But maybe Tom would reveal hidden depths. A deeply held passion for poetry, perhaps, or an interest in the historical context of the plays.
“What about you, Tom?” she asked as they started down the breakfast buffet. “Why did you enter the Shakespeare Scholar competition?”
To her surprise, the question seemed to unnerve him. “Me?” He looked up from a serious contemplation of the yogurt, fruit, and cheese, his expression startled, as if it had never occurred to him that someone might ask him this question. Finally, he muttered, “Um, well, I guess I just, you know . . . like Shakespeare?”
Kate nodded encouragingly and waited.
But he glanced away, his eyes lighting with interest on a plate of prosciutto. He picked up a piece of the thinly sliced ham and took a cautious bite. “Hey, you should try this. It’s really good.”
“What was your essay about?” Kate persisted.
“Well, I just picked an idea,” he muttered. “I didn’t think about it too much.”
“Did you bring a copy with you?” Kate asked. “I’d love to read it some time.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Now he looked positively hunted. “My hard drive crashed a month ago, so I don’t know . . .”
He was rescued by Lucy. “Well, I’m just glad I won, I really didn’t think I had a chance in the world, to tell you the truth, but here I am in Verona!” she said. “Walking the actual streets where Romeo and Juliet walked! Oh, listen, I have a fabulous idea. Why don’t we all go to Juliet’s House after we eat? We have hours before we have to get ready for the opening-night party, and I just can’t wait to see where all the events of the play took place in real life! Imagine standing on the very spot where Juliet stood when she first met Romeo!”
Her eyes were shining with enthusiasm, so Kate decided not to mention that no one could confirm that a Capulet family had ever lived in the house, that Juliet’s existence had never been proven, or that the famous balcony had been added to the house in 1928.
Instead, she shrugged and said, “Why not?”
Act I
Scene IV
When it came to romance, Kate knew that people preferred illusion to reality. Even when they knew it was illusion, they would always rather be diverted by the magician’s sleight-of-hand than discover how the trick was done.
Case in point: the courtyard of Juliet’s House, where she and Lucy and Tom were now standing.
They had walked across an ancient bridge to get to the part of town where Juliet’s House stood. Sunlight glinted off the water, which ran swiftly beneath the stone arches. Tall, dark green cypresses stood along the riverbanks like arrows, black as shadows against the cloudless blue sky. When they reached the other side of the river, they had wended their way through narrow streets lined with old buildings. They had to inch along behind the tourists who stopped every few feet to consult their maps, but Kate, usually so impatient to get where she was going, didn’t mind. Everywhere she looked, she saw a view that could have been transported directly from a Renaissance painting; everywhere she walked, she felt the mysterious presence of centuries of people walking the same path; every breath she took seemed to smell of dark coffee and fresh-baked bread. A feeling of absolute contentment filled her up and carried her all the way to number 23 Via Capelli, where, at last, they arrived at Juliet’s House.
When they turned down the street and found the right address, they discovered large iron gates that opened into a stone tunnel, which led in turn into a small courtyard. The courtyard was crowded with people taking photos of each other, the famous balcony, and a bronze statue of Juliet. Not one person, Kate noted, was reading the informational signs helpfully posted nearby, or even thumbing through a guidebook. A bustling gift shop was located directly across the courtyard from the entrance to Juliet’s House, and that was what attracted Lucy’s attention first.
“Oh, look!” Lucy said, pointing at a row of tiny corked bottles in the window. Each one was filled with a different colored liquid—amber, ruby, emerald, bright blue—and had a handwritten label that said elisir d’amore. “How cute! But what does”—she frowned slightly as she sounded out the Italian words—“el-ee-zir dah-moh-ray mean?”
“Love potion,” Kate said. She gave a disapproving sniff. “Otherwise known as colored sugar water.”
But Lucy was already pulling out her wallet. “Let me see how much I have on me.”
“You’re just throwing your money away. You could bottle that at home.”
Lucy stopped counting her euros long enough to give Kate a long, searching look. “You’re a very sensible person, aren’t you, Kate?”
“It doesn’t take much sense,” Kate said crisply, “to avoid drinking potions in Verona.”
But Lucy just shrugged and said happily, “Well, I think it’s a great souvenir! I’ll be right back.”
As she darted into the gift shop and Tom drifted away to look at postcards, a tired-looking woman stood on the steps in front of the entrance and called out, “Attenzione! I will begin now my lecture on Juliet’s House.”
A few people moved closer to the tour guide, and Kate pulled a pen and small notebook from her purse to jot down notes.
“You will notice above me the famous balcony,” the tour guide said.
The small group looked up and nodded. It was hard to miss.
“When standing here, one can perhaps imagine Romeo, waiting below, yearning for one single glimpse of his beloved Giulietta—”
Kate shifted from one foot to the other and tried to suppress a yawn.
To her right, a woman was brandishing a camera in the air and yelling, “Sam, Sam! Go stand under that window and let me get a picture of you!”
“—one can perhaps envision Juliet, not quite fourteen years old, waiting breathlessly above us, gazing into her future—”
Kate turned her head slightly to look around the courtyard. Her gaze passed without interest over a stand of postcards, then stopped. In the far corner, a young man was leaning against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, looking completely at ease. He had dark eyes, tousled brown hair, and the classic profile and self-possessed air of a Renaissance prince. In the midst of the courtyard’s hectic atmosphere, he stood still and watchful, only moving to take a bite of the apple he was holding. Even that simple gesture was somehow regal, and Kate suddenly imagined that he might have been transported across time from some earlier, more elegant century. She frowned slightly at this uncharacteristically whimsical thought. Perhaps she had a little jet lag after all.
Then another boy, shorter and with wild black curls, pushed a bike through the crowd with a cheerful “Permesso!” and let it crash to the ground. He said something that made the first boy laugh, then picked up his bike and continued to talk, even as the first boy kept surveying the crowd.
His eyes flicked from one person to the other, seeming to assess each one in turn—and then they met Kate’s eyes, and she found herself staring directly at him. For a long moment, neither one of them looked away . . . then Tom came up to her and the spell was broken.
“I’m going to head back to the villa,” he said, clearly bored. “See you guys later.”
He vanished. Kate could feel, on the back of her neck, that the boy was still staring at her, but she refused to turn around and risk meeting his gaze again. Instead, she trained her attention on the tour guide and took dutiful notes that later made no sense to her at all.
“Ciao, Giacomo.” Benno propped his bike up and leaned against the wall next to the bike with a sigh of relief. It was turning out to be a very hot day, he’d been running errands since eight in the morning, and his day wasn’t even half over yet. “Come stai?”
“Eh.” Giacomo took another bite of his apple, making a face at its tartness, then shrugged. “All right, I suppose.”
“Why so glum?” Benno’s witchy-black eyes glinted with curiosity. “Has the lovely—I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten the name of your latest girlfriend—anyway, has she dumped you already?�
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Giacomo gave him a sidelong glance, one eyebrow raised expressively. He did not get dumped.
“Yes, that is the only reason I can think of for your sadness today,” Benno continued, a little maliciously. “You are pining away for your lost love. . . .”
Giacomo raised both eyebrows at that. He didn’t pine away.
Benno couldn’t resist. “She has broken your heart!” he finished dramatically.
Finally Giacomo was irritated enough to speak. “My heart,” he said loftily, “does not break.”
Benno grinned. “Oh, right. You don’t have one.”
A corner of Giacomo’s mouth lifted in an answering glint of humor. “True.”
“So if the problem is not your latest girl,” Benno persisted, “what is it?”
Giacomo sighed and leaned back against the wall. “Truthfully, I do not know why I am so sad. I know I should be happy.”
“Yes, you should,” Benno agreed. “No work, no responsibilities, no worries, no cares.” He considered all the jobs he was juggling this summer—selling trinkets to tourists at his uncle’s souvenir stand, working as a waiter for his second cousin’s catering company, delivering flowers for the nephew of his aunt’s best friend, and running errands all over town for anyone who would pay him. He considered all that, and thought black thoughts about Giacomo.
But he merely added, “Dolce fare niente. It is sweet to do nothing.”
“You forget that I am going to be held hostage in a dreary seminar room for the next month,” Giacomo said.
“Me, too,” Benno pointed out.
Giacomo shook his head. “I can’t believe you let yourself be talked into taking a class during the summer break. I was not offered a choice, but you could have said no.”
“Someone dropped out and the class has to have an even number of people,” Benno said. He decided not to mention the small stipend he had been offered that would more than compensate for the money he wouldn’t earn. “And it sounded interesting.”
“Interesting!” Giacomo took another bite of apple. “Four weeks of dissecting symbols and metaphors with strangers who didn’t have enough wit to think of a better way to spend their summer!”
“Mmm.”
Four weeks sitting around a cool, dim room in the Villa Marchese . . .
“Summer is a time to have fun, not study,” Giacomo complained.
Four weeks of not running errands all over town or, at least, not running quite as many errands as usual. . . .
“It’s not as if I haven’t heard every thought that could be uttered about that wretched play,” Giacomo went on.
Four weeks of just . . . talking. Not standing in the hot sun selling souvenirs, not washing dishes in a steamy restaurant kitchen, and not carrying heavy boxes up three flights of stairs for old Signora Giordano . . .
“It will be unbearable,” Giacomo finished.
If Benno hadn’t been such a sunny, sweet-tempered, and forgiving friend, he might have punched Giacomo in the nose.
Instead, feeling saintly, he said, “Perhaps you will meet a new girl in this seminar. Perhaps she will be beautiful. Perhaps she will fall in love with you—”
“Undoubtedly she will fall in love with me.” Giacomo grinned as he said it, but Benno knew he was only half joking. Girls were always falling in love with Giacomo.
“But as for being beautiful . . . the girls in this class have already been recognized as brilliant scholars, so the odds are against it.” Giacomo took a disconsolate bite of his apple and scanned the courtyard again.
“Let’s think of happier things,” he said. “The future is not here yet, but the present shows remarkable promise.” He tilted his head toward the crowd. “After all, it’s the start of another summer season and we stand in a courtyard full of starry-eyed, romantic girls from around the world. What do you think, Benno? Do you see any possibilities?”
“I always see possibilities,” Benno said, a little disgruntled. “I would rather see probabilities, as you do. Or absolute certainties. That would be even better.”
“You need to have more self-assurance, Benno. That is the key. No girl is attracted to someone who lacks confidence.”
“Thank you for the advice,” Benno said. “I never knew it was that easy. Of course, now that you’ve pointed that out to me, my troubles have vanished.”
Giacomo smiled to himself. “Well, let’s see if we can find someone for you.” He inclined his head slightly toward a girl with blue-and-magenta streaks in her hair. She was laughing loudly and occasionally giving one of her friends a shove to punctuate a particular comment. “She seems fun.”
Benno looked at the girl out of the corner of his eye. “Too jolly.”
“Mmm, you’re probably right.” Giacomo’s restless eyes landed next on a girl with thick brown braids and plump, rosy cheeks. She wore stout hiking boots and carried a backpack that looked serious enough for a climb up Mount Everest. “And her?”
“Too hearty.”
“Unfortunate,” he agreed sadly. “What about that one?”
Benno followed Giacomo’s gaze. “Ah, si.” This girl looked a little bit more promising. She was tall and slim, with hair the color of dark honey, pulled back in a neat braid. Gold-framed glasses perched on an entirely acceptable nose. She had a rather grave air, as if perhaps she had a secret sorrow that only a warm and witty person such as himself could dispel. . . .
Benno pulled himself up short. He had made the mistake before of creating an elaborate story about a girl based on nothing more than the way she tilted her head or the kind of shoes she wore. He had learned to his sorrow that appearances could be very deceiving. Teresa, for example, had worn a micro-mini skirt and stiletto heels that had given him entirely the wrong impression.
“So, what do you think?” Giacomo asked.
Benno refocused his attention. “She is an American. Without a doubt.”
“And how did you make that deduction?” Giacomo found Benno’s Sherlock Holmes act quite amusing, and encouraged it whenever possible.
Benno gave a disdainful sniff. “She’s wearing khakis.”
“Ah, yes.”
Benno added, his head cocked to one side. “Smart and studious.”
“Based on?”
“Three books stuffed in her purse,” Benno pointed out. “And she’s not just listening to the tour guide, she’s taking notes.” He clucked disapprovingly.
“Mmm.” Giacomo glanced at Benno. “But perhaps you would consider asking her out for a gelato, just to practice.”
But Benno was already shaking his head. “Her nose is too pointy,” he said hastily. “You know I hate pointy noses.”
“What a pity,” Giacomo said, trying not to smile. “I guess today is not your day.”
“Hmmph.” Benno cast one more scowl at the courtyard. Giacomo, he reflected, had it far easier when it came to romance, for he liked all different kinds of girls: tall, short, plump, thin, blondes, brunettes, redheads. Once he had even dated a girl who shaved her head.
But Benno couldn’t lose his heart to just anyone. “It’s a curse,” he muttered.
“What’s that?”
He gave Giacomo a meaningful look. “High standards.”
Giacomo grinned at him. “Who is this perfect girl you keep waiting for? Describe her to me and when I find her, I’ll point her out to you.”
“I’m not looking for perfection,” Benno protested. “I just want someone who is pretty, smart, kind, and loving. Oh, and fun to talk to. And probably talented in some way.” He thought about that for a moment. “Maybe she sings or likes to paint.”
“Nice to see you’re so easy to please,” Giacomo said drily. “Any preference for hair color?”
“Oh, well, when it comes to that . . .” Benno shrugged carelessly. “That’s up to God.”
His mobile phone rang. He took one look at the text message and jumped to his feet. “That’s my uncle, he’s going crazy because I’m not at work yet and I still ha
ve to pick up the letters to Juliet—”
“Don’t worry, I’ll do it for you,” Giacomo offered as he tossed the apple core in a trash barrel. “Who knows, I may meet a new friend inside!” He favored Benno with a wicked smile and headed for the door of Juliet’s House.
By the time Lucy wandered back to Kate’s side, the tour guide was wrapping up her speech by reciting words that she had clearly said many, many times before.
“If you close your eyes, perhaps you can imagine an ardent young man standing here—”
Somewhere behind Kate, a young girl began begging her mother to let her buy a souvenir in the gift shop.
The tour guide’s voice became louder. “—he is hoping, yearning, praying to see the girl of his dreams—”
Somewhere to her left, a group of teenagers shrieked with joy to see one of their friends appear on the balcony above.
“—he does not know what he will do if he can’t catch at least a glimpse of her—”
Somewhere to Kate’s right, a baby began to wail.
And just as she was feeling that she had to get out of here right now before she was driven insane, she saw the boy again. He was in the sunlight now, strolling around the statue, smiling as his eyes swept carefully over the crowd.
Then, just as the tour guide said, “Imagine him, heartsick and lovelorn, standing beneath this very balcony!” the boy stopped, just so, beneath the balcony.
It was a pose calculated to draw attention to him, and it did.
Lucy whispered in her ear, “Look, it’s Romeo come to life!”
Kate rolled her eyes.
After a long pause, the boy began moving toward the crowd. Lucy eased herself to the left, casually placing herself in the perfect position to intercept him on his path. Kate sniffed at this obvious ploy and turned her attention back to the tour guide, who was saying, “Or a balcony very similar to this one, at any rate—”
Kate continued listening as the tour guide moved on to talk about Verona’s social hierarchy in the Middle Ages. It was a thorough, comprehensive, and detailed explanation, and the crowd soon began to get restless. Kate trained her gaze on the tour guide, not deigning to look over to see what kind of silly drama was being played out to her left.
The Juliet Club Page 4