Italian for Beginners (15 page)

I was reluctant to try, but I couldn’t quiet my racing mind. I swallowed the pill, and moments later, I felt it beginning
to take effect.

And finally, finally, as my bedside clock neared 10 p.m., I fell asleep.

“Wake up!”

I awoke with a start to a shrill voice, inches from my face. My heart nearly banged out of my chest. I sat straight up and
screamed.

“Rilassati!”
Karina said, backing away with an amused look in her eye. “Relax!”

I stared at the crazy Italian woman in disbelief. She was perched on the edge of my bed, not looking the least bit embarrassed
to have broken into her new tenant’s apartment.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded. I blinked groggily at her. She looked blurry. The room swam in front of me. It took
me a moment to realize that I was still very much under the influence of the sleeping pill.

She looked at me blankly. “Waking you up,” she said slowly, as if talking to someone with comprehension problems.

“Yes, I got that. But
why
are you waking me up?”

She stared at me for a moment. “Because, Miss America, you have been in your room all day and evening. You are feeling sorry
for yourself. And that is not permitted here.”

“What?”

She shook her head triumphantly and whipped out a sheaf of papers from somewhere in the folds of her skirt. I recognized my
rental application from this morning. She pointed to a paragraph on the third page, a quarter of the way from the bottom.
I had skimmed it, my tired eyes registering only that it required me to give seven days notice if I wanted to renew my monthlong
lease, that it asked me to keep hot showers to a minimum since we shared a water heater, and that it required me to take out
the garbage at least once every three days to prevent bad smells from drifting through the pipework into Karina’s apartment.

But now, Karina was jabbing at something near the bottom of the page. I blinked a few times, clearing the sleep from my eyes,
and bent forward to look.

Tenant will not sulk
, the contract read in Karina’s scratchy handwriting.

“You
have
to be kidding me,” I said. “You put a no-sulking clause in the contract?”

Karina shrugged. “No one forced you to sign it.”

“Karina, I could barely read your terrible handwriting,” I protested. “This is ridiculous.”

“Well, you should know better than to sign something you can’t read,” she said. She shook her finger at me. “What if I had
required you to give me your firstborn child? You would have just signed away your rights to your baby.”

I stared at her. I didn’t even know where to begin. “You’re insane,” I said.

She shrugged, widening her eyes in faux innocence.

“Plus,” I continued in a mutter, “it’s not even like I’m ever going to
have
a baby, at this rate.”

Karina leapt to her feet dramatically, startling me. She jabbed at the contract again. “You are doing it again!” she exclaimed.
“Sulking! Feeling sorry for yourself! How do you know what your life will hold?”

I blinked at her.

“Anyhow,” she said a moment later when I didn’t answer, “it is time.” She brushed her long dark hair over her shoulders and
stared at me, as if I should know what she meant.

“Huh?”

“It is
time
,” she repeated.

“Time for what?”

She clapped her hands together. The sound made me jump. “Time to get up and go! Time to get out of self-pity mode. Time to
stop sulking!”

I shook my head and sighed. “I’m really not in the mood for this right now. What time is it, anyhow?”

She checked her watch. “Eleven.”

“At night?” I asked, incredulous. I’d just taken the sleeping pill an hour ago. No wonder I felt so woozy. I was supposed
to be fast asleep.

“
Sí.
You are being lazy. It is time to get out of bed.”

“But…”

“No buts!” she interrupted. “Now get up. If you’re not dressed in five minutes, I will revoke the rental contract.”

“You can’t do that!”

Karina smiled thinly, flipped a page of the contract, and pointed out a chicken-scratched clause on page 4.
Laziness may result in eviction at landlord’s discretion.

“What?” I exclaimed. “I never saw that! You just added that in!”

Karina shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know. But there is your signature at the bottom, Miss America. So I suggest you get
up and get dressed immediately.”

I gaped at her. “Why? Where are we going?”

Her wide lips curved into a smile. “Out,” she said simply. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

She shot me one last evil look and disappeared out my door, her hair and skirt swishing behind her. “Five minutes,” she repeated,
before slamming the door behind her.

I stared at the door. “She can’t make me go out,” I said to myself stubbornly. And yet a minute later, I found myself standing
up and heading into the kitchen to examine my outfit choices.
I’m not going out
, said the voice in my head,
but if I was, this floaty white blouse and this A-line skirt would look nice, right? Maybe with my long gold necklace, a pair
of gold hoops, and my gladiator sandals?

Five minutes later, when Karina walked back in my door, I was standing in the bedroom, my hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail,
all dressed to go. It was like this Italian nutcase had some sort of power over me.

“Wow,” she said, regarding me with amusement. “Impressive.”

I rolled my eyes. “I have no idea why I’m even doing what you say.”

“It’s because you know I’m right.”

“Or because I think you’re crazy and I’m afraid of what you’ll do to me if I say no.”

Karina’s lips curled into a slow smile. “Perhaps,” she said. “But either way, you are dressed.”

She looked me up and down and then laughed. She shook her head.

“What?” I asked.

“You Americans are funny,” she said.

I looked down at my outfit. I thought I looked cute— especially considering I was dressing inside of a teeny kitchen. “What’s
wrong with the way I look?”

She laughed again. “Nothing,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You look lovely.”

Confused into silence, I followed her out of the apartment, wondering just what I was getting myself into.

F
ive minutes later, we were on our way through the backstreets of the city. I was practically jogging to keep up, and my knees
felt wobbly beneath me. I thanked my lucky stars I’d decided to wear flats tonight; otherwise, I surely would have caught
a heel in the cobblestones in our massive, inexplicable rush.

I had no idea where we were going, and I got more and more lost by the moment as we wove quickly in and out of back alleys
and side streets. Everything felt like a blur; I was growing increasingly sure that it was a horrible idea to have taken a
prescription sleeping pill and then to have departed for a night out on the town with a woman who may or may not have been
entirely crazy. I looked in vain for a street name I recognized, but we seemed to be working our way deeper and deeper into
Rome through secret back roads.

“Um, where are we going?” I asked as we ducked into an alley that seemed darker than the rest.

“What is wrong?” Karina asked in amusement. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Should I?” I grumbled.

Karina stopped in her tracks and turned to face me.

“Listen, Miss America,” she said. “I have not decided yet whether I like you.”

“
You
haven’t decided whether you like
me
?”

“That is what I said. You may not realize it yet, but I am a good friend to have.”

“Yeah, who couldn’t use a friend who breaks into her apartment?”

Karina glared at me. “It is still
my
apartment, even if I am renting it to you. I did not break in, as you say. I am trying to help you. A little gratitude would
be nice.”

“I’m supposed to say thank you for dragging me out at midnight?”

Karina grimaced. “No,” she said. “You are supposed to thank me for taking a little lost American under my wing. You do not
think I have enough responsibilities?”

I was sick and tired of being the little lost American. “I think you needed the rent money,” I said.

Karina gazed at me evenly. “You do not know as much as you think you do.”

She started walking again at double her previous pace. I stared after her for a moment and then jogged to keep up. “Look,”
I said. “I’m sorry.”

She waved a hand dismissively.

“It’s just been a long couple of days, you know?” I tried again.

“You are not the only one with problems,” she said.

Just then, she veered sharply off to the right, turned down another alley and, with me following, finally emerged onto a bustling
street. “We are here,” she announced abruptly.

I looked up, catching my breath from the hurried walk, and saw that we were standing in front of an old-looking building with
two torches burning outside lighting the awning-covered entrance to a bar that spilled people into the courtyard outside.
Loud music and raucous laughter greeted us, and dozens of Italians seemed to be clustered outside the doors, smoking cigarettes,
or taking big swigs of beer and small sips of wine.

“Oh,” I said, regarding the place warily.

“Now what’s the problem?” Karina asked with a sigh.

“I didn’t know we were going someplace so trendy,” I said. “I feel underdressed.”

Karina rolled her eyes. “Oh, come off it, Princess Ann. You look fine and you know it.”

“Princess Ann?” I asked in confusion. But she only rolled her eyes again and turned away, gesturing for me to follow. I paused,
then hurried after her.

Inside, the room was dimly lit with two long, stained wood bars lined with people. A cover band was playing at high volume
in the corner, rocking out to an old Beatles song. From the sounds of it, they were most likely Italian without a full grasp
of English; the lyrics were just slightly off. Somehow, they had managed to change “Love Me Do” into “Love Me Too,” which,
when you thought about it, actually made more sense.

“Over here!” Karina beckoned. “I know the bartender!”

I followed her to the far right corner of the bar, where she led with her chest and a smile and squeezed between two men who
didn’t look the least bit annoyed to be pushed aside. If anything, they looked grateful as they eyed her up and down. She
grabbed my hand and pulled me in with her until I was pressed up against the bar, too. I glanced back and was surprised to
realize that the men were also giving me the eye.

“Ignore them,” Karina said without even looking. “They’re stallions.”

“What?” I asked, startled. I felt a little heat rise to my cheeks.

“That’s what I call Italian men like that,” she continued. The guys had backed away now, sour expressions on their faces.
“They go out all dolled up, like prize racehorses, with their greased-back hair and their sleek clothes and their wandering
eyes. They pick out a woman, usually an American, who looks like easy prey, and they go for it. They have all the lines down,
but it’s a different girl every night, you understand? If you want to be loved for six hours—and that includes five hours
and fifty minutes of them snoring loudly into your pillowcase—they’re your guys.”

I giggled and glanced back at the men. Now that Karina mentioned it, they did look like a type. They had matching, greasy
black haircuts, similar white shirts that were unbuttoned nearly to their navels, and tight designer jeans.

Come to think of it, they looked a lot like Francesco.

“See their crucifixes?” Karina asked. I followed her eyes to the big gold cross that each man had hanging from his neck, amid
his chest hair. She winked at me. “They have no idea they are even being ironic,” she said.

I laughed.

“Seriously,” Karina continued. She seemed to be warming up as she went. “They have no problem sleeping with different women
six nights a week and then taking their mamma to church on Sundays and kneeling in front of Gesù Cristo.”

I wondered if this is why Karina seemed, in some ways, so bitter and quick to judge. Perhaps she’d been hurt badly by one
of these smooth-talking men. Although I couldn’t imagine Karina being suckered in by some greasy guy’s moves. She seemed like
she’d been born too smart for that.

Karina ordered two drinks in rapid-fire Italian. The bartender, a cute, fair-haired guy about our age, bantered with Karina
for a moment with a grin on his face while he prepared our drinks. When he pushed them toward us on the bar and she reached
for her purse, he shook his head and held up a hand. She argued back in Italian and then laughed and shrugged.

“On the house, as you say in America,” she said. She handed me a drink, which was bright red.

“A Campari spritzer?” I guessed.

She laughed. “Not tonight,” she said. “That is an afternoon drink, typically. This is that drink’s big brother, the negroni.
Emmanuel here makes them perfectly.” She nodded to the bartender, who grinned at her adoringly. “
Cento ani
,” she said, turning back to me. “To an American in Roma,” she said.