After two intense years together, Melissa and I were on the decline. Things had started going sour around Christmas. I didn’t feel it anymore, and I don’t think she did either. I had tried to break up with her as early as February—guilt and sexual jealousy had sent me scurrying back. But she had changed since the aborted break-up, had become more secretive, less generous, less humorous. The woman had a right to protect herself, given what had happened—she no longer trusted my intentions, or my commitment to her. But I sensed that something else was going on. I had never been unfaithful to Melissa, and had assumed the same for her. Early on we had agreed to be honest with each other if we strayed, but that’s difficult to do when the time comes. You clam up, feel guilty, afraid, protective, angry—in the end you say nothing and let the thing play out as it will.
Bar Italia’s proprietor, Michael Conte, had a hard head and a sharp tongue, and I didn’t particularly care for his brand of ball-breaking. He had a way of getting under my skin. But Giuseppe didn’t start work until noon, and my need for a morning espresso superseded any disquiet Michael caused me. Tell me something, he said confidentially, is my coffee nice? I looked into his deep-set black eyes and wondered if he was joking. Is it? he asked. It’s nice, I said. That’s all I want to hear, he said, that my coffee’s nice. It’s music to me. Antonio entered the bar wearing a belted brown wool cardigan. Michael rolled his eyes. Antonio said he had a summer cold, awful business. Porca miseria, he complained as he blew his nose into a sodden handkerchief. Ho bisogno un lenzuolo. Speak English, Michael said, slapping his hands on the counter. Antonio shrugged and glanced at me. What’s the problem? I asked Michael. Tell your friend here to speak English in my joint, he said. But he’s Italian, I said, from Venice. I know where he’s from, Michael nodded, I know.
I loved Bar Italia in the late afternoon. It was cool and quiet, far less trafficked than at lunch and early evening when it thronged with yuppies and artiste-types. I rested my arms on the cool marble counter, enjoying a delicious iced latte. A few regulars sat around sipping espresso, reading, lost in their thoughts. I ordered another iced latte from Giuseppe. He had shaved his head that morning and had applied a skin lotion that caused it to shine under the bar lights. I paid a fortune for the shit, he confessed, rubbing a paper serviette over his head. By the way, he said, what do you make of Antonio? He seems harmless enough, I said, a little opinionated maybe. He loves Toronto, can’t say enough about it. And he did love the city—though he somewhat overstated the case at times, going on about air-conditioned subways, multilingual street signs and such. This was a man who had lived in Venice. How could he be so impressed by Toronto, given that? On the other hand, Toronto was a very livable city. Unlike the museum of Venice, it was a city of the future, still evolving and growing. I had been to Venice twice and for all of its beauty and moody splendour, I couldn’t escape the impression it was a relic, a thing of the past, with nothing for it to anticipate except the encroaching sea. Giuseppe served me a glass of ice water and asked where Melissa was; she often accompanied me for a late afternoon drink. She’s working, I told him. She had a gig researching a music documentary and was meeting with her producer Gary and then going to a business dinner with some investors. What is she again? Giuseppe asked. A researcher, I said, but he had wandered off to the end of the bar.
That evening he launched into a discourse on Doges after I confessed I knew nothing about them. Doges held no interest for me, but I loved listening to Antonio; the more passionate he felt about a subject, the more lovely and expressive his Italian became. He told me that Venice wouldn’t survive the twenty-first century. All the technology and engineering in the world couldn’t save it. Venice was doomed to be submerged. Venezia e quasi finita, caro mio, he lamented. Ho venuto qui in tempo. I asked him why he had come to Toronto and he told me it was a long story—he had a bachelor uncle here, his last living relative, sad really, no one left to continue the line. I assumed that Antonio also was a bachelor, though I gathered from the way he ogled pretty girls in the café that he liked the opposite sex. He inquired about my relationship with Melissa. I told him I had been seeing her for a couple of years but maybe not for much longer. I’m sorry to hear that, he said. You looked happy.
She had finished off one bottle of wine and uncorked a second, her teeth dark, her movements languid, hazy. She took a seat on a chair against the wall. I heard her sigh. I switched on the lamp in the corner and sat on the sofa across from her. I removed my shoes and socks. You’re not planning to stay, are you? she asked. I didn’t answer. I glanced at my bare feet, then looked at her. She stared straight ahead. Wine often made her sentimental, but not this time.
Giuseppe had been studying aikido for years and liked to talk about his instructor, a fellow called Mo. Just Mo. From the sounds of it he was a strange cat, maybe a bit too serious for his own good. He can kill a man with his bare hands in ten seconds, Giuseppe told me. That long? I said. Seriously, Giuseppe said, Mo is extraordinary. Yes, I thought, a man I want to hang out with, learn from. Giuseppe was growing a goatee. I asked him about it. I’m bored with my face, he said. Ever get bored with your own face? I didn’t know how to answer. Bored wasn’t the right word for how I felt about it. We came to a wall in the conversation; Giuseppe moved on to grind coffee beans. I sat there for a long time resting my elbows on the marble counter, my face in my hands.
They were lunching at Soto Voce, this tony little place across the street from Bar Italia. I happened to be walking by and saw them at a table near the window, engaged in an intense tête à tête. Sparsely bearded, pencil-necked, insipid, Gary had nothing going for him except his producer status. On any other plain, physical, intellectual, artistic, he would have been what he was, untalented and weak. Nevertheless, he commanded respect—women in the business probably thought he was hot. His confidence, and his power, gave him sex appeal among other things. It was simple. I understood the situation. I didn’t stop and make a scene.
I spent two days in my bedroom. My roommate Pat was visiting his sister in Saskatchewan. I welcomed the solitude. I cried a lot. I felt foolish for that, but more foolish that I’d let a beautiful girl like Melissa get away from me. The thought of her with someone else made my heart ache. On the other hand, she wasn’t perfect. She drank a lot, and I detested her drunken personality, though others found it comical, charming. Still, I convinced myself I wanted her back, and during those two days an ember of hope still glowing in my heart gathered light and warmth. I entertained the possibility of reconciling with her—doing what I needed to repair the breach—and then moving on to the next phase of our relationship. I wasn’t ready to give up yet, and if it had become some kind of contest between Gary and me, then I was game: I’d show him. But my bravado felt forced. A deeper part of me knew I was going through the motions, maybe for the sake of pride, or to finish off that chapter of my life with a flourish.
Domenic Buonanote, a Bar Italia regular, pulled up that afternoon in a crimson tank top, his bunchy muscles contracting. I just finished working out, he announced. Despite his impressive musculature, Domenic stood an inch short of five feet. Giuseppe, hook me up with an iced espresso and a bucket of cold water. Giuseppe stared at him for a moment before he got to the espresso. You don’t work out enough, Domenic said, looking me up and down. Your body—you used to be an athlete, no? That’s right, I said. Played some football in university. Middle linebacker. Domenic nodded. Yeah-yeah, he said. Me, I was always too small, too small. I wrestled. Won the Ontario’s my senior year. I could probably kick your ass. I don’t think so, I said. No? Domenic said. No, I said. Hey, Giuseppe, do you think I can kick his ass? Giuseppe stopped what he was doing and squinted. You wanna kiss his ass? he said. Not kiss, Domenic said. Kick, kick. Giuseppe burst out laughing while I debated whether to settle the issue with Domenic right there and then.
We had dinner at Senior’s on Yonge Street, an old-school steakhouse I used to frequent in the late eighties. Still going strong, it hadn’t chang
ed a bit. Even the black-haired waiters looked original in their loose white shirts and bowties. Melissa wore a green silk dress with black playing card symbols: clubs, diamonds, hearts, and spades. Her green eyes sparkled. She looked happy. She drank two martinis before the steaks arrived. She shaved her words. I probed, trying to uncover the state of her heart but she proved to be elusive. Let’s just have fun tonight, she said. Let’s pretend this is a first date. Sounded fine by me. I tried to recall our first date. Actually, it occurred in her bedroom one steamy August evening. Later we agreed it was the closest thing to insanity we had ever experienced. But we never repeated that performance. It was a hard act to follow.
Again you, Michael said. His hair had been trimmed too short on the sideburns and his ears yawned. I stared at them until his nose started twitching self-consciously. He leaned to me. What if I barred you from here, he said, what would you do? I thought about it for a moment. I would lose my mind, Mike, I replied. I could not live for more than a day or two without your coffee. That’s the truth. He squinted and scrutinized my face. I couldn’t help but laugh. It’s funny? he said. It’s funny, I said. Here comes your soul-mate, Michael nodded. What is it with him? I don’t know, I said. Antonio marched into the bar. He was angry or put off about something, muttering and clenching his jaws. Antonio, I said, cosa mi dicci? Mah, he said, sopratutto uno cornuto ma datto il ditto cosi—he gestured. I told him someone gave me the finger every day. No big deal. E pure, he said, mi fa male la gamba—madonna com’e dolorosa. His leg ached. He turned it gently this way and that. II ginocchio, he stated, pointing at the knee. His twisted face convinced me of his pain. Michael stood by the espresso machine, unconvinced.
Melissa walked away from me. The sun had set, the warm evening smelled of barbecue, exhaust fumes, and garbage. She wanted a good night’s sleep—she was meeting Gary tomorrow and needed a clear head. Gary’s a married man, she added, he has two teenaged daughters and loves his wife. This was supposed to quiet my concerns, but I wasn’t so easily thrown off the trail. Anyway, she said, he doesn’t find me attractive. That meant what exactly? I didn’t know. The thing was dead, I should have just buried it. I was holding back out of vanity perhaps. I walked home, passing pubs and cafés full of young nubile bodies and optimistic, sensuous faces. Look at them, I thought, living. I wanted to join in the exuberance, take off my shirt and throw myself in there, but I knew I would have only drawn blank stares or gasps of horror.
Show me a few moves, I said to Giuseppe one overcast afternoon. Hey, he said, you and Melissa are finished? Well, I don’t know, I said, why? Nothing, he said, I never see her with you anymore. Perhaps implying he had seen her with someone other than me. That was okay, he didn’t have to spell it out. Take a swing, he said. I threw a wide right at his head. He redirected my arm with his just enough for my fist to miss his jaw. Then he used my momentum to pull me toward him in a circular motion, around and around, until I corkscrewed to the floor, my arm wrenched behind me and Giuseppe’s knee in the small of my back. That was pretty cool, I told him as I jumped up, brushed myself off and stretched out a kink in my shoulder blade. I resented him for putting me on the ground. Let me show you something, I said. I had studied jujitsu as a teenager and still knew a few moves. Without too much difficulty I locked Giuseppe’s left arm and forced him to his knees. His bald head turned red and he yelped in pain. I held on for a second or two longer than necessary before I released him.
I think I might settle here, Antonio mused one evening. A friend at the Italian Consulate has promised to help me land a position. I have found a good rhythm in this city—his English still betrayed him, he admitted, so he preferred conversing with me in Italian. My Italian had improved a lot since I had met him. He corrected my more egregious errors and praised any progress I made. I must say that I’d grown addicted to our conversations; there’s a music to Italian and an emotional register that English simply didn’t have. I asked him how his love life was going. He removed his glasses and rubbed them with tissue paper. His brown eyes looked liquid and sad. My problem, he said, is that I like young women—in their twenties. Women in their thirties are bitter and I am not attracted to women in their forties. I’d like to have kids one day, perhaps sooner rather than later. I am fifty years old. I am not rich, nor am I handsome. All I have is my personality, my experience, my story.
Somehow we wound up in the Beaches on our bicycles. Melissa insisted on stopping at Gary’s house. He and his family lived near the water. I don’t know why I agreed to go along. The sun must have burned my brain. He lived in a beautiful brick and glass home facing Lake Ontario. He was expecting us. Pleasant surprise, he lied. He had on shorts and sandals. His knees looked like ostrich eggs. His toes were broad and hairy. His wife and kids were out of town for a week. Can I get you guys a beer? he asked. I wanted water; Melissa nodded to the beer. I hated being there. I wanted to get on my bicycle and split. Gary led us into the back yard and showed us his garden. It was impressive as gardens go, but I didn’t give a damn. I had to pee. Gary told me to go in through the sliding glass doors and turn left off the kitchen, last door. The bathroom colour scheme disturbed me: black and pink tiles, black and pink wallpaper, black toilet bowl and sink, black and pink soaps, pink toilet paper, and so on. I glanced out the window, which overlooked the garden, for relief. Melissa and Gary sat on a bench with their backs to me, very close together. Gary put his arm around her shoulder and said something in her ear that made her laugh. Then he kissed her neck and looked up at me.
My head ached one morning over coffee. Sensing my pain, Michael spared me his jibes. I had to find a job; my funds were running low. I didn’t know how I’d pay my August rent. Antonio came in for his morning espresso sporting an azure neck kerchief. The Italians were playing a World Cup qualifier. The bar crackled with nervous energy, the conversations loud, overly animated, a spastic restlessness afflicting everyone. Even Michael admitted suffering from pre-game apprehension. I asked who the Italians were playing but no one supplied an answer. Antonio said something to a man ordering espresso that sounded like normal, unaccented English—but I found such a thing so improbable I dismissed it and blamed the noise level for distorting what I’d heard. Antonio then turned and looked at me with such a strange expression; for a moment I felt I didn’t know the man at all.
Later that day I ran into him again and in contrast to his morning performance, he was effusive and chatty, grabbing my hands as he told me the Italians had won 2-0, Vieri and DelPiero providing the markers. What a strike force the azzuri had! I asked Antonio if he missed Italy at times like this and for a moment he looked mystified—then I realized I had asked him the question in English and restated it in Italian. He smiled and said yes, at times like this it would have been a joy to be in a proper piazza celebrating the great victory with his people. His chief criticism of Toronto was its lack of piazzas. Antonio ordered a beer from Giuseppe, who stood behind the bar, his head bandaged up with gauze and tape. He had said nothing about his injury but I felt obliged to ask. Mo, he said, lost his mind this morning. I don’t know what I did to tick him off but I’ve never seen him so angry. Thought he was going to kill me. Maybe you should find another master, I suggested. That’s what Mo said, Giuseppe muttered. Antonio joined two young ladies sitting in a booth. He appeared convivial, summoning every trick in his arsenal to charm them. They laughed at his audacity, his zest.
Then one day on College Street little Domenic almost ran me over with his stupid mountain bike. Outfitted in a full riding kit, complete with cap and goggles, gloves, spandex trunks, and so forth, he hopped off his bike and grabbed my arm. Guess what Michael told me this morning, he wheezed. What? I asked. Turns out, Domenic said, that Antonio isn’t so Venetian after all. He just taught English there for a couple of years, English. He was born right here in the hood. Moved to North York as a teen. Michael always thought he looked familiar—then his Uncle Alphonse spots the guy in the bar and swears they went to school together. Do you believe
this shit? Wow, I said, not surprised but disappointed. I had a feeling Antonio knew more English than he ever admitted, but for him to carry on that subterfuge for so long was ridiculous, perhaps even pathological. I would have been pissed off if we were more than just acquaintances, but that’s all we were, I couldn’t call him a friend. If the guy wanted or needed to play the Venetian, power to him, but it had probably taken more effort than it was worth.
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