Finding Juliet

by Frank Sennett

  All the washing machines were full when Nick got there, which was just as well because he needed to change some money first. He lugged his suitcase another three blocks and paid an outrageous transaction fee to convert two hundred bucks into euros. By the time he got back to the laundromat, he thought his right arm might fall off. Next time he’d buy a suitcase with wheels. But at least there was a machine available now.

  The soap dispenser was out of order, of course. Luckily, an old lady took pity on Nick when he pantomimed his predicament, and shared a cup of powder with him. The machine was so grimy, he wished he could run an empty load to clean out the basin, but he only had enough soap for his clothes. So he crammed everything into the cold-water-only washer and hoped his wardrobe came out at least marginally cleaner than it had gone in.

  When the load started sloshing away without further incident, Nick settled onto one of the hard wooden benches arrayed around the perimeter of the dank facility and drifted off to sleep.

  He awoke to the poke of a hard finger, which he soon realized was the handle of a mop wielded by the laundry’s proprietor. Nick wiped the drool from the side of his mouth and peered up at the clock. He’d been out for three hours. In a panic, he felt for his wallet and was relieved to find it safely tucked into his pocket. But then he glanced up at the folding table and saw his clothes heaped onto a corner of it. Two shirts and some underwear and fallen to the floor.

  The woman with the mop spoke to him, but he didn’t understand what she was asking and he’d left his phrase book in the car, which was still parked outside the hotel. He asked if she spoke English, but she shook her head. He pointed to his clothes and got up to put them in the dryer. But when he started to shove the damp pile into the nearest machine, the woman slapped the door closed with the mop.

  “Chiuso,” she said.

  He knew that word. Closed. Unbelievable.

  “Per favore,” he pleaded. If she’d give him twenty minutes he could get everything reasonably dry. But she shook her head.

  Without another word, Nick crammed his wet wardrobe into the suitcase and headed into the night. He stopped at a small grocery to buy a clothesline and some pins. He would air dry everything back at the hotel. If they had a room for him, that was. He studied the candy selection next to the register and grabbed something that looked chocolaty and crunchy. Why couldn’t they have a Snickers? he thought ruefully as he pushed coins across the counter.

  The candy bar wasn’t bad, he realized as he munched it on the way back to the hotel, but it wasn’t familiar and comforting. That’s what he was missing. He felt like a space alien. No, he felt like an earthling on a strange planet, in need of nothing more than a shot of bourbon and the latest Mariners score.

  Back at the hotel, the line was gone from the front desk, but the rest of the news was bad.

  “Everyone showed up,” the manager said with a slight shrug. “I think I can get you back in tomorrow, but not tonight. I am sorry.”

  Nick blew out a breath of exhausted frustration. “I should have kept my room in the first place,” he said.

  He nodded. “I think maybe so.”

  As Nick walked out through the bar, a young man he’d seen in the lobby caught up with him.

  “Hey, mate, having trouble finding a room?” he asked.

  Nick put his bag down and looked at him, waiting.

  “Name’s Brian,” he said, extending a hand and showing white teeth set back in his sunburned face. “I’m on holiday from Perth. Anyway, I overheard you talking to the manager and, well, I have an extra bed in my room.”

  “Uh,” Nick replied, dropping his hand back by his side.

  “Nothing like that, mate,” Brian said with a laugh. He was about 23, tall and rangy, but with bad skin and a big nose. “I’m for the ladies, you know?”

  “Me, too,” Nick said, feeling surprisingly relieved.

  “But I’m on a budget, and the beer’s a bit more expensive up here. So if you’d like to split the cost, you’re welcome to crash in my room.”

  He quoted a price that was more like two-thirds the regular rate. He knew Nick knew it, too, but he gave him a look that suggested he could piss off if he was offended.

  “All right,” Nick said finally. “Lead the way.”

  Nick told Brian the story of his day while stringing the clothesline across his side of the room and hanging his damp and hopelessly wrinkled clothes. Luckily, there was an iron in the room. He’d make its acquaintance in the morning.

  Brian popped the cap on a Moretti and handed it to Nick. “Sounds like you need one of these, mate,” he said. “It’s not Foster’s, but it’ll do the trick.”

  Nick took a long slug and had to agree. His outlook was starting to improve. “Could you give it up?” he asked after draining half the bottle.

  “What?” Brian asked.

  “Foster’s. Could you give up your favorite beer and your favorite football team and your family and friends and start over in another country where you didn’t even speak the language?”

  Brian took a swig of his beer and considered the question. “Yeah,” he said finally. “If it was for the right Sheila I could. You bet.”

  Nick nodded and clinked Brian’s bottle with his. “Me, too,” he said.

  With three hours until he was to meet up with Lia and her friends, Nick accepted Brian’s invitation to check out an avant-garde musical performance at a theater on a nearby college campus.

  “It sounds boring as shite, but I figure it’s a good place to meet some of those serious girls with glasses who don’t know what fun is—until I turn up and show them,” Brian said while slathering on cheap cologne and changing into a fresh rugby shirt.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Nick said.

  “Don’t worry,” Brian said, slugging him on the shoulder as they headed out. “If I get lucky, I’ll make sure we go back to her place.”

  At first, Nick thought they must have gone to the wrong performance space—or maybe Brian had received bad information. A small orchestra was set up onstage and the mixed crowd of tame students and older music lovers didn’t seem like an experimental-theater crowd.

  His Aussie friend had been right about one thing, however: Several of the young women in glasses and long skirts did seem ripe for the picking up. Before the lights went down, Brian had bolted for the concession table and returned just in time to take a seat next to a seemingly unattached student and offer her a glass of wine. She accepted with a shy smile and that was that; Nick was on his own again.

  He grabbed an aisle seat toward the back and leafed through the photocopied program notes. It was in Italian, of course, but he recognized the titles of some of the songs. First up was a piece by Haydn, Das Lied der Deutschen, which Nick also knew by its more popular name: Deutschland uber Alles. He scanned the list of songs, composers and dates, and soon had a pretty good idea what this group was up to.

  The orchestra was also planning to play the old Communist anthem, The Internationale, and Mussolini’s favored Fascist hymn, Giovenessa. Other selections included Spain’s Marcha Real and an Iraqi number Nick had never heard of: Ardulfurataini Watan. The dates next to the song, 1981-2003, were a dead giveaway, however. It must have been the Iraq anthem under Saddam.

  National anthems of dictatorships—clever idea for a concert, Nick thought. He hoped some of the music was at least passably good, but assumed that wouldn’t be the point of the exercise.

  As the orchestra prepared to tackle Hitler’s old battle hymn, Nick caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Excited murmurs shot through the crowd as jackbooted brown shirts streamed into the auditorium and hectored the crowd to its feet for the glory of the Fatherland.

  One old woman burst into tears and ran out, her husband loudly cursing the troupe before following her, but the players didn’t miss a beat. After cajoling everyone into a suitably humble stance, they nodded to the conductor and then faded back into the woodwork as the musicians launched into a passionate, rous
ing version of the song. It sent cold prickles down Nick’s back and he felt exhilaration tinged with fear.

  The troupe repeated variations on this theme throughout the performance. Nick realized they’d kept the program short because, even though Giovenessa and Marcha Real struck a chord with this audience, the joke was quickly wearing thin.

  But after the orchestra finished Saddam’s song and the actors joined them onstage for a hearty round of applause, there was one final commotion. The first audience members to the exit doors found them blocked. Momentarily, they burst open and dozens of ersatz American troops streamed into the small auditorium, taking it over in a menacing, if bloodless, coup. They were obviously students, and many of their uniforms were ridiculously out of date, but the effect was still electrifying.

  Soon, a young man made up to look like George W. Bush burst onto the stage holding a bullhorn. “Where y’all think you’re going?” he hectored the audience, many of whom were now hooting with laughter. “We’re just getting this here hoedown started,” he continued in heavily accented English that was closer to an Irish brogue than a Texas twang.

  Still, the appreciative audience ate it up as the orchestra launched into a dirge-like version of The Star Spangled Banner. The bad Bush clone strutted back and forth across the stage in a ten-gallon hat interjecting asides such as “Dead or alive!” and “You’re either with us or agin’ us!” while young and old alike whistled and cheered.

  If there was more to the show, Nick didn’t know it. As the bombs were bursting in air, he beat a hasty retreat. Walking back to the hotel, he shook his head ruefully. He was no fan of America’s jingoistic foreign policy, but he didn’t enjoy seeing his country lumped in with Hitler, Stalin, Franco and Mussolini.

  Could he live in a country that thought of the United States as the modern home of fascism? Nick wondered. Ah, hell, he thought, there was probably a similar performance getting ready to start at Berkeley or even good old SOU right now. Besides, if anybody criticized him personally, he could explain that the neoconservatives weren’t exactly winning many popularity contests back home these days,, and he too wished they’d stop trying to remake the world in their image. He smiled as another thought occurred to him. If all else failed, he could always pretend he was Canadian.

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Nick arrived at the restaurant just after 11:30. There were still three or four occupied tables, but most of the diners seemed to be moving steadily toward coffee and dessert. It looked like Lia would be able to slip away at midnight without much trouble.

  The young waitress who’d introduced them walked up and extended her hand. “I remember you,” she said with a mischievous smile. “And if I didn’t, I would only have to step in the kitchen to have my memory refreshed.”

  “I’m Nick, by the way,” he said.

  “Oh, I know your name, believe me. But you are right, we have not been properly introduced. I am Fiamata Altabani, matchmaker.”

  He laughed. “Do I owe you a finders’ fee?”

  “You can buy me a drink when we go out tonight. Lia invited me along.”

  “So, Lia and Fia. What a fine pair you make.”

  “Here, have a seat. I’ll get you a glass of wine and tell her you are here.”

  “Grazie.”

  “Prego, signore.”

  A few minutes later, Lia emerged from the kitchen, flushed but happy. She set two wine glasses on the table and took a seat. “I told Fiamata I would take this table myself,” she said as he reached out and rubbed her sweat-drenched shoulder.

  “I really should take a shower before we go out, but I am afraid there’s no time,” she said between sips of Chianti.

  “Stanco again,” he said, smiling.

  “That’s going to get old pretty quick,” she replied, downing the rest of her glass. “Now I must get back in there and clean everything up. I will send out a plate of carbonara to tide you over. I hope you are in the mood to dance,” Lia added over her shoulder as she made her way back to the kitchen.

  “Always,” he said, raising his glass to her retreating form.

  In truth, Nick had never been much for the club scene. It wasn’t that he hated it; it was just that he never felt cool enough to be a part of it. But he didn’t have to worry about that tonight. Lia’s friends from cooking class were a motley bunch, mostly middle-aged matrons out for a seemingly infrequent girls’ night out.

  Fiamata rolled her eyes when they told her what club they were going to. Soon, Nick understood why. It was a fogey tourist hangout blasting bad disco and eighties dance dreck. Clouds of cigarette smoke mingled with machine-made fog rolling across the backlit dance floor.

  Nick went with it, grooving with Lia to “Baby Got Back” and “Too Legit to Quit.” He even remembered MC Hammer’s old hand gestures from the video. Two fingers up, then an L, two fingers again, and then a slash of the hand parallel to the floor.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Lia asked.

  “I’m too legit to quit,” he said, repeating the hand gestures for her.

  “You are as stupid as the song,” she said with a laugh.

  After a while, they moved on to another place, just as smoky, but this time with the emphasis on drinking instead of dancing. Nick downed several gin and tonics as Lia and her friends prattled on in rapid-fire Italian. Occasionally, one of the women would give him a knowing look and Lia would squeeze his hand. They were talking about him—that much he knew—but he had little idea what they were saying.

  Sometime after three, Nick felt on the verge of passing out. It wouldn’t be long before he reached the 24-hour mark, not counting his nap in the laundromat. Lia finally noticed him flagging as he chewed the last of the ice in his fourth or fifth drink. Mercifully, she called a cab and dropped him off at the hotel with a reminder that they were set to meet her father that evening for the big feast.

  “It will be our last night together for a while,” Lia said, stroking his hair. “So get good and rested. I want it to be memorable.”

  He thought about inviting her up, but then realized he hadn’t told her about Brian and the odd room situation. He was too tired to deal with the complications, anyway, so he gave her one last kiss and headed upstairs toward a blissful blackout.

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  True to his word, Brian never showed. Well done, Nick thought as he ironed his clothes and packed up on Friday morning. He hoped the Aussie had a good time with his little antifascist vixen.

  Following a breakfast heavy on the coffee, Nick asked the manager if there would be a room available for the evening. The man offered a noncommittal shrug and told him to check back in the afternoon. If worse came to worst, Nick thought, he probably could crash with Brian again and get an early start for Nice. Of course, that would cramp his style with Lia, but they could always make a return trip to Juliet’s house.

  After a day spent wandering the city soaking up Renaissance art and too many architectural eras to count, Nick was more than ready for human companionship when Lia got off the day shift.

  By the time they made it back to the apartment, Salvatore was already gone, and Nick leafed through some of his Shakespeare collection while Lia showered and changed. He wondered if they’d be able to get a place of their own soon. He liked Salvatore a great deal, but he’d like the old man even better if they lived across the city from him and he could regularly interrupt Lia’s evening preparations for a round of damp, disheveled lovemaking as he set out to do now.

  “Do not mess up my hair, Casanova,” she said when he seized her from behind and playfully bit her neck.

  “I thought I was your Romeo,” Nick replied, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to the bed while she giggled and kicked.

  “You are, you are,” Lia said as he jumped onto the bed after her.

  “What about my hair?” she asked as he began kissing her urgently.

  “We’ve got time for another shower,” he answered.

  “I like the sou
nd of that,” she said.

  “The feast is just an excuse for all of the festival food vendors to circle their carts around Piazza delle Erbe,” Lia said as they maneuvered through the growing crowd. “You can get full just looking at the selections.”

  They spotted Salvatore beneath the market square’s famed Venetian Lion at a roped-off table set out at the top of the square for the festival organizers. Everyone from Juliet’s club was there, with the notable exception of Fortunata. Nick appreciatively took in the scene: Stalls selling every manner of Italian fare were arrayed under colorful fifteenth-century frescos all around a 2,000-year-old fountain featuring a statue of the Madonna. It was hard to decide where to start. Judging by the huge, milling crowd, he realized he probably wasn’t the only reveler who felt overwhelmed.

  “Where’s our Juliet?” asked young Maria as Nick and Lia walked up.

  “Off with her new man,” Simone said before she spotted the couple. An embarrassed silence fell over the small group.

  “Quite a party,” Nick offered.

  “Verona is always up for a celebration,” Serafina said. The lovely psychologist stood and grabbed two folding chairs for them from a stack next to the wall. “I am so glad to see your quest is working out, against all the odds,” she added. “Salvatore filled me in about the first letter. Not that many men would stay suicidal after meeting Lia.”

  “But I will kill him if he treats her badly,” Salvatore said as he walked up to clap Nick on the back after greeting Lia with a kiss.

  They excused themselves to grab some food and then got lost in the party atmosphere. It seemed surreal to Nick. He was going to leave in the morning, and they didn’t even know when he’d be back or what the next step would be.