The Deception Dance

by Rita Stradling

  With a pang, I notice Linnie: she's having a full out tongue battle with the man who had wrapped her with attention. Great! This is too much; much, too much.

  I stand up, extract a Euro from my back pocket and whisper, “Excuse me,” to the crowd of guys, blocking my path.

  Before I make it out, fingers clasp my shoulder. I turn to find the Italian man who just called me ‘bella.’ Giving him an uneasy grin, I free my shoulder from his grasp.

  He struggles with his words, “Do not, eh, give they money,” He points to the violinists. "They are... eh, how do you say?” He turns to his friend; they exchange a few quick sentences in Italian and his friend supplies, “Trash.”

  My straight-lipped smile is so cold, I swear, he shivers. I turn from the men and shake my head. When I stop in front of the musicians, I empty my pockets into their open violin case. I only have five and a half Euros, but I hope the men see my gesture.

  I close my eyes, as the sun ducks behind a church. Standing near the violins, I could almost be the bird, lost in the tornado of their music.

  A tap on my arm makes me open my eyes. A preteen girl, who would fit in well with my musicians, holds a white rose out toward my nose.

  I inhale its perfume, then step back and wave. "I have no money,” I say.

  She steps forward, keeping the bloom in my face.

  I pat my pockets and show empty hands. "No money, sorry.”

  She points at a table in the nearby café and holds out the flower. When I don’t take the rose, she repeats the gesture. I stare at the table she’s pointing toward, where a man raises his hand.

  “Oh.” I tap my forehead. "I get it now, that man paid for the flower.”

  She holds out the rose once more; as soon as I take the thorn-less stem, she bustles off. Even though the last thing I want right now is more attention from random men, the scent of the white rose is the perfect complement to my sensory delight. I know the only polite thing to do is to thank the man for the flower, but I don’t want to break the magic. I stand for another song as the first stars peek through the evening sky.

  When I glance back at the table, the man's jacket sits abandoned. I survey the crowd and find the flower guy, walking toward me. He doesn’t look the least bit Italian. His hair is a sandy blond color and combed back. He wears a suit and tie and, though he’s probably only a year older than I, this guy obviously considers himself a man.

  He smiles, and there's no option but to smile back. His grin holds nothing back, as if pure joy explodes across his face.

  All this attention! Maybe these men think I’m some sort of celebrity. I examine my jean shorts, tank and sandals, displaying my chipped blue toe-nail polish. I shake my head. No, no sane person would think I’m rich or famous.

  The man weaves between the crowds that gather in the square, then stops and spins, as if he heard someone call his name. If someone did, I didn't hear it. People all around group themselves together, laughing and drinking. The blond man stares off toward some Italian men. At the center of that group is a face, I can't believe it, but, I recognize.

  The sight makes my already racing heart accelerate. It’s him. I swear it is, the guy I nicknamed Mr. Contacts from the Roman Forum. For some stupid reason, I've been hoping to see him all day. Even though the logical part of my mind kept saying: Rome has a population of two and a half million, there's no way you'll ever see him again. Yet, logic didn't stop my gaze from searching the crowds for his green eyes, while Linnie and I walked from monument to monument, since nine this morning. Now he’s here.

  Mr. Contacts doesn’t notice my staring, but he definitely notices the flower guy. His mouth curls toward the blond man in a feral snarl, like a dog. Maybe he's smiling . . . no, it's a snarl. Turning his back, he taps a large, husky man on the shoulder. Almost in unison, the men surrounding Mr. Contacts, who a second ago looked tensed for a brawl, stomp away.

  The flower guy spares no glance for me as he runs after the men who, one by one, disappear behind an archway. His shirt billows out with every stride until he too sprints out of sight.

  I stare at the archway.

  That was seriously weird. So the flower-guy and Mr. Contacts know each other, or, hate each other; and both, for some reason, want to talk to me. I chew on my lip, a nervous habit I just can't seem to kick.

  I’ve been standing too long in one place; I have that dizzy, not-enough-blood-going-to-my-head feeling. Then my insides clench with the familiar horror movie feeling again; almost as if what I saw didn't really happen . . . I’ll follow those guys, no one will notice me, and if I see a fight, or anything, I’ll turn around. I just want to make sure that it was really him, and that I'm not imagining things.

  I turn. Linnie is still lip-locked with her Italian stud. Chauncey’s cut down to talking to only two men now, one of them, Ramiro. She extends her leg; he grabs her ankle, lifts it and kisses her bare foot. I could just say nothing and leave . . . But, that might scare Linnie and I don't want to do that.

  As soon as the girls are in hearing range I shout, “I’m heading back, see you later.”

  Chauncey favors me with a wave of her hand and doesn’t take her eyes off Ramiro.

  I know I should head out the way I entered, but the archway the men left from is not too far out of my way.

  The arch leads to a tunnel through a building, which then leads to an alley, all of which are deserted. I can hear the crowds in the piazza behind me, but no voices echo in the alley ahead or the street it leads to. I walk into a narrow space between tiny parked cars, lining two sheer walls that loom up on each side of the alley, like a solid earthen trench.

  This was a bad idea. Yeah, Raven, follow the group of guys who look as if they're about to fight into a narrow deserted alley. How come my common sense always returns, five minutes after I've made an idiotic decision? Silent and stealthy? No thanks.

  I calculate that it’s six in the morning in Northern California, so I extract my phone and dial my dad’s number.

  He picks up on the second ring. "Linnie?” for some reason, he sounds worried.

  “No dad, it’s me, Raven,” My voice echoes down the narrow street.

  “Oh, good.” There's a bubbling sound in the background, probably a coffee maker.

  "Already heading to work?"

  “You know me. So, tell me about your day, what'cha been doing over there?”

  “Today was awesome; Linnie almost fell in the Tivoli fountain. For lunch we went to this open market and bought bread and brie and we had a picnic and then we went to the Pantheon.”

  "Was it everything you thought it would be?"

  The alley empties me into a busy street, lined with restaurants. After covering the phone to release a sigh, "Oh, dad, it was better. Hey, here's something for your general contractor brain, the Pantheon is the world's largest unreinforced concrete dome."

  "Don't tell me things like that."

  "Dad, it's been standing for two thousand years, it's not as if it would collapse just because I and Linnie were under it."

  "It's bad enough you girls are six thousand miles away; there are some things I just don't need to know."

  On that, I couldn't agree more.

  "It sounds as if all your reading and research is paying off, anyway." There's a gulping sound. "So, what happened to Chauncey?”

  “She was jet-lagged.” If you can get jet-lagged from vodka. "Hey dad, I just remembered, will you check on Mrs. Trandle for me? I'm worried that she ...”

  "Oh, I meant to tell you," My dad interrupts, "Mrs. Trandle moved into a retirement community."

  "What? When?”

  "Yesterday, I think, I helped her family move a couple of boxes," he says.

  I stop walking. "That's ridiculous, dad. She wasn't planning on moving two days ago. Old people don't just get up and move in a day. And, I'm pretty sure Mrs. Trandle doesn't have family."

  "Birdie, what's the matter? What's this about?"

  "Don't you think it's freaky, dad?
"

  "Not at all. I've never seen you talk to Mrs. Trandle once. When did she tell you about her family or plans?"

  I sigh. "I . . . I guess not. But, did she seem okay about moving?"

  "I didn't see her; she was already gone by the time I helped. Sweetie, what's going on?"

  "Nothing," I say. "Will you just check on her for me, if you get the chance?"

  "Of course. If I see her family again, I'll ask what home she's in. So. . ." he says, in his 'time to change the subject' tone, "What are you doing now?"

  I glance around the street, restart my speed-walking. “Standing in the lobby of our hotel, it’s beautiful. I’m turning in early, dad. Linnie, Chauncey and I are shopping tomorrow and I have a feeling it’s going to be exhausting.”

  Dad chuckles. "I bet. Talk to you tomorrow night,” his tone says, ‘this is not a request’. “And tell that other daughter of mine to not be such a stranger, I expect a couple of calls from her, too.”

  “Sure, I’ll tell her . . .” when she detaches her face from the random Italian man she met tonight. “I love you, dad.” I hang up the phone and sprint the rest of the way to my hotel. A different top-hat-tipping man from yesterday opens the door for me; he doesn’t smile.

  I climb to the fourth floor, enter my room and fall into bed. I stare at the fireplace, now swept of ashes. No one saw the letter before I burned it, and it was all paranoia, anyway. My dad's right, I know nothing about Mrs. Trandle or her family. And, chances are, if I noticed how much Mrs. Trandle needed help, so did others. Paranoia is contagious; I’m sure Mrs. Trandle is fine. Satisfied with my conclusion, I let my eyelids slip closed. What feels like moments later, Linnie wakes me by jumping on my mattress.

  “Oh, I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love!” she exclaims with every jump.

  I open my eyes with some effort and laugh. “Wow,” I manage.

  She jumps on me, knocking the wind out of my lungs, and then continues to suffocate me by squeezing my waist. "Oh, he’s perfect, so Italian, and so sexy.”

  “It seemed as if you two were connecting intellectually” is what I intend to say, but my words don't make it out.

  She releases me, letting me breathe again. "He’s taking me out for a drive tomorrow, an all-day date.”

  “What?” Propping myself on my elbow, I focus on her and whisper, “What about shopping? Are you leaving me alone with Chauncey, all day?”

  She must not hear the desperation in my whisper because she sits up, bounces on her bottom and says, “You two will have so much fun!”

  I roll over and grumble, "Congratulations, I’m going back to bed.”

  Linnie lies next to me and retells every word she and her new ‘love’ spoke to each other; my eyes close and I fall asleep.

  Chapter Three

  Day four

  “Scusi,” a woman says, in a nasal voice.

  I don't look up because some butter dripped off my croissant and is running down the back of my hand. Linnie and Chauncey, who were joking about a guy I don't know, fall silent. We sit street-side, outside a little café, a few blocks from our hotel. Passing cars cool the already warm air of the morning; the only downside is inhaling the frequent gusts of car exhaust.

  "Yeah?" Chauncey says lighting up a cigarette; she smokes French cigarettes, so I get to inhale secondhand smoke all vacation. Yay, me!

  I stuff the rest of my croissant in my mouth, wipe off my hand with a napkin and glance at the woman.

  A short, all-business type woman, who's dressed in a suit that's possibly worth more than my dad's car, is looking at me.

  I nod and hasten to swallow.

  “Great, you’re American. I’m sorry to bother you.” She sounds as if she's from the east coast, perhaps New York. "But, you are gorgeous."

  My eyes widen; I thought she was going to ask me for the time. "Thanks," I say.

  "My name is Nina Brandon; I’m from Paloma modeling agency. I’m in the middle of a shoot.” She gestures over her shoulder. "Have you ever done any modeling?”

  I shake my head.

  “And you live here or in America?”

  “California.”

  Chauncey removes her sunglasses, leans on her elbow and smiles a shoot-ready grin at the woman. "Hi, my names Chauncey Halverson. I’ve actually done some modeling with...”

  “I’m sorry dear; I’m in a real rush,” Nina says, not even glancing Chauncey’s way.

  Chauncey scoffs and says under her breath, “Oh, are you looking for Goth models?”

  “Actually, we’re looking for a more natural look this season," Nina says, while extracting something from her pocket.

  Chauncey drags her cigarette and exhales a cloud of smoke into Nina’s face.

  Nina coughs and gives one brusque wave in front of her face, not wavering her gaze from me. “I’m giving you my card; on the back I’m writing a code so no...” she pauses to peer at Chauncey, "eavesdroppers can say they’re you.” She scribbles something on the back of a business card and places it beside my plate. “I have to run.” Nina smiles at Chauncey and then Linnie. "Your friend is gorgeous!”

  “Don’t I know it!” Linnie shouts after the woman. She shrieks. “Oh my god, Raven, I can’t even believe it. I’ve even heard of Paloma models and I don’t know anything about fashion. You’re going to be famous!”

  Thank goodness, a horn’s honking stops my sister from jack-hammering the hole I’m in any deeper.

  “Oh, it’s him!” She gives me a panicked smile. "How do I look?”

  “Great.” I say while leaning over to kiss her cheek. “Do you have your cell phone?”

  “Yes. Seriously, Raven, sometimes I’m sure you’re my older sister.” The horn honks again. She squeals, “Eeeee, I’m so excited." She jumps up and leaves me alone with Chauncey.

  We sip our coffee drinks in silence. I again ordered an espresso; Chauncey has a ‘non-fat’ latte. I’m pretty sure the waitress didn’t understand what Chauncey meant by non-fat and that her drink is full fat, and perhaps even unpasteurized. I look away to smirk.

  Chauncey breaks the silence first, “I was thinking we could start at Piazza di Spagna, walk down via Borgognona to via del Corso then the driver will pick us up after lunch and drive us to via Margutta. They’re all pretty close together.” She lights up another cigarette. “How does that sound?”

  It sounds like a bunch of streets. “Great, uh, wherever you want to go is fine with me.” Except that I would rather be cleaning out a construction site's porta-potty than shopping with her.

  Just for something to say, I tell her, “In the Piazza di Spagna, there’s a fountain fed by an ancient aqueduct: people drink from it.”

  “Disgusting,” she says, before inhaling her cigarette. Chauncey puts a few Euros on the table. "I’m paying for everything today, and don’t complain, I insist.”

  She stands and I can’t help noticing how much more model-like she is than I. Sure, I’m tall and lanky, skinny all the way up, but Chauncey looks like a polished jewel in comparison. She has the distinct look of someone who's been well-groomed, all her life, never having a bad hair day or a pimple scar.

  The first store we enter in the Piazza di Spagna is as tiny as its store-lady, who does not even raise her head to acknowledge us. Where the woman did not see fit to acknowledge us the walls oblige: there isn't a wall or surface that doesn't reflect some part of me. Past my reflection, in the windows of the outer wall, people talk and eat and play on the famous one hundred and thirty seven Spanish Steps. Waiting at the top of the steps, sits Trinita del Monti Church: her towers poke into the sky like the upheld arms of a waving friend. But with Chauncey's shopping schedule, I'm more likely to have a brain aneurysm than the chance to explore the Trinita del Monti.

  "Hello?" Chauncey mumbles under her breath to me, "My god, these Italian women are such stuck-up bitches.”

  I couldn't agree less: everyone's been really nice to me, the Italian men perhaps too nice.

  When Chauncey turns t
o the store-lady her smile is so sweet you could spoon it into tea. "Can we get some help over here?"

  The store-lady rushes over to help and each time she brings Chauncey a shoe in her size, Chauncey sends her back for another pair; my neck hurts from watching the little woman dash back and forth.

  "You don't talk much," Chauncey says to me as she buckles the strap on a stiletto.

  It's not a question, so I don't answer her.

  She holds out her foot. "What do you think?" The gaudy gold shoe's spiked heel could double as a weapon in one of the books I read.

  "It's not really my style." None of the shoes here are.

  "Yeah," Chauncey says, dragging out the word and glancing down at my flip-flops. "I'm going to buy these." She stands up to stare at herself in the mirror, with puckered lips. “I’m surprised you’re not buying anything, don’t you need shoes?”

  I flip over a tag on a pair of stockings that the store woman had brought over for Chauncey: they cost more than I allotted for my daily spending. I say, "Nope."

  Chauncey pulls off the killer shoes and stacks up five other pairs, before handing me her credit card. "Will you buy these for me? I have to make a phone call," she asks with a toothy smile. "Oh, thank you, you are so sweet.”

  The store lady looks as if she might crumple from the weight, as she carries Chauncey's purchases to the glass counter. "Two thousand three hundred and forty two Euros," she says, over a small old-fashioned cash register.

  "Um." I swallow and glance at Chauncey who is smoking a cigarette; her phone is not even out. My fingers can't seem to let go of the card, so I just hold it up and let the woman pluck it from my still pinching fingers.

  She gives me an 'I don't like you' smile, hands back the card and says, "for your friend."

  Chauncey loads me up with her bags. Sherpa Raven, that's me. When I drop one, maybe on purpose, she insists we return to the car she had reserved for the day. After the dropped bag incident, we start loading each new purchase into the car, which follows us from store to store. Several shops and several bags later, Chauncey asks, "do you know who your roommate is going to be next year?"