by Adele Parks
'Well, you were a day ahead of me.'
'That's why I looked in. I thought maybe you needed a buddy.' He slouches forward and rests his upper body on the bar. It should seem intrusive and disrespectful of the correct body space boundaries, but it doesn't, it seems intimate and concerned. Friendly, that's all. 'Tell me.'
Tell me is a direct translation from an Italian expression, 'Di mi? Friends use it to mean, 'What's your news?' or 'What's going on?' I've always loved the simplicity and directness of the expression. Roberto used to say 'Di mi' a lot, but thinking about it he hasn't said it that much recently. I don't think there's much I say that interests him at the moment.
'I love Italy,' I tell Chuck. 'And Italians, they are my favourite people,' I gush. 'I was so looking forward to coming here but it's not quite what I imagined.'
'In what way?'
'Raffaella, my mother-in-law, is a dragon.' I whisper this and look over my shoulder, even though I'm pretty sure that she's safely back at home and not in earshot. Chuck grins and doesn't contradict me, for which I'm grateful. The brief conversations I've had with Roberto's friends have always established that they think Raffaella is the salt of the earth, just because apparently she makes a to-die-for lasagne and her tiramisu isn't bad either.
'I thought my sister-in-law and I would become good pals but she's always rushing about and is rarely at home. I don't think I've said more than a sentence at a time to her. And Roberto is very busy too. I don't want to get under his feet or be a worry to him. He has enough on his plate.'
I don't mention Ana-Maria, even though the question of who the hell is she is banging around my head like a pinball. OK, so Chuck has an eye-catching smile and I like the way the blond hairs stand out on his tanned forearms but dare I go that far? I feel vaguely guilty grumbling at all. This is what I always wanted – to live in Italy. This is what I thought would make me happy. I hadn't intended to say so much, but Chuck is one of those people who instantly invite confidences. It's something about the eyes.
'I miss my best friend, Alison, and I miss my family, which is really peculiar because even back in the UK my interaction with them was largely limited to phone calls every Sunday night and I still call them every Sunday night but somehow it's not the same. I can feel the distance between us along the line. I thought that I'd fit right in here. I wanted to be part of a tactile, lively, chatty family. And I was not wrong; Italians do smile and touch each other, they do pat one another's backs and hug each other all the time. They just don't do it to me. They are polite and they shake hands with me but then they dismiss me.'
'What do you expect? Mostly they've known each other since they were babies and they've only known you ten minutes.'
His point is valid but all the more irritating because it's something I can't change.
'You'll make friends in time,' he assures me, kindly. 'Like you said, they are great people. But perhaps you have to be more proactive. You can't just sit still and wait for friends to fall into your lap.' His advice should sound impertinent, but it doesn't; he just sounds concerned. 'How are your Italian lessons coming along?' I blush, embarrassed to admit I'm not actually taking any lessons. Chuck understands my flush. You'll need to learn the language. You have to make an effort. You are in Italy. You can't expect everyone to speak English all the time.'
Roberto has said the same thing, pretty much every day since we arrived here. Oddly, hearing this unequivocal truth from Chuck isn't as annoying or condescending. He doesn't sound as though he is accusing me of being lazy or stubborn.
'I know a good tutor,' he says with a smile and a challenging wink.
I bask in the warmth of the idea of Chuck teaching me Italian. I can see it now; the two of us sat in his garden with a bottle of wine and a bowl of fat olives between us, maybe even a textbook too. He takes a pen out of his pocket and jots something down. I assume it's his number.
The paper says 'Signor Castoro' and a local telephone number. 'Oh,' I say with some disappointment.
Chuck is unaware of my day-dream and therefore does not detect any sign of regret.
'Have you heard of him? He's a great teacher. He taught me and it's not easy tutoring a tutor. He's very thorough and demanding.'
Oh fab, my favourite type of teacher, I think miserably. Chuck starts to chat about his job and the best places to visit nearby. He asks me if Roberto and I have visited Verona or Venice yet. I assure him we plan to but things have been too hectic so far. We work weekends and Raffaella isn't keen on us taking the same day off. Chuck comments that this is a shame and says I have to promise myself to 'do Venice' and 'do Verona' in the next month. I snigger when he explains that most tourists can 'do' these great cities in a day.
'You Americans are always in such a hurry. I bet you think you can "do" all of Europe in a month. Surely it's preferable to stay longer in Venice. I'm sure I could spend a day in the Basilica di San Marco, alone,' I say primly.
'Oh yes, longer is preferable,' says Chuck with a benevolent smile. If he's heard my dig at his nation's tick-off-the-sites approach to history and culture, he's choosing to let it pass. His generosity makes me feel a little mean. I'm not sure why I felt the need to push him away but I'm glad he wasn't easily shoved.
'Sorry, I'm not in a great mood, that was a bit rude of me,' I mutter. Chuck shrugs but I regret the awkwardness I've created between us, even if I'm the only one who can feel it. 'Raffaella mentioned something this morning; it's knocked me for six.'
My impulse to give this information as a peace offering, in an effort to re-establish intimacy, is a bit off-centre. I'm not sure there ought to be an intimacy in the first place.
The bar is empty except for an old guy nursing a red wine in the corner. The place should feel huge but I can feel the walls squeeze together, pushing me up against Chuck. Even though we are not physically touching I feel so close to him it's as though we are spooned into one another. What's that about? He waits to see if I want to elaborate. I do. But I don't. If you know what I mean.
'Oh, it's probably something and nothing,' I say with forced breeziness. 'Can I get you another drink?'
'No, I'd love to but I need to get on. I have to be in Bassano del Grappa in an hour. How much for the coke?'
I'd like to say it was on the house but I haven't got that sort of authority so I take his money with reluctance. I draw out the process of counting out his change; I don't want him to leave the bar. I have a feeling that from the moment he leaves I'll find myself thinking about when I'll see him again.
Bugger, I'd better go and polish tables or something.
28
Five minutes after Chuck says his goodbyes, Roberto calls to say he'll be later than he originally expected.
'I have already called Laurana and she is going to come and help you with the lunchtime rush.'
I like Laurana, she's a great cook and she works the hardest out of the three girls on the staff. To date we have done little other than smile manically at one another but I feel she is kind and I promise myself to try to talk to her a little more this afternoon. Chuck would be impressed.
'Right, thanks. That's thoughtful.'
'You OK?' asks Roberto.
'Yes.' Well, no, not really. The question of 'Who the hell is Ana-Maria' burns on my tongue but I don't want to have the discussion over the phone. I do want to ask him exactly where he is and what is the nature of the appointment that is tearing him away from the bar, but before I can do so he says 'Ciao' and hangs up.
I vow not to worry. Ana-Maria is probably some childhood friend Roberto hasn't seen for twenty years. Raffaella is no doubt just stirring. Even if Roberto is with her right now as Raffaella said, and even if she is an ex-girlfriend as Alison assumed, that doesn't have to spell catastrophe. I'll be able to ask him all about it at teatime; he's bound to be home by then. If this Ana-Maria was a serious part of his past I'd know about her. Wouldn't I? Obviously. Yes.
Laurana and I handle the lunchtime shift easily between us. We man
age to converse, if not chat, on and off, throughout the afternoon. Laurana studied English at school for a couple of years and we joke that having the correct vocab to ask, 'Which way is it to the vet's?' and to say 'This is a pencil' doesn't come in particularly useful when trying to get to know one another. We resort to reading the Italian Heat equivalent together. We point at the pictures of the stars and make observations such as 'Bella' and 'Molto sexy' which spins us both into fits of giggles. I'm pleased to report that, like me, she thinks Drew Barrymore is probably a great best friend to have and that Dr Jack from Lost is to-die-for-gorgeous. It's surprising how absorbing it can be discussing which C-lister has or hasn't had plastic surgery.
There's a constant dribble of customers and we forget to close the bar for a siesta break. I promise Laurana we'll pay her overtime but she's gracious about keeping me company and insists it's not important.
'I enjoy the talk with you,' she says with a beam. I beam back at her full of hope that Chuck has it spot on, I will make friends in Italy as I've always dreamed – it just might take a bit of time.
I don't get a chance to bask in the embryonic friendship for too long because soon after seven o'clock customers start to pour in through the door and we are rushed off our feet. Raffaella joins us, but as I've had such fun with Laurana I don't allow her sourpuss face to upset me, instead I busy myself clearing tables and washing up and I leave it to her to lord it over the bar. Part-way through the evening I notice that Gina and Alexandra, our student bar staff, have arrived to help, as the place is suddenly and unusually packed; I assume Raffaella has called them.
At ten Paolina arrives at the bar. She doesn't start to serve; she just helps herself to a whisky on the rocks and then plonks down on a chair in the corner. As a rule Italian women don't drink much and I've only ever seen Paolina imbibe a modest glass of wine with dinner, except on Valentine's day, when she was drinking on her own – then she downed almost a bottle. I suddenly feel concern, as I wonder what's brought on the whisky-drinking. I think of Chuck's advice that I have to be proactive and initiate friendships, so when Raffaella's back is turned I quickly pour a whisky for myself and then I weave through the crowds towards my sister-in-law.
'This really is the busiest I've ever seen the bar,' I comment. She doesn't acknowledge my conversation starter, so I try for something more direct. 'Can I join you?' I have to shout over the chatter and laughter. Paolina, by contrast, seems to be in a pool of gloomy silence.
'Be my guest,' she says coolly.
'Cheers.' I slide into the seat next to her and clink my glass with hers
'Salute,' she says with all the enthusiasm of someone who has just heard their pet dog died.
'What's up?'
Paolina reaches for her handbag, retrieves a compact mirror and a lipstick. She reapplies the lippy and pinches her cheeks in an attempt to resurrect some colour. She then scrabbles around until she finds her cigarettes and lighter. Only after she's taken a long hard drag does she say, 'Nothing.'
I'd be more convinced if she didn't look as though she'd been crying and if she wasn't chewing her thumbnail whenever her fag was resting in the ashtray. I continue to stare at her and finally she concedes.
'Work stuff, hard day. Nothing really. It will all be better in the morning.'
I consider whether to pretend to believe her. Then I consider that she's the nearest thing I have to a sister.
'Something is obviously wrong?'
'I have split up with my boyfriend, if you must know,' she says. Her tone is a mix between snippy and wounded.
'I'm sorry.' I hesitate. 'I didn't even realize you had a boyfriend. Was it a new relationship? They can still hurt. If you thought he was special and then –'
'We'd been together five years.'
'Five years?' I'm stunned. 'How come I haven't met him?'
I didn't even know about him. I'm torn between doubting her, accusing her of having a very active imagination and saying this boyfriend is a figment of it, or accepting that there is a boyfriend and my not knowing about him is more evidence of my lack of intimacy with the people I call family. Who is Ana-Maria? How many more secrets? Why do I have the feeling that I'm trying to go up a down escalator? I'm unsure of my footing and seem to be making no progress.
'He's married. I couldn't introduce him to anyone,' says Paolina by way of explanation.
'You are a mistress?' I ask with a gasp. I'm unable to keep the surprise from my voice. I wonder if she can hear my outrage too.
'Yes, or rather I was.' She takes another gulp of whisky, which pretty much drains the glass.
I don't approve of affairs. For one thing, people always get hurt in situations like these. Well, obviously. Look, she's crying into her whisky. My telling her it will end in tears could only be seen as the wisdom of hindsight rather than anything astute or profound. But, besides that, I don't approve because marriage is marriage. Paolina is gorgeous and intelligent and funny. Not right now, maybe. Right now, she looks horrendous and is being especially un-funny but under normal circumstances she's a catch. Couldn't she have dated a single man? I swallow my indignation and try to ascertain the facts.
'Did you know he was married when it started?'
'Yes.'
'My God.'
'What? You thought Londoners had the market on extra-marital affairs?' Paolina signals to Alexandra and asks her to bring over another glass of whisky. 'Actually, bring the bottle,' she instructs. Raffaella will go crazy when it comes to stock-take but I get the feeling this isn't the moment to say so. Paolina turns back to me. 'Did you think Italians weren't sophisticated enough for any kind of sexual misconduct? Did you think we all married our childhood sweethearts and lived happily ever after making arrabbiata sauce?'
Her sarcasm stings, but I suppose I did think exactly this so I decide to leave her remark uncommented upon.
To think I felt sorry for her for working long hours. Now all those late nights take on a more sinister hue.
'I'm very sorry but maybe it's for the best. Does he have kids?'
'One.' I gasp, not able to hide my shock. Paolina turns to me and demands angrily, Where is it you live, Elizabeth? Because it's not the real world. Do you live on your own little fantasy island, you deal in black and white only and people only behave as you suppose they ought to? You are so naive.'
'I'm not. I was a barmaid in London for years. I've seen stuff you could only imagine. It's just that I thought Italians were big into their families and I'm surprised to hear a father would have an affair for five years.'
'Even your stereotypes are underdeveloped,' laughs Paolina, bitterly. She's being very rude but she is drunk – I've heard much worse when people have had one or two too many so I can let it go. 'Where did you do your research on Italian stereotypes? It's not too rigorous. The mistress is institutionalized here, didn't you know?'
'I've never given it any thought,' I admit, somewhat pathetically. It's not a nice thing to think about.
'Well, she is. You ought to know that.'
I can't decide if Paolina is placing particular and loaded emphasis on the word 'you' or whether she's too drunk to know what she's talking about. What is she talking about?
'Does your mother know?' I ask.
'On one level. Perhaps. I've never had a boyfriend she could meet. I often stay in Padova. She pretends to believe I am still sleeping top and toe with my friend Giuliana. Like we did when we were students with not too much money and we shared a flat and a bedroom without any sexual meaning. But Giuliana never visits home and the truth is I haven't seen her for years. She exists only as a cover for me and my lover. When I am away for the night I am not top and toe in a small apartment. I am in a luxurious hotel, sipping champagne and receiving cunnilingus. But Mamma has never shown interest in how anyone reaches orgasm, least of all me.'
Fair enough, I suppose. I pause and then ask, 'Does Roberto know?'
'Of course.'
I take a deep breath and try to take in everything
Paolina has told me. Suddenly, I've been shoved quite firmly into the epicentre of the family that I have longed to be part of. Yet, while I may have been lonely circling around the periphery, I now feel unfit for the burden of being part of this family. I did not expect secrets, disillusionment and broken hearts. But somehow I sense that there is no going back.
'Who is Ana-Maria?' I blurt. I want Paolina to confirm that Ana-Maria was some neighbour's kid and that Raffaella and Ana-Maria's mum used to joke that they'd marry one day but Roberto hasn't seen her since he started to wear long trousers. I wait for the gush of reassurances.
'Who is she?' repeats Paolina carefully. Is there an echo in here or just a sophisticated avoidance technique? Paolina stares at her whisky. Then she looks up at me and holds my gaze. Her deep brown eyes, normally so fast and intelligent, are blurred and confused. 'I like you, Elizabeth.' Drunks are always professing friendship or love – I generally find it rather charming but today I'm nervous. I can sense a great big 'but' coming my way. Whisky and heartache are a lethal combination and rarely bring with them good news.
'Who is she to the family? How does she fit in?' I probe.
Abruptly, Paolina snaps back from the almost cloying closeness that has been engulfing us. She pulls away, necks her whisky and then says, 'We've known her since she was a small girl. A family friend. Do you want another drink? I'm going to the bar.'
I stare at my glass, which is empty, but I shake my head. All of a sudden the bar is too loud for me. I watch Paolina thread her way through the noise, crowds and smoke and I feel exhausted – mentally and physically. It's been a long day. Although Paolina has confirmed that Ana-Maria is a family friend I don't feel as reassured as I'd hoped to be. An uncomfortable and unwelcome feeling of suspicion, tinged with jealousy, snakes its way up my legs and sends shivers throughout my body.
I'm being irrational, plain stupid. Paolina has just said exactly what I thought she'd say.
Yet there was something about the way she said it that suggested I was hearing just half a story. My feet ache so much it's as if I've run a marathon. Not that I've ever run a marathon, too much training required, but I bet it feels a bit like this. I check my watch and realize that I've been here for fourteen hours in a row. Roberto still hasn't shown his face. The two facts combined have quite some clout. I don't want to cry but I know I'm close to it. I tell myself it's the smoke stinging my eyes. The bar will be open until at least two in the morning but I know I won't be able to go the distance.
