Bella Fortuna

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  Speechless, I just nod my head in greeting.

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

  Somehow I manage to squeak out, “No, of course not.”

  But how I do mind. My relaxed, blissful state from just a moment ago is far in my memory now as my nerves take over.

  “Ciao, Stefano. Che bevi?”

  “Un bicchiero di Prosecco, per favore. Grazie.”

  Of course the waiter knows him. It seems everyone knows Stefano in Venice. Maybe he is a celebrity—to the local Venetians, at least.

  Stefano returns his gaze to me and smiles. As if reading my mind, he says, “I come here almost every afternoon after my tours.”

  I can’t help wondering if he isn’t just explaining the waiter knowing him, but is also attempting to validate finding me in here. Had he perhaps ended the tour earlier and seen me walk in this direction? I dismiss the notion. Stefano is a handsome man, and Venice is filled with gorgeous women. He doesn’t need to follow an American tourist just to add another notch to his belt. Then again this is Italy, land of the gigolos and playboys.

  “Excuse me a moment while I take a look at the menu.”

  “I have more than enough cicchetti for both of us. Please help yourself. I was not expecting the portions to be so large. I could never finish this all by myself.”

  Stefano seems to hesitate. He shrugs his shoulders. “Okay. But I must order my favorite cicchetti. I get them every time I come. And you must try them as well. I insist.”

  Stefano motions for the waiter and orders fried polpetti, or meatballs. I notice the waiter slides his gaze toward me and then back at Stefano as they share some sort of man speak with their eyes. The waiter is smiling furtively. I pretend not to notice as I take a bite of my prawn.

  “Valentina, is this your first time to Venice or Italy?”

  “It’s my first time in Venice, but I’ve been to Rome, Florence, and Sicily.”

  “Sicily?”

  The waiter brings Stefano’s glass of Prosecco. I watch as he greedily drinks the bubbly drink.

  “Excuse me. I get so thirsty after giving a tour. All the talking I do.”

  He smiles again, but this time it’s more of a shy smile. Can it be this cocky man is actually a bit flustered?

  Whenever I notice people’s discomfort, it’s always been my tendency to put them at ease.

  “I enjoyed your tour very much.”

  His eyes register surprise, then delight. The embarrassment from a moment ago is completely forgotten as his smile deepens, and his eyes narrow, looking at me in the same intense manner he had when we first met.

  “Thank you. It helps to get some . . . ehhh, how do you Americans call it? Feed . . . feed . . .”

  “Feedback.”

  “Yes, thank you! Feedback. I’m sorry. My English isn’t the best.”

  “No, you speak English very well. It’s natural to forget a phrase here and there, especially in our language that has so many idioms.”

  “You are too kind—and beautiful.”

  My cheeks flush crimson immediately. What is the matter with me, giving this stranger not one but two compliments? Quick mental note: Restrain yourself, Valentina.

  “I hope you do not mind me saying so.”

  “No, thank you.”

  I take several sips of my wine, hoping to hide behind the glass until my cheeks return to their normal color.

  “Polpette di carne,” the waiter announces as he returns and sets down on the table Stefano’s cicchetti.

  “They smell just like my mother’s.”

  “Your mother makes these?” Stefano sounds surprised.

  “Yes. We do have meatballs in America.” The sarcasm is evident in my voice.

  “Of course.”

  Stefano sinks his fork into one of the fried meatballs that aren’t coated with sauce, and places it on my plate.

  “Have you ever had them without sauce and alone, unaccompanied by pasta?”

  “That’s the best way to have them. When I was little, every Sunday afternoon when my mother made dinner, I always asked her to save a meatball for me before she placed them in the tomato sauce.”

  “So your mother made pasta every Sunday?”

  “Yes, like any other Italian mother.”

  “So you are of Italian descent? I should have known. Your looks are more exotic than American.”

  “My parents were born in Sicily and immigrated to America after they were married.”

  “Da vero? Siciliana? That’s right. You mentioned you had been to Sicily. Allora lei capisce Italiano?”

  “Si, molto bene.”

  “So I do not have to struggle for the right English word when I talk to you.”

  I smile. “I guess not.”

  He smiles back.

  “So why did you leave the tour early if you were enjoying it?”

  Darn! He’s got me. How am I going to explain that?

  “I didn’t leave the tour early because I wasn’t enjoying it anymore.” As I talk, I search my brain for the right excuse. “It’s just that I wasn’t feeling well. I needed to eat something.”

  I pray he can’t tell I’m lying. Stefano nods his head, seemingly accepting my excuse.

  “Two hours can be a long time for a tour, especially in the morning.”

  He raises his glass toward our waiter, signaling for him to bring him another drink.

  “Would you like another drink as well?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  “Valentina, how long is your stay in Venezia?”

  I like the way my name sounds on his tongue. He utters each syllable slowly, almost as if he’s taking pleasure in reciting my name.

  “I’ll be here for three weeks. I only arrived yesterday.”

  Stefano’s eyes seem to brighten at this information.

  “Are you planning on taking any other tours?”

  “Yes, I’m thinking of taking a tour of a few of the churches that house some of the art I studied in college, and I’d also like to take a tour of Il Palazzo Ducale and maybe a walking tour of the city if I can find one.”

  “Of course, we have walking tours of the city. I offer them. I can give you a generous discount if you take my walking tour.”

  “That’s kind of you, but that’s not necessary. You hardly know me. I can’t expect you to give me a discount.”

  “Nonsense! You are a guest in my city. It would be my pleasure. I have a walking tour this evening, right after siesta. Why don’t you take that one? We meet in front of Basilica San Marco at five o’clock.”

  What can be the harm in taking a tour with him? There will be other tourists, and as I’d learned from the tour of the Basilica this morning, he’s very knowledgeable. I’ll probably learn so much on this tour as well.

  “Okay. Where do I purchase the ticket?”

  “You can buy them from me. Since this is a walking tour of the city, I operate independently.”

  I pull my wallet out of my purse, wanting to pay him now for the ticket. But Stefano places his hand on mine. His touch sends a thousand butterflies loose in my stomach.

  “Pay me later. No rush to do so now.”

  “Grazie.”

  His hand lingers on mine. He gives it a little squeeze before he lets go. My heart is absolutely racing. I’ve never met a man who is so forward like him.

  “Where do you live in America?”

  “New York.”

  “Ahhh . . . New York! I have always wanted to go there.”

  “It’s an amazing city. But not as beautiful as Venice.”

  “No city is as beautiful as La Serenissima. She’s in . . . in her own state.”

  He meant to say, “She’s in her own class.” I can’t help smiling whenever he trips over the English language. There‘s something cute about it. Maybe because it stands out in stark contrast to the persona of style and confidence he exudes.

  “How about you? Are you from Venice?”

  “No. You’ll find
that many people who work in Venice aren’t from here. I’m from Calabria.”

  It’s my turn to sound surprised.

  “Calabria?”

  I can’t help hearing my mother’s voice right then: “Those Calabresi are so pigheaded.” I never understood why my mother had always had it in for people from Calabria.

  “You sound surprised. Or should I say disappointed? I know. Calabria does not sound as glamorous as Venice.”

  He shrugs his shoulders and holds out his palms when he says this as if he’s apologizing.

  “No, it’s not that. I just assumed you were from Venice since you work here. That’s all. I’m also familiar with Calabria, but only briefly since I take il traghetto from Calabria to Messina whenever I visit my relatives in Sicily. It’s beautiful. And the two cities are so close to each other. We’re practically neighbors.”

  “Isn’t that ferry ride over to Sicily gorgeous?”

  “Yes, I look forward to it every time I go. People have asked me why I don’t just fly to Palermo now that Alitalia has a direct flight from New York, but I’d rather fly from Rome to Calabria so I can take that ferry ride.”

  “I used to work on that traghetto when I was a boy. And I never got tired of the beautiful scene.”

  Scenery, I correct in my head.

  He samples some of my fried fish and eats two of the zucchini blossoms. He’s right; the meatballs are very good. We talk some more about Calabria and Sicily. When we are finished with our cicchetti, he glances at his watch.

  “I’m sorry, but I have an appointment.” He pulls a wad of euros out of his trousers’ pocket and dumps them on the table.

  I reach for my wallet. He shoots his hand out and stops me. This time, he holds my arm.

  “Per favore, signorina. I know in America it’s different, but you are in Italy now where a lady is treated like royalty. The day I let a woman pay for her meal is the day Stefano Lambrusca is not a man anymore.”

  I want to laugh at this sexist comment, but I know he means no offense. It is a different culture, and as such, I need to respect it.

  “Grazie molto, Signor Lambrusca.”

  “Just Stefano. No need for formalness with me.”

  I know I should correct his English, but I don’t want to embarrass him, or in his case he’ll probably feel emasculated.

  He stands up and pulls my chair out for me. As I walk out of Trattoria da Fiore, he places his hand on the small of my back, gently prodding me forward. This man exudes sensuality, and he has no reservations about touching a woman whom he’s only met a few hours ago. As I exit, I feel the gazes of the men in the restaurant staring at me. None of them seem to have any reservations about checking out another man’s woman—not that I’m Stefano’s woman, but they don’t know that.

  When we step outside, a gust of humid air greets us. The sky has darkened, threatening rain at any moment. I’m still wearing my pashmina and am absolutely burning up in it. I unknot it and take it off. Immediately, Stefano’s gaze wanders to my bare shoulders and then drops to my cleavage. In my haste to remove the pashmina, I’ve forgotten to make sure that the strapless spandex tube top I have on beneath my shawl is hiked up high enough so that I’m not flashing too much cleavage. The top has a tendency to slide down whenever I wear it. When he finally looks away, I glance down at my cleavage and am horrified to note that my top has slid down quite a bit. I quickly hike it back up.

  “Will you be returning to your hotel room?”

  “No, I think I will walk around a bit.”

  “I am taking the next vaporetto to Cannaregio. I will see you then at five o’clock. It was a pleasure meeting you, Valentina.”

  Stefano takes my hand and kisses it.

  “Arrivederci.”

  All I can mutter is “Ciao.”

  I instantly scold myself for using the less formal greeting with him. I don’t want him to think I’m comfortable with him and we’re on a friendship level.

  As I walk away, I sense his eyes on me. I hold my head high and keep my posture as erect as possible. Then I realize I’m giving my walk an extra bounce. But it’s too late for me to change my gait. This man is making me act strangely. I wonder what his next appointment is. Then I remember the diva he’d been with that morning. Of course, before they’d parted, he had told her he would see her later.

  I’m such a fool. Once again, I am letting a clever man seduce me and deceive me. If he thinks I will be “un’altra donna,” or “another woman,” as I heard one of the men who had greeted him say in admiration upon noting the redhead beside him, he’s sorely mistaken. With this thought in mind, I resolve that I will not attend the walking tour that evening. I’ve come to Venice for a respite from men. This trip is supposed to be about me and no one else. Stefano Lambrusca is like most single men in Italy—a player whose hobby is seducing as many women as he can into his bed.

  I walk far enough away until I’m confident that I am out of Stefano’s view. I then stop and look back, straining to see if I can make out his sandy suit. But where he had stood, a tourist group is now posed, waiting for a photo to be taken. I decide to start shopping for souvenirs for my family and go over to one of the stalls that are selling elaborate Carnevale masks. Sadness suddenly envelops me, and I feel very alone. In that moment, I can’t help wondering if maybe I’ve made a mistake in coming to Venice by myself.

  18

  City of Pleasures

  It’s my fourth day in Venice, and I am keeping busy, visiting the sites on my list, eating lots of gelato, and just strolling the streets aimlessly and seeing what awaits me around every corner or on the other side of one of the many stone bridges that line the city. From the churches housing many of the masterpieces I’d studied in college to the winding cobblestone streets that are works of art in their own right, Venice is not disappointing me.

  I keep my promise and don’t join Stefano’s walking tour. Afraid I’ll run into him, I avoid San Marco that night and explore the Castello sestiere where my hotel is. A part of me feels bad that I’ve stood up Stefano, especially since he’d been so gracious in paying for my meal and offering to give me a discounted ticket for the walking tour. But he’s trouble. I can feel it, and I don’t need that. My wounds are still too fresh to even entertain notions of dating again—least of all an Italian.

  “Have some fun, girl!”

  I suddenly hear Aldo’s voice in my head. If he were here with me, he’d be egging me on to just have a fling with Stefano and not be so serious. My sisters would’ve probably also told me to go for Stefano.

  I can also imagine Connie scolding me: “Come on, Vee. It’s not like you’ll see him again once you leave Venice. Why not enjoy every pleasure Venice has to offer?”

  “Because I’m not you, Connie,” I say aloud.

  I’m on the vaporetto going to Cannaregio, which is the most northerly of the city’s sestieri. A third of Venice’s population resides in Cannaregio. Few tourists take time to explore this sestiere, and here I hope to get a better, more authentic sense of how the Venetians live.

  I also want to visit the Madonna dell’Orto church, which houses works by the Venetian painter Tintoretto. As the vaporetto approaches Cannaregio, rows of houses with crumbling facades come into view. Residents’ boats are docked in front of their homes, much the way cars line a driveway or street outside of houses erected on land. A group of young gondolieri can be seen steering their gondolas a bit unsteadily while an older man gestures with his arms the right way to navigate. They are probably students learning on these much-less-traversed canals of Cannaregio rather than on the busier canals of San Marco or even Castello.

  I disembark at the stop closest to the Madonna dell’Orto church. Here in Cannaregio, the natives outnumber the tourists. I stop in front of the Gothic church and begin snapping away with my cell phone camera. After taking a few shots, I walk toward the church’s entrance.

  “Excuse me, miss. Would you like a picture of yourself in front of the church?”
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  I had yet to have a photograph taken with me in it. Without even waiting to see who has made the kind offer, I reply, “Yes, please.”

  I turn around only to find Stefano standing before me with his arms crossed and smiling.

  What is he doing here of all places? He can’t be giving tours since more money is to be made in San Marco. Before he can even ask me what had happened the other night, I decide to preempt his question.

  “Ciao, Stefano. Com’é sta?”

  “Molto bene. Grazie. E lei?”

  “Bene. Grazie. I’m sorry I didn’t make the walking tour the other night. I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “I hope it’s nothing too serious. That’s the second time that day you weren’t feeling well.”

  Stefano is smirking.

  “Oh, just some jet lag. I needed to rest. I feel much better now.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. You can take my walking tour tonight.”

  “You have one tonight?”

  “Si.”

  “What are you doing here? Are you giving a tour of the Madonna dell’Orto church?”

  “No. I actually live in Cannaregio. I just finished a tour at Il Palazzo Ducale. I don’t have any others until tonight.”

  “It’s very peaceful here, much different from San Marco or even Castello, where I am staying.”

  “Yes, I love it here. The tranquility is why I decided to live in this sestiere.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you must be tired and would like to go home and relax. Arrivederci, him.”

  I walk away. As I’m about to pull open the church’s door, Stefano is behind me opening the door.

  “Please, allow me.”

  “Grazie,” I whisper, not wanting to disturb the Mass that is in progress.

  I step inside and am about to wave a final good-bye to him, but when I turn around, I bump into him.

  “Excuse me. I thought you were leaving.”