“Wow! Okay. Grazie molto!”
“Mio piacere. My pleasure. Now, let me know if you need help translating the flavors or if you want a recommendation.”
I look at the list of flavors. Except for “cioccolato,” “vaniglia,” and “pistacchio,” I can’t figure out what the other flavors are.
“What’s ‘nocciola’?” I ask Lorenzo.
“Hazelnut. That’s my favorite.”
“And ‘fragola’?”
“Strawberry.”
I don’t want to ask Lorenzo what every flavor is so I opt to go with his favorite “nocciola.”
Lorenzo orders “stracciatella” or chocolate chip, as he tells me.
“I thought ‘nocciola’ was your favorite?”
“It is, but I like to experiment.”
I taste my nocciola gelato. “Yummy!”
“Heavenly, right?” Lorenzo laughs.
“Si, molto!”
“Wow! The power of gelato never ceases to amaze. You’re speaking in Italian.”
“I’m picking up a few words here and there.”
“Your mother never spoke to you in Italian? She’s from Italy, right?”
“Yes, but since my father didn’t know much Italian, she felt she had to speak English most of the time. I do know a few words that I have heard her and my aunt say repeatedly, but that’s about it. Being here is making me want to take lessons.”
“You should. What better place to take Italian lessons than in Italy?!”
“Oh, I didn’t mean while I’m here. I meant when I go back home to California.”
“Why shouldn’t you take a lesson here? It’ll be fun. I have a good friend who offers private lessons. I’m sure she can fit you into her schedule.”
“That’s okay. I appreciate the thought, Lorenzo, but I have my hands full as it is between interviewing Francesca and working on her autobiography. I’ll be heading back to New York in a few weeks. There’s no sense in starting lessons here even if I had the time.”
“Why don’t you extend your stay then?”
“I can’t. I also have to finish up the article I am writing for Profile . My editor gave me an extension when he heard that Francesca wanted me to join her in Italy and begin working on her autobiography. He knew I could get more information for the article and even talk about her home and life here in Rome.”
Lorenzo lets out a long sigh. “Okay. I won’t try right now, but know that I’ll keep trying to change your mind every few days. Trust me, Rome will work her charm on you, and the more time you spend here, the harder it will be to leave.” Lorenzo smiles mischievously.
My heart skips a beat for I’ve already begun falling for the Eternal City, and I can see how the more time I walk along her cobblestone streets, the harder it will be to stick to my guns.
We finish our gelato and walk over to the Pantheon, which is on the left side of Cremeria Monteforte. I stop to take a photo before we head inside.
“The Pantheon is considered to be one of the wonders of the ancient world, and it is the best preserved monument of ancient Rome. It used to be a pagan temple.”
“It’s beautiful. I can’t wait to see what its interior looks like.”
“Pia, I hope you don’t find it presumptuous of me when I give you the historical facts of the landmarks we visit. It’s just that I know Rome so well because I did some of my post graduate studies here.”
“No, I don’t mind. It saves me the money of having to hire a tour guide.” I elbow Lorenzo playfully.
“I knew it. You’re using me. I feel so wounded.” Lorenzo feigns a pained expression and places his hands over his heart. I laugh.
“How long were you studying here?”
“Two semesters.”
“You spent all that time in Rome and you never met Francesca? Didn’t you find that odd? I mean, we know now why she kept her distance from you, but I would think you would’ve tried to see your aunt, who you knew lived here.”
“Remember, Francesca was already living in Sicily at this point.”
“That’s right. I almost forgot. But still, she kept her apartment in Rome; I’m sure she must have traveled up here on occasion. And even if she didn’t, Sicily is just an hour away from Rome by plane. She could have easily flown up to finally meet you in person.”
“I did call to tell her I wanted to meet her in person. But she told me she had to respect her sister’s wishes. Apparently, my mother had made it clear to her at some point that she wanted Francesca to keep her distance from me.”
“And you didn’t question that?”
“I just thought their hostility toward each other was so strong that my mother didn’t want me to have anything to do with Francesca. I was disappointed, naturally. There was nothing I could do about it, so I just let it be.” Lorenzo shrugs his shoulders. The somber look his eyes held earlier is back, and I regret bringing up the subject.
We enter the circular structure of the Pantheon. I don’t want to ruin it for Lorenzo by telling him that I actually read up on this architectural marvel and already know some of its history. I can tell he enjoys giving me his little lectures. So I pretend not to know any of what Lorenzo tells me.
“The Pantheon was rebuilt by the Roman emperor Hadrian around AD 120, and it is on the site of an earlier pantheon that was erected by the emperor Augustus’s general Agrippa. I’m sure you noticed the inscription on the outside of the temple at the top?”
“Yes, I do remember seeing the word ‘Agrippa,’ but of course I don’t know what the inscription says since it’s in Latin.”
“It says that Agrippa was the builder of the Pantheon. When Hadrian rebuilt the temple, he decided to keep the original inscription. That threw historians off for centuries until around 1892 when a French architect was able to discern that all of the bricks used dated from Hadrian’s era.”
“That’s so fascinating!” My awe is genuine here since I didn’t know the fact about the confusion over the bricks.
I stare up at the ceiling, where there is an opening right in the center of the Pantheon’s dome.
“That’s the oculus. Isn’t it amazing?” Lorenzo stares up with me, and for a few moments, neither of us says anything as we watch the blue sky and clouds that the view of the oculus affords us.
Once we get our fill, Lorenzo continues his lecture. “Would you believe the oculus was the temple’s only source of light in ancient times?”
“Well, that explains why they decided to have an opening in the dome.” I can’t help what I’m about to do next; even though I know it’s wrong, I go for it. “I wonder if the opening was intended for more than providing light. I could see the architect or even Hadrian himself having a symbolic reason for having this opening.”
“Pia, you’re absolutely brilliant! Yes, the oculus was also meant to represent God or Heaven’s all-seeing eye.” Lorenzo looks at me with new admiration.
Secretly, I feel a tad bit guilty that I played this little game. Of course, I knew of the oculus’s symbolism from the reading I’d done. I just wanted to show Lorenzo that I’m smart. Then again, why should I care that he knows I have a brain?
We walk over to where the tomb of the famous Renaissance painter Raphael lies. I take a photo, thinking Gregory will want to see this since Raphael was one of his favorites of the Old Masters. But as soon as the thought enters my mind, I remember we’re no longer together. I close my eyes, trying to force out the pain that I’m feeling. Lorenzo is behind me so I hope he doesn’t notice, but he does.
“Pia, are you not feeling well?”
I shake my head no, but I hold up my hand, trying to let him know it’s nothing. I’m about to say so, but I can’t. I open my eyes, and the tears come sliding down.
Lorenzo, ever the gentleman, produces a tissue from his jeans pocket.
“It’s clean.”
“Thank you,” I manage to whisper. I wipe my eyes, but it’s no use. I just keep crying silently. A few German tourists are standing n
ear me, talking animatedly and pointing to Raphael’s tomb as they begin snapping photos with their cameras. It isn’t until they see I’m not getting out of their way that they notice I’m crying. Their fascination with the tomb is then replaced by their fascination with the American girl who’s sobbing. I turn around and walk over to the tomb of two nineteenth-century Italian kings: Vittorio Emanuele II and Umberto I.
I feel hands on my shoulders—Lorenzo’s. His touch is welcome right now. I shouldn’t have lost it on him. He’s the one who should be having a meltdown after learning the truth of his parentage.
“What do you say we get out of here and go for a walk? Huh?”
I nod my head and let Lorenzo lead me out of the Pantheon. We continue walking hand in hand once we’re outside. The sun is getting lower in the sky. I glance at my watch and can’t believe it’s a little after six p.m. I was enjoying myself so much that I hadn’t looked at the time once since we met.
Lorenzo somehow finds a quiet side street. Then again, he not only lived here as a student, but he’s come to Rome many times, since he and Signora Tesca own a home here. He stops and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and matches from his shirt pocket. Placing a cigarette between his lips, Lorenzo lights it then offers one to me.
I shake my head and say, “I don’t smoke.”
“Neither do I, but when you’ve had a day like today, it merits a smoke. Oh, wait. I didn’t mean the entire day. I just meant my morning after Francesca told me she’s really my mommy. The rest of the day has been great. I can’t begin to tell you how much you’ve kept my mind off things, Pia.”
“I knew what you meant. Don’t sweat it. I have to thank you as well for keeping my mind off Gregory.” Even just saying his name hurts. I turn around and pace back and forth, waiting for Lorenzo to finish his cigarette.
“He’s why you cried back there?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that to you and in public of all places! Those German tourists were gawking at me like I was a freak.” I manage a light laugh.
“Tourists,” Lorenzo says with obvious disgust in his tone.
“Hey! I’m a tourist right now, too.”
“Trust me. You’re not like the majority of tourists.”
“Why don’t you like tourists?”
“It’s nothing personal. It’s just that when you live in a city as populated as Rome, they crowd the streets even more. And they move so slowly! I know they’re taking in the sights and aren’t rushing off to work like the residents, but it still drives me insane.”
“Do you consider yourself more Italian than American since you were born here and didn’t go to the U.S. until you were of school age?”
“You’ve been doing your homework on me, I see!”
“Signora Tesca mentioned it to me one of the times I was at the house, waiting for Francesca.”
“Yes, she loves to keep everyone waiting, even her own son. When I blew up at her this morning, I was also mad because she didn’t tell me the truth as soon as my mother died.”
“She was griev—” Lorenzo stops me with his hand.
“Grieving, I know. Whatever. My mother’s been dead now for a few weeks. She could’ve told me by now.”
“Lorenzo, I’m not on anyone’s side, and I know it’s hard for you to do this right now, but try to place yourself in her shoes. You were both mourning the loss of your mother. And Francesca probably didn’t want to add to that grief the explosive news that she is really your mother. She was terribly afraid, too. That’s why she confided in me last night.”
Lorenzo takes a long drag off his cigarette before flicking it into the street. He exhales long and slowly before meeting my eyes. “You’re right. My head knows that, but my heart is still raging. But enough about me. We were talking about you and Gregory. What exactly happened between the two of you? If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.”
“I guess I should talk about it. But I’m embarrassed.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed of, especially with me.”
“I’m almost certain he cheated on me.”
“Almost?”
“I showed up at his place a few weeks ago. He didn’t hear the bell, and the front door was open so I let myself in. When I got upstairs, he was in his studio, painting, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. That bitch art columnist at Profile, Madeline Drabinski, was hanging over him and whispering into his ear. They then giggled. That was all the proof I needed.”
“I take it he swore he wasn’t cheating?”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m a guy.”
“Are you speaking from personal experience?”
“Look, Pia, you said ‘almost certain,’ and then the scene you just described doesn’t have them actually doing the dirty deed. I’m merely guessing that maybe he didn’t cheat on you. That’s all.” Lorenzo shrugs his shoulders and takes out another cigarette.
For some reason, I’m not loving his reaction to what I’ve told him. But I don’t want to upset him any more than he’s already been today, so I refrain from saying anything about this.
“You don’t think he did?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. I wasn’t the one dating him.”
“Just humor me, Lorenzo, and tell me what you think.”
“I don’t know, Pia. Honestly. I have no idea, and I don’t know Gregory. You could be right that they were sleeping together. He felt comfortable enough with her to paint half nude. Then again, some guys don’t care about baring their chests to anyone, especially when it’s hot. Then, there’s whatever she whispered to him followed by their giggling, which could suggest some dirty joke shared between them.”
“Gee, thanks, Lorenzo. I thought you were going to make me feel better.”
“Pia, I’m not going to gloss over the truth just to make you feel better. If I did that right now, you would only feel better for the moment. You broke up with him. It’s going to hurt. That I can speak of from personal experience. I guess what I’ve been trying to say is that it’s hard to say whether Gregory cheated on you based on what you saw.”
“What is your gut telling you? Everyone has a feeling one way or the other. And don’t say that you don’t know Gregory and you weren’t there, blah, blah, blah. Just tell me what your first instinct was when I told you.”
“My first thought was that the bastard was guilty.”
“So why are you even playing devil’s advocate and making me think that maybe he didn’t cheat?”
“I don’t know. Well, I do know. I guess it’s because you didn’t actually see them in the act. But yes, I’m sorry to say I have to agree with your assessment of the situation when you first came upon them.”
I’m getting really annoyed with Lorenzo, and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to hide it much longer.
“Lorenzo, can we please drop this and just go get a drink and some appetizers?”
“Of course. Look, I’m sorry if I upset you.” Lorenzo places his arm around my shoulders as we walk.
“I’m fine. Let’s just have a good time, okay? That’s what we both need anyway, right?”
“I say we both get stupid drunk tonight.”
I laugh, not expecting those words to come out of his mouth.
“When in Rome, what’s that famous saying?” I ask.
“ ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do.’ I guess you’re implying that Romans do nothing but get drunk?” Lorenzo raises his eyebrows.
“No! I forgot what the saying was. I thought for a moment it was, ‘When in Rome, let your worries slide,’ or something like that.”
“Well, the ancient Romans are known for their Bacchanalian orgies in which they drank lots of wine in honor of Bacchus, the god of wine. Modern Romans do like to party, so maybe the proverb is right for this occasion after all.”
“Most people in the world like to party now and again, even workaholics like me. So, shall we head off to the nearest bar, then?”
; “I’ll lead the way.”
Lorenzo keeps his arm around my shoulders as he guides me to our next destination. I push our conversation from my thoughts. As usual, I’m overanalyzing. I need to forget about Gregory while I’m in Rome and clear my head. After all, I am supposed to be on vacation and relaxing. And who better to emulate than Italians? After all, they’ve made relaxing an art form.
28
Francesca
The stillness inside the church of Santa Maria della Vittoria is a much-welcome balm after Rome’s busy streets. Its sumptuously decorated, candlelit interior adds to the serene atmosphere. I always feel comforted when I come here. But today is different from my other visits. I am waiting to make my confession.
Though my apartment is in the Navona district, I always love to venture over to the Repubblica district to visit my favorite church in Rome. The area itself leaves much to be desired, especially near the modern Termini train station. But Santa Maria della Vittoria church is worth the trip. Edgardo came alone today. My other bodyguards have fallen ill with food poisoning. If you ask me, I think they drank too much last night and have hangovers. Disgraziati, I mentally curse them. Remembering I am in church, I quickly ask God for forgiveness.
Edgardo gives me my privacy and waits for me, seated in the last pew of the church. I am wearing my best mantilla made from artisan lace that I purchased on a trip to Venice’s lagoon island of Burano not long after I had become famous. In Italy, many older women still choose to wear mantillas over their heads in church, even though it is no longer a requirement as it was when I was younger. However, shoulders and legs must still be covered. I cannot tell you how many times I see tourists wearing shorts turned away at the entrances of the city’s churches.
For six months, I will be in lutto—wearing black to show that I am in mourning for a loved one. From head to toe, I am clothed in black. My simple black dress has short sleeves, and my sheer black stockings are embroidered with an intricate rosebud design. My Laura Biagiotti eyeglasses have a large, square-shaped frame and are tinted a pale rose, helping to disguise my features. My black lace mantilla also conceals my identity. Beneath it, my hair is pulled up into a severe bun. I hate covering my luxuriant locks. They were meant to be seen. Also, all my fine lines and wrinkles that have formed on my forehead are exposed when my hair is swept off my face. But I must not risk being recognized in church, the one place I cannot tolerate being disturbed.
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