CRAVING U (The Rook Café) (12 page)

“And isn’t that a loss!” Matteo burst in,
furious about Valerio’s lack of respect for others, in particular for someone
who was like a brother to him.  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, so
shut your mouth.”  And seeing that Valerio was about to reply again, he added, “What
the hell do you care anyway what he does?”   He hopped impulsively off the
stool where he had been seated, and walked to his friend’s side.  “It’s his
business, right?” he asked rhetorically, moving two fingers like scissors,
warning Valerio to cut it out.

But Valerio was enjoying the chance of
twisting the knife way too much to stop now, so he upped the dose, knowing
exactly how and where to strike.  “Ah... right!” he sighed.  “I forgot!  It
must be frustrating for you too.”  He paused.  Everyone knew where this was
going.  “What do you see in her anyway?”  He cleared his throat in order to
imitate Marika’s voice, making it as high and annoying as possible: “She’s mine
and you can’t have her,” he sniggered, shaking his hips.

“
What an asshole!
” Matteo said to
himself, shaking his head before choosing to make light of the situation.  “Man,
I tell you, you are a genius!  A born comedian.”  He was used to Valerio’s
sense of humor and didn’t let it get to him.  He sat down on another stool,
saying, “You know they’re looking for new comics for Saturday Night Live... you
should try out!”

“Drop it, Matt, I’ve got it.”  Dario had
been watching how Valerio treated Carlotta for years, making fun of her behind
her back with Lucrezia and the other girls, while she was too obtuse to
notice.  “This is personal... him and me.”

“You are such a loser, Crestani,” Valerio
added with another gratuitous insult.

“And you are absolutely pathetic,” Dario
replied, without resorting to insults or cursing.

“What did you say, you disgusting little
shit?”  Valerio yelled, approaching Dario dangerously with his chest stuck out,
his fists at his sides, and his head stretched forward as if he wanted to
attack him.

Dario showed no sign of backing down.  He
stood his ground with his eyes fixed on Valerio’s face. 
Mercutio
confronting Tybalt.

“Cut it out!”  Giacomo, made uncomfortable
by the threat of violence, started yelling anxiously, “Stop them!”

Matteo, meanwhile, had taken his place
next to Dario, just as Marcello had done next to Valerio.

On the brink of a fistfight, Giacomo’s
yells attracted the attention of the rest of the group, who had witnessed none
of the altercation and now rushed outside to see what was happening, girls
included.

“What’s going on?”  Carlotta, concerned,
rushed to the side of
her
Valerio to make sure that he was fine.  “Everything
OK?”

He nodded cruelly, having just won a
paradoxical and grotesque comedy of horrors.

“Anyone going to tell us what’s going on?”
Carlotta insisted.

“Nothing that you have to worry about,”
Dario replied, disgusted by her pathetic attempt to appeal to the guy who had
just, unbeknownst to her, ridiculed her in front of her friends.

“Don’t you ever shut up?!”  As if she was
wearing blinders, she turned against Dario like a fury.  “You’re always the
same old windbag.  Buzzkill!”  She wanted to make it clear that Valerio had her
total solidarity, handing herself over to him on a silver platter.  “You’re
such a loser!”

Marika could not help but notice how
Matteo, in total silence, shook his head in disappointment on hearing Carlotta’s
invectives.

But suddenly, the silence was broken.  “Go
fuck yourself, Carlotta!” Dario cried, surprising everyone present, himself
included.  He spun on his heels and stormed off.

“You see?  You really are a loser,
Crestani!”  Valerio crowed, breaking into a loud guffaw while the others
pretended not to notice what had happened.

Marika turned to Matteo, looking for
answers.  “Why don’t you go after him?”

“Let him go, it’s for the best,” he
replied, making it clear that it would be better not to ask too many
questions.  He watched his friend disappear into the distance.

“What’s going on?”  Dario’s reaction, so
unlike himself, was impossible to ignore.

“Nothing... aside from the fact that your
cousin is an enormous bitch,” he concluded, his face clouded as he stared hard
at Carlotta, planted next to Valerio.  Then he turned to go.

“Matteo!”  Marika called after him
sweetly.  “So I’ll see you in the New Year, I guess.”

“You’re right.  Sorry.”  He turned back toward
her, his warm smile, which made her fall even more deeply in love with him,
reappearing like the sun from behind a bank of clouds.  “Have fun!”

“You too,” she sighed, watching him get
into his car, the scene of such sweet but already fading memories that seemed
destined to remain nothing more than that: memories.

It was not the moment to face what had
almost happened between them.  Matteo knew it, and Marika feared it.

Would that moment ever arrive?

THE GOOD LIFE

Marika had no way
out of her New Year’s plans: her parents and a couple of their friends had been
planning a trip to Rome for ages, and she had agreed to come along long before
Matteo had given her this gift of such sweet torture.

It was hardly a bad option, and there’s no
complaining about going to Rome, but she feared what it might mean...
Marika,
you’ve been nominated and are up for eviction!
  As everyone knows, one must
strike the hammer while the iron is hot, and she worried about the possibility
of things cooling off while she was away.

That said, her parents had made all of the
arrangements months ago, and she herself had been begging them to take her to
Rome for years; she so wanted to see the Eternal City of emperors and popes. 
In any event, she was unconsciously certain – and this was of no small import –
that Matteo would still be there upon her return, as handsome as always, with
the same smile that she had begun to miss every time he was away from her.

And so, on December 29th, they all boarded
the high-speed Eurostar train at eight in the morning in the station of
Verona.  The trip was pleasant and surprisingly short; the three hours flew by,
lost as she was in her fantasies, all accompanied by a carefully chosen
soundtrack on her iPod.

When they arrived, the first thing that
she noticed was the crowd of multi-colored faces that filled the noisy station
of Termini.  It was like a parallel reality to the small, provincial life of
her little town.

“Where are you headed?” a friendly taxi
driver asked them, offering simultaneous services as driver and local
historian.

“We’re staying in a place in Piazza dei
Quiriti,” Ferdinando told him, helping load their bags into the back of the
Fiat minivan.  Their accommodations, chosen online from a list of B&Bs that
featured organic food, was in the neighborhood of the Vatican Museums and just
down the street from Cola di Rienzo, one of the most important destinations for
Rome’s fashionistas.

They had to drive through the city center
to get to their hotel, first going through Piazza della Repubblica – still
known as Esedra by the older generation – then down Via Nazionale to Piazza
Venezia, the passengers enjoying the ups and downs of the Roman hills.  It was
a sublime experience to turn a corner and discover yourself right next to the
Altare della Patria, blinded by its shining white marble, and then pass by
Largo Argentina, famous for the cats that make their home in these ancient
ruins, only to finally hug the banks of the great Tiber river.

“Yo!  Who did you have to bribe to get
your license?”  The taxi driver, his words a lovely mix of Italian and the
Roman dialect, argued constantly with the other cars backed up along the
Lungotevere.  “The mayor?”

Crossing one of the many bridges over the
river, the taxi entered Via Cola di Rienzo, at the end of which, in the
distance, they spied the Pincian Hill, the panoramic zone of the Villa Borghese
above the Piazza del Popolo, with its enormous Christmas tree.

“Check out this doll!”  The driver yelled
at a blue Fiat 600, idling at the light even though it had turned green.  “Hey
gorgeous, what are we here for, a pedicure?”

The line of cars began to honk.  “What’s
wrong, don’t like the color?”  He laughed in the direction of a delivery
scooter stuck between himself and a city bus.  “Better get a move on, those
pizzas are gonna get cold!”  And then again, “Come
on
!  It’s not going
to get any greener than that!”

Marika felt strangely at home... not only
because the driver’s good humor and Roman tongue put everyone at ease, but
because the city itself, its sounds, its people, and its atmosphere had entered
her soul.

Settled into the exclusive neighborhood of
Prati, they spent only as much time in their hotel as was necessary to check in
and drop off their bags before diving into the crush of people bustling along
the city sidewalks.  They wondered where they were going to eat, but quickly
realized that food too was an art form in Rome.

After asking a friendly couple about the
best place to get something quick for lunch, they popped into one of the most
famous delis of the capital, where they purchased a batch of enormous
supplì
– deep-fried balls of rice, egg, and cheese – which they ate while walking. 
The temperature was perfect for a stroll – it was almost 60 degrees and the sun
was hot, mitigated by a gusty wind that blew their hair about.

Marika walked arm in arm with her mother,
both of them absolutely mesmerized.

They took a bus to Piazza del Popolo,
where they continued their pedestrian tour of the miracles of the Eternal
City.  The Egyptian obelisk, then the Neptune fountain, followed by the
fountain of the Goddess Roma – it was all one masterpiece of artistry and stone
after another.  At the Forum, they saw workers putting up the huge stage that
would host the New Year’s Eve concert which, with any luck, they would be
attending.

Passing between the two symmetrical twin
churches of the Piazza del Popolo, they headed into the shopping zone of Via
del Corso, a central gathering place for the youth of the city.

“Halt!”  Ferdinando, with the pride of any
Italian, pointed in the distance.  “Look down there at the end of that street...
it’s the Trinità dei Monti.”  In fact, Via Condotti, with its exclusive
boutiques and expensive cars, was to their left, leading up to the Spanish
Steps.

It was already five in the evening, and
the Christmas lights had been turned on, giving the street a celestial
atmosphere.

Her nose pressed up against the glass  of
a famous jeweler, Marika found herself fantasizing about Matteo, and about that
ring made of antique gold and tourmaline gemstone that was highlighted under a
well-placed spotlight. 
J’ADORE!

Piazza di Spagna was a jewel itself at the
base of the famous steps, with the Barcaccia fountain splitting the crowd of
locals and tourists in two.  According to legend, the idea for the fountain
came from the flood of 1598, when the swollen waters of the Tiber carried a
real boat all the way here.

Leaving the Trinità dei Monti behind in
all of its crepuscular splendor, reflected a hundred times in the shop windows
and cafés, they made it to another piazza, world famous for the annual homage
that the Pope renders to its bronze statue of the Virgin Mary.  They even
passed by the atelier of Valentino, the great Italian designer who gave the
world that particular shade of crimson red which bears his name, in front of
which stood a fir tree that had been pruned into the shape of a recognizable
supermodel from the ‘90s.

“According to the map, if we keep going
down this road, we’ll hit Via del Tritone, which takes us to Piazza Barberini
and then to Via Veneto,” Marika’s father explained, drawing his finger along
the route on their tourist map.

“Ah yes, Via Veneto and
La Dolce
Vita
,”
her mother sighed, remembering nostalgically the days of great social changes,
of the economic boom, of the ‘68 generation, rebellion, and anti-establishment
movements all in the name of freedom.  “Ferdinando, there’s time for a trip
down memory lane in your schedule, right?”  She glowered at him, making it
clear that she would not take no for an answer while she went about following
her own
Roman Holiday
dreams.

“Of course, Paola, don’t get excited. 
Everything under control,” he huffed, while his wife imagined him dressed as
Gregory Peck.  “We’re getting close to the Trevi fountain, which is our last
stop for the day.  We’ve got another three days to see whatever your heart
desires, my dear!”  He enjoyed giving his wife a hard time.

They walked down narrow streets, one after
another, each one more charming than the one before and all paved with the
typical
sampietrini
stones of Rome, all evoking that genuine Roman
atmosphere.

“Are we sure this is the right way?” their
friends, Mr. and Mrs. Busatto, questioned.

While they were consulting, Marika said, “Hey,
do you hear that sound of water?”  As if by magic, around the next corner, the
Trevi fountain materialized, indescribably wonderful and still redolent of its
famous on-screen scene with Marcello Mastroianni and Anita Ekberg.  “Wow,”
Marika whistled, speechless.  The crowd of visitors pushed and shoved her about
as everyone tried to get a good view of the 18
^th
century
masterpiece, that extraordinary synthesis of classicism and baroque styles
affixed to the façade of the Poli Palace and still fed by the aqueduct designed
by the consul Agrippa in 19 BC.

“Look up there, Marika,” her father said,
pointing toward the rooftop of a neighboring building.  “That little attic up
there, looking out over the roofs of Rome, is where the Italian President
Sandro Pertini used to live.   W
hen he was still the
Speaker of the House in 1973, before he became president, he did an interview
with Oriana Fallaci in
L’Europeo
saying that he never could have felt at
home living in the presidential palace; that’s why, every time his name was
brought forth as a presidential candidate, he voted for the other guy,” he
concluded, taking a picture.

“It’s already past 7:30,” the Busattos said, tired of walking and
complaining of sore feet. “Don’t you think it’s time we headed back?”

“You’re right,” Paola said, always putting others before herself. “That
way we can take our time getting ready before dinner.”

“An excellent idea,” her husband confirmed, his stomach beginning to
growl. “Let’s go.”

“Wait!” their daughter implored. “At least let me throw one coin in
the fountain first!” She stretched her open palm out toward her father. “Da-ddy!”

He opened his wallet, hunting for a nickel or a dime, but only found
a fifty-cent piece. “Better be a good wish,” he grumbled.

“Hurry up!” her mother added.

Marika elbowed her way through the crowd of tourists until she found
a place to sit at the edge of the fountain. She turned her back to the water,
as tradition dictates, and blew out a long sigh, throwing the coin over her
shoulder with a smile on her face, hoping to soon return to admire that pool of
water alongside
him
, who no one could keep her from loving.

“
Having Rome, a discreet but theatrical handmaiden, hold aloft
the votive candle of love is a privilege that inebriates lovers and makes them
blush
....
” These
words, liberally borrowed from a tourist brochure, were what Marika wrote in
her diary while she waited for her parents to finish getting ready. A black and
white photograph, like the color of ink that danced on her white pages of
thoughts and memories, where magic and passion entwine in the warm salt air and
bring out that amber light which paints the city in gold brocade, the prerogative
of lovers and of generations of romantics and dreamers. Countless writers,
directors, composers, photographers, songwriters, artists, philosophers, and
singers have tried over the centuries to describe the beauty of Rome, without
ever coming even close to capturing its immortal poetry.

The 30th and 31st of December flew by along the streets of Rome,
dripping with history: the Coliseum and the Imperial Forum, Piazza Navona with
its countless stands selling souvenirs, the Pantheon and Castel Sant’Angelo,
the prison during the days of Papal rule.

And they certainly didn’t refrain from sipping aperitifs in the
legendary bistros that were made famous in Fellini’s scenes of bawdy, carefree,
seductive Rome.

Too exhausted to throw themselves into the crowd that filled the
streets on New Year’s Eve, they opted for a local restaurant in the Castelli
Romani with a terrace overlooking the Eternal City, from which they ushered in
the New Year with clinking glasses, admiring the fireworks that colored the city
with its brilliant lights.

Though sleepy-eyed that next morning, they nevertheless awoke early
in order to visit St. Peter’s and hope in the unlikely possibility of finding
the Vatican Museums open. The immense piazza, embraced by the two arms of Bernini’s
colonnade, left everyone speechless.

“Oooh,” her parents sighed when Michelangelo’s
Pietà
came
into view. They were overcome by the dramatic, intimate beauty of the sculpture
– the only one ever signed by the artist himself – standing there embraced in
the subtle light that fell upon the pallid stone.

Mrs. Busatto, transfixed, explained Michelangelo’s theory of
sculpture, of how it was a unique art form that had to liberate figures from
within their stone prison.

It was impossible not to be touched by the profound peacefulness of
that place, no matter if you were a believer or not; Catholic, Protestant, or
atheist; Christian or member of another faith.

They spent hours inside the cathedral before diving back into the
bustle of Rome and pointing their feet in the direction of the heart of real
Rome, the pulsing, throbbing neighborhood of Trastevere.

It was just past 10 in the evening when they arrived in Piazza
Trilussa. Somehow amidst the chaos of the youthful crowds that lined the
streets, Marika heard her cell phone ringing from somewhere inside her purse. “Hello?
Carlotta? Hey girl!” she yelled into the phone to make herself heard. “You can’t
imagine how beautiful Rome is.”