Abroad (19 page)

“Naples.”

“Ah.” I knew nothing about Naples.

“You’d like it. Probably. It’s rough. My family doesn’t live in the best area. But it’s the best food you’ll ever eat.”

“The food here is good.”

“The food here is all bread and pork. It’s hard. Umbrians die early.”

“And in Naples?”

“Fish. Olive oil.” He took a long drink of wine.

“I’m from Lucan. Near Dublin. Have you ever been to Dublin?”

He smiled and got up again, looking at a sparsely populated bookshelf. “I will never go to Dublin.”

“Why?”

“Guys like me don’t go other places. I’m happy in Italy. I have what I need. Why go to Dublin?”

“To see the world.”

“I went to Paris. It was nothing. The people were ugly. If we marry, you’ll move here.”

“Do you even know my name?” I asked.

“Elizabeth.”

“Tabitha,” I said.

“Tabitha?”

“Taz.”

“Like the devil. Tasmania.”

“Tabitha,” I said again.

“Do you know,” he said, settling on the arm of the sofa, “that this city is ten thousand years old?”

“It is not. Even I know it’s not.”

“Sure. We probably had cavemen living here, under this house.”

“You’re crazy.”

“There are graves back there. Alfonso found a skull.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.” He kicked me lightly with his foot. “Let’s go out.”

The air outside was cold and wet. Pneumonia weather, my mother would have called it. She always overdressed us in layers of coats and sweaters, wrapping us in scarves and hats until the only bit of us that was visible was our eyes. I put up my hood as we walked. Marcello led me up a side alley I’d never taken that opened into a wide
via
behind the palace.

“All right, Devil. Look here.” He pointed at an ornate building studded with gargoyles. “Sophia Loren used to own this house.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You’re right. It was Anita Ekberg. She came to Grifonia to sleep with Fellini in secret.”

“I didn’t know it was a secret.”

“Sure. We’ll get you in the fountain later.”

“I’d say not.”

“I’ll tell you this. Here is the best bar in Grifonia. This is where your Prince Harry drinks when he visits.”

“I’m Irish. Don’t care about the royals.”

“Well, this is the place.” He led us into a tacky café, video-poker machines glowing in the corner. “Best beer on this street.”

“Marcello!” the barman shouted. “You pig.”

“Beer for us both. Me and the beautiful lady.”

The barman put our drinks down, insisting they were free, then topped us off with glasses of fernet. When we were finished, Marcello guided me to two more bars. Everywhere, the drinks were free.

“I’m not sure about your tour-guide abilities,” I said, “but you certainly know the bars.”

“I know everyone,” Marcello said. “I’ve been here four years.”

He was studying engineering, he told me. In the end, he said, he would design and build ships.

“Then I can be in Naples and make money,” he said. “It’s hard to be rich there. I want my family to do better.”

“I can see you on the high seas.”

“Sure you can, Devil. Sure you can.”

Marcello put his hand on my back.

“You should go to the church with me one day.”

“I’m Jewish.”

“Really?” he asked. “Don’t know many. Anyway, I didn’t mean for services. I’ve got a key. My friend does restoration, and we go there sometimes, make a little fun.”

“In a
church
?”

“So shocked, Devil.”

He put his nose to my cheek.
We get to be this happy now.
I turned my head and kissed him, pressed my body into his, put my tongue to his lips.

“Okay, okay,” he said, laughing. “Hey. Let’s go back to the party.” We finished our drinks. Marcello left the barman three euros and then took my hand to lead me out. He stroked my fingers up and down with his rough thumb. I felt dizzy, as if a small balloon were inflating in my head.

When we got toward home, a group of boys called out to Marcello. He yelled back and abruptly dropped my hand. There were three of them, talking rapidly in a dialect I barely understood. One of them said the word
powder.

“
Sì
,” Marcello said. “
Sì
.”

The boys followed us down the steps to the house. There was a light on in our flat, but I couldn’t see anyone through the window. It was one a.m. by now, and I wondered if Claire was at home.

“I’ll meet you inside,” I said to Marcello.

The door of the flat was, as usual, open, but when I called no one was there. I poured a bit more Campari for courage and brushed my hair, lingering a bit. When I came down, the party had become more crowded. The music had been upgraded to rap, and there was a dance party happening in someone’s cramped bedroom.

“Taz!” Claire yelled. She was sitting next to Marcello on the sofa, holding her guitar, her flannel shirt unbuttoned low.

“Hi,” I said, walking over. Everything was turning over inside me. Marcello got up and kissed my cheek again, then pulled me to the couch and placed me next to Claire.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

“How are you?” Claire whispered.

“Fine. I just looked for you. I didn’t know you knew about this party.”

“Sure. Marcello and I met yesterday, and I came down to play guitar.”

“Oh. Yesterday.”

“You?”

“A couple of days ago. I guess I didn’t know,” I said, looking for him. When I spotted him, he was bent over the dining room table. For a moment, I thought he was looking at a map, until I saw him put a straw to his nose.

Claire was saying something.

“What?” I tore my eyes away.

“I said, we haven’t hooked up, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

I stared at her. I believe I blinked, but I can’t be sure.

“We might, though,” she said.

“Okay.”

“But you can have him if you want him.”

I paused. I had no practice at fighting. My sister and cousins were all within fourteen months of one another, and they scratched and clawed for attention, fighting violently among themselves. My cousin Julian’s ear is, to this day, deformed because my sister bit it so hard that a piece of it actually came off. However, by the time I came along they were too spent to pick on me. I was spared, and spoiled, and therefore was left in the world to fend for myself without claws.

“Are you mad at me about the other night with Jenny or something?” I asked.

“Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just, I’ve never heard you be this way.”

“Taz!” Claire engulfed me in an embrace and put her face in my hair. “I’m just
kidding
you! You really are so literal. I don’t give a shit about this guy.
You’re
the important one.”

“Of course,” I said, delicately extricating myself.

She drew back, still grinning.

“This place is a dump, huh?”

I glanced around. Their flat was as small as ours, but it suffered from a lack of windows. In the candlelight I could see mounds of books and clothes in every corner. The air was heavy with the smell of pot and cigarettes.

“It’s all right.”

“It’s not as nice as our house.”

“No. Not as nice as ours.”

“And these guys are cokeheads. I guess I should have known it.”

Alfonso handed me a jelly glass of wine. As soon as I took a sip, I recognized the vinegary red from the
enoteca
nearby. Marcello was talking to some Italian girls across the room, whom I instantly hated. I took a large gulp and put the glass down.

“This wine is gross,” Claire said. “Let’s have something else.”

Alfonso handed her a green liquor bottle. She unscrewed the cap and took a gulp, to the boys’ delight, then screwed up her face and shut her eyes.

“God. What is that?”

“It’s Bechorovka. From Prague. It’s for sipping.”

“L’Americana doesn’t sip.”

The boys exchanged a joke I couldn’t understand, and the way they laughed I was fairly certain I didn’t want to.

We all got drunk. It was as if we were on a mission, Claire and I. She filled my glass, then I filled hers. We were drinking quickly, hungrily, dare I say competitively. By three a.m. the room was tilting. Claire put her arm around me and drew me protectively to her. I was too drunk to move. My face was flushed red, my equilibrium off-kilter, and the boys were beginning to notice that the girls from upstairs were cuddling on the couch.

“Beautiful,” Alfonso said, gesturing at us.

“What’s beautiful?” A voice said from the door.

“Hey,” Marcello said. “We were wondering when you’d show up.”

It was Ervin, the boy I’d danced with at the Red Lion.

“Hello,” I said. He nodded, barely.

“Taaaaz,” Claire said, elbowing me. “How do you know
him
?”

Ervin pulled out a bag of cocaine. The kids fell on him as pigeons fall on bread.

“I just met him out one night.”

“Hi, Claire,” Ervin said.

“Hey,” she said, rather coldly. Then, to me: “He’s a big dealer. Bought pot from him and he wouldn’t leave me alone one night. I’m beginning to get ideas about you.”

“No, no,” I said quickly. “I met him once. Barely.”

On the other side of me, Marcello was saying he’d take me upstairs.

“You’re not touching her,” Claire said. “Not while she’s this drunk.”

“I’m fine,” I protested. I wanted to kiss Marcello again. His bulk seemed comforting. I wanted him in my bed. But when I sat up, the floor rose. I sank down again. “Fine-
ish
, anyway.”

“Nope,” Claire said. “You’ll get your chance another night, O.”

O.
So they already had nicknames for each other? The new stranger gave a laugh. Short, loud, a bit violent.

Marcello shrugged. “Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow, Elizabeth.”

“Tabitha,” Claire corrected.

“
Taz
,” I said.

“Goodnight, everyone,” Claire said, guiding me by the arm. “Goodnight.”

On the way up, I behaved badly.

“I want to stay.”

“You really don’t. You’d be embarrassed, Taz.”

“You just want to go out with him yourself.”

Claire stopped on the stairs and looked at me squarely.

“Taz.”

“Mmmm.”

“Remember what I said about fucking every night?”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“I wasn’t completely lying, okay? I do screw around. A lot.”

“A lot?”

“It’s not a big deal. I’m safe about it. And you were right, I did sort of want to fool around with Marcello. He’s cool. There’s just something about him. But I never would now, because you’re into him.”

“Mmmm-hmmm. Yeah.”

“Plus, druggies. Not my scene.”

I didn’t want to hear any more. I wanted to pass out.

“You don’t believe me,” she said, hauling me up the stairs.

“No.”

“But you will.”

15

We were invited, the four of us, for three nights. The house was owned by an English couple who sponsored Professor Korloff’s work; he and his wife had a hobby of collecting Etruscan and ancient Roman art. People who had houses like this, Jenny informed me, liked to use any excuse to invite people over to show off, which is likely why he’d asked Professor Korloff to bring us. Anna, who had been to one of Arthur’s gatherings before, said it would be more of a salon atmosphere. She imagined there would be some academic Italians, some high society Brits—“I
know
I’ll know
someone
,” Jenny kept saying—and us, the students.

The night before we left, B4 came over for dinner and to talk about the weekend. My mother phoned in a baba ghanoush recipe for me to make, which, due to the limited ingredients in Grifonia and my awful cooking skills, was cheerfully acknowledged as a disaster.

“So will I need my long dress?” I asked.

“Most definitely,” Anna said. “There’ll be at least one formal dinner. Not to the
letter
formal, but these people will appreciate it if you make an effort.”

“Girls, what can I borrow?” Jenny asked.

“Something from me,” Anna said. “I’ve got five good ones. Even after Dad died, my mother dragged me to weekend things so it looked like the family still had it going on.”

“Which you do,” Jenny said. “Obviously.”

“Well, I
will
have my doctorate someday. So that’s something.”

“For what? Working?”

“I’d be the first woman in my family with a job. It’s sort of a nice idea.”

Jenny snorted. “Until you’re thirty-eight and an assistant living with a cat. No thank you. I’d snap up one of your mother’s lords if I were you. Or how about an Italian count? After all, if we can’t find rich Italian boyfriends at this thing this weekend, we don’t deserve to live.”

“You’re such a modern girl, Jenny,” Luka said.

“I’m beyond modern. Haven’t you heard? We’re all done with that dreary women’s movement. Everyone’s snapping back again.”

“It’s not like you
don’t
have a job,” Anna said.

The silence was deep but quick; if I hadn’t been used to the girls’ rhythms, I would have missed the beat of fear.

“I’m going to be a detective,” I said. “Like in books. Always wanted to do that.”

“What?” Jenny asked. “Really?”

“Sure. I’ve told you that.”

“You haven’t.”

“Oh. Well, yes.”

“Taz, you would be the worst detective in the world,” Luka said. “No offense. But you didn’t pick up on the drug thing for weeks.”

“People find me easy to talk to. I’m good at interviews.”

“It’s actually true,” Anna said. “You’d be the perfect spy, because no one would ever suspect that a girl as nice as you had anything but sweet intentions.”

I looked at Jenny and smiled. She didn’t say anything.

“She does have one of those blank faces,” Luka said. “Impossible to read. I’d wager she’s a plotter though. The quiet types always are.”

“Well, God forbid you actually follow your tawdry career dreams,” Jenny said. “And what about your flatmate? What’s she going to do, be in a cover band that plays at casinos?”