Fairytales

by Cynthia Freeman

“Ahh … Sicilian,” he shook his head as though he understood the total situation, “then, in that case, is this to be our one and only meeting?”

  Sadly, she answered, “Probably.”

  “If I suggest something to you … you will not be offended?”

  “First, I’ll have to hear the suggestion.”

  “You were taught well, my compliments … now, my suggestion is … may I, in broad daylight, escort you in a gondola down the Grand Canal?”

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “I would prefer you say yes now, but if you must consider it … I will wait for fifteen minutes at Pier One, at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.” He looked deeply, searchingly into her eyes. She wanted to melt into his arms as he continued, “If you do not come, I will be filled with much regret … but life is full of disappointments …” he finished stoically. He took her hand gently and held it for a moment. She wanted to cry for reasons she could not quite understand … reasons that went beyond familial loyalty … guilt… or anything she had ever felt before.

  Releasing her hand slowly, she said softly, “Arrivederci… Sergio.”

  “That sounds so final … to you, instead, I will say … Arriverderla … until tomorrow … Arrivederla, Gina Maria.” She walked down the stone steps as he watched her go past the old arsenal and then disappear.

  Pam looked up from her coke as a flushed Gina Maria seated herself at the table in the Square. “Well … ?” Pam asked, excitedly. But Gina Maria sat in a dreamlike trance. Pam snapped her fingers in front of Gina Maria’s eyes. “You look like someone who’s just, as they say, emerged from her first sexual encounter … did you?”

  From an echo chamber, Pam’s last words penetrated, “Did I what?”

  Impatiently, Pam asked again, “Did he whisk you off to his Venetian pad and make violent passionate love … the word is sex … don’t look so shocked … ever hear it before … or didn’t anyone ever mention that nasty word in front of you?”

  “Oh, Pam … what a thing to say.”

  “Oh … then, you have heard of it … but don’t knock it if you’ve never tried it… it’s worth the trip … terrific … I can assure you … clears up your hay fever, sinuses, frustrations … just to mention a few therapeutic reasons.”

  “Pam!”

  “Well, you were gone long enough for several rolls in the hay … while I sat here fending off the Hun … what happened?” she now asked anxiously.

  Gina Maria carefully repeated the entire experience, reliving every exquisite moment… “I just can’t explain how I felt.”

  “Oh, my dear child, let Mother guide you through this most dreadful ordeal … what really was happening, sweet, innocent Gina Maria, you were having a mental orgasm … shocking, simply shocking, my dear. Oh, my, now, isn’t that just dreadful to think that you … so pure, so naive could have wanted to share a rapturous moment lying in bed, between the blankets of love … as the Italians say Amore!” Pam gestured dramatically. A shadow of pink passed over Gina Maria’s face as her eyes clouded with tears. “Oh, come on, Gina Maria, it’s not as tragic as all that… coming to grips with the fact you’re just a human girl that suddenly discovered she’s got sex urges, same as just us ordinary mortals … you did feel that way? Now, fess up, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ahh … we’re making progress. Okay, first step in the right direction.”

  “But, Pam …”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to see him again.”

  “What! You don’t think you’re going to … I give up. After all I’ve taught you? Oh heavens above, what is this world coming to when a straight A student on the honor roll every year deliberately defies the twenty-four lectures on sex by Dr. Freud. That dear and noble man who dedicated himself to the proposition that all men and women are born sexy and that inhibition is bad for the soul. Of course, you’re going on that little safari down the Grand Canal and make your maiden voyage into the sea of life. For if you do not, fair maiden … I’m going to be at Pier One at three tomorrow, because if you think I’m going to allow that gorgeous, hairy-chested specimen to go moldy, you’re out of your mind. He’s so groovy I wish I’d been here first… now, how does that grab you?”

  “But, Pam …”

  “What’s the trouble now?” she said impatiently.

  “I know you’ll think it’s corny … but it’s a question of family honor … trust … it’s like a betrayal of everything I’ve been taught.”

  “I don’t believe this conversation … like they say, you had to be there to hear it. For Christ’s sake, Gina Maria, get out of your playpen … screw what you’ve been taught … because, baby, I’ve got news for you … your folks are the ones with the problem, they betrayed you by holding you back so that you’re afraid of being human—”

  “What you’re saying is … I should go, even if I know I’m doing something wrong.”

  “I give up … never encountered anything like this. Just one more time, I’m going to try and save you. Believe me … by meeting Prince Valiant tomorrow, the worst that can happen is you’ll have a little fun … and the best that can happen is you’ll be seduced … but I hasten to add, only if you want to … because unless a guy’s a goon, he knows when a girl’s asking for it and when she’s not … they’re smart that way, Gina Maria.”

  That night there were two people in Venice who had difficulty trying to sleep. One lay in the most elegant bed, in the most expensive hotel in Venice, disquieted, trying desperately to rationalize away all her fears and guilt… while the other lay in the dark on an iron cot in a shabby room, trying desperately to evaluate his future and the direction it was taking. Sergio DiGrazia was a very thoughtful, unhappy young man. For all the pretense of enormous glamor, the external trappings of the silk suit were acquired by bartering his services (leading the men tourists into the best haberdasheries in Venice), he was recompensed for his loyalty by having the choice of accepting a few lire or selecting a suit which in some way had been slightly damaged and would have been marked down drastically … so he took the suit … whatever repairs needed were done by his friend Petro. And one thing Sergio had, if nothing else, was a great many friends because Italians were something like Americans in the deep south. It was not what you had momentarily, it was who, where and from what family you’d come. Italians respected titles. And Sergio DiGrazia’s mother was a countess who lived in a broken-down villa in Tuscany … a proud and majestic woman who dressed for dinner each evening, wearing the same black lace gown that had been mended over and over again … but she wore it regally as she sat in the huge dining salon decorated with pink Pompeian murals and dined by candlelight in impoverished splendor. The food at her table was sparse and homegrown and what had to be bought was purchased with skillful frugality. But with the small government pension she received and by selling her objets d’art from time to time, which widened the silver streak in her otherwise shining black hair, she survived. Her household staff was small and the tenants who plowed her fields were reliable, until it came to rent payments … so she settled for whatever tokens they could give. But there were times in her loneliness and her aloneness she would walk to the family cemetery and count the handsomely carved tombstones. It was a place of peace where her loved ones and all the Milaneses that had come before, who had seen better times, slept. Her dear husband and two sons lay near by. When she looked at the pictures of those beautiful faces mounted on the marble headstones, there were times she could not hold down the anger of the despicable trickery of destiny. The world changed, it seemed to the Contessa Francesca DiGrazia, always in the wrong direction … one step forward … three steps backward … Now that the gentry were gone … what had changed? Nothing. And her Sergio was robbed of his heritage … to become what? A nobody living in an alien world. Had she seen him at this moment with his hands behind his head, staring up at the dark ceiling as though there he would find the answers, she would have wept.
He was drifting. Twenty-two years old and there was no way to escape. For all it was worth, what did it mean being Count Sergio DiGrazia? Titles … coats of arms … what could be done with them? Flush them down the toilet … that’s what.

  Indeed it was a restless wind that haunted Sergio DiGrazia this night. How could one think about life without the thought of marriage? And for all his handsomeness, who needed him? The rich girls of Rome? No … they could pick and choose someone not only as good-looking, but someone in. their own social strata. So the Sergio DiGrazias of the world were a dime a dozen. The question was as yet unresolved, however, for this Sergio … who did he marry? A peasant, a common nobody to bear his children … to give his name … to bring home to live in his mother’s house? No … positively no … the pages of his mind turned over a leaf. There was Gina Maria Rossi … but could he, in all self-respect, marry for money alone? No, without love, the money could bring nothing. For some other impoverished prince or count, perhaps… but not for him. Could he fall in love with Gina Maria Rossi, with the soulful brown eyes and the gentle beautiful face? It was quite possible … it was very possible indeed because today she had stirred within him feelings of depth he had not felt for any of the other rich American beauties who had in fact pursued him. He had accommodated them by taking them to bed, but that was as far as his interest in them went. Had his desires been only monetary, the effort to achieve that goal could have been attained more than once. But he had resisted the temptation of them dangling their wealth in front of his eyes like a brilliant jewel, and in doing so, he had tested his own needs … and what he needed was someone he could love. And Gina Maria somehow ran round and round in his mind … could he love her? … Could he? … Perhaps … he wasn’t sure that he didn’t, although at this moment, she lived only on the periphery of his love … wasn’t it possible to fall in love with a rich girl? It was, indeed, and if she decided to meet him tomorrow and she was not just the illusion of love … or the delusion of love, then he would know … and if his instincts guided him with the same feelings which she had awakened in him today, he would marry her … if not, then he would say arrivederci, because not for one moment did Sergio question his self-worth … he was not a cad … someone without character or scruples. No one can destroy another person without destroying a part of himself. This was a thing his mother had taught him. No, he would not … could not take this lovely young girl unless what he felt was love.

  At three o’clock the next afternoon, Sergio saw Gina Maria in the distance, running down the slight incline. As she came closer, her run slowed to a walk as he waited for her. When finally their eyes met, they stood silent for a long, lingering moment. Smiling, Sergio took her hand and helped her into the gondola. When they were seated inside under the hooded enclosure and the small boat moved away from the pier, Sergio said, “I’m so happy you decided to come after all … Gina Maria.”

  “So am I… Sergio.”

  “I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “Neither was I.”

  “Was the decision difficult?”

  “Yes … very, I lay awake half the night trying to make up my mind.”

  “And I lay awake half the night hoping you would.”

  She smiled, “Did you really?”

  “Yes.” Then they sat, silently, feeling the nearness of each other without touching. After a while, Sergio said, “You’re a lovely … lovely, young woman … so unlike most of the girls I see.” And he meant it.

  “Thank you, Sergio … and you’re unlike anyone I’ve ever known.”

  “Have you known many men … young men, I mean?”

  “No.”

  “You do not go steady … as they say in the States?”

  “No,” she said without hesitation. “If I tell you something, will you promise not to laugh?”

  “I promise.”

  “You’re the first man I’ve ever been alone with.”

  “Truly … ?”

  “Truly.”

  “I thought everyone in the United States was very permissive,” he smiled. “But you are so different, so fresh … like sunshine.”

  Their eyes met then, she looked away.

  “Thank you, Sergio,” she answered with obvious embarrassment.

  There, I’ve made you blush.”

  “Did I?” she said, moistening her dry lips.

  “Yes … and most becoming … how old are you?”

  “Seventeen… going on eighteen.”

  He laughed, “I sincerely hope so … and much much beyond that … where do you come from … what city, I mean?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “Ahh … I understand that is the most fantastic city in the United States.”

  “It’s very beautiful … you’ve never been there?”

  “No … but that is one place I hope to see one day.”

  “I hope so too … that is I mean I know you would enjoy it.”

  “Of that I am sure … tell me about you.”

  “Well… there’s really very little to tell.”

  “You go to school?”

  “Yes … to a convent.”

  “You have sisters … brothers?”

  “Brothers … six … two married … my oldest brother has a little boy … they are expecting another … my brother, Tory, just got married … in fact, last week … they’re on their honeymoon.”

  “What a wonderful family … and your father?”

  “You mean what does he do?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s an attorney…”

  “And your mother is beautiful like you, I’m sure.”

  Whenever he used adjectives, she became terribly uncomfortable. “She’s … she’s very beautiful … Sergio, tell me about you.”

  “As you said, there’s really not too much to tell.”

  “Were you born here in Venice?”

  “No, in Tuscany.”

  “Is anyone ever born in Venice?” she laughed.

  “Why do you ask … ?”

  She told him about Luigi, the maître d’, and he laughed.

  “That’s true … that damnable Italian provincial pride.”

  “I think it’s lovely.”

  “Do you really … and I think you’re lovely.”

  Quickly, she answered, “Thank you, now tell me about yourself, your family … your job … do you like it?”

  “I despise it … the only family I have left is a most gracious mother.” Then he said, bitterly, “My brothers were killed in the war … my father died two years ago.” Suddenly, his mood changed.

  How painful it must be for those left behind, she thought. She wanted to kiss him, hold him … help him. The world was not quite so beautiful at this moment. After an awkward silence, she said, “I’m so sorry, Sergio.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, helplessly. “Well, that’s life, I suppose … now are you enjoying your holiday?”

  She did not answer, still touched by his grief, then she said, “Sergio, will you forgive me for saying this … I don’t mean to pry, but I think there’s a great deal to tell about your life.”

  “For someone so young, you’re very understanding.”

  “I’m not as young as you think … and how old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “What’s happened in those twenty-two years?”

  “Well,” he answered, slowly, “if you promise not to laugh, I will tell you.”

  “I promise … I won’t laugh.”

  “All right, then … I’m a tour guide because Italian counts are out of style this season.”

  “I don’t quite understand … Sergio … counts are …

  “Okay, that’s an American expression I picked up …” He began to tell her of the nobility from which his roots had sprung … about the four hundred years that went into his lineage … the poverty, the humiliation his family had suffered, losing their heads. When he finished, he said, “Okay, now you can laugh … I give you my permission. In fact
, if it didn’t make me so miserable, I would laugh.”

  “Oh, Sergio …” she started to cry.

  Handing her his handkerchief, he said, “See, my mother can’t get used to the idea we’re obsolete … She still sends me monogrammed crests on my handkerchiefs and shirts.” Gina Maria wiped the tears that would not stop. “So, why aren’t you laughing … you don’t think it’s a funny story … from count to tour guide?”

  “No … I think it’s very sad.”

  “That’s because you’re too sentimental, not tough enough … Americans! I want to spit every time I see the television or read in the papers how much you criticize yourselves, all the things you despise in yourselves. Why, America is the only hope of the world. Americans don’t begin to know what hunger is … and all the people who hate the system? So they get bombed out of their minds? And that’s the way they’re going to save the world? They’re absolutely crazy … the only country in the world where someone can say they hate the President… shout the worst obscenities and don’t get shot. If they don’t like what’s happening, the idiots have a chance to change it… to save it, it’s worth saving … but how can you save anything when you can’t save yourself? Getting bombed out of your skull is just a cop out … more American expressions I picked up. What chance did I have to save anything … I ask you … what? None … so, they got rid of us, the terrible ruling class, and replaced it with what? A tyrant who shot peasants in the square for complaining a little too loudly. Americans don’t like America? They have no freedom? When was the last time the fascist police broke down your door in the middle of the night? Some people don’t like the country? They should have had a Mussolini or a Hitler … Mama mia, why am I getting so wild … is this any way to romance a girl? With speeches? Forgive me, Gina Maria, I’ve made you cry. Oh, I’m so sorry … you’re the loveliest creature I’ve ever met and already I’m making you unhappy …”

  “No, it’s only because I love you, Sergio, and feel that you’ve been so hurt… that’s why I’m crying.”

  “That’s why?”

  “Yes …”

  “You truly love me? Or are you infatuated with the first man you’ve ever been this close to?”