A black-clad matron hissed from a doorway, flicking her hand at the boys’ backs. “Pappagalli. Stupidi.”
Rina took comfort in the words, their female solidarity. Stupid was an excellent descriptive, as was the Italian word for parrot. Were these young men called pappagalli because of their plumage—those jangling necklaces, bright shirts, and too-tight jeans? Or was it because they parroted each other’s walk and talk? Maybe she’d find someone to ask at the language school.
But the next hand to grab a piece of her flesh without an invitation would find itself flung wide and its owner bowled over from a collision with this shoulder bag. She’d read about these packs of young men whose attention some women coveted. Well, honey, she wasn’t a masochist.
It was the time of the passeggiata, the afternoon parade. Giggling girls strolled arm-in-arm. Families laughed together. Boys traveled in groups, boisterous, strutting like young roosters, affectionate with each other as American teens weren’t. She loved the art of taking a walk, of strolling, and of actually enjoying it.
Shops and cafés lined the pedestrian-only Corso Vannucci in the town center. Yesterday, she’d wandered through the Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria and tried out the Café Centrale. Today, she chose Santino’s Café and ordered an acqua naturale and a croissant—chocolate, of course.
The waiter filled her glass with bottled water and set the scrumptious chocolate croissant in front of her. “Grazie,” she said. He rewarded her with a bright smile showing very white teeth. She smiled back and began to relax.
What if she’d never left Morehead? What if she’d stayed trapped in that house, wandering blindly through the rooms, tripping over her aunt’s bric-a-brac, oblivious to the chatter, all because her senses had atrophied?
The croissant peeled into layers in her fingers. She bit and chewed—and sighed.
And there he was again, the American, his large frame and wide shoulders easily visible as he strolled next to a smaller, heavyset man. Twenty feet away, his eyes were almost invisible, but not his head towering above the crowd. She hadn’t seen him since he’d helped her board the train.
She willed him to look her way, to join her for a cup of something so she could speak English with someone who would understand her idioms. But she remained invisible, watching the world saunter past.
4
TONY
He climbed toward the wall of windows at the Università per Stranieri, scanning the benches on either side of the aisle in case the woman from the train happened to have come to Perugia for the language school. Ostensibly, this course was his reason for being here.
“Well, hello,” he whispered almost silently when he noticed her profile and the bright turquoise shirt she wore, but she didn’t turn his way, and he had no name to call. As he slid onto a bench four rows above hers, the professor finished his conversation with two white-robed Africans, and class began.
The professor pointed to the first row. “Buon giorno.”
The first-row students repeated his words. Then he waved toward the rest of the class; the rest responded.
He held up a clock that he’d set for just past noon, followed by a “Buona sera.” Another wave to the full class. They repeated. Then goodnight. Repeated. Numbers. Repeated. Tony was a good boy who opened his mouth and spoke with the others. But boredom soon set in, and his thoughts refused to focus on what he said. He darted another look at the girl from the train.
He could barely believe he was studying Italian as if he had nothing weightier on his mind. He liked languages. His gripe wasn’t because he’d learn a new one. It was because of all the other junk piled on him right now.
The professor spoke of maschile e femminile, masculine and feminine. Questo è, questa è. He held up a glass. “Questo è un bicchiere.”
The students repeated after him. Tony scribbled.
Understood. This is a glass. Masculine. Got it.
As he filed out of the classroom—the aula—he glanced back at the American girl. She lingered, chatting with her seatmate.
No matter. He was here for business. Only for business.
Which meant he shouldn’t have been surprised to find Yusuf waiting for him just up the shallow steps from the school. “I thought you might come this way,” the other man said in answer to Tony’s raised brows. “And thought I’d invite you for a falafel sandwich. There’s a kid from Zarqa who makes and sells them in his rooms. It’s a gathering place.”
“A falafel sounds good.”
“You will have a chance to meet other Abu Sadiq recruits along with those who are sympathetic to our cause. I go most days.”
They passed a wall-mounted case showing the news headlines and photos. In this one, police gathered next to train tracks.
“You can see they found my Natalie’s friend,” Yusuf said. “He was strangled and thrown from the train about thirty minutes south of here.”
“I’m so sorry. Does anyone know why he was killed?”
“Natalie said no. She is very upset.”
“I can imagine.” Suppositions without facts didn’t sit well in his engineer’s brain. He needed answers, but how was he supposed to get them without tipping his hand?
He followed Yusuf through a heavy wooden door that had seen better days and up a stone staircase to the falafel-seller’s apartment, where the scent of grease and garlic pervaded.
The very young and enterprising Jordanian cook greeted them effusively as he slapped two chickpea patties on a sub roll. When it was their turn, Tony and Yusuf carried their sandwiches and tea, picking their way around young men who sat on chairs or the floor.
As soon as Yusuf introduced him and announced that he’d come straight from Amman, interest and questions flew from all directions. What new tidbit did he bring from Abu Sadiq? What about the faltering peace talks? What was Abbas up to? What did Achmed think? Would the Israelis release any more of their brothers from prison?
At that last, Tony had to bite back a fervent “They’d better not.” Instead of speaking the truth, he shrugged. “Don’t know.”
Half of these young men longed to be in the fray, tossing bombs and aiming guns at anything Israeli. Tony’s disgust wasn’t new, but, as always, he forced himself to smile through it.
One boy had grown up in a Jordanian refugee camp and was here on scholarship. Two came out of Lebanon, while several had better addresses and more educated parents who had made something of themselves in exile. He’d like to know the origin of their anger against Israel. It had to have been learned.
He couldn’t believe Achmed would really use these young men or a group this far from his immediate control for anything larger than a recruiting center, one of his little fan clubs. And Perugia? According to Zif, students from Arab countries had been coming to Italy for decades, especially to small towns like Perugia because entrance requirements were slack and the schools cost less. But as a launching place for a terrorist cell?
His promise to send Zif a hefty bill at the end of his stay had been answered with, “Then find something we can use.”
Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen. “I’m not cut out for this sort of work. You know that.”
“You’ll do fine. Think of it as an adventure.” Zif’s voice had held a hint of humor. Of course it had. Zif sat behind a desk.
“You’ve been feeding me that line a little too often recently. I read that they’re looking for engineers in Alaska. I might enjoy the cold.”
“Sure you would.”
Thinking about that conversation with Zif as he sipped tea and watched the students chat of school and money issues, Tony suddenly felt very old. He couldn’t believe that these young men were anything other than what they seemed: kids with a cause.
Yusuf nudged his arm and nodded toward the door. “That’s Ibrahim. Carrying the buttermilk. I hear he’s never without it or a milky laban. For his ulcers.”
Drinkable yogurt? Nothing wrong with eating the stuff camouflaged by cucumbers and mint, ma
ybe some onion, but plain? And in liquid form? It was enough to make him gag.
He folded his paper plate around a balled napkin but didn’t take his gaze off the newcomer, whose first nod was accompanied by smirking lips and a beetle brow. He was older than the others, in his forties, or close to it. A scar etched his forehead, angling down toward one eye. The placement of that scar looked oddly familiar. So this was Ibrahim, who’d been on the train with the Englishman.
Tony stood. “Time for me to go.” Time to do a little research and contact his cousin. That scar…
“I will walk with you.” Yusuf rose and gathered his own trash before following Tony out the door and down the stairs.
The afternoon sun barely penetrated the narrow street as they skirted the town center. Through open windows came familiar sounds of laughter and boisterous conversation.
Tony stuck his hands in his pockets. “You say Ibrahim is here to study medicine?”
“Aiwah.” The shorter man scurried to keep up. “So he told me. And, of course, to work with us in any way to help bring others to our side. I believe there’s an uncle who has left him some money.”
“Odd, isn’t it, a man of his age beginning studies that will take many years to complete?”
Yusuf stumbled on a loose stone.
“Sorry.” Tony slowed his pace. “Why do you think he’d pick Perugia? It’s not famous for its medical school, is it?”
“Perhaps he heard I attend.” Yusuf’s round face widened in a grin. “Which would, of course, make it famous.”
Tony laughed, as he was meant to.
They approached the piazza. At the Bar Turreno, Yusuf stopped. “I will perhaps see you later?”
“Maybe.”
His immediate plans involved the Internet and Zif. Perhaps his cousin had dug up something on the murdered Englishman. He hoped so, and he hoped Zif would be able to identify this Ibrahim character. It was just a tad too convenient that the man had been on the train with the dead Englishman, with Yusuf’s English fiancée, and with his own oblivious self and the tall American girl. A little Murder on the Orient Express via the Italian slow train.
The scent of fresh bread drew him nose-first into a bakery. Who cared if he’d just eaten? Having supplies was always a good thing, and that one sandwich wouldn’t last very long. He bought a crusty loaf, which meant he also needed to stop a few doors down for fresh mozzarella and a couple of slices of prosciutto. He was paying for three blood oranges in a third shop when he noticed her, the American girl in the turquoise shirt, sifting through the figs. She glanced his way. He sent her a smile and a quick wave. She returned the smile as the clerk handed Tony his change.
“See you,” he called.
She nodded and waved back. Too bad he felt compelled to get that note off to Zif. He’d have liked to walk with her, chat a little, discover her name. But they’d catch up later, at school or elsewhere. His step felt lighter as he continued to his room. Her smile had been friendly. Anticipatory. And besides that, he had something to fill his stomach if the research took too long.
5
RINA
After a week, shopkeepers on Via Bontempi had begun to wave as she passed, calling out greetings, teaching her new words when she stopped for fruit or a roll. The woman at the fruttivendolo and the man at the bakery—the panetteria—helped her leap communication hurdles.
Not so at the hole-in-the-wall tabaccheria near the piazza where she bought stamps. That shopkeeper—the tabaccaio—was in dire need of someone to wash his window and his attitude. Both reminded her of tobacco leaves hanging in a barn to dry: mustardy and desiccated.
Accumulating new Italian words was fun, but she longed for conversation in her own tongue. Perhaps a chat with the large American; a few words would do. She remembered that smile in his eyes, the humor, and the quick light on his face when he’d noticed her at the fruit vendor’s. Perhaps after class today there’d be more than a “See you.”
But by the time he arrived at the school, a French girl had taken the only nearby seat. He smiled to acknowledge their connection as he slid in a few rows down and, from there, offered her a distracting view of thick dark hair in need of a trim. Jason would never have let his hair flop so low over his forehead, but that thought didn’t elicit the slightest disgust for this man’s more casual look. Instead, it made her smile. And wasn’t that interesting?
As soon as class ended, her French seatmate pointed a finger at Rina’s notebook. “Puis-je?”
Rina handed it over with a sigh, because the American had glanced back at her. Hadn’t that been a shrug, perhaps even a shared disappointment before he disappeared out the door?
She tried not to regret the lunch of minestrone with salt-free bread—the salted had vanished before the basket got around the table—slathered with lots of butter and jam. None of the other girls offered more than a smile and a quick ciao. They’d divided by nationalities, and Rina was the only American.
Back in her room, she plumped a pillow at her back and wrote to Auntie Luze. She tried to craft a letter to Jason, but only platitudes found their way onto the paper as a restlessness took hold. Next, she tried napping, but outside voices and music focused her attention, and when rain forced her to close the window, she pulled up a chair to watch the drops flatten against the glass and dribble down the pane.
The rain quit as quickly as it had begun. She grabbed her bag and headed out, eager for the town to wake from its siesta, for shutters to slide open and people to gather. She wanted to be part of the throng, even if only as a spectator.
Along the Corso Vannucci, the sidewalk cafés had already begun to fill, perhaps with customers who’d camped indoors during the downpour, ready to pounce once waiters flicked the wet off chairs. She couldn’t even find an empty table at Santino’s and was about to turn away when an arm waved.
“Y’all join me,” the woman called, pulling in her long legs. Her accent rolled out the words in a voice as velvety as the red mass of hair flowing to her shoulders, but the voice, hair, and voluptuous body promised something the freckled nose, grinning rust-painted mouth, and eyes magnified behind wire-rimmed lenses failed to deliver.
The accent coupled with the memory of this woman walking the train corridor, towering over her companion, drew Rina forward. Women her height didn’t come along every day.
“Come on, do. I’m Acie—short for Acacia—Smith.”
“Rina Lynne Roberts. Thank you.” She dropped her bag to the sidewalk and lowered herself gratefully into the seat.
“Honey, listen to you! That’s the South I hear.” Acie’s grin widened even more. She had the sort of mouth that made Rina want to smile right back.
“Yes, ma’am. North Carolina.”
“Really? I’m from Wilson.”
“Tobacco country.”
“Not so much nowadays, but my granddaddy used to have a slew of tobacco barns.”
“What’s he grow now?”
“Nothing. My uncle has the fields in corn and soybeans, some cotton. My daddy left the farm, sells insurance and real estate.” She signaled a waiter.
“Cappuccino, per piacere,” Rina said.
“Here, too.” Acie slid her empty cup toward him. “Anche per me.”
“Subito, signorine.” The cute boy’s grin revealed white teeth that matched his white coat.
“What about your daddy?” Acie asked. “What’s he do? And where abouts do y’all live?”
Ah, yes, her father. “Morehead City. My father was a doctor. He died this year.”
“Oh, I’m sorry about that, but isn’t that a hoot, you living so close to Atlantic Beach? We vacationed there all the time. Lands, girl, but I might have seen you any time.”
“I waited tables on the beach during vacations,” Rina said, thinking of all the other jobs she’d taken to bring in extra cash.
“It sure is a small world.”
It was. She’d come all the way to Perugia and the first person she’d had real conversation
with was another girl from home. “Are you at the language school?”
“Don’t I wish, but I’m helping my sister with her twin boys while Mae goes about having another one in a few months. They’re little spitfires, Giorgi and Berti, named after Daddy Giorgio and Uncle Roberto. Glory, but the older Roberto is a walking disaster in tight pants.” With barely a pause to laugh, Acie said, “And doesn’t that just remind me of our next-door neighbor from back home. Miss Bulie would have said ‘He don’t act like he’s got any raising.’ If only she could meet the real thing.”
“You do that well. Your Miss Bulie’s clone lives three doors down from us.”
“Don’t you just want to sit at her feet? I mean, Miss Bulie’s better than a book, bless her heart. How about this one? ‘He’s as crooked as a barrel of snakes.’ Sounds a whole lot like good old Roberto to me—not that I have proof. Just, you know how sometimes you can just tell?”
“I wish I could, but that ‘barrel of snakes’ certainly provides an image I won’t forget.”
“Isn’t it perfect? Mae and I used to hide under the bushes and listen whenever Miss Bulie got to chatting with a friend on her front porch, rocking and sipping tea sweet enough to rot your teeth. I remember the day she first looked me up and down and said, ‘Ain’t you jest a tall drink of water?’”
“I’ve so been there,” Rina said. “Folk used to stare up at me and shake their head. You know? Or say, ‘How’s the weather up there?’ And my favorite? ‘Girl, you’re so tall, you fall, you’ll be halfway home.’”
Acie snorted and lifted her cup. “Here’s to tall women and the fools who don’t appreciate us.” And then she leaned closer. “And here’s to even taller men.”
“Amen.” Rina’d never dated anyone taller by more than Jason’s almost-inch. Come to think of it, he’d been not quite eye level to her five-ten when he was barefoot. Maybe he wore lifts in his shoes.
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