Dreaming Sally

by James Fitzgerald

  That night in a café, Dave unleashed a battery of blue jokes, stoked by our immersion in the Roman fuckitorium. I was surprised when Sally suddenly left without a word; I thought she could take it.

  * * *

  —

  I slept in past eleven the next day, which turned out to be a mistake. I couldn’t find Sally, so five of us hiked into Sorrento to buy bread and cheese and Coke for lunch, heeding Nick’s advice to avoid drinking the local water.

  In the late afternoon, Dave rolled into our room drunk and collapsed on the bed. Before he passed out, he revealed that I had missed the lunch of a lifetime. As part of an annual tradition, Rafaele picked a boy and girl from the Odyssey to join Nick and Tammy at a family vineyard on the slopes of Vesuvius for a classic pasta and wine Italian lunch al fresco. Sally and I were randomly chosen from a hat with twenty-six names, but I could not be found, so Dave took my place.

  “No one spoke a word of English and we didn’t know a word of Italian,” he explained. “It didn’t really matter because everyone was laughing and joking around. They brought out a plate of spaghetti and it looked Spartan to me, very little sausage. I’m used to heavy red tomato meat sauce. But it was really good, lots of garlic and olive oil.

  “Before we even started, they brought out their own wine, which was called Lacrymi Christi. By the time we finished the spaghetti, we had each drunk a bottle. It was really hot and I was getting tipsy so I asked for some more spaghetti and they brought me another bowl. I was stuffed. I thought, That was a great lunch. I didn’t realize it was just the first course. There were eight courses and we drank ten bottles of wine. Sally and I started to get the giggles by the second bottle; by the end, we were just killing ourselves laughing. I mean, tears. What a wonderful girl. Funny as hell. I see why you like her.”

  How green was my envy?

  Dave fell asleep but never forgot. The Vesuvian lunch would burn so strongly in his memory that years later, as a food writer with the Toronto Star, he would bring it back to life in words.

  * * *

  —

  On our last night in Sorrento, we boarded a chartered bus for an outdoor nightclub with a live band. The cocktails were as sweet and green as we were. The MC invited the patrons to play a vaguely fetishistic game where we threw our shoes into a pile, then tried to match them with their owners; Nan easily snagged and returned my size-twelve pontoons. The game seemed like a harmless icebreaker to induce people to interact, so why did my warped mind flash images of Auschwitz?

  Soon all of us were up dancing. Sally and I were both shortsighted, and we removed our geeky glasses, trading half-blindness for semi-coolness. Through the mild blur of my peripheral vision, I discerned a swarm of predatory Italians circling our girls. Robin was swooning for a swarthy, black-haired stud who thrust out a red rose, picked off the thorns and offered it to her. Asked to go for a walk, she demurred, settling for a kiss. When Will counterattacked, asking an Italian girl to dance, her bodyguard father exploded into indignant English: “You are a fool!”

  Out on the street, the Italians perched on their Vespas, revving the engines. Names burst like Roman candles—Marcello! Vittorio! Armenio! I was stunned when Nan, Annabel and Kat straddled the bikes, arms ringing waists, and evaporated into the Sorrento night. “We’ll never see them again,” sighed Sean.

  Sally resisted the call of the Vespas. But if she was being faithful, to whom? After a while, the girls returned unmolested, but an unfamiliar tension filled the big bus back to the hotel. They had left us out in the cold, and we were steamed.

  * * *

  —

  In early July, shortly after Sally’s departure, Toronto was trapped in a greenhouse of asphalt-melting heat. Experiencing the passing of time as an infant crawling across a desert plain, George retreated to the backyard pool of 189 Gordon Road, roasting on an air mattress, brooding over a single question: Is this the start of my life, or the end of it?

  For months, George and Sally had danced around the subject of marriage, both waiting for George to make the engagement official. Ever since she left for Europe, he had clung to one grounding thought: If I can make something happen with Sally, maybe I’ll have something solid to build my life on.

  On the blazing afternoon of July 11, he crossed the threshold of the University of Toronto student health services on Huron Street and took the uneasy chair opposite the desk of Dr. Wodehouse. He calculated that it was only the second time he had gone for what he really wanted. But before George could speak, the doctor read his mind: “Do you intend to marry Sally?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Silence.

  “When?”

  “Not until she has finished nursing school.” Then he added, “At least.”

  The doctor knew that an outright no might lead to an elopement; at the same time, he withheld an unequivocal yes. And so, feeling expertly managed, George carried from the office a suspended sentence: “Let’s wait and see.”

  On the drive home, George wondered if he should delay his formal proposal until Sally’s return on August 30. But the gap felt unbearable; any day now, if the dark, foreboding dream of Christmas night was real, he could lose her forever. He thought of phoning Sally in her Rome hotel, then restrained himself: she might be out, and there was no privacy in his own house that would allow him to talk freely. Worst of all, his desperation might alienate Sally; there was nothing good, nothing strong, nothing desirable to be found in the needy quaver of a young lover’s voice.

  He might have settled on August 18, the second anniversary of their blind date, but he was too geared up to remember. And so he targeted Monday, August 12, a full month after his meeting with the doctor, as the day he would call Sally, surprise Sally, win Sally, save Sally, once and forever after.

  In his basement cave, he fed a sheet of paper into his Underwood typewriter. He addressed the letter to Sally’s Venice hotel where she would arrive on July 19. As he sealed the envelope, he scribbled on the back flap, like a teasing headline: “He brought it up. I didn’t.”

  Relaying the recent scene in her father’s office, complete with dialogue, he signed off with the words, “Now that your father knows, the obstacles are starting to fall away. I truly hope that now it’s only a matter of time.”

  * * *

  —

  On the morning of July 12, our quartet of buses tooled along the auto-strada, honking as we passed and repassed one another, heads thrust out windows, thumbing noses and pulling gargoyle faces like renegades from kindergarten. Nikki was singing “Arrivederci Roma,” and we hadn’t even arrived yet.

  A barely controlled madness drove the traffic through the stone labyrinth of the Eternal City. Misreading the signs, we navigated by dead reckoning, the passing rows of slim cypress trees reminding me of the final scene in Spartacus where crucified slaves lined the Via Appia like telephone poles. Near the train station we found the Hotel Nord Nuova Roma where prostitutes had picked off generations of departing soldiers. The Sorrento Vespa gang had tracked down Kathy, Kat and Nikki all the way to Rome. From her window, Kat threw her wristwatch down to Vittorio on the street and he threw his back up. Time travel.

  Three days of intensive sightseeing were laid on, but first Nick urged us to “get up for the B.” It was a tradition: as each of his four tours passed in succession through the city, Bernie, the silver-headed founder of the Odyssey, hosted his annual sweet vermouth party designed to impart “European sophistication” to immature colonials. As part of our class training, future leaders needed to learn how to hold their liquor, so we were told to assemble in Bernie’s sweltering room in the late afternoon. Holding court like a Roman senator, Bernie forgot we were young, hot, dehydrated and exhausted, not to mention that most of us had been baptized with alcohol in the temple of the Raffaello.

  We guzzled the vermouth like liquid candy until the room swayed and hummed. Clanking shut the wrought iron door of the lift, Sally and I weaved back to her room, passing on dinner. This was my firs
t time alone with her in a bedroom, but even if I could have my way with her, what way would that be? I had received a letter from my mother and, on some moronic impulse, pulled it from my pants pocket; when Sal suggested I write back right then, I agreed.

  It turned out I was too buzzed to write, so she produced a sheaf of blue onionskin letterhead that she had lifted from the Raffaello. Curled on the bed, she nibbled the tip of the ballpoint pen: “I’m ready to take dictation, Doctor FitzGerald.”

  My baby, she wrote me a letter.

  As I confessed to the unfolding abandon of the past ten days, she scribbled it all down, editing out the slurs. What the hell, back home, my self-prescribing physician father was shooting and swallowing all known brands of narcotic, so my escapades qualified as child’s play. Sally folded the letter into an envelope, rose from the bed and moved to the window. Looking down on a group of fallen women, all kohl-eyed and fish-netted, she let loose into the ochre Roman sunset: “Quanto costa, bella?”

  * * *

  —

  Rome,

  July 12

  Dear George,

  I was so happy to get your July 3 letter that I started to cry. It was so great to hear from you and such a sweet letter. Thank you, love.

  I think maybe you’d better “shoot your mouth off” that we’re engaged because everybody on the trip now knows. And it wasn’t me who said it first. It was Robin. It is quite neat that all the kids know. When word first got out, a couple of the boys asked me, “Are you really engaged?” My answer was “Yes, but not officially.” So they all have been really nice to me, and not serious.

  Actually the trip is really great cuz there are only a couple of girls and a couple of guys who are after a playmate. So most of the time as a whole we are one big happy family.

  The first night on the boat was a real drag. I missed you so much. And to top things off, I couldn’t sleep. Well, the second night was a bit better but by the third night things were fine. That’s when I started staying up late. I’ve been to bed once since then at 12:30. Then the earliest was 2:30. But the average has been about 3:30. One night I made it up till 8 a.m. That day the trip set a new record. Nobody made it up for lunch.

  The bar on the boat was great. My favourite drink was a daiquiri. I had at least three every night. You should try them. They’re great.

  The weather was fantastic. Only one day was a little foggy. The water was really quite calm. I got such a great tan last week. I’ve got freckles all down my arms, let alone on my face and back and chest. Guess what! I burnt me boobs again. I had a slight tan from the paper bikini but it was not enough. One day it was really sunny but with a fair breeze. And the sun just slipped down the top of my shirt and I got quite a badly burned chest. I wish you were here to help me peel it. I don’t like doing it myself.

  Well, anyhow, we got off the boat on Tuesday at Naples and it was stinking hot. At least 110 degrees F. We picked up the buses. Two are brand-new and the other two are a couple of years old.

  We just had our first meeting with Bernie. God, he talks a lot. I had to fight to stay awake.

  Well, like I was saying, the buses are okay. They have radios and they’re quite comfy, seven to a bus. So it’s not too bad.

  So we left Naples and went to Sorrento. My room was really great. I had the biggest balcony in the hotel. But I wasn’t there long enough to enjoy it. The first night in Sorrento we went for a walk and then down to a bar for a drink. Well, that night was kinda dull. The next day, which was Wed., we went to Mt. Vesuvius and Pompeii. It was really interesting but it was so hot that not much went in after about an hour.

  Oh, there was this guide up at the top of the mountain. He was a really dirty wop (please excuse the expression but it’s easier to say and write than an Italiano). Well, I was among the first ten at the top of the crater. So he took people by the hips and sat them on the edge of the mountain. Then he would blow smoke in between their legs and it looked like the mountain was smoking. He did this to about 10 kids. To each one he said pull down your pants and then you can see the effect better. Well, nobody did! But he decided to try one more person and the stupid wop picked me. Fortunately I was surrounded by a couple of guys and when I said no, they protected me. I was so fed up with that damn wop I wanted to go over to the edge of the crater and kick him in the nuts. But I didn’t.

  So we got back to the hotel around 5 and buggered about till dinner at 8. After dinner some of us went down the street to the bar and we sat and drank until about 1. Guess what I drank. Beer! I like Italian beer better than Canadian but I’m still not too keen on it. I came back to the hotel and ended up talking to the girls till about 3. Then I hit the sack.

  The next day Thursday was to be a free day. Well, it was free alright. Nick and Tammy were going out with Rafaele the guide. Ralph (I speak of him as that cuz it’s easier) wanted to take the whole tour out for lunch but that was impossible. So all the girls’ names were thrown in a hat and the boys’ in another hat. My name was drawn along with a boy and I figured what the hell I might as well go out to lunch with them. I thought it would be a real laugh.

  Well, it was not only a real laugh but a smash hit. Never in my entire life (wow, all of 18 years) have I seen so much food and vino as well as eaten and drunk so much of it. I’ve got to tell you that the whole thing from the beginning cuz it’s so unreal. And no kidding, all of it is true.

  I started this letter at 2 p.m. and it is now 11:30 p.m. You see, hon, I’ve been writing on and off whenever I had a chance. But I have to go to bed now cuz tomorrow we are going on the five-hour Forum tour. Ugh! So I’ve got to get some sleep so I look half decent for you when I come home on Aug. 30.

  I’ll dream about you. I have already a couple of times. I’ll continue writing tomorrow.

  Night, hon. Be good. I love you.

  Sal

  * * *

  —

  Saturday night

  Hi, hon, it’s me again. I’ve got lots to tell you about what we did today, but first of all I’ve got to finish what I started yesterday. So here goes. By the way, would you please keep all my letters and cards. I want to use them for my diary cuz I’m too lazy to write another one.

  Well, here is the lunch with Ralph and his family. We went to his family winery near the foot of Vesuvius. It wasn’t all fancy or anything but it was nice and clean. Well, as soon as we sat down they brought us wine. It looked just like apple juice and it was really good. Well, the first course was spaghetti with baby clams and sauce all over the top. Really yummy. The next course was funny kind of fried chicken and croquette potatoes. The chicken was the best I’ve ever had in my life. Really good. The third course was fish. It was good too. Meanwhile, our wineglasses were never empty.

  The fourth course was awful. I didn’t like it. It’s hard to describe, but here goes. It was really rich cheese on top of a piece of bread. Then it was coated in eggs and flour and fried like French toast. I didn’t like it but I ate most of it because I would have hurt Ralph if I didn’t eat it. The fifth course was a huge plate of baby clams and mussels all sautéed in butter and garlic and lemon. Really, really good. We’ll have to have baby clams next time we go out for dinner. The next course, which is the sixth, was ham and cheese. Nothing too exciting. The seventh course was a kind of donut with rich rum cream filling in it. It was kind of good. The eighth course was cakey ice cream, you know, ice cream with cake around it. It wasn’t bad either. Don’t forget the wine that kept being poured down our throats. It was great.

  Well, after the eight courses Ralph decided he needed coffee and champagne. Even it was good and you know how much I hate champagne. So that was my lunch. It took four hours to eat it. We were gone altogether for seven hours. It was the largest damn lunch I’ve ever had but it was great. I loved every minute of it, and I didn’t eat for a day after that. I think altogether I had about three dozen clams. They were great. You know how much I eat once I get going. Well, everything that I’ve said is true so you can imag
ine what a pig I made of myself. But everyone else was stuffing themselves too so what the hell. I had fun.

  We got back to the hotel at 7 and dinner was at 7:30. Well, forget dinner. I had a shower and got cleaned up instead. At 9 we all set off back to Sorrento or wherever the hell it was for this really cool nightclub. It was really nice. But the Italian boys, there were thousands. Only three girls, Barb, Jane and I, refused to dance with them. We stuck with the Canadians. The band was great and the atmosphere was supposed to be good but all the boys (ours) were so pissed off at the girls cuz they all had about three guys each and they danced with them all at once. It was really quite funny to see. Robin had a really hunky-looking guy. I don’t know whether he was a wop or not but he was really tall and good-looking. She really had fun. But so did all the other girls except for the three of us who stuck with our guys. We danced and had fun but not really as much as the other girls. I found I got so depressed and lonely because I wasn’t on the go. But the place was kinda a cool place to go to. Good for a laugh but that’s about it.

  So anyway, I think I best go now. I’ll tell you about Rome in a couple of days. Please keep my letters. Don’t forget, and don’t forget that I love you and only you.

  I’m being good and loyal. So don’t worry. Please just love me when I come home on August 30.

  All my love, Sal XXOO

  P.S. Here is a dollar so you can buy some stamps. Please could you send me some orange and yellow pre-sweetened Kool-Aid? We don’t like aqua minerale. It tastes like soda water. I love you. I always will. Don’t forget.