Burning the Map (7 page)

“I have to get back to the hotel,” I say now, interrupting something Francesco is telling me about the fountain.

“It is early,
bella,
” he says, looking at his watch again and raising his perfectly arched eyebrows.

His bedroom eyes turn back on like floodlights, and he lightly touches my collarbone, as if we'd been together a long time, and this is a familiar gesture.

“I really have to get back,” I say.

Ten minutes later, I stand on the stairs leading to the pensione. With Francesco on the ground, we're at eye level, his face an inch from mine.

“I will miss you,
bella.
” He breathes the sentence. Despite the warring thoughts in my head about John, Kat and Lindsey, I'm stirred again.

He leans forward, his kiss infinitesimally slow. I feel the sun on his face as he moves from my mouth and kisses my eyelids, my forehead.

“Why don't you stay a few more days? You could meet your friends later.”

I laugh. Kat and Sin would love that.

But I don't answer right away. His suggestion makes me think about a woman I knew during my semester in Rome. She met a metal worker in Cannes while we were there for a weekend trip, and she never came back. She dropped out of school, out of sight, out of the U.S.A. She was ridiculed by all the women in my school for selling herself short and giving it all up for a man. Secretly, I thought her brave.

Maybe I could do that, too. Sure, Francesco is only asking for a few days, but couldn't I stretch it out and never go back? I wouldn't have to start my job at the law firm. Instead, I'd find something wonderfully exciting to do here, like work for a fashion magazine or become a painter. I wouldn't have to deal with my family, or anything else, for that matter.

Yet as quickly as I conjure up these possibilities, I know
my answer is no. I'm too much of a planner. Danny is the spontaneous one, the appointed nutball of the family, not me. I've always valued responsibility over spontaneity, strategy over impulsiveness.

“Sorry, Francesco,” I say. “I have to go.”

I put my hand on the back of his head, feeling his curly hair, damp from the heat. I pull his face to me. Soon, both of my hands run through his hair. He holds my face while he kisses me as if he won't let me go. He ducks and kisses my neck, my collarbone where he had touched earlier. It's only when I hear myself moan that I come to. I snap my head around, embarrassed. The only person in the vicinity is an older, well-dressed shopkeeper, sweeping his sidewalk across the street. He studies his work intently, but a quick smirk over the top of his broom tells me he's enjoyed our little public display.

“I have to go,” I say again. I push Francesco gently away from me.

“Okay,
bella,
” he says, his chocolate eyes on mine. “You will write me, yes?”

He hands me a white card with neat handprinting that says, “Francesco Giacobbe, Via Majorana 122, Roma, Italy, (06) 59 88 299.” Funny, I never asked him his last name before.

I can't stop looking at the card. The fact that he has printed it out ahead of time touches me, and I don't want him to leave. A few seconds go by.

“
Bella?”
he says.

“Of course. I'll write you.” I look up and smile. “Thank you, Francesco.”

He shrugs, a nonchalant movement, as if to say there's nothing to thank him for. I open my mouth to tell him otherwise, but I can't find the words.

I kiss him one last time, a chaste kiss really, compared to our prior rumbles.

“
Ciao, bella,”
Francesco says, and starts his scooter. I watch him as he pulls away, his light blue shirt flapping behind him, his quick wave to someone he recognizes in the street. A moment later, he turns the corner, and I can't see him anymore.

O
nce in the room, I open the windows to let in some air and start repacking my stuff in the massive backpack I borrowed from my brother. Most of my clothes are scattered around the room from my “dress” rehearsals before going out with Francesco last night. It seems so long ago.

I fold my clothes quickly, nervous about seeing Kat and Sin again but looking forward to the rest of our trip. They were right about me changing. We've all changed, actually, but it doesn't mean we can't be close like we used to. I'm still a tad annoyed that they laid out their gripes now, after two years, but I'm willing to let it go.

I hook up my CD player to two tiny speakers and crank up a Grateful Dead album. Sometimes I use music like a drug to elevate my mood, and I decide that after the last few months, I could use some drugs. Jerry Garcia sings, “What a long strange trip it's been.” Like a drug, the effect isn't immediate. It takes a while to settle into my brain and my limbs, but soon I'm snapping my fingers. I have my hair dryer in my hand, and I'm dancing around, coiling the cord,
when Kat and Lindsey fall into the room laughing, juggling packages. I freeze like I've been caught doing crack cocaine. Silence greets me.

“Hey, guys,” I say, my anxiety returning. “How's your day?”

“Fine,” Lindsey says, her eyes wary. She stands hesitantly in the doorway.

“Are you all right?” Kat says.

“Yeah. I'm great.” I walk to them and try to grab them both in a bear hug, envisioning a tearful reunion in a made-for-TV movie, but neither returns my enthusiasm.

“Listen,” I say, taking a deep breath and a step back. “I realize that I've been out of it lately. I can't explain it, but you're right. I have no excuses, no reasons, but I think I'm shaking it off. I'm starting to feel like my old self again.”

“Well, well,” Lindsey says, dropping a Versace bag from her hand. It lands with a soft thud on the tile floor.

Kat says nothing but looks hopeful.

“I know I shouldn't have gone off with Francesco today, not after what happened this morning, but I was so shocked and hurt about everything you said. I was upset that you dropped it on me now—on vacation.”

“There was no time before,” Lindsey says. “You were always with John, or there were other people around. You never seemed like you wanted to talk about anything.”

“Well, I think you could have found a minute or two to try.” This comes out sounding snotty. I shake my head, as if I can erase it. “The bottom line is that I want us to get back to how we used to be.”

Lindsey stands with her arms crossed. “That's great, Case. Me too, but it's not going to happen overnight.”

This throws me a little. I'd imagined apologizing and then everything returning to some semblance of normality.

“All right,” I say, “but I'm ready to have the best trip of
our lives. I really want to do anything I can to make it better.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kat says. “We all have to try, right?” We both look at Lindsey.

“I don't think it'll be that easy,” she says.

Kat gives Sin a poke in the ribs.

Sin glares at her. “I guess we can all give it a shot,” she says, nodding as if to convince herself.

I exhale a short burst of relief.

 

We get on the Rome subway, our backpacks knocking into the poles and other passengers. The subway will take us to the Termini, where a train will take us to Brindisi, at which point we'll hop a taxi to the port and board an overnight ferry to Corfu. I'd never even consider traveling like this in the States. If any destination requires more than three hours of auto travel, I fly, or I skip it altogether. But there's something that sounds authentic and wonderful about sitting in the cabin of a train as it chugs past the European landscape. And while I've heard that the boat to Corfu is much like those carrying immigrants to the U.S., I'm looking forward to it. To Greece. To patching things up with Kat and Sin.

As I stand in the subway car, separated from them by the crowd, I stare at the profile of a guy a few persons ahead of me. I take in the sensuous curve of the corner of his mouth, the dark hair curling slightly over his collar. The time that I spent with Francesco seems to have awakened a new crop of sexual feelings in me. I see and feel sex everywhere. Although I can't see the guy's eyes, or most of his face, I picture those lips on mine, whispering in my ear the things he wants to do with me, to me. I envision him taking me to his family's house in Capri, making love to me on the patio overlooking the water.

He shifts his body so that I glimpse his face, and I'm sur
prised to see that he's nothing like what I'd thought. His nose is crooked, eyes too deep set. Certainly not unattractive, but not my type, either. Shit. Now he's noticed me critiquing him, and he's obviously mistaken my surprise as interest. He smiles a slow, and what he must believe to be sexy, smile and gives me a meaningful look. Strangely, I feel trapped, as if he might come over to me at any minute and act on my earlier thoughts. I look around for somewhere to move, but with my pack strapped on I'm like a turtle, and abrupt movements don't work well.

Suddenly, I'm yanked toward the closing doors of the subway train.

“Let's go!” Kat yells. “We're here!”

I tumble out of the doors of the train, struggling to keep the backpack on.

“God, Casey, you are so out of it sometimes,” Lindsey says.

I feel like setting her hair afire, but I just mumble, “Sorry.”

“Shit,” Lindsey says, looking at her watch. “We've got about a minute till the train leaves.”

We run up the steps and into the station, our heads swiveling wildly, looking for the right track.

“There!” I say, pointing to a track a few hundred yards away. “Number 6!”

We all break into another run, Kat in front. She gets no farther than ten feet, though, when the large plastic bag she's clutching gives way, spilling its contents—Vatican souvenirs wrapped in green paper, a paperback copy of
Story of O,
a black leather makeup bag, an errant shoe, even a pair of tired-looking Victoria's Secrets.

“Jesus, Kat,” Lindsey says as we bend to help her pick up the collection. “Why couldn't you pack this crap?”

“It wouldn't fit!” she says, scrambling to gather it all in her arms.

As I lean over to help the cause, the force of my overloaded
backpack and the extra weight I'd acquired over the summer send me sprawling.

“Shit!” Lindsey says. “The train's leaving!”

Grabbing Kat's rank-looking undies, I push myself to my feet, and we all sprint toward Track 6, where the mustard-colored passenger train is beginning to slowly move away.

Lindsey manages to grab the handle on the last car, pulling her tiny self onto the platform. Once inside, she yanks in Kat and her armload of junk. A few of Kat's Vatican trinkets flit away.

“Come on!” Lindsey yells at me, holding out her hand.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, I think, as I waddle after the train. I'm never going to make it. I'm going to be left here all alone.

“Let's go!” Sin yells, shaking her arm at me.

Finally, I muster every shred of energy and heave myself upward, grabbing Sin's hand with one of mine. She drags me in, both of us falling to the floor in a jumble of luggage and limbs. I open my eyes. Sin's face is right below mine, so close we could kiss. I cross my eyes at her, and we burst into laughter.

T
he train is packed tight with other tourists, families traveling in bunches and Italian students who look bored with the whole scene. We wander from car to car like mules, carrying all of our belongings on our backs. The people who can't find a seat have set up camp in the aisles, and we have to step over mounds of luggage, sleeping backpackers and even mothers with children.

We're almost to the front of the train when I spot an oasis—a car with empty spaces.

“
Scusi,”
I say, sliding open the car door and smiling at an older Italian couple dressed all in black despite the heat. What is it about most Italians and their fear of cool, accommodating clothing? They refuse to wear shorts, shrugging them off as an ugly American thing.

“No! No!” The man gestures with his hands and unleashes a torrent of rapid Italian. Using my minimal skills, I'm able to understand that they paid for the entire car ahead of time and refuse to let us share.

“Please,” I say, assuming a beggar's pose, my hands clasped in front of me.
“Per favore.”

“Please! Please!” echo Kat and Lindsey from behind me.

The man continues to hold out his hands as if to block us, speaking even faster now, so that I can't make out a word. I'm about to give up when the man's wife nudges him aside with a sharp elbow and gestures us into the car.

 

Kat sprawls on the seat across from me, her eyes shut, legs apart, her head propped up against the window. I can't imagine how she can sleep like that, but she's shown time and again that she can doze through just about anything. In college, when she wasn't with a guy, she was always the one who passed out on the couch while the party raged around her.

Lindsey sits next to Kat, apparently absorbed in her novel.

“Good book?” I say. I've already exhausted my conversational possibilities with the Italian couple, asking where they're from and explaining that we're from Chicago. The woman looks at me every so often, and we both smile as if not sure what else to do.

“Um-hmm.” Lindsey nods, not lifting her eyes.

“It's so hot in here, isn't it?” I ask, fanning my face with my hand.

“Yeah.” She continues reading.

“Sì, sì!”
the woman says, catching my drift, fanning her face as well. We smile again, and another uncomfortable silence follows.

I want desperately to tell Sin about Francesco, to relive every moment. To me, an amazing experience doesn't seem like it really happened until I can tell one of my friends. Yet at the same time, I don't want to be the only one making the effort here.

I turn and stare out the window. The countryside whizzes
by, a blur of rolling burnt-yellow hills, vineyards with crisscrossed rows of vines, quaint stucco cottages.

In my mind, I go over and over the details of my time with Francesco—the feel of his waist in my hands as I sat behind him on the scooter, the way he patted my neck with the napkins. I could live for years on these memories alone.

We've only been gone four days, but it seems more like four weeks. Mostly, I feel far away from John. And with that reminder, the guilt comes rushing in. How can I be so cruel? John does nothing but love me, and I run off to Italy and roll around with the first guy on a scooter. What in the hell is wrong with me? Or maybe a better question is, what is wrong with us? It's too unfair a thought, though, one he's not here to defend against. I decide that I'll swear Kat and Sin to secrecy and do my best to forget Francesco. It was just a small blip, nothing else.

Think only of John, only of John,
I tell myself. I squint at my watch and figure that with the time change, it's early in the morning in Chicago. He's probably just waking up. He'll mix together Grape Nuts and Raisin Bran, then add banana. He'll put on his olive suit but dress it up with one of his three hundred ties. He'll take the 7:04 El train into the Loop, and he'll go to work. Again.

The problem is this—there isn't anything particularly exciting to think about in terms of John. I try focusing out the window. We slow as we pass a small town, one with only a few dusty roads and three square buildings. A little girl of about seven stands in the doorway of one of the buildings, watching the train. She's wearing a brown dress and has long, dark hair in a messy ponytail. It seems like she catches my eyes as the train moves past, and I imagine that we hold each other's gaze until she fades to a tiny brown speck.

 

The Italian couple prepares to leave at the next train stop, which is about an hour outside of Brindisi. They don't speak,
but while they gather their bags and suitcases, they seem to communicate by gestures and looks. It makes me think of John and me in twenty years, and I find the thought both sweet and terrifying.

At their stop, the man glares in our direction, but the woman smiles and nods her head.

“Grazie,”
I say, thanking her again.
“Grazie.”

One of the three guys who've been stuck standing in the aisle for the last few hours holds the door open for the couple then sticks his face in the car. He has shocking orange hair and freckles covering every visible surface of his wiry body.

“Hey, girls,” he says in a thick Irish brogue. “Mind if we share the car with you?” He gives us a crooked smile.

“Of course not,” Lindsey says, deciding to speak for the first time in at least an hour. She waves at the spaces vacated by the couple.

“Excellent, excellent. Come on, lads.” He gestures to his friends in the hall before he carries in a battered, army-green canvas bag and tosses it onto the overhead rack.

“Johnny,” he says, extending a hand to Lindsey and me. “And this is Noel and Billy.”

“I'm Kat,” Kat says, awakening at the sound of young males.

Kat is generous enough to introduce Sin and me, and we all shake hands.

Noel is a short, stout guy with shiny blue eyes and colicky brown hair that stands out at all angles. Billy is tall and sinewy with black curly hair.

“Hey, girls,” they both say.

“Much thanks for the accommodations,” Billy adds. “It was a feckin' mess out there.”

His hair reminds me of Francesco's, but Billy is less mysterious, all grins and quick nods of his head.

“Where are you girls heading?” Noel asks, taking a seat
and leaning forward, his short muscular forearms resting on his knees.

“Corfu,” Kat says. “We've heard about someplace there called the Pink Palace.”

All three of the Irish guys snort, making sounds of disgust.

“Ah, the Pink Palace,” Johnny says with a dismissive wave. “It's bloody awful. We've been to Greece three times before, and believe us, you don't need to go to Corfu. The place to go is Ios.”

“We might stop at Ios, too,” I say, “but Corfu is closer, and the Pink Palace sounds nice.” I don't mention that we got our information from a guidebook used by Lindsey's cousin a decade ago.

“Nice? Nice?” Johnny, Noel and Billy are laughing now.

“All they do is break plates off your head and feed you ouzo for breakfast. You don't need that,” Billy says. “Come to Ios with us, girls, and we'll show you what Greece is all about.”

“I'm sure,” Lindsey says, mimicking his brogue. “Guinness for breakfast and shagging, right?”

They all laugh again at her imitation, while I sit there astounded at her suddenly warm and witty personality shift.

“Anything for you, love.” Billy holds Lindsey's eyes a bit long, it seems.

Lindsey's eyes sparkle like they do on the rare occasion she's interested in someone.

Their intimate little moment passes as the guys describe Ios in more detail.

“It's a little island that has billions of pubs and clubs packed onto it, and there's a great beach,” Noel says.

“And we know a place to stay,” Johnny says. “It's on a cliff overlooking the beach. And the best part is it's cheap.”

I don't hear the rest of their enthusiastic description. For some reason, I've let Francesco out of the basement room in
my head and started thinking about him again. I reach in the pocket of my shorts and pull out the card he gave me with his address on it. I wonder how many other women have the same card pasted in their scrapbooks next to his picture.

“What do you think, Case?” Lindsey says. “Should we go to Ios with these guys?”

Oh,
now
she's speaking to me again.

I think about it a moment. The truth is that the thought of deviating from our plan makes me anxious. These guys seem nice enough, but with them around I wonder if we'll get the time Sin says we need to make things better between us. Still, Sin's face is lit up like a neon beer sign. She's so rarely hot for anyone. I suppose if she's happy, it'll make everything easier.

I look at Kat. “What do you think?”

“I'm game for anything,” she says. No surprise, really.

“All right,” I say. “Let's do it.”