Kissing in Italian

by Lauren Henderson

  “Che bella nera,” I hear someone comment, which means “what a beautiful black girl”; it sounds distinctly odd, but we’ve learned here that it isn’t meant badly, just a statement of fact in this country. Kendra doesn’t bristle as she hears it.

  We come to a halt by the fireplace. Catia is embracing the principessa, lightly holding her upper arms while airkissing each of her cheeks. And the principe, seeing us file up and stop in front of him, removes his arm from where it was nonchalantly resting along the wide marble mantelpiece and holds out both hands to greet us all.

  “Ma che bellezze!” he exclaims, smiling widely. “What beauties!” he’s saying, and he has such an air about him that even Paige and Kendra, who are by now utterly accustomed to hearing lavish compliments in Italian, preen and giggle as he places his hands on their shoulders and kisses their cheeks. And then they fall back, and I have my first proper look at the principe.

  I saw photographs of Luca’s father on my first visit here. He barely looks any older, even though those were taken years and years ago; his frame hasn’t bulked out at all, his navy silk suit fitting him sleekly. His tight dark curly hair has silver laced through it, but it looks distinguished, and his brown eyes are bright and sparkling with life. His tan is deep mahogany, his teeth white as an American’s, and charm rolls off him in waves.

  What a contrast to Luca, I find myself thinking as the principe’s warm hands close briefly on my shoulders and his lips touch my cheeks. He smells of tobacco and very expensive aftershave. It’s as if Luca doesn’t want to be anything like his father—easy, charming, friendly. As if he’s deliberately chosen to be difficult, grumpy, offish so that no one can possibly say he’s like his dad.

  To my enormous relief, the Principe di Vesperi doesn’t pay me any more attention than he does to the other girls; we all get a quick up-and-down flick of his bright eyes, a frank assessment of our looks, before we politely greet the principessa. You have to kiss everyone twice every time you meet them; I suppose I’ll eventually get used to it, but it still feels strange.

  “The young people are on the terrace,” the principe says to us. “You will want to join them, not stay here with the boring old ones, eh?”

  I glance at the principessa, whose face is a polite mask. I can’t read how she feels about me returning to her home, about her husband greeting me, kissing me on both cheeks. She’s far too well bred to show emotion. She seems very pale, but she’s always pale. Luca gets his looks from her, his white skin, his slanting blue eyes, his high cheekbones. But her skin feels paper-thin as I brush it with my lips, fragile as tissue.

  I back away as swiftly as I can. I don’t want to stay with them, but I don’t want to go outside either and see Luca: I feel like I’m caught between a rock and a hard place. The other girls swirl around me, sweeping me along with them, moving outside. Paige exclaims happily as she sees Leonardo and Andrea, who are both dressed in suits and ties and look, I have to say, absolutely gorgeous.

  “Suits make boys look so grown up,” I observe to Kelly, trying to sound nonchalant, as if I’m completely okay with the introduction to the prince; I’m impressed that my voice comes out relatively normal, though I have to clear my throat first.

  The group of young people outside is just as smart and shiny and scary as the adults in the Gold Salon. Thank goodness Kelly and I have each other. We stand a little back as Paige plows happily toward the boys she knows; I glance at Kelly and see that she’s staring longingly at Andrea.

  “Did you ever text back Giacomo?” I ask her, trying to jolt her thoughts to a boy who’s shown interest in her, away from one who hasn’t.

  “Who?” She hasn’t taken her eyes off Andrea, who’s fiddling with his silk tie, fashionably loose around his tanned throat, as he fixes his gaze on Kendra.

  “The guy at the party who took you outside to see the stars!” I remind her, a bit crossly, because I do think she’s being silly, crushing on Andrea like this when there are plenty more fish in the sea. Nothing like pointing out mistakes someone else is making to help you ignore your own.

  “He was cute,” I continue. “He had very curly hair—you know! He definitely texted you the day after. Did you ever get back to him?”

  She shakes her head.

  “You should,” I say firmly. “He seemed really nice. You know, sometimes it can really help to go out with one boy if you, um, aren’t getting anywhere with another.”

  I’ve never been this blunt with her: somehow, it’s a lot easier in the twilight, when we’re standing next to each other, not face to face, to blurt out the truth. And I genuinely want to make sure she has the best time possible in Italy, not waste it mooning over a boy who only has eyes for Kendra. Kelly’s still looking at Andrea, who’s running his fingers through his hair as he looks longingly at Kendra. True to her promise to me to back off Andrea, Kendra is paying him no attention, but in the end, that’s only made him even keener.

  “It doesn’t even matter that she’s sneaking out to see Luigi,” Kelly observes quietly. “She doesn’t pay any attention to Andrea at all. Just her being there is enough for him. If she weren’t here … that’s the only thing that would possibly make him notice me. If she just—weren’t here.”

  “Kelly,” I start to say, but just then there’s a flurry of movement in the group, and Evan’s blond head appears. He’s dressed up as best he can, in a shirt and chinos; backpacking around, he didn’t have anything smart, and Leonardo found the idea that he should lend Evan something to wear hilarious, as Evan’s built so much more broadly than he is.

  Still, the Italian girls don’t seem to mind that Evan’s not up to their sartorial standards; in a flash, they’re fluttering around him like pretty butterflies. I don’t see Elisa, and for a moment my heart lifts: but then, as the crowd moves and re-forms, I spot her a few steps down, the thinnest, most tanned, most made up, chic-est girl in the whole group. The silk layers of her minidress simply emphasize how thin her arms are, brown sticks laden with bangles. And I notice her arms particularly, because they’re gesticulating, waving in the air, using the movement to isolate the person she’s talking to from the rest of the group.

  Of course. It’s Luca.

  I take some comfort in the fact that, though Elisa has singled him out like a skinny, starving lioness cornering her prey, he looks bored and irritated. His mouth is set in a straight line: his shoulders, propped against the side of the stone staircase, are like a clothes hanger from which the rest of his body is drooping limply, as if the only reason he isn’t crumbling to the ground is that his bones are stacked one on top of the other. His black hair tumbles thickly forward. I can’t see his eyes at all. The glowing red tip of Elisa’s cigarette traces circles in the air, a force field she’s building to ward off anyone getting close to Luca.

  But Luca isn’t smoking himself, I think suddenly, my heart racing. He’d always have been smoking before in this kind of situation—

  “Hey, Violet!”

  I jump, jolted out of my thoughts, to see Evan standing in front of me, holding out his hand.

  “Wanna dance?” he’s saying.

  I stare at him blankly. Then, around the side of his big frame, I see Kendra being waltzed around the terrace by some boy I don’t know.

  “Ev!” Paige reprimands her brother, giggling. “You say, ‘May I have the pleasure of this waltz?’ ”

  Evan goes one better: he bends over in an awkward bow as he repeats the words. I don’t feel remotely like dancing, but how can I possibly say no? So I take his hand and make a sound like “Oof!” as he pulls me toward him. I put my other hand up on his high wide shoulder and do my best to follow him as we trip and stumble at first, trying to get the one-two-three rhythm of the waltz. I’m mainly worried that he’ll tread on my feet, but he doesn’t, by some miracle, and gradually we sort of get it; I look up at him and he’s grinning down at me.

  “Paige dared me to ask someone to waltz,” he says confidingly, “and I picked you ’cause y
ou’re such a good dancer.”

  “Thank you!” I say, flattered.

  “No, thank you,” he says, swinging us in a semicircle to make a turn and avoid crashing into the wall of the castello. “You’re actually kinda making me look like I know what I’m doing.”

  So all of a sudden, I’m waltzing on the terrace of a castle. Disney Cinderella in her pale-blue dress, dancing with her prince, her skirt belling out. In my ideal picture, it would be Luca I’d be waltzing with, his lean, slim body in my arms, not Evan’s wider frame, his big solid shoulder under my hand.

  But Luca didn’t ask you, I tell myself firmly. He can’t ask you. He’s probably too bloody cool to dance in public anyway. Remember what you just told Kelly? It doesn’t help to moon after a boy you can’t have when another boy likes you and isn’t afraid to show it.

  Because I’m definitely beginning to get the sense that Evan likes me. And if Luca’s hanging out with Elisa, coming to pick her up from the villa to make the point to me that she has a date with him, why shouldn’t I dance with Evan, smile up at him, have a good time instead of moping around?

  My body lightens, my steps move faster. Evan’s whirling me around enthusiastically, his confidence growing. Out of the corner of my eye I see other couples dancing; who knows how the waltzing started, but now it’s snowballed, reached critical mass, and lots of other twinned shapes spin by us. They’re just shapes because Evan’s bulk blots out almost everything else: I focus on his wide, tanned neck, remembering that in ballet class years ago, the teacher said to look at a fixed point when you do pirouettes to stop yourself from getting too dizzy.

  The adults in the Gold Salon notice the dancing outside and cluster at the windows to watch. I’m clinging to Evan for dear life now, a fistful of his shirt in one hand, his big fingers wrapping around the other, and I’m laughing with sheer pleasure and exhilaration at the speed, at the fact that Evan is now physically lifting me off my feet and whirling me every time we do a turn, his arm around my waist picking me up as easily as if it were a lever. When we finally stop, I’m still clinging to him, laughing and laughing, and Evan’s laughing too.

  I tilt my head back, gasping for breath, and past Evan’s shoulder, I see the principe and the principessa standing at one of the windows. The principe is clapping enthusiastically, eyes and teeth sparkling, applauding our efforts, looking from side to side at his guests, exhorting them to clap too; the ones who aren’t are raising their Prosecco flutes to us like salutes. Golden light floods out from the salon, the spectators lit up as if they’re onstage, not us. The principe looks like the conductor of an orchestra, gesturing at us all, and the principessa—

  Oh. She’s the only one who’s doing nothing. Not clapping, not raising her glass. Her hands are empty, and she’s looking straight at me, her face dead white, framed by hair that’s dyed too black, making her look like a ghost. I flinch as I meet her eyes.

  I’m not dancing with your son! I think frantically. I’ve stayed away from him. And I was invited here by your husband! None of this is my fault.…

  Then I realize that the prince is looking directly at me too. Husband and wife stare at me, panting, still twined in Evan’s arms. I feel horribly self-conscious: I know I’m sweaty, but hopefully I’m not too shiny, as the evening breeze is cooling me down. The principe, having whipped up his guests to applaud, is taking this opportunity, while they’re all distracted by the spectacle, to observe me, his gaze sharp and focused, and I understand with a shock that his seemingly nonchalant greeting earlier was all an act, a cover-up for the chance to scrutinize me when he could do so without anyone else realizing.

  Anyone, that is, but his wife. Because now the pressure of her stare eases as she glances at him instead. Her husband, looking at a girl who might be his daughter. I can’t imagine what it feels like for her.

  And another thought hits me now like a physical blow as I look at the man who could be my father. Was this all planned? Did he come back from Florence because he heard of my existence? Did he make his wife throw a party so he could get a look at me in the most completely unsuspicious, neutral way possible?

  I tear my head away swiftly, burying it in Evan’s shoulder.

  “Hey!” he says above me, sounding understandably surprised. “You okay? What’s up?”

  “Everyone’s looking—I feel shy,” I manage to say.

  It’s not completely a lie. He turns me with him, his arm still around my waist, walking away from the lit windows and into the comparative shadow at the back of the terrace.

  “Complimenti!” a high voice trills, and I look sideways as we pass to see Elisa smiling at us, extremely complacent to see me in another boy’s arms.

  And beyond her, Luca, not smiling: positively glowering. I can see his eyes now, and they’re burning as blue as if there were a miniature gas flame in each one. I feel scorched by the anger in his stare.

  How dare he be angry with me! At this moment, I swear, I’m done. If I could run away right now and never come back, I would. Because I never want to see any of the di Vesperis again. I cling to Evan as if he were a life raft in choppy seas.

  “Violet!” Kelly hisses next to me. She’s a little out of breath, which surprises me, as I don’t think she was dancing. She pushes her hair back with both hands as she says quickly:

  “Come with me! There’s something I really need to show you!”

  Cougar Bait

  I feel awful, because Evan’s been so nice; asking me to dance, which is always lovely—no one likes to feel like a wallflower. And he was kind enough to whisk me off the center of the terrace when I was overwhelmed by the di Vesperi family drama. But if Kelly’s found something out, there’s no question that I have to go with her.

  “I’m just nipping to the loo,” I say to him, and as I slip away with Kelly, a woman with hair dyed blond, her makeup plastered on, sashays across the terrace toward Evan. She’s wearing a purple knit dress that clings to every single curve of her tall body and she’s smiling at Evan like Shere Khan in The Jungle Book when he’s contemplating eating Mowgli.

  “ ’Ello!” she says to him flirtatiously. “You dance very well. My name is Sunny, what’s yours?”

  “Wow, cougar alert!” I mutter to Kelly, who looks back and giggles.

  “Hey!” Paige says as we pass, clutching Leonardo’s arm with one hand and pointing at Evan with the other. “Did you see? Evan’s got a new dancing partner!”

  It’s another waltz: Sunny’s drawing Evan onto what’s become the dance floor, sliding one hand around his neck to pull him close.

  “She’s, like, ancient!” Paige howls happily. “Where’s my phone? I’ve got to take photos!”

  Kelly pulls my arm to guide me along the terrace, leading me into a room with paneled walls that smell deliciously of wood polish. I imagine an army of cleaners tearing through the castello over the last week now that the principe is back with his money to take care of things. It reminds me of the animals and birds in Disney films that whisk away any dirt in the blink of an eye. Hard not to keep thinking of fairy tales when you’re at a party in a castle.

  “Here!” Kelly says eagerly, almost running over to the far side of the room, dodging past a grand piano with a silver candelabra on top and a mahogany stand carrying a huge, elaborately decorated Chinese vase that must be three feet tall. “I found some photo albums, and you’re not going to believe what’s in them.…”

  She reaches a long table against the far wall, laden with leather-bound albums embossed in gold. I open one at random. Each page of photos has its own translucent protective covering sheet, and I raise the one on top to see neatly pasted black-and-white photos with those old-fashioned white scalloped edges. The middle one is a trio of girls, their arms around one another’s waists, dressed up in forties-style wide skirts and small fitted jackets, smiling at the camera. Their hair is curled, their faces are bare of makeup apart from lipstick and powder, and the one on the right is the spitting image of me. I slam the album
shut with a crash.

  Dust puffs out.

  “I don’t want to see any photos that look like me,” I say in a small stifled voice. “It’s making me feel weird.”

  “No, that’s not what I was going to show you,” she reassures me. “But—”

  Her hand slides across the page of the album that she’s just opened, covering the picture.

  “It’s not going to make you feel amazing, though,” she continues nervously.

  “Let me see,” I say curtly, before I can change my mind.

  She moves her hand away from the page that she was concealing, and I lean over to look. It’s a color photo of the principe. Younger, with no gray in his hair, and fewer lines around his eyes. But really, apart from those small differences, he hardly seems to have changed.

  “He looks almost the same, doesn’t he?” Kelly comments, as if reading my thoughts. “That’s what happens when you have tons of money.” She grimaces. “You should see my dad in a photo from nearly twenty years ago. You wouldn’t even recognize him.”

  The principe is smiling broadly at the camera. He has one arm around a beautiful girl who’s towering above him in her high heels. They’re clearly at some sort of fashion show. She’s in a tiny, acid-bright lace dress, her legs seeming endless, her shoes a tangle of little straps reaching up to mid-calf. Behind them is a catwalk; I can make out the rows of delicate gold chairs behind it. It looks as if the fashion show has finished; there are groups of people milling around, chatting.

  And on the far right—Kelly’s pointing her out, but I’ve found her already, I know now why she’s showing me the photo—on the far right is my mum. Wearing another tight little lace minidress, her long slim body making it look elegant rather than vulgar. Her blond hair is teased up into a crazily high arrangement like the one on the model the principe is embracing. Mum’s talking to another woman, a scary-thin blonde with poker-straight hair in tight leather trousers and so much black liner around her eyes that she looks like a full-on Goth.