He woke feeling a chill. It was after nine, and he realized he was hungry, too. He hadn’t eaten since early afternoon, when he’d grabbed a Genoa salami panino with basil, peppers and fontina, followed by a large cup of stracciatella gelato—or, as he thought of all such dangerously rich food, a few extra tickets in the death lottery. He changed into one of his new outfits—single-pleat pants of tan Egyptian linen and a black open-collared shirt of textured cotton—and set out to find a restaurant that seemed popular with the locals.
Just before ten, he trekked up a steep, well-lighted cobblestone path, past the window displays of closed shops and clumps of tourists milling around bank machines and gelaterias, until he rounded a corner to find an inviting trattoria where the head waiter was planting hello kisses on the cheeks of a lovely young customer while her boyfriend shook hands with a bus boy. It was a 10-table affair, spread out in two cozy rooms, and Nick was lucky enough to find an open spot at the height of the dinner hour. He couldn’t think of a decent restaurant in Ashland that stayed open past nine.
Following the Italian dining custom, he started with a pizza margherita, its thin crust deliciously blackened around the outer edges and topped with bubbling mozzarella and zesty ripe tomatoes drizzled with sweet olive oil, and then dug into the most memorable seafood medley he’d ever experienced. Though it frightened him a little, the squid turned out to be tangy, and the giant shrimp were quite satisfying dipped in a spicy tomato sauce and washed down with tall glasses of Peroni Gran Riserva. He skipped dessert, even after friendly cajoling from the staff, but couldn’t pass up a cup of delicate fior di panna at the gelateria up the block from his room.
All of that eating and shopping among strangers whose musical language he did not speak—even though he loved listening to it—gave Nick plenty of time to think about his future. The $40,000 or so he’d make from his alternate reality collection was a wonderful windfall, but this trip would eat up a big chunk of that. With no savings, he’d be lucky to make the rest of the money last a year.
He’d had his mail forwarded to his father’s efficiency apartment overlooking the interstate on the outskirts of Issaquah, but he didn’t hold out much hope that his half-hearted applications for college teaching jobs would bear fruit. He’d received a few form rejections before giving up his place in Ashland, and as for the remaining few possibilities, it was late in the game to think anyone would be interested in hiring him. He might be able to land a one-year adjunct gig upon his return, or something more permanent at a community college with a last-minute opening in composition, but he’d probably have to wait until hiring geared up for the next school year to take a serious run at a tenure-track job.
Was that even what he wanted? It felt safe and familiar. He enjoyed working with students, and most of them seemed to get something out of his instruction. There were worse callings. And if not teaching, what? Back to stocking bookstore shelves and pointing middle-aged housewives toward the latest Dr. Phil opus? The thought made him shudder.
Ben Cameron was younger than he was and already on his way to securing the journalism career he felt born to pursue. Was that kind of certainty a delusion, or just a blessing Nick hadn’t been in line to receive? At 30, he had an MA in literature and a small cache of personal effects in a storage locker. He needed something to believe in, something to pull him onto the right path. Maybe he’d find it in Verona.
Something he’d seen back in Issaquah had given him new hope along those lines. After parking what remained of his junk at the Stor & Sav, Nick had stopped by the nursing home to say hello to his shell of a mother. But when he’d rounded the corner into the rec room, he’d simply stopped and watched his parents sitting on the green vinyl couch. His dad was stroking her hair and whispering something in her ear. She was hugging him close and squealing with joyous laughter.
Chapter Twenty-six
The mood at Club di Giulietta was buoyant. Here it was, still 48 hours before the start of the festival and everything was set, from the placement of the vendors to Fortunata’s lustrous brunette wig. Drinking champagne instead of espresso for once, the members gathered to hoot, holler and recite Romeo’s lines as the year’s proud Giulietta stood atop the conference-room table and ran through her performance.
Fortunata was quite good, Salvatore thought. Not exactly born to the role of Shakespeare’s shy, lovesick teen, but the crowd would eat up her bold, brassy take on the character. Judging from the broad smiles worn by the other women, he wasn’t alone in his satisfaction.
When Fortunata finished her performance to much applause, Simone bounded onto the table, dropped to one knee and exclaimed, “It is enough I may but call her mine!” Playing right along, Fortunata drew the club’s self-styled siren to her feet and began dancing her up and down the table in a jaunty two-step.
“Save something for opening night,” Serafina called out as Anna and Maria helped the women down from the far end of the long oak table.
“Well done,” she whispered to Salvatore, clinking her paper cup with his. “She’s a star.”
“You’d better believe it,” Fortunata said. She grabbed Salvatore’s cup and downed the last half of his champagne. “Hollywood, here I come,” she added, drawing out the first word as if it was a sacred incantation.
“Just don’t leave before finishing your current engagement,” Salvatore said. “No one else would look that good in your wig.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Heading east on the Autostrade Thursday morning was all diesel exhaust and blinding sunlight. Nick stopped at one of the toll road’s many oasis truck stops and ordered a fresh-cooked frittata that rivaled any he’d tasted at high-end Seattle Italian joints. He chuckled at the notion of an American truck stop serving up such gourmet fare.
Nick had caused a minor stir by trying to pay for a bottle of water from the mini-mart area at the cafeteria register, but once he got that ironed out after a series of stops, starts and good-natured finger pointing, breakfast went quickly and he was back on the road in plenty of time for some more low-hanging sun glare.
It was with some relief, then, that he took the northbound exit toward Milan about an hour later. He decided to skip the fashionable city because he wanted to spend as many hours as possible exploring Lake Como before it was time to make the final push to Verona, so the only impression he got of Milan was that it boasted a giant Ikea store on its outskirts. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan! he thought, recalling Proteus’ ironic farewell to Valentine in Two Gentlemen of Verona. And inexpensive Swedish furniture!
When it came time to jump onto a smaller road into the lakes region, Nick almost missed the turn and came within a kilometer of entering Switzerland. The high altitude and proximity to the border explained why the noontime temperature was moderate even at the end of August.
Just before he veered off the road to Switzerland, however, Nick felt flop sweat beading onto the back of his neck. In a breathtaking moment of panic, he considered making a run for neutral territory, like Steve McQueen in “The Great Escape,” except without the motorcycle, barbed wire and pursuing Nazis. This was all ridiculous folly, wasn’t it? he thought, arching an eyebrow at himself in the rearview mirror.
But then he steeled himself and took the plunge back into Italy, ready to accept whatever lessons it had to teach him. At worst, he was embarking on an embarrassing adventure with people he’d never see again, one that he’d never have to share with another soul. Nick decided to trust his heart. People found love through the dating web sites every day, after all, with nary an assist from Shakespeare’s most romantic creation.
As that moment of fear passed, though, others soon leapt up to take its place. Nick had barely gotten used to the speed demons on the Autostrade coming up on his tail seemingly from nowhere and flashing their lights for him to get over whenever he darted into the left lane to pass a lumbering semi-truck. But the road around Lake Como made those harrowing experiences seem like a Sunday park stroll.
&
nbsp; First off, the road was exceptionally narrow by American standards, barely wide enough for two passenger cars, and there were no center-lane stripes. On one side was a steep drop-off into the lake (or at least the driveways of the ornate houses perched upon its banks), while on the other side sheer rock walls loomed over the traffic. Add in hair-pin curves and buzzing hives of fearless young men on rocket-powered motorbikes, and it was a marvel that these conditions did not cause his fellow motorists to slow up by even one kilometer per hour.
Nick’s hands were so slick on the steering wheel that he had to wipe them on his pants several times. Once, coming around a blind corner, he encountered a full-size RV passing three bicyclists apparently training for the next Tour d’France. Somehow, they all whizzed past each other without so much as a lost limb or scraped fender.
Ten minutes later, after turning onto a side road to check out a few mountain villages, he came upon a tour bus executing a six-point turn where the road curved at a nearly 90-degree angle. At one point, the back portion of the bus hung off the road over a tremendous drop-off. Somehow, the driver knew exactly how far he could go without sending the rear wheels—and everything else—into oblivion. Nick couldn’t help laughing when he glimpsed the terrified face of an elderly passenger who’d just realized the precarious position he was in.
Nick was grateful to stay behind the bus as it crawled up the mountain. For once, he felt no pressure to keep his pedal to the metal, and even managed to enjoy the slow-rolling tour past tiny public squares and stone row houses that might date as far back as the sixteenth century.
After looping back down onto the main road, he decided to take the car ferry over to Bellagio. It was a ten-minute journey across the lake, at most, but he climbed out of the Renault and enjoyed the splendid view from the boat’s upper deck. He could see why George Clooney played here with his actor buddies. What wasn’t to love about a giant alpine lake surrounded by craggy peaks with lush green slopes?
Bellagio itself was a wonder, poking out into the lago like the prow of a yacht, its salmon and yellow pastel walls bedecked in magenta ivy. It was a storybook town, winding roads lined with tall stone walls, and it bore its touristy elements well. In fact, Nick finally broke down in one elegant boutique and bought limoncello in a bottle shaped like a viola. He thought it might make a nice hostess gift.
By the time he re-crossed the lake and made the frightening run back into the small city of Como, it was late afternoon. But he needed a meal, and the shopping district was worth half an hour of window gawking. He ended up in a basement wine bar for what appeared to be happy hour. Bands of attractive twentysomethings flirted, laughed, and text-messaged with their ubiquitous cell phones as the waiter brought around heaping platters of tangy smoked ham, sharp cheeses and other finger-food delicacies. Nick ordered a glass of the house red and dug in. The scene and the snacks were both so delicious that he wanted to stick around into the evening. But he still had a long drive ahead, and he didn’t imagine the route would be much more fun to navigate after dark.
Besides, he thought as he nosed the Renault back toward the Autostrade, the real fun still awaited him down the road. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds.
Chapter Twenty-eight
It was dinner time, at least by Italian standards, when Nick rolled past a small modern shopping mall on the outskirts of Verona. With every kilometer after that, the Renault seemed to take him another hundred years back in time, until he ended up parked along Piazza Brà just outside the crumbling walls of the Roman Arena.
After checking into a small-but-pleasant room at the Giulietta e Romeo on a narrow lane north of the square, he parked the Renault in the hotel’s small garage and set off on foot to find a nice spot for people-watching and a light meal. As he walked along the red marble promenade, the tension started leaving his shoulders and arms. He felt like he’d run the Indy 500 and a demolition derby in the span of one day.
A few blocks past the arena he spotted a restaurant whose dining room was dramatically lit by tall white candles in wax-encrusted iron holders. Sharp shadows fell across the tables where couples huddled in conversation and shared bites of antipasti. He was just about to push the door handle when a young woman emerged from a dark corner and pulled it open for him.
She said something he didn’t understand. But even in the low light, she caught his confused expression and started again: “Welcome to Ristorante Roma. Please may I seat you this beautiful night?”
“You may,” he said, offering a half bow. “Thank you. Grazie.”
“Prego, signore,” she replied with a soft smile. “You are welcome.”
The pasta and sauce tasted so fresh and light, nothing like the heavy cream and rubbery noodles he was used to back home. The Chianti was subtle, surely a distant relation to the squat bottles in their wicker skirts he’d occasionally picked up at his neighborhood Safeway. And he was so enraptured by the yeasty smell of the warm bread that he felt it was a shame to eat it—until he took the first satisfying bite, that is.
“My compliments to the chef,” he told the pretty young waitress when she returned to refill his glass.
She nodded as if she knew he was saying something friendly and then quickly retreated to the kitchen.
“I think the American is asking for you,” the new server told Lia as she grabbed her old Prada handbag—one of the few gifts Antonio had bothered to give her—from the office and applied some lip balm. “He said something about ‘chef.’ My English is not so good as yours. But I do know he’s a charmer, and molto handsome.” She ticked off several items on her hunk shopping list: “Thick brown hair, long eyelashes, good teeth, tall, strong shoulders. And he’s your age, I’m pretty sure.”
Lia smiled at the girl, who was maybe 19. “An old man is he? Pushing 30?”
The waitress looked down in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean…”
“It’s all right, really,” Lia said. “You’ve got a long way to go to 28. Just remember, it sneaks up on you, so have fun while you can.”
“You could use a little fun, Lia. You’ve done well tonight filling in for the boss.” The girl poured a glass of wine and handed it to her. “At least have a drink with this guy. Give him a thrill.”
Lia walked to the short hallway and peeked around the corner. He was handsome, his strong jaw line balanced by deep, soulful eyes that followed the late opera crowd passing outside the plate glass. “All right,” she said, more to herself than the waitress now pushing her forward. “But just one drink.”
“You wanted to see me?” Lia asked.
Taking her in—about five-seven, toned olive skin, and shoulder-length raven ringlets framing one of the most beautifully expressive faces he’d ever encountered, the full pursed lips, proud nose and luminous brown eyes working in concert with playfully arched eyebrows to convey a note of bemused challenge—Nick wanted to stand up and shout, “Yes!” And anytime but this week, on this trip, he might have. But he had to remind himself that tomorrow was the day he would meet his Juliet.
“Bellissima,” he said, drawing the word out for maximum effect. But when the chef pulled her head back slightly in surprise, he quickly added, “The food—it was beautifully prepared. I’ve never had pasta so fresh.”
“Ah,” she said. “Grazie mille.”
Her smile emboldened him. “Come va?” he asked, gesturing to the empty seat opposite him.
“Stanco,” she replied, fanning herself as she plopped down after six straight hours on her feet in the kitchen.
“No, you smell fine,” he blurted.
She looked at him for a long beat, and then let loose a full-throated laugh that caused him to blush. “Not stink-o,” she said. “Stanco. Tired. It has been an exceptionally long day.”
He searched for something to say. “Your English is very good,” he offered.
Still chuckling, she said, “And your Italian is very bad.”
Nick had to laugh at that. They reached for their wine glasses in uni
son, and the awkwardness between them seemed to disappear.
“How long have you been in Verona?” she asked, leaning back in her chair. She brushed an uncooperative ringlet away from her left eye.
“Maybe two hours.”
She nodded toward the window. “So you missed the opera tonight. Pity. The season’s almost done.”
“I’ve never been to the opera,” he said.
“Never? You should go this week. It’s so powerful and passionate.”
Nick nodded, entranced.
“I once read a book by the wife of a famous conductor who lost his memory,” she continued. “He told her, ‘The most important things cannot be spoken. That is why there is music.’ That is how I feel about the opera.”
Now the heat rose in her face. Perhaps she was embarrassed to reveal so much of herself to a stranger, but she quickly recovered. “If the opera does not spark your interest, there is also the open-air Fellini festival this week. Several of his films will be screened in the park: La Dolce Vita, La Strada, 8 ½. People spread out their blankets…”
“Couples?” he asked, picturing lovers holding hands under the stars as scenes flashed by on screen in even more brilliant black and white.
“Mostly,” she agreed. After another pause, she added, “But you would be welcome. Do you know Fellini?”
Nick shook his head. “I’ve always meant to. I’ve heard so many good things…”
“How I envy you,” she said. “I wish I could see all of his films again with fresh eyes.”
Finding Juliet Page 8