One Summer in Rome

by Samantha Tonge

  ‘No. Dante. Of course not,’ she said and sighed. ‘Scusa, I didn’t think. Clearly I have a lot more to learn about Italian life than I thought. The drink looked so warm and inviting and—’

  He gave a small smile.

  ‘Oh, very good. I’d better put Italian humour at the top of my list of things to learn about.’ She took a sip and, after eyeing him shyly, spluttered out aloud. ‘Jeez, Dante, do you find this funny as well? Using cold water to make my drink?’

  ‘Eh? Oh no, I hope the machine hasn’t broken again …’ He took a small sip. ‘Ah, the English tease too?’

  Another small smile then they sat in awkward silence.

  ‘Actually, it’s delicious,’ she said. ‘Just what I needed. Grazie mille.’

  ‘A mochaccino is my favourite – a cappuccino blended with a shot of cocoa syrup.’

  ‘How did you know I’d drunk some?’

  ‘The table moved when you picked up the glass and I heard you swallow.’

  ‘You must have great hearing.’

  He shrugged those broad shoulders. ‘It’s true what they say – if you lose one of your senses the others compensate. I already know when you are walking near as your footsteps are much less weighty than anyone else’s. And your perfume … it smells strong, like I imagine English countryside to be.’

  ‘It’s lavender oil. Supposed to be calming.’ The shy look that always accompanied her attempts at humour crossed her face. ‘I stocked up before I came, to help me deal with you feisty Romans.’

  ‘My mental image is right then. You are of slight build – proven by the fact you need an oil to help you out.’

  Mary cocked her head and it hit home that, for the first time ever, she was having a conversation with a man who couldn’t judge her appearance.

  ‘It must be so frustrating … not knowing what people look like. That is …’ She cleared her throat. ‘Sorry. Um, hope that doesn’t offend, it’s just …’ Sometimes she was as clumsy with words as actions.

  ‘No problem. I prefer directness – it makes a change from everyone else tiptoeing around.’

  Guess she was used to being forthright. She always had been, as a child. When people – children, adults – asked about her parents, she’d just tell them straight: ‘I’m fostered.’ She’d seen other children lie and concoct webs of lies, to create fantasy families. What was the point? These dream figures never appeared in real life. Not that Mary offered the information, unless quizzed. The Rossi family didn’t seem to know anything about her background and she preferred it that way.

  Dante cleared his throat. ‘Natale and I have just been chatting. Sunday night … you thought you’d upset me but perhaps it is the other way around.’

  Heat rushed into her face. ‘Natale shouldn’t have—’

  He lifted his hand. ‘One thing you must know about my sister – she can’t abide seeing people hurting. She only mentioned it because she likes you, Mary. Take it as a compliment. She wants you to stay. And apparently Lucia thinks you are practically related to the queen since you gave her that coin.’

  Mary smiled.

  ‘And you’ve been crying. Just now.’

  ‘No, I just—’

  ‘You blew your nose. So unless you have suddenly developed a cold or hay fever, there is no other explanation.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped on Sunday. Apologies. But can I give you a word of advice?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You need to toughen up. The restaurant business is rough and tumble. Words get said in the heat of the moment when we have busy tourists to serve.’

  She smarted. ‘I assure you, I’m used to the rough and tumble, as you put it. And I was having a private moment by the fountain. You don’t need to worry in public.’ She paused. ‘I’m used to putting on a brave face.’

  Well, so far so good for her resolution about work and standing up for herself. Not that it was difficult. Dante had touched a raw nerve. She prided herself on getting through difficult circumstances. Her childhood was proof of that.

  ‘Perhaps you should take your own advice,’ she shot back, before thinking. ‘Natale said the visit to that competing pizzeria … Margherita Margherita isn’t it called – upset you?’

  His face flushed. ‘Touché.’

  ‘Is their food really so good that Pizzeria Dolce Vita might lose its ranking?’

  ‘The concept is good. But it wasn’t just that …’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he muttered.

  She shrugged. ‘Not having fluent Italian doesn’t mean I can’t understand business problems.’

  His face flushed darker. ‘If you must know it wasn’t business – the owner treated me like an idiot. People’s pity. Them patronising me. It is the worst thing about being blind. I cannot stomach it.’

  ‘Oh, Dante … I’m sorry, I …’

  ‘She insisted on reading the menu to me in a really loud, slow voice, even though I just wanted a plain pizza, to see how they coped with the basics. And she “forgot” to give me a knife and fork. It took me a while to feel around and realise they weren’t on the table. It was as if she was determined to make me feel uncomfortable.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘Maybe you are right and I do need to be less sensitive,’ he said, in a tight voice. ‘But I was a policeman. It used to be my job to look after others.’ He took another mouthful of drink. ‘I’ve never been used to accepting help and am not prepared to start now.’

  ‘Of course, I mean, I’m sure you’re just as capable as before and—’

  ‘Don’t you patronise me either.’

  Mary pursed her lips and scraped back her chair.

  ‘Leaving already?’ he said and a smirk crossed his face. ‘Not always the best of company, am I?’

  Not with her, no. With everyone else he seemed warm and friendly.

  ‘I just need to stretch my legs before bed,’ she muttered. ‘And take a proper look around the piazza whilst it is empty.’

  ‘Are you crazy? It may look picture-postcard pretty but at this time of night there might still be dangers lurking.’ He stood up too. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Mary snorted. ‘Dante – I’m not a child.’

  He folded his arms. ‘What’s the point, anyway, at night-time? You won’t see as much.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ll see as much as you. Okay. Come along. You can fill me in on what you “see” with those other senses. We’ll experience it together.’

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, just tilted his head ‘Okay. Let’s finish these drinks and then Oro and I will give you a personal tour – although I expect Giovanni gave you a full history of Piazza Navona. That man is an oracle of information. It gets him a lot of tips.’

  ‘He told me all about the gladiator fights they used to hold here. And about those beautiful buildings, up the other end.’

  ‘St Agnes church and Pamphili Palace?’

  Mary nodded.

  ‘Mary? I can’t see you just nod. Remember that.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. I didn’t think.’

  ‘No worries. I carry off my blindness so well,’ he said. ‘My handsome charm usually distracts people from the obvious.’

  Mary studied his face. Already it was clear that one of his coping mechanisms was to make jokes about his sight. It would take a little getting used to, but she understood. Sometimes that was how she’d got through school. Unconfident as she was of trying to make others laugh, it felt a lot better than seeing serious faces sympathise when they found out about her past.

  ‘Which of the three fountains do you like best?’ said Dante as they eventually stood in the middle of the piazza. For half-an-hour they had strolled around. Through the moonlight, Mary had admired the impressive baroque architecture and terracotta colour of certain buildings. She’d marvelled at the picture-perfect avenues leading off the piazza, which were home to small shops and inviting bistros. Dante had pointed out the
varied sounds from each fountain. He’d made her aware of the range of smells, as they passed different restaurants. One favoured garlic. Another clearly baked its own bread.

  ‘Definitely the Moor Fountain, opposite your family’s restaurant. The rose marble is gorgeous and the figure fighting the dolphin oozes authority.’

  Dante nodded and then said to Oro, ‘Gabriel.’ Oro led them towards an artist who was sitting in front of his easel, by the far edge of the piazza, just in front of a bench. The man had greying curls down to his shoulders and even though the night chill had set in, just wore a vest T-shirt and chinos.

  ‘Dante! I thought you were ignoring me, because of your beautiful companion.’ He threw his cigarette to the ground. The men hugged and clapped each other on the back. ‘Come va?’ He looked at Mary, smiled, and gabbled something fast, in Italian.

  Dante bowed. ‘Of course I’ll introduce you. This is our new waitress from England—’

  ‘Ah yes, I have heard of Maria,’ Gabriel said, before continuing to say something in Italian.

  Dante remained expressionless.

  The artist held out his hand. ‘Sorry, for my rudeness.’ He bowed. ‘I was just telling Dante about your eyes. Even in this poor light I see the most radiant shade of green. Magnifico. You must let me paint you, one day.’

  Mary’s cheeks flamed. ‘That’s kind of you.’ She cleared her throat, keen to change the subject. Compliments never sat well. They’d felt false as a child. Social workers sorry that yet another placement hadn’t worked out would brightly comment on her clothes or hair, as if that would extinguish her sense of rejection.

  ‘How is your mother?’ asked Dante in soft tones. ‘Which ward is she on? I’ll visit her this week.’

  ‘You’re a good friend,’ said Gabriel and squeezed his arm. ‘The hospital said she was very lucky not to break something, tripping over like that. It is just bruising.’

  Mary looked away. Dante clearly had heart. Why was his tone so unfriendly with her? She caught sight of Gabriel’s easel. ‘Where is that?’ she said and pointed to an oil painting of the sweetest restaurant. ‘What an adorable building. I just love those window boxes filled with flowers and the painting of daisies on the walls.’

  Dante’s brow furrowed. ‘You’ve been painting Margherita Margherita? But why? And it’s half-an-hour away from here.’

  Gabriel lifted up a bottle of beer and took a swig. ‘The owner, Margherita, is a very persuasive woman. She passed by here a couple of weeks ago. I’m just putting the final touches to this. She wants to hang it in the restaurant and replicate miniature versions on postcards as well and—’

  ‘Che cavolo!’

  That was the first time Mary had heard Dante swear.

  ‘On Monday I visited her restaurant,’ said Dante. ‘She recognised me immediately and must have come to take a look at Pizzeria Dolce Vita.’

  Mary shrugged. ‘I guess it makes sense that she’d also check out the competition.’

  Dante scowled. ‘She could take away our Lombardi rating, if we aren’t careful.’ He spoke to Gabriel in Italian for a few moments, mentioning the fifteenth of August. He must have been talking about the important Top Ten list.

  ‘Ah …’ Gabriel stroked his beard. ‘Scusa, amico mio. I had no idea. I give her the money back. My friendship with you comes first.’

  ‘Grazie, my friend, grazie, but no. The last thing I want is for her to think we are worried. And I don’t want you to lose income. Sell her stupid drawings – no offence. It will make no difference to what customers think of her actual pizza.’

  Dante was still brooding as they returned to Pizzeria Dolce Vita. Everyone else was in bed. He sat on the sofa, head in hands.

  ‘Could that place really knock your family’s restaurant off the Lombardi List?’

  Dante looked up and grimaced. ‘You would think not – there is no tradition there. No love. Pizzeria Dolce Vita is based on the work of two generations of our family.’

  ‘Your grandparents owned it?’

  ‘Si. They have both passed on now. They devoted their youth to working hard to make the pizzeria a success, which meant they didn’t have my dad until their late thirties. It started out as a coffee bar, they just rented. Then they did pizzas for lunch. Business boomed, so they took on staff and waited tables. In the Seventies, when the British and other nationalities became more adventurous, and airfares became competitive, Nonna and Nonno never looked back as tourism grew. Eventually, they could afford to buy the whole building and move in.’ He snorted. ‘But Margherita Margherita – her concept is to create pizzas just like the ones in takeaway shops.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You cannot just order a pizza. There are about six different choices of crust. Stuffed with cheese or garlic sauce, and they offer crispy pizzas or deep pan. There is nothing authentic. No true Italian style.’ He caught her eye. ‘I know. Can’t help it. I am a pizza snob – and proud of it.’

  ‘Did it taste good?’

  He groaned. ‘Si. And I listened to a family at the table next to mine – the children loved all the different choices.’

  ‘How did this Margherita woman deal with the kids, if she was patronising to you?’

  He thought for a second. ‘Well, actually. I heard the family talking. She gave them colouring books and crayons. Another modern concept.’

  She yawned. ‘This heat makes me feel shattered. I must still be acclimatising. It’s off to bed for me.’

  He stared into the distance.

  She sat down beside him. Offhand person or not, she didn’t like seeing anyone upset. ‘We have several weeks to make sure this place knocks Margherita Margherita sideways.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right, Audrey. No point worrying about the what-ifs.’

  ‘Audrey?’

  ‘Gabriel. He told me you looked just like Audrey Hepburn. Is it true? He said classy and petite, with a very appealing gnome haircut.’

  ‘Gnome? I think you mean pixie,’ she muttered.

  ‘Same thing,’ he muttered back.

  Mary shuffled in her seat. ‘Right, I’m off—’

  ‘You don’t like compliments, do you?’ he said, in a matter-of-fact manner. ‘But Gabriel knows what he is talking about. He’s painted hundreds of women over the years and doesn’t give out flattery easily.’ Dante rubbed his forehead. ‘Funny. I imagined you with hair tied back in a ponytail. Guess my sixth sense still needs to be refined.’

  Mary’s hair used to be long. Until Jake left and she felt the need for a makeover. What a cliché. Cutting off the locks he’d so loved was supposed to free her from tortured thoughts about him. Yet it hadn’t for a long time.

  ‘It must take a while for you to get to know exactly how someone looks.’

  ‘True and in the beginning I really resented that. But I have learnt patience and almost prefer it now. I actually think the sighted are at a disadvantage in a few areas like …’ His voice quietened. ‘Like romance.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mary was taken aback. ‘How? I mean, if you can’t see, for a start you’ll never experience love at first sight.’

  ‘Ah, that is one of the many myths about being blind. Sighted people get led astray by appearance. They like someone in those first few seconds because of, I don’t know – their build, flirty eyes, or confident gait. Perhaps they think this is true love and only find out they were wrong when they are in too deep. But for a blind person, love at first sight – or meeting – that can still happen but derives from the voice, which reveals a person’s brain and personality: the things that really matter, long term.’ He smiled. ‘Take you. From the first words you spoke, I could tell you were a little shy but … I sensed an underlying determination.’

  ‘So don’t looks matter, to you? I mean, you clearly take care of yourself. Your clothes are in fashion and … well, you know …’ she squirmed ‘… you don’t look too bad.’

  ‘I know. Hot stuff, aren’t I, isn’t that what you English say?’
/>   Was that sarcasm in his voice?

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ she replied.

  ‘But what I’m saying is …’ he continued, as if not having heard her, ‘yes, looks matter, I am only human – but they are secondary. Compassion. Humour. A curiosity about the world. Those qualities mean so much more.’ He shrugged. ‘And in time I get to know someone well enough to map out their face. Then, in my own way, I can see how they actually look.’

  ‘Map out?’

  ‘With my hands. I feel their features and build a mental map, in the same way I figure out journeys in my head. That is how I get around the house – the city. I memorise routes. Fortunately, I’ve always been good at navigation.’ He shrugged. ‘People believe guide dogs lead the way, but that’s not true. I must know the roads to take. Oro just keeps me safe when it comes to obstacles and crossings. She knows to wait at kerbs. And can take me to friends, like Gabriel just now. But only if they are close.’

  ‘And how exactly do you map out a face?’

  ‘The nose, mouth, hair. Before my … what happened, I never realised just how much information you could pick up from the tips of your fingers. It helps me imagine how someone appears when, for example, they are angry or sad.’

  She stared at him and then impulsively took his hands and placed them on her cheeks.

  His neck reddened. ‘Are you sure, Mary? I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.’

  ‘Positive,’ she said. They were only colleagues. Why should she feel unease? ‘I wouldn’t want you falling for Gabriel’s illusion that I look like an iconic film star. I’m all for keeping it real.’

  Softly Dante ran his fingers across her features. She closed her eyes so that he could brush over her eyelids. His fingers ran down her nose and across her lips. The top one, then the bottom, tracing their outlines. Then they glided over her cheeks and down her neck. His fingers then gently traced lines through her short hair. A spurt of desire took her by surprise. Her body must be desperate for physical attention if she reacted to someone as disagreeable as him. What if he’d noticed? She would actually die, right there, on the spot, if Dante sensed her albeit involuntary attraction.