It’s War
“Wow,” I breathe as I hang out the window next to Kelly, seeing exactly why she’s summoned me so urgently. I hear a suppressed giggle and turn my head a little to see Paige and Kendra doing exactly what we’re doing—huddling in their own window seat, staring at the same riveting sight below. I dart a quick glance up and am reassured to see that the low, slanting roof projects above us far enough that it would be really hard for someone in the grounds below to look up and spot four excited girls clustering at the top-floor windows, half hidden under the eaves, gawking shamelessly at the exciting view.
Whatever prayers Paige has been chanting in the last hour or so have paid off massively. Because in the gravel parking area behind the stand of pine trees, swinging their jeans-clad legs off Vespa scooters, taking off their helmets and tossing back their hair, are two answers to any girl’s prayer. Two gorgeous, sexy, strutting Italian boys. Just like my mother said.
A tiny sigh escapes my lips.
“I know, right?” Kelly says eagerly beside me, a little too loudly, because Kendra hisses a “Shh!” to shut us up.
The boys are stowing their helmets under the Vespa seats, unzipping leather jackets, adjusting their sunglasses, raking their fingers through their thick hair, taking the steps up to the lawn in a couple of long-limbed jumps.
“They’re like an aftershave ad!” Kelly whispers, ecstatic, into my ear. “Oh my God, the one on the left … he’s soooo handsome.…”
I honestly can’t see much variation between them; they’re both slim, designer-stubbled, in fitted white shirts tucked into their jeans, which no cool English boy would do but which actually looks really sharp. Kelly’s fave has lighter hair—golden maple to the other one’s chestnut—and is slightly shorter, but that’s the only difference I can see.
The boys are almost below us now, striding toward the house. Kelly leans out so far to get a last glimpse of them I put my hand on her arm, worried that she actually will fall: when she eventually hauls herself back into the room, she’s lit up, beaming from ear to ear.
“Oh,” she breathes in enchantment. “They’re so beautiful!”
And then her face falls, so completely that it would be comic if it weren’t poignant.
“Ugh,” she moans in misery. “What am I going to wear?”
By the time we gather in the antechamber to go down for dinner together, just before eight-thirty, it’s clear that Kelly wasn’t the only one of us who was spurred on by the snotty Italian girls and the handsome Italian boys to make a huge effort with her outfit. We have a lot less to work with than the American girls and their two suitcases each, which, judging by the deafening noise that came from across the anteroom an hour ago, were stuffed full of every electrical beauty product in existence. Their hair looks as if they brought a hairstylist along in one of their gigantic suitcases; Paige’s is caught back with a silk scarf and tonged into curls that fall past her shoulders, and Kendra’s is slicked to her scalp and wound into a chignon. They’re in bright little linen-print dresses that show off their smooth limbs, accessorized with pearl earrings for Paige and diamonds for Kendra.
“Hey,” I mutter to Kelly, “we’re the trendy ones. Remember that.”
We may not have the invisibly natural makeup skills of the Americans, but I think we look a lot cooler, with the sooty black eyeliner and artfully messy hair that’s the fashion in London. I’m in a little dress with a square neck and puff sleeves, sort of deliberately old-fashioned, with a huge multistrand fake-pearl necklace a million miles from Paige’s ladylike studs. I’ve painted a beauty spot on my cheekbone, cherry-glossed my lips, and added some fake lashes; I love to dress up, and I’m determined not to be overshadowed. Lily-Rose and Milly and I experimented for years till we found looks that suited us, and we’re proud of our individuality, our personal style.
But Kelly, I’m realizing, is not that confident about her looks. She hates her legs, and insisted on wearing jeans. At least her black top slims her torso, and she’s done that blue and green eyeliner again, which I think really suits her. Plus, we’ve both redone our nails—and our toenails. All considered, I’m proud of the English contingent.
Until we enter the dining room, where the Italians are already gathered, and Kelly goes bright red at the sight of the boys lounging against the polished drinks table, and can’t say a word for a good twenty minutes.
“It’s nice that you dressed up for dinner,” Catia Cerboni says approvingly, coming forward to greet us, razor-thin in a slubbed silk sheath dress and matching short-sleeved jacket. She looks at the two boys, and sighs. “I wish they would put on jackets, but they say it is too hot. Moh.”
“Dai. Mamma, non rompere,” the taller boy says, straightening up at the sight of us. “Ciao! Hello!” He smiles charmingly. “I am Leonardo, and this”—he nods at the lighter-haired boy—“is my friend Andrea. It is lovely to meet you.”
Beside me, Kelly makes a choking sound. I don’t dare look at her. Not only do the boys push off the table and come toward us, they take our hands, one by one, and duck their heads, kissing us on each cheek, saying “Piacere,” which, from my Easy Italian for Beginners book, I know means “It’s a pleasure.” They smell much cleaner than the average English boy, of soap and shampoo and conditioner and aftershave, a waft of pine and citrus and green ferns, delicious and fresh. Leonardo is sexier, in my opinion, darker, with more stubble and deep brown eyes; Andrea is fairer, with pale blue eyes and longer, silky light brown hair.
But if this were my choice of boys for the whole holiday, I think as they hand us flutes of what looks like champagne, pale straw–colored, dense with tiny bubbles, I could scarcely complain. They’re both really hot.
Oh God. I hope I’m not blushing like Kelly! At least I managed to say “piacere” back at them, which is more than anyone else did …
“A toast to welcome our summer guests!” Catia says. “Elisa, Ilaria!” she snaps at the two girls who walked by the pool earlier; they’re smoking by the big french doors, their backs turned to the room. Tossing their heads and shrugging, they stub out their cigarettes in the big planter next to them, not seeming to care about the lemon tree it contains. Catia sighs audibly and mutters a reproach that Elisa completely ignores as she and Ilaria wriggle back into the dining room. That’s the best way I can describe how they move; though they’re rake-thin, it’s as if they’re somehow managing to rub their inner thighs together as they walk, writhing sinuously. Gah, I think gloomily. Whereas I spend my time trying to get my inner thighs not to rub together. It’s very unfair.
“This is Prosecco di Veneto,” Catia informs us, in the tone of one imparting a lesson. “It is sparkling wine made from the Prosecco grape. We drink it in Italy before meals, as an aperitivo. It is light and pleasant, not strong like champagne. And we say Salute when we toast. Okay! So!”
She raises her glass.
“Salute!” she says, and we all echo obediently. Leonardo and Andrea smile charmingly at us as we take our first sip; the Italian girls do not.
“Introduce yourselves,” Catia says crossly to them as the bubbles burst on my tongue. I love the taste; I love any drink with bubbles in it, but this is really delicious.
“I am Elisa,” says the leader of the two, her Italian accent much stronger than Leonardo’s, her dark curly hair cropped short in a terrifyingly fashionable style that only someone very confident could carry off. She waves a hand at her friend, the gold bracelets on her thin tanned arm jingling as she does so. “Elisa Cerboni. That”—she points at Leonardo—“ees my leetle brother, Leonardo. That”—she points at Catia, with more jingling—“ees my mamma. And thees ees my friend Ilaria. Okay?” She says “okay” with such a strong Italian inflection it takes me a moment to recognize the word. I mouth the pronunciation to myself, trying to copy it. “So now we can sit down for the dinner, yes? I am very angry.”
Without waiting for an answer, Elisa stalks over to the long table laid with a white lace–inset table
cloth, and set with gleaming silver cutlery, gold-edged china plates, and arrangements of white roses in small silver bowls artfully placed along the center. She pulls out a chair and slumps into it as I stare at her incredulously, unable to believe she’s actually announced that she’s in a foul mood; what are we supposed to say to that?
Catia heaves another sigh.
“Hungry!” she says, taking her seat at the head of the table. “Hungry!” She emphasizes the h for effect. “ ‘Angry’ vuol dire incazzato. ‘Hungry’ è affammato.” She rubs her stomach, clearly illustrating what “hungry” means.
“Ma sono anche incazzata,” Elisa says sourly. “Perche—”
“Zitta!” Catia snaps.
Leonardo grins at me and Kelly.
“My mother is telling my sister to shut up,” he says cheerfully. “That is what ‘zitta’ means.”
God, I think nervously, is this normal? Do they always squabble like this?
Apparently so. I look around; Ilaria is sitting down next to Elisa, gesturing for Andrea to take the seat beside her, and neither of them look at all fazed by the spat. And Leonardo is still smiling, not remotely bothered either.
“Your English is really good,” I say, a bit at random, as Paige, who clearly isn’t backward at coming forward, plunks herself down next to Andrea, twirling a fat blond ringlet around her fingers and saying brightly:
“Well, hello! My name’s Paige, and it’s very nice to meet you!”
“Grazie! Thank you!” Leonardo says to me as I take a seat as far away from Elisa as I can manage. “I like my English to be very good. I practice a lot. I like it to be better.” He sits down next to me. “My English is much better than my sister Elisa’s,” he adds affably.
“Your English ees better,” Elisa snaps, “because you love to talk to foreign girls. All foreign girls,” she adds, sweeping her cold, dark, mascaraed gaze around at us to emphasize her message: that her brother is a big slut and we shouldn’t be flattered by his attentions.
Ilaria giggles dutifully at this.
“Cool,” Kendra drawls, slipping her long, sculpted thighs onto the chair next to Leonardo. “You like foreign girls, and I like Italian boys. Sounds perfect to me. I’m Kendra.”
Leonardo takes Kendra’s hand and raises it to his lips.
“Sei bellissima,” he breathes.
“Ooh!” Paige heaves a gusty sigh. “That’s so romantic!”
“Our first course,” Catia announces loudly as a small, dark-skinned woman enters the room buckling under a large silver tureen, “will be fusilli con zucchine. Fusilli pasta with zucchini and lemon.”
We serve ourselves with big, silver-handled spoons as the tiny woman staggers around the table, presenting the tureen to each of us one by one. Then a plate is passed around with a grater and a big hunk of Parmesan cheese, so we can grate our own.
“It is always best to serve the cheese fresh,” Catia tells us. “Not already grated.” It’s clear that she runs this course at least in part because she relishes telling people how to do things correctly, and why; you can barely put your fork in your mouth without Catia telling you how to hold it.
The pasta is delicious; short and curly, with lemon zest flecking the bright green of the grated zucchini. I definitely like it. Elisa and Ilaria, I notice, have taken very little, and are only sipping at their glasses of Prosecco; the rest of us have already finished ours by the time Catia tells Leonardo to open and pass around a couple of bottles of red wine. Kelly, beside me, hasn’t said a word since we came into the dining room. Her flush has abated, but when I glance at her, it looks as if she’s on the verge of tears: her eyes are suspiciously red-rimmed.
“It’s really nice, isn’t it?” I say, finishing my fusilli and laying my fork down on the plate.
The table’s been laid with a big underplate at each place, decorated with swirls of gold; the pasta dish, on top, is a shallow bowl, and I put my fork on that, as my mother’s taught me. Kelly nods quickly, a swift duck of her head, picks up her own fork from where she’s put it down on the tablecloth, and places it on her plate as I just did. It looks as if the fork tines left a mark on the white cloth, and she tuts nervously when she sees the green stain, trying to scrape it off with her nail.
“It’s fine,” I mutter, but she keeps on scratching in a vain effort to remove the stain, a bright red color coming back to her cheeks.
“This is a light Chianti that we make ourselves, here at Villa Barbiano,” Catia says as Leonardo fills my glass. “It is a table wine, vino da tavola in Italian. Only twelve percent, pleasant but not too strong.” She directs a hard glance down the expanse of white cloth at the foreign girls. “In Italy,” she says pointedly, “we drink only with meals. Not like other countries. When we do not eat, we do not drink.”
So don’t act like drunken foreign sluts with my son and his friend, I translate. I’d whisper this to Kelly, but she looks frozen, and I’m afraid I might upset her. The little servant is coming around again, to clear our plates, and before I can stop her, Kelly tries to help by lifting not only the pasta bowl, but the underplate too; the woman has to stop her with a quick tap on Kelly’s wrist, instructing her to put down the whole thing, then lifting up just the pasta bowl and fork.
Oof. There’s nothing worse, socially, than getting your manners wrong and being corrected by the staff in front of the host. Kelly’s seat is next to Catia, and Catia’s beady eyes have taken in this entire faux pas.
Poor Kelly. Table manners are so confusing. I mean, how would you know about underplates if someone hadn’t shown you? Kelly collapses back into her chair, blood rising in her face right up to the roots of her hair. Thinking quickly, I grab her glass of wine and hand it to her.
“Try some wine,” I say, hoping it will make her feel better. She mutters thanks, takes the glass, and dutifully has a sip; then she sits up straight, shakes her hair back from her face, and takes another, longer sip.
“This is really good!” she exclaims, looking surprised. She turns to Catia, her embarrassment swept away in the excitement of her new discovery. “It’s, like, dry. And light, like you said. When my mum gets wine, it’s much sweeter, and I never liked it. But this is great.”
Catia’s mouth curves into a small smile of approval. She gives one short little nod.
“Your mother probably drinks South African or Californian wines,” she informs Kelly. “Those are more fruity and sweet. In Italy and France, we prefer dry wines. We will do wine tasting and learn about it during your stay here. I am glad that you are interested.”
“I didn’t know I was,” Kelly says slowly, “but I am now.”
“Try to sniff it,” Catia says, picking up her glass and lowering her nose to the rim. “See what the bouquet is.”
Kelly copies her enthusiastically. I sit back, relieved that Kelly’s potential meltdown has been averted. Opposite me, Ilaria and Elisa are making desultory conversation, looking bored; beyond them, two pairs of french windows, closed now, give a floor-to-ceiling view of the deep blue Italian evening outside, shimmering with the orange and red glow of the setting sun. I shiver in anticipation of something I can’t picture, but that I sense is waiting for me in the velvety night air.
It’s my future out there, waiting for me. I don’t know how or why I know this, but I do. My life is starting, finally. Though it’s lonely, in a way, to be surrounded by people I only met for the first time today, it also means that I can reinvent myself, be whoever I want to be, without my mother always looking over my shoulder, or coming up with some wonderful fun idea for the two of us to do together that somehow stops me from having ideas of my own.
The little woman is bustling in with an armful of dinner plates, our main course arriving. I smile at her, and she flashes a quick smile back as she slides mine in front of me: it’s a dinner plate neatly arranged with a few slices of cooked meat, dressed with a couple of spoonfuls of sauce, three small boiled potatoes, and some slices of a white vegetable I’m not sure I recogniz
e.
“This is roast pork with herbs, fennel, and potatoes,” Catia informs us. “The fennel is very good for the digestion, so we often eat it with pork, which is a rich meat.”
Nodding dutifully to show I’ve taken this in, I can’t help wondering if Catia’s didactic tendencies are going to extend to every aspect of our lives; is she going to pop in when we’re getting ready for bed, to check we’re resting our heads on our pillows at the right angle?
I’m vaguely aware of some Italian being spoken around the table. It’s only gradually, as I come back to reality, that I look around and realize that the atmosphere has suddenly become so tense that I understand, for the first time, the expression about cutting it with a knife. There’s a pall so heavy hanging over the table that it’s almost palpable.
“Umm …,” I mutter to Kelly. “I missed that last bit.”
But it’s Kendra who answers me.
“Catia was telling us,” Kendra says with an artificial sweetness in her voice that makes all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in fear, “that the word in Italian for pork is ‘maiale.’ The plural is ‘maiali.’ Which means ‘pigs.’ ”
I suck in my breath, realizing exactly why there’s so much tension in the room. Catia, Leonardo, and Andrea don’t, of course: they’re looking at us, puzzled, Catia’s fork and knife poised in midair, waiting to take a slice of the main course.
But we can’t explain. We can’t tell Catia that Elisa, her daughter, and Ilaria, Elisa’s friend, walked past us while we were sunbathing today and called us pigs. They could so easily deny it by saying that they were talking about what we were having for dinner; none of us speaks enough Italian to remember or repeat more than that single word.
And yet all four of us know, with absolute certainty, that Elisa deliberately looked over at us and used the word “pigs.”
It’s odd how loyalties shift and change so dramatically in the course of a few hours, or a day, like sands blowing over the desert, washing away ridges that were there before, flowing into new formations. I’ve seen it so many times at school: friendships breaking up, new ones being formed, best friends turning to deadly enemies and back again at the speed of light. Earlier today, I was loathing Paige and Kendra with everything I had, because they laughed at me and Mum when she was having her sobbing fit all over the security barrier at Heathrow. I was sure they would be horrible, and determined to pay them back somehow for adding to my humiliation.
Flirting in Italian Page 6