“Just a second, Amore! I’m coming!” Iris said, garnishing with sprigs of parsley the platter of vitello tonnato, a summer dish she had recently learned to make from her sister-in-law Cinzia: a round of veal simmered to tenderness in equal parts of white wine and water with carrots and celery and herbs, then left to cool in its own broth. The thinly sliced meat was arranged on a platter, and topped with a generous layer of homemade mayonnaise whipped up from the freshly laid eggs she bought at the local poultry shop (an improvement on Cinzia’s store-bought mayonnaise), then blended with tuna, a couple of anchovies, and a some finely chopped capers.
Iris wiped her hands on a dishtowel, smoothed the hair which simply did not want to stay straight, and joined the others on the balcony. She took a sip from her glass of Pigato: smooth and velvety, yet persistent, with a mind of its own. Delicious.
“As I was saying,” Gregorio said, “Paolo’s a bit embarrassed. This is the first time we’ve had him over for dinner, and what with you being American and all...”
“Yes?” asked Iris, smiling, curious.
Paolo and Enrico, two surgeons who worked with Gregorio at the Policlinico in Genoa leaned against the balustrade. Marina, an anesthesiology intern, stood with her back resting against the chest of Enrico, whose arms were wrapped tightly around her. Off to the side stood Deirdre, a pretty, pleasingly plump girl from Cork whose hair was as black as her skin was white. Iris had met Deirdre one day on the beach, where they had been lying on towels just a few yards from each other, when they simultaneously pulled out their paperbacks. As soon as Iris noticed they were both reading Hotel New Hampshire she had started giggling and introduced herself, then offered to apply sunscreen to Deirdre’s back, which was already glowing a dangerous shade of pink.
Iris was instinctively drawn to Deirdre’s open smile and clear blue eyes that twinkled under a veil of impossibly long lashes, and the girls had instantly struck up a friendship, something they had both discovered did not happen easily with the twenty-year-old locals with whom they had virtually nothing in common. Hoping to introduce into their circle of friends someone who wasn’t an anesthesiologist or surgeon, and possibly not even connected with the medical profession, Iris had convinced Gregorio to allow her to invite Deirdre to dinner. Besides, she was hoping Deirdre might fancy Paolo, who was attractive in that sterile sort of way typical of Gregorio’s operating room colleagues, still single at thirty-five, and, according to Gregorio, in the market for a serious relationship.
“Well, what Paolo wanted to tell you,” Gregorio began, for the third time, “is that he ate before he came.”
“Is that true, Paolo?” Iris placed her hands on her hips, trying to look offended. Which she was, at least a little bit.
“Well, Iris,” he said, pronouncing her name Ee-rees, the Italian way. “I arrived home from the hospital after eight hours in the operating room. My mother opened the door for me, and said, ‘Poverino!’ She always calls me that, her ‘poor little boy.’”
“Is your mother visiting, Paolo?” Iris asked.
“No, I live with her,” Paolo replied. “I’m single.”
“Yes, I knew you were single,” Iris said, glancing at Deirdre, then back at Paolo. His pinstriped cotton shirt had been pressed with care, and was tucked into a pair of spotless white jeans; neat creases starting at his thighs followed his legs down to the tassels of his soft leather moccasins. A powder blue sweater, rolled up sausage-style, was tied around his waist. When Iris had asked Gregorio why so many Italian men wore their sweaters like that, he told her that it was dangerous to expose the stomach to the cold, especially during digestion; it could lead to an attack of congestione, a condition known to cause severe stomach cramps, sometimes even death. She soon learned of a number of other life-threatening pitfalls about which Italian mothers warned their children, like being caught in a current of fresh air, or swimming after eating, or drinking beverages with ice cubes in them, or marrying people from other regions.
“There was such an aroma when I walked in the door!” Paolo’s eyes rolled as he relived what must have been an irresistible temptation. “My mother told me she baked a pan of lasagne al pesto. You know, she makes the noodles herself, and for the pesto she only uses the best basilico, from Prà.”
“Didn’t you tell her you were going out to dinner?” Iris asked, glancing at the others over the rim of her wineglass.
“Yes, I told her this morning, when she brought me my caffelatte, that I was coming here,” Paolo answered. “And she said, ‘But you told me Gregorio married an American girl, no?’ and I said, ‘Yes, Mamma, a nice girl from New York, Gregorio told you all about her, when he came over for dinner one night, the week before he went to America for the wedding.’ And she said, ‘Yes, I remember I made ravioli al tocco, and Gregorio said they were better than his mother’s because she buys her ravioli from the rosticceria, and I make mine from scratch.’ And then I asked her what that had to do with Iris, and she said she remembered Gregorio showing her a picture of Iris, by the Christmas tree, with a big smile on her face. She said she could tell she was American by her big, white teeth. ‘Ma cosa ne sanno, quelle, della cucina?’ she asked me. She said nice smiles may be good for catching husbands, but not for keeping them. That’s why so many Americans get divorced, she said. Because the women don’t know how to cook.”
“It just so happens, I grew up learning how to smile and cook at the same time,” Iris said.
Paolo laughed. “What can I say? She figured I should have something to eat at home just in case. And I couldn’t resist that dish of lasagne…”
“Of course!” Iris said, flashing her incriminating smile, then shrugging and throwing up her hands. Frustrated by her inability to communicate during her first months in Italy, she had become well-versed in gesticulation, and was finding it a hard habit to break. She nodded her head at Deirdre, indicating for her to follow her to the kitchen. Iris handed her friend a platter of prosciutto crudo.
“I don’t know, Deirdre,” she whispered, shaking her head. She picked up another platter where crescents of cantaloupe skated on their own juice. “My mammone alarm is ringing loud and clear.”
“Mine, too. One hundred percent Mamma’s Boy,” Deirdre said. “What is it with these Italian men, anyway?”
“It’s their mothers that are the problem. Their sons are the receptacle for all their dreams and anxieties and fantasies and phobias, and their insatiabl
e need to be needed. They are their only hope for happiness, once they realize how disappointing their husbands are.”
“What about Gregorio?”
“He’s so considerate and sweet. I think he’s always been a perfect son, without being a mammone. His father was a bit of a philanderer, from what I gather, but the subject is taboo. Gregorio sort of stepped in, to defend and protect his mother from suffering, I think. Isabella positively adores him. Cinzia could go there ten times a day, but if she doesn’t see Gregorio at least once, she feels abandoned.”
“Doesn’t it give you the creeps that she is so clinging?” Deirdre asked.
“I picked up on it gradually, you know? It’s not like all these details were written on his passport. And then I got to thinking, I sort of did the same thing with my father. I felt sorry for him when my mom left, so I turned myself into some kind of substitute wife and mother for him and my little brothers. And of course, after my cousin Dolores died, my Auntie Rosa latched onto me, too. I can sympathize with him, because I know what it’s like.”
“OK, but then you stopped clucking and moved away. You did the natural thing.”
“But I still feel guilty sometimes.”
“That’s a prerogative of us Roman Catholics. So go to confession. Or get smashed. You’ll get over it.”
“Anyway, getting back to Dottore Paolo. I’ve only seen him a few times, but I thought he was different. What a letdown,” Iris said. “Funny, how sometimes one gesture, or one comment can tell you all you need to know about a person.”
“To be sure. It takes all of five minutes, like when we met. Paolo’s too scrawny for me, anyway. I’d flatten him on the very first date!” Deirdre smiled. “At least I can relax and enjoy the dinner now. I’m much better at eating than I am at flirting.”
“E’ pronto! Venite!” Iris said, beckoning her guests to the table. Her Italian was close to flawless by now, though her accent remained. She always paid close attention to the speech of Isabella, Gregorio, and Cinzia, a schoolteacher whose three pregnancies had earned her the right to uninterrupted maternity leave at full pay for the past five years (Iris had mentioned the law in a letter to her mother, just for the record). The Leales all spoke perfect textbook Italian, and were eager to correct Iris when she made a mistake, the same way they corrected Cinzia’s husband, Franco, even though he wasn’t a foreigner, just an officer in the guardia di finanza, and more concerned with the Italian tax laws than Italian lexicon. To Iris, it seemed as though the women were always ready to pounce on her, and since she was mortified by her blunders, she often preferred to remain a silent spectator during conversations. Iris thought it nice that the family all lived in the vicinity: Isabella in Genoa, not far from the Policlinico, which made it convenient for Gregorio to look in on her before and after work; Cinzia and her family in Recco; Iris and Gregorio in between. Family had always been important to Iris, and she looked forward to Sundays, when everyone gathered for the midday meal at Isabella’s. After Mass, Iris, who had quickly learned the words to all the prayers (including the priest’s part), was escorted on Gregorio’s arm to the pastry shop crowded with other churchgoers, where they ordered an assortment of cavolini and cannoncini, delightful cream-filled pastries that were placed with great care on little cardboard trays, wrapped up and tied with a ribbon for transportation to the Sunday dinner table.
Whenever they were together, Iris observed the prim and well-versed Isabella for examples of how she should speak, dress, and behave. She was determined to obliterate the unrefined ways of her haphazard upbringing, and assimilate the rules that would enable her to face a new series of circumstances and situations for which she had not been prepared. Her mother-in-law was the epitome of a signora perbene, and that’s what Iris was determined to become: a respectable lady.
Dinners with Gregorio’s colleagues afforded an ideal testing ground for her blossoming talents as hostess and conversationalist, while experimenting with ways to combine her consolidated culinary skills with new inspiration and ingredients from her adoptive environment. When the doctors sitting around her table eventually stopped discussing the patients and politics of the hospital, they always turned to Iris for entertainment, barraging her with questions about growing up in America in such a large family. Iris had grown adept at titillating their appetite for the bizarre with anecdotes extracted from the more humorous episodes of her childhood, sufficiently spiced up for their enjoyment. Gregorio beamed with pride at Iris’s social success, and told her that their dinners had become something to speculate about beforehand and commentate afterwards in the sterile environment of the Policlinico operating room.
“Now don’t forget, Piccolina,” Gregorio said, kissing the top of Iris’s head. “You’ll need to catch the four-thirty rapido back. Otherwise, you’ll have to change trains in Ventimiglia and you won’t make it in time for dinner at eight. It was very kind of Mamma to invite us, and you know how she values punctuality.”
“I know. And don’t worry, I wrote all the information down,” Iris said, tapping the little notebook which was never far from her. She had studied the timetable beforehand, and was determined to make this last day of her father’s visit extra special. So far, he said he was having the time of his life.
“Good girl. Here’s some money,” he said, slipping some bills into Iris’s pocket.
“That’s OK. I have money,” Iris said. She still had not gotten used to spending money some one else had earned, even if that someone was her husband. She felt better now that she had picked up some of Deirdre’s English students, who were eager to practice conversation with an authentic American.
“What you make with those little English lessons is your pocket money, Piccolina. It’s not enough to show your father a good time in Monte Carlo.”
“Don’t worry about us, Gregorio!” her father said from the table, where he was seated within reach of the two items that made him feel at home anywhere: a coffee cup, and an ashtray. “I have money, too.” He shook his pockets and chuckled at the sound of coins jingling. “We’re not exactly what you’d call high rollers!”
“Well, you just go live it up for the day. I have to run – I have a complicated procedure this morning. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Ciao, Gregorio!” her father called as Gregorio waved and headed for the door.
“Have a good day, Amore,” Iris said, seeing him out, and pecking him on the cheek.
“He’s one helluva guy you got there, Iris,” her father said, lighting up his second cigarette of the morning. “Got any more of that expresso left there?”
“Sure, Dad.” Iris thought of correcting him, but changed her mind as she poured the coffee. “But don’t overdo it. Remember, it’s stronger than that stuff you drink back home.”
“Sure, sure. You know, honey, I confess I was a little worried when you moved over here. Last time I was in It-ly was my Navy days, before the war. We docked at the port of Bari for two weeks. It was filthy, nothing like this. People were friendly, especially if you had cigarettes. But poor. Dirt poor.”
“Well, that was over forty years ago, Dad. Why do people in America think things only change over there? That the rest of the world is stuck in some time warp? You know Auntie Rosa wouldn’t have encouraged me to marry Gregorio if she didn’t think I could have a good life here,” Iris said, pouring a dose of dense, black liquid from a multifaceted espresso pot into the demitasse. Her mother hadn’t been the only one worried about Iris going to live in a backward country; a number of people back home continued to ask whether she had a television, or running water, or electricity in her house.
“That’s for darn sure. Nothing was ever good enough for her Iris. Up until Gregorio came along.” Her father downed the espresso in one gulp, and stared at the empty cup, looking perplexed. “Darn stuff doesn’t go very far, does it?” He drew on his cigarette and said, “That picture hanging over there, with that beautiful beach. That’s where you went on your honeymoon, right?”
“Yep. That was in Sardinia,” Iris said, following his eyes to the framed photograph hanging on the wall, thankful that she had thought of taking down the picture of her mother before his arrival. Iris had never heard her parents mention a honeymoon, nor had they ever gone on a vacation together, as far as she knew. The thought made her sad; she didn’t know whether to downplay the beauty of the resort, or share it with him, but she thought her father would be happy for her if he knew how well Gregorio was treating her.
“Imagine, Dad,” she continued, “the water really was all those incredible shades of green and blue. And the beaches were amazing, just look at that fine white sand! I never would have dreamed that I would actually swim in such a beautiful place one day.”
“That’s you in your bathing suit, so that obviously must be Gregorio standing next to you, holding that thing, with all those tentacles. It looks like some kind of octopus.”
“Yes, that’s Gregorio, and that’s the octopus he caught.” Iris laughed, recalling how reluctant she had been to touch it.
“Hard to recognize him with all that gear he has on.”
“Oh, his wet suit is like his second skin. They had a fantastic scuba diving center in the resort where we stayed. First thing in the morning, he would get his air tank filled, and his gauges checked, then get suited up. He couldn’t wait to speed off on the boat to a different point of immersion each day.”
“Son of a gun! Did you go, too?”
“Well, I went out on the boat with him once, but I got seasick.”
“That’s a cryin’ shame.”
“No, I had a great time, anyway. I learned how to snorkel, and I went for some beautiful swims. I got lots of exercise, and a great tan.”
“Yes, you sure did have a great tan. I can see that from the picture!”
“How was the food?” her father asked.
“Exquisite! They served all kinds of seafood I had never eaten before.”
The Complete Series Page 64
