by Meg Cabot
I know! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Not meant to be? Holly, I know you don’t feel well, but are you NUTS? You can’t just forget it. You guys HAVE to get married. And you have to get married here, in Italy.”
She just looked at me through miserable, swollen eyes. “Why?”
“Because I already told Darrin!” was what I ALMOST said. I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to have told anyone, though, and at the last possible second changed it to, “Because it’s what you’ve always wanted to do. You’ve been planning this forever. And Mark wants it, too, I know it. More than anything. You can’t just give up because of a little food poisoning!”
To which she responded by barfing some more.
I got her back to bed, somehow. Then I found Peter outside with more of those breakfast rolls, and asked him to get his grandmother. Frau Schumacher came over, looking very concerned, and went in to see the stricken couple. Her expression, when she came out of the room again, was grave.
“No good,” she said to me. “Zey vill not make the drive to Roma and back today. Tomorrow, yes. But not today.”
“But it HAS to be today,” I cried. “There’s no other time! The mayor said Wednesday was the only day…and we leave Friday anyway.”
But I know Frau Schumacher is right. She’s downstairs making some hot broth for Mark and Holly to choke down—it doesn’t matter if the lights go out right now, since it’s daytime. A beautiful day, as a matter of fact. The sun is beaming down, and the pool is sparkling, and the breeze is causing the palm fronds to sway gently….
Damn it! Why did they eat those oysters?
And why does this country have to be so BACKWARD??? If a person wants to get married here, and has all the right forms from back in the US, why CAN’T she??? Why do they have to send her all over creation for MORE forms??? Is it some kind of test to see how dedicated they are to the idea of being married? I mean, it’s just a FORM, anybody can get a form—
Holy crap.
Anybody can get a form.
PDA of Cal Langdon
Honest to God, I don’t know how this happened. Last thing I knew, I was sleeping blissfully.
Then, not five minutes ago, a small but very determined missile hit my bed, tearing off my very comfortably arranged sheets and shouting in my ear that it was time to get up and get in the car.
I vaguely recall that this missile seemed feminine in form—not an unpleasant way to be roused. Until I realized just which, precisely, female the form belonged to.
Then a cup of coffee was shoved in my hand, and I was urged to dress. Which I did. And then, when I wandered downstairs, wondering what was happening and why Frau Schumacher was at the stove, making what appeared to be soup of some kind, I was very rudely snatched, shoved outside, pushed into the passenger seat of the car, and driven off at considerable speed down the driveway by someone who is apparently not exactly familiar with a stick shift.
A someone who looks remarkably like Jane Harris.
On crystal meth.
Oh, that’s right. It’s all coming back to me now. We’re supposed to be escorting Mark and Holly to Rome so that they can apply for some sort of form at the US embassy.
Except that for some reason, Mark and Holly do not appear to be in the car with us.
“Um, Jane,” I ask, in what I hope is a soothing tone that won’t startle the young woman beside me, looking so wild-eyed behind the wheel. “Aren’t we forgetting something? Or should I say, someone? A pair of someones?”
She seems barely to register my presence in the car, she’s checking so frantically in the rearview mirror for a hole in the oncoming traffic so she can make the turn onto the strada principale.
“Mark and Holly have food poisoning,” is her surprising response. “They won’t be able to make it. We have to go without them.”
“I see.” I’m trying to sound as reasonable as I can, seeing as how she is clearly unaccustomed to driving and conversing at the same time. “And am I to understand that we’ll be applying for whatever form it is they’re lacking?”
“Yeah.” She tosses something into my lap. Looking down, I see that it’s a pair of passports. “Don’t worry, I got their passports. Their birth certificates, too.”
This strikes me as highly amusing.
“And do you really think that the US embassy is going to issue this form to us just because we’re holding our friends’ passports and birth certificates,” I ask, playing along, “simply because we ask them to, as a favor?”
“No,” comes Jane Harris’s somewhat startling reply. “They’re going to issue the form because we’re going to tell them we’re Mark Levine and Holly Caputo.”
This is definitely the funniest thing I’ve heard all morning.
“Isn’t that going to be a little difficult?” I ask. “Seeing as how Mark is dark-haired and wears glasses, and I’m fair-haired, and have twenty/twenty vision?”
Next thing I knew, Mark’s glasses were hurled into my lap.
“I filched them off his bedside table,” my kidnapper explained. “And you can’t tell his hair is that dark in the picture. It’s black and white. You could say it got bleached in the sun, or whatever, if anybody asks. Which they won’t.”
Sadly, I’m starting to wake up now. Even more sadly, this is all starting to seem less and less like a dream, and more and more like a real-life nightmare.
“Wait a minute. Are you serious?” Because she LOOKS totally serious. And we are hurtling down the strada principale—past signs that say ROMA—at a very serious speed. “We’re going to POSE as Mark and Holly?”
“Why not?” She is passing a large truck carrying—predictably— numerous live chickens, stacked high. They squawk at us hysterically. “All we have to do is show our IDs and sign some forms. What’s the big?”
“The BIG,” I say (since when did people start leaving off the word ‘deal’ when asking what the big deal is, anyway? Is this an artist thing? Mary does this, as well), “is that that is what I believe is called forgery. And probably perjury. And maybe a whole bunch of other things, as well.”
Jane Harris has not once turned her head in my direction. She is wearing sunglasses, which makes it extremely difficult to see her eyes, and thus whether or not she has gone absolutely and completely bonkers.
“Oh, please,” she’s saying. “Like we’ll get caught. Mark’s a doctor, remember? No one can read his signature anyway. And I’m an artist. I’ve been forging Holly’s mom’s name on report cards and tardy slips for ages. I think I can easily manage to do Holly’s. You can just scribble something for Mark’s.”
This has progressed from a pleasant game to an entirely unpleasant situation.
“Jane,” I try again. “Are you kidnapping me and forcing me to go to Rome with you to commit fraud against the US government?”
She refuses to see the gravity of the situation, replying merely, “Oh, shut up and drink your coffee and keep writing in your little machine there, if it makes you feel better. There’s some of Peter’s brotchen in the back if you want it. And I’m not kidnapping you. I’m not demanding a ransom from anybody for you. As if anybody’d pay it if I did.”
There must be some sort of Italian law that forbids this sort of thing… taking advantage of a man in a less than wakeful state, and forcing him to drive hundreds of kilometers to a city he only just came from a day or two before, where he will be forced to impersonate another man….
She’s wearing Adidas, but I can see still see the cat tattoo. Is it because it’s so early, or can it really be… well… winking at me?
Travel Diary of
Holly Caputo and Mark Levine
Jane Harris
This is going to work. This HAS to work.
I know Cal doesn’t think it’s going to (big surprise).
But what does HE know? He’s been against those two getting together since before any of this even started. Look at him now, asking for the key to the men’s room. He ST
ILL looks as if he doesn’t know quite what hit him. His hair is sticking up in the back in the most peculiar—but strangely erotic—fashion.
EROTIC???? What am I THINKING???? I am on a MISSION here. I can’t be thinking about sex at a time like this!!!
This HAS to work. We’re halfway to Rome now, and it’s only a little after ten. We should get there before lunch… well, probably just as they’re closing for lunch.
But that’s okay. It’s the US embassy. They can’t POSSIBLY take a four-hour lunch at the US embassy. They’re AMERICAN, for God’s sake. They probably take an hour lunch, like all normal people. So we can fill out the form, get the APOSTILLE, and get back on the road by two or three o’clock, and be home before dark.
PLEASE let them only take an hour for lunch….
* * *
To: Jane Harris
Fr: Holly Caputo
Re: Where are you?
Sorry if there’s typos in this, I can’t really see very well, my head is pounding so much. But where are you guys? Frau Schumacher— who is being so sweet to us—says she doesn’t know, that you just took off without a word to anyone….
Well, I’m glad, anyway. I mean, that you’re not here to see this. I hope you’re off having fun somewhere. I’m so sorry for spoiling your vacation. And the wedding. I know how much you were looking forward to it. Almost as much as me—02q9375)(*&@
Sorry, I couldn’t stop crying there for a minute, and lost sight of the keyboard.
Anyway, I’m glad you and Cal seem to be getting along now, and hope you’ve gone to Loredo or somewhere. There really is some lovely sightseeing in the area. The Madonna’s house, for instance. Apparently angels lifted it and brought it from the Holy Land and dropped it here in Le Marche….
I was just wondering, though, have you seen Mark’s glasses? He swears he left them on the nightstand, but now they’re gone.
Not that it matters, since the only place he’s going is the bathroom. Still, it’s strange.
Well, write when you get a chance. Oh, God, not again—I have to go—
Holly
Travel Diary of
Holly Caputo and Mark Levine
Jane Harris
We’re here!!!! The US embassy!!! We made it with minutes to spare!!!! Cal took over the driving after the Mobil station, and we practically FLEW the next few hundred kilometers.
Plus, he insisted on taking this different route, which didn’t go through the mountains. Which was good, since I forgot my Dramamine. We reached Rome at five minutes to twelve.
And now we’re here!!!!
I must say, this place isn’t at all like what I would have thought. I mean, inside, it’s kind of like my dentist’s office. There are all these chairs and people waiting and a glassed-in reception desk and you have to take a number (well, that’s more like at my butcher’s than at my dentist’s, but whatever). Our number is 92.
I have to say, the Modelizer is being much better about this than I’d thought he’d be, judging by his initial reaction in the car, when he finally woke up. I admit I kind of shanghaied him. I knew he wasn’t really awake when I made him get in the car.
Still, he’s taking it like a total sport. He hasn’t uttered a peep of anti-marriage propaganda all morning. Maybe the guy’s finally coming around after all.
Fat-bottomed girls/They make the rockin’ world go round—
Oh my God, I can’t BELIEVE that’s all we had to listen to the whole drive! We are heading STRAIGHT to a music store the minute we get out of here and buying another CD. I don’t care what. ANYTHING but Queen.
Although I have to admit, Freddy Mercury is totally growing on me. We are the champions, my friends—
Ooooooh, they’re calling a number. 92, 92, let it be 92!!!!!! 28?
28????
Cal just looked at me and went, “Looks like we’re going to be here awhile.”
Understatement of the year.
And all they’ve got to read is International Time magazine! International Time is like watered down real Time, which is already so watered down it’s like watching the local news, without the grisly power mower accidental decapitations.
I’m going to DIE.
But it’s worth it. It’s worth it for Holly. This is for her. And Mark. This is—
OH MY GOD, THIS IS MY WEDDING PRESENT TO THEM!!!!
YES!!! Why didn’t I think of it before??? Since I can’t give them this journal—um, especially not now that I’ve mentioned Cal’s pheromones—I’ll give them this… the form that will allow them to be married tomorrow.
Genius. Total genius. This is MUCH better than candlesticks or something dopey like that.
Oooooh, they’re calling another number… 92. COME ON!!! Maybe 29 through 91 left already.
Wait. That’s not a number. The guy’s putting a sign up on the glass. What’s it say?
PDA of Cal Langdon
I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe this is what I’ve been reduced to. I’m in Rome, possibly one of the most gastronomically diverse cities in the world, renowned for its cuisine, the long and languid lunch hour…
And I’m having warmed over eggplant pizza at Amici Amore, a ubiquitous Italian fast-food joint.
There’s a VIDEO ARCADE in the back.
I should have put my foot down. I should have explained that when a Roman hangs a sign that says the office will be closed until a certain hour, he absolutely means it.
But no. She kept insisting. She’s convinced if we scarf down a quick meal and get back to the embassy, we will somehow move up further in the line. Even though there is no line, and she is, in fact, holding a number that will doubtlessly not be called until tomorrow, or possibly next week.
Why didn’t I insist? This trip didn’t have to be an entire waste. We could be having a leisurely, romantic lunch in some restaurant’s cozy back garden right now—listening to doves coo rather than the sound of asteroids being blasted by a computer-generated laser gun—enjoying the sunshine instead of the obscene purple neon of this place.
Why did I let her have her way? Especially when her way is so often so very, very wrong?
I don’t even like eggplant.
I have to take a stand. When she gets back from the ladies’ room, I willtake a stand. I’ll tell her this whole scheme is destined for failure. I’m going to tell her that this is a ridiculous waste of time, and that we’re heading back to the villa to salvage what’s left of our vacation time. I’m going to tell her—
Here she comes.
Oh. She says we’re leaving.
Travel Diary of
Holly Caputo and Mark Levine
Jane Harris
Stupid restaurant! Stupid Rome! Stupid Italy!
What is the DEAL with the bathrooms here???? Seriously. I had to go at that stupid Amici Amore, so I head on off to the ladies’, and first off, the whole place is lit by black light— why? Oh, because (Cal just told me) it’s to make it impossible for junkies to find a vein if they take it into their heads to shoot up in there.
But that’s not the worst of it. Oh, no!
THERE WAS NO TOILET. No. None. Where a toilet ought to be was a hole. A HOLE IN THE FLOOR. With two cut-out footprints on either side of it, and two bars to hold onto.
Okay, maybe ITALIAN WOMEN know what this is. But I’ve never seen anything like it, and I have NO IDEA what you’re supposed to do there. Obviously you put your feet on the cutouts. And clearly you’re supposed to hold onto the bars.
And then do what? Squat?
I DO NOT SQUAT.
Oh my God, what is WRONG with this country?
Cal says he knows of another restaurant we can go that isn’t far from here, and that he swears will actually have a toilet in the ladies’ room. I’m so traumatized, I’m actually letting him drive me there. A HOLE. A HOLE. What does Amici Amore even MEAN, anyway? BIG HOLE HERE?
Oh. Cal says it means Love Friends (amici = friends,
amore = love).
Love Your Friends. Ha! Fuck Your Friends is more like it. By telling them to go there. TO SEE THE HOLE.
Where is he TAKING me, anyway? I told Cal we better not go too far from the consulate, since I’m SURE they won’t actually be taking a three-hour lunch. I mean, they’re AMERICAN, for crying out loud. That sign was probably just a scam to throw off the people with dumb, petty problems like lost passports or whatever. It won’t daunt ME. I’m in this for the long haul. I don’t care how long it takes. I’m going to sit there until I get—
Oooooh, what a beautiful building!
* * *
Hotel Eden
Sesto piano, la nostra terrazza ristorante da dove si può ammirare uno dei più bei panorami sulla Città Eterna.
Gli altri ce la invidiano, noi ve la offriamo. Oltre all'incantevole panorama, "La Terrazza dell'Eden" è da segnalare per i prestigiosi riconoscimenti tra cui uno Stella Michelin.
Hotel Eden
The Sixth Floor of Rome:
Our Restaurant which will delight you with the best Mediterranean cuisine accompanied by the unrivalled view over the Seven Hills of Rome.
“La Terrazza dell’Eden" is one of the most prestigious gourmet Restaurant in Rome and is proud to be awarded with one Michelin Star.
* * *
