Page Turner Pa

by David Leavitt

  He turned. "I'm coming!" he called. Then a tall man intervened, whacking at the girls with his umbrella. "Andate vial" he shouted, grabbing one by her ponytail. The girl howled, while her friends laughed, flurried, regathered like skittish birds a few feet off.

  "Dai," the tall man said to the girl, who was trying to pull away from him.

  She spat.

  "Dai," he repeated, his voice grim, yanking at her ponytail to hurt her.

  She thrashed. The other girls lingered on the periphery and shouted for him to leave her alone.

  "Va be', va be'!" the girl said finally, a bright red wallet dropping from her skirt.

  The tall man pushed her away, picked up the wallet, handed it to Pamela.

  "Everything in order?"

  "I think so."

  Rubbing the back of her head where he had hurt her, the girl hissed imprecations at him. In her strange language she vowed that he would suffer headache his whole life, that his first-born child would die, that he would lose every good thing he had.

  Then some carabinieri rode into the piazza on their horses. She hurried off.

  "Thank you so much." In unconscious sympathy with her attacker, Pamela touched the back of her head. "I can't tell you how grateful—" She stopped speaking. "But you're—"

  Across the fountain, Paul watched, his eyes narrow.

  "Have we met before?" Kennington asked. He asked the question of Pamela, but he was looking at Paul.

  It really was a coincidence. That morning Kennington had just been coming out of the Caffè Greco, when he'd noticed Paul and his mother gazing into a shop window on the Via Condotti. Paul was wearing a neatly pressed white shirt and khaki trousers. His mother, who had a large quantity of dark blond hair, came up only to his shoulder.

  His first impulse was to run up and greet them. Then he thought better of it and, hurrying back into the caffè, watched them through the door. In front of the shop they were laughing ... at what? The designs? The prices? Or was it that nervous laughter, as he knew from experience, people so often emit upon being told something they think ugly is actually beautiful?

  Finally Paul's mother linked her arm through his, and they continued down the street.

  Like a spy, Kennington followed them.

  In the Piazza di Spagna, Paul went to a kiosk and bought a newspaper. It was then that the gypsy girls attacked his mother. Speaking to her had never been Kennington's intention; indeed, his intention had been simply to watch; to try to gauge, from the way they interacted, how much Paul might have told her. But then the mother was in trouble, and he had no choice but to intervene, his own mother having brought him up to be chivalrous to ladies. Pamela looked dazed, so he took them back to the Caffé Greco, where under a framed photograph of Buffalo Bill (he had customed there in 1903) they drank coffees, hers with a little grappa added. "I really can't thank you enough, Mr. Kennington," she said. "It all happened so quickly. One minute I was just standing there admiring the steps and the next those little fingers were everywhere. I mean, I assumed they were only asking directions!"

  "Never underestimate gypsy children," Kennington answered. "Their parents train them by making them stick their hands in bowls of broken glass. You have to be just as quick, and just as brutal."

  "Well, you're certainly my hero today." She brushed hair out of her eyes. "You know, it's only our first morning here? That wallet had everything in it. Credit cards, traveler's checks. We're alone here in Rome, you see. My husband and I are separated."

  "Ah."

  "And what a coincidence! At breakfast Paul was telling me that he saw the poster for your concert."

  Kennington looked at Paul, who was studying the foamy residue at the bottom of his cup.

  "Also, your Italian is so good! Where did you learn it?"

  "Here and there. I had an Italian teacher for a while."

  "Aldo Minchilli, right?" Paul interposed. "Right."

  "Well, Mr. Kennington, you simply must let us take you to lunch. To thank you."

  "On the contrary, you must let me take you to lunch."

  "But that's ridiculous—"

  "I insist."

  "But there's no reason—"

  "Exactly."

  As with the barman, the force of masculine will proved indomitable. "Okay," Pamela said. "How about we just go to lunch and then decide who pays? Does that sound all right?"

  They went. The owner of the trattoria to which Kennington led them called him maestro and kissed Pamela on the hand. "And how is Mr. Mansourian?" he wanted to know.

  "Fine, fine," Kennington said, while through the archway that opened onto the kitchen, a young cook ran his fingers through a pile of freshly cut fettuccine as tenderly as if it were his lover's hair.

  "This is so wonderful!" Pamela said when the first courses arrived. "And such a far cry from the stuff we're used to back home! You know, mushy spaghetti in watery sauce."

  "It's a good place. I always try to come here when I'm in Rome."

  "Do you come often? Are you on tour?"

  "The poster Paul saw was for the last of my Italian concerts."

  "What an exciting life you must lead, traveling all the time and staying in hotels."

  Kennington smiled, not sure how to explain that like most people who spend most of their lives in hotels, they no longer held much glamour for him.

  "The funny thing is, I've probably been to Rome a dozen times, and I've hardly done any sightseeing. It's always been too hectic. You know, interviews, lunch, interviews, concert, boring official dinner. Then the next morning you leave. Now I've decided to stay on a bit. Do you know I've never even been to the Sistine Chapel?"

  "You should have Paul take you around. He's a wonderful tour guide, aren't you, honey? Today we did the Colosseum, the Parthenon—"

  "The Pantheon."

  "The Pantheon, all kinds of churches. Unfortunately we're only here a week or so. After that we go up to Florence."

  "So you're a student of the classical world as well as the piano?" Kennington asked Paul.

  "I read up before our trip, if that's what you mean."

  "Sweetheart, you really should take Mr. Kennington around this afternoon. Show him the sights. Me, I've got to get my hair done. All day I've been looking at these chic Roman ladies and I feel like a frump. What do you say?"

  "Don't you think you ought to ask if he wants to be taken around?"

  "Actually, I'd love it."

  Paul looked surprised, almost resentful.

  "Wonderful, then it's settled. You two drop me off at the hairdresser, then go and see everything. And maybe we can meet later—that is, if you're free, Mr. Kennington."

  "In fact," Kennington said, "I have nothing scheduled for the rest of my life."

  Pamela laughed. "Oh, I doubt that—"

  "Please call me Richard."

  "Richard." She wiped her lips.

  As at the concert, Paul would not meet Kennington's eye.

  Even though it wasn't far, Kennington took them back to his hotel in a taxi. "I can't vouch for him," he said, "but I'm told the hairdresser here is very good."

  "I'm sure. Oh, what a magnificent lobby! The place we're staying is very simple. Characteristic, though. They serve breakfast on the loggia."

  "Tell me the name. I may move. I can't bear these stuffy places."

  "Albergo Bernini—"

  Approaching the concierge, Kennington said something in rapid Italian.

  "Good, then everything's all set. The concierge will take you to Mr. Frank."

  The concierge, who had a greased gray mustache, inclined his head. "Good-bye!" Pamela called as he led her away. "Thank you! Have fun."

  "Bye."

  "See you at seven in front of the Trevi Fountain!"

  She disappeared around a trompe l'oeil bend.

  Kennington turned to Paul. "I'm sorry about that," he said. "I never intended—"

  "It's okay. I'm afraid my mother's a bit of a hysteric."

  "The thing was
—I wanted to give you this." And he handed Paul his fathers letter.

  "Oh."

  "It must have dropped out of your pocket. I have to admit, I read it, to see what it was. And I just want to say, Paul, if I'd realized the pressure you were under—"

  "Am I under pressure? I don't feel like I'm under pressure.

  "But taking care of your mother—"

  "Oh, I've always taken care of my mother. I'm used to that."

  "Well, in any case, if I'd realized, I certainly wouldn't have been quite so aggressive. About the sex, I mean. That isn't my style. Usually I take pride in a certain ... gentlemanly demeanor."

  "You really don't need to explain," Paul said, folding up the letter.

  "But I do. I lost control of myself, I ... there's no other way to say it, I let lust get the better of me. For which I'm sorry."

  Paul hardly knew how to respond. Nothing in his education had prepared him for such a conversation.

  "Apology accepted," he said finally—what else could he say?—"but not necessary."

  "Thanks." They were silent for a moment. "Anyway, I'm glad I found you again."

  "So am I."

  "You are?"

  "Of course. You can't be surprised."

  "No, I ... actually, I am a bit. Surprised and happy." Like a child, he clapped his hands, then threw an arm around Paul's shoulder. "And what would you like to do this afternoon? We could climb up to the Campidoglio, or look at churches, or"—he hesitated—"we could go up to my room..."

  Paul shrugged.

  They went up to the room.

  Just after seven they emerged again. "We're late," Paul said, looking at his watch. "My mother will be worried."

  "Relax," Kennington said. "We can take a taxi."

  But traffic turned out to be terrible, and they had to abandon the taxi on Piazza Barberini. Kennington's heels tapped loudly against the pavement as he fought the crowds surging down Via Nazionale. He was wearing chinos, a striped shirt, a blue blazer. Whereas Paul still had on the same clothes he'd put on that morning, albeit without underwear, his boxer shorts having remained behind in Kennington's bathroom.

  "Let's go this way," Kennington said, and led Paul up a small side street, then into an empty alley, where he kissed him.

  "I love you," Paul said for the second time. "Don't worry, you don't have to answer." He sucked the peppermint taste off Kennington's tongue.

  "I guess we'd better go," Kennington said eventually.

  "Wait. I can't go yet."

  "Why not?"

  "Just wait."

  They waited.

  "All right."

  They moved on. In the piazza, couples were taking pictures of each other tossing coins over their shoulders into the fountain. Its aquamarine shallows glinted with currency. As for Pamela, she was standing alone at the rail, her arms gripped tightly around her waist, her eyes searching the crowd.

  "Mom! Over here!"

  She turned and waved. "Hello! Hello! Well, what do you know? I toss a coin into the fountain and wish for two handsome gentlemen to escort me to dinner. And now my wish comes true!"

  "I'm sorry we're late," Kennington said. "We just got so caught up in seeing things—"

  "Oh, don't worry, I've been fine! Just watching the world go by."

  She threw back her new hair, which was cut short, blonder than it had been earlier, molded to bookend her face.

  "Gorgeous," Kennington said.

  "You like it? I have you to thank for it. And did Paul treat you okay?"

  "Paul," Kennington said, "was stunning."

  "He's so knowledgeable!" Pamela caressed his cheek. "As for me, I had an absolute ball. After my hair I got a manicure and a pedicure. Then I bought this new outfit. At Armani! Cost an arm and a leg, but that's what credit cards are for, right, Pauly?"

  "Right," Paul said, as taking a hundred-lire coin from his pocket, he hurled it gamely into the fountain.

  Across the city, meanwhile, in an elegant, otherwise empty restaurant in Parioli, Signore Giovanni Batisti of the Amici della Música di Roma, his wife, and several prominent local citizens were sitting at a large table, drinking mineral water and eating stale bread.

  "It's unusual for Americans to be so late," Signore Batisti said, looking at his watch as the clock struck the half hour.

  "The poor man's probably stuck in traffic," his wife answered.

  "Traffic! It's the construction on Via Arenula," said another man.

  "And the smog!"

  Signore Batisti shook his head. "Altogether I fear Rome may be making a very bad impression on Mr. Kennington."

  A general murmur of concurrence.

  And the waiter brought another bottle of mineral water.

  7

  THE BOYS were late again. At her table outside the Bar della Pace, Pamela checked her watch, nibbled a peanut, took a tiny sip from her mineral water. One of the mysteries of travel is that it telescopes ritual; thus, after only a few days, the three of them were already making it their habit to meet "every" afternoon at the Bar della Pace, and "every" afternoon the boys were late. She didn't mind—indeed, it was her intention to encourage the happy rapport that seemed to be blossoming between them—and yet if they could have been on time just once ... well, she had to admit, it would have pleased her. (Not wishing them to find her with an empty glass, she drank another millimeter's worth of water.) For mightn't his efforts to win Paul over be part of a larger strategy? And if they were, what might that strategy be? If only he'd give her a clear signal...(She blushed at the thought of it, the hope of it, which kept her buoyed in the wake of Kelso's betrayal.) Meanwhile a cat leapt down from a parked car to beg for a peanut. Ivy, as well as shadows of ivy, climbed the stone walls. A Vespa pulled up to the bar, and a man in a black double-breasted suit climbed off of it, his thick graying hair closely cropped, his mustache plump. Smiling, he took the table next to hers. The cat ran off. He ordered a coffee, removed from his jacket pockets a cellular telephone, a lighter, and a pack of cigarettes, which he arranged carefully on the tabletop like attributes in a Bronzino portrait. From another pocket he extracted and put on a pair of sunglasses. "Vuole?" he asked, waving a cigarette in Pamela's direction.

  "Oh, no thanks," she said. "Grazie. I don't smoke."

  He smiled again, took off his sunglasses, stared at her face, her neck, her breasts. She was scandalized and thrilled. It occurred to her dimly that she was an attractive woman. In her marriage she had never thought of herself as an attractive woman. But now a Roman coin dangled from a thin gold chain between her breasts. She was wearing an ecru linen jacket and slacks from Armani, a white linen blouse with lace trim, Ferragamo shoes. All charged on Kelso's credit card.

  Feeling bold, she smiled back. Then the boys arrived. They looked happy, sleepy. "Hello!" Pamela said, giving a backward glance to her admirer and trying to stifle—how odd!—a sense of disappointment.

  "Pamela, you look magnificent."

  "Thank you, Richard. Sit down, sit down. And tell me, what mischief did you two get up to today?"

  "Well, first we went to the Baths of Caracalla," Paul said. (This was a lie. They had spent the entire day in Kennington's bed.)

  "How wonderful. And was it everything you hoped?"

  "Magnificent."

  "After that we went to the archaeological museum, since we couldn't cover everything yesterday."

  "That's why we were late."

  "Oh, it doesn't matter your being late. As for me, I had a little adventure myself today." And she told a story about an old English lady she'd met at the Bernini. Like most of her stories, it became, in the telling, both longer and more discursive than the actual event that had inspired it. Kennington had trouble following the details, in part because her disheveled narrative technique discouraged linear comprehension, in part because under the table Paul was rubbing the toe of his shoe against Kennington's ankle. From the very labor of having to keep a straight face, he seemed to be deriving a perverse thrill.
/>   After coffee, they did some more walking. It was turning out to be one of those gloriously bright Roman afternoons when the sunshine seems limitless. From a fruit seller's basket, scarlet peppers spilled out in obscene abundance. Two boys played soccer with an onion. A butcher's window displayed folded slabs of tripe and unplucked guinea hens, while next door, in a pasta shop, squat extrusion machines pumped out little tortellini like turds. Italy, Paul thought, the country of which I am not, while from a nearby bar (in Rome there is always a nearby bar) a waiter stepped out onto the street, bearing a tray on which rested three tiny cups of coffee, over each of which he had tucked a little paper napkin like a bonnet.

  "Isn't that wonderful," Pamela said.

  "Don't embarrass me by taking a picture," Paul said.

  "Oh, Paul," Pamela said, and peered at some Murano glass candies in a window.

  They had another coffee, standing up, at Caffè Greco ("our caffè," Pamela called it), then split up briefly, Pamela to exchange a blouse at Max Mara, Paul and Kennington to look at CDs at the Ricordi on Via del Corso. In the Piazza di Spagna, masses of tourists were aiming their cameras at the boat fountain. Few of them looked very happy, however, and when they conversed, their dialogue verged inevitably into indigestion, lost luggage, bad exchange rates.

  Kennington was thinking that he had never much liked being a tourist. Tourism, in his view, was the apotheosis of an age of too much choice. Its anxiety was decision: where to stay, what to eat, whether to go by train or fly or rent a car. Which was ironic, when you considered that in the old Italy—the dust of which thousands of tourist feet unsettled daily—ordinary life offered a range of options so meager as to seem almost a parody of choice. In such a world, habit, not possibility, sustained human life.