Pasta Imperfect (5 page)

Jackie stiffened. “Unh-oh. That’s not good.
Puttana
is not a word you want thrown at you.”

I narrowed my gaze at her. “How do you know that?”

“Well, since you asked. I’ve been dying to tell you, but I wanted to wait until the right moment to surprise you.” She curled her hand around my forearm with giddy enthusiasm. “I took a crash course in Italian right before the trip, and you’ll never guess! I discovered I have a real flair for languages! My instructor said I had the best ear ever for picking up conversational Italian. When I was a guy, I couldn’t even conjugate verbs. Now, I’m speaking Italian! Does that rock, or what?”

“You speak Italian?” I asked jealously.

“Like a native.” She whipped her sunglasses off and studied the marquee above the hotel’s front door. “Do you suppose you got the name wrong?”

“I
know
this is the right name. I memorized the names of all our hotels!”

“Okay. Let me see what I can find out.
Scusi,
” she said to the driver, followed by a string of Italian that wowed me. I beat back my envy as I listened to her. How could she have learned a foreign language in such a short time? But I refused to let her skill make me feel inadequate. I mean, I knew a little French and a little Norwegian. A knowledge of two foreign languages was pretty decent. Three, if you counted Minnesotan.

When she finished speaking, she shook her head. “He says this is the right hotel.”

I heard a digital tone from the front seat followed by a gruff, “
Pronto,
” as Vlad answered his cell phone. Jackie threw open her shoulder bag and pulled out a book that mirrored the colors of the Italian flag.

“Maybe you reversed the order of some of the words,” she suggested as she paged quickly through her phrase book. “It happens.”

I regarded her bag, pricked by an unlikely thought. “You don’t happen to have a copy of our itinerary in there someplace, do you?”

“Of course I don’t have a copy of our itinerary. I’m on a tour. I’m not supposed to know where I’m staying. That’s why
you’re
here.”

“
Si,
” said the driver into his phone. “
Ciao.
” He replaced the phone in a little holster attached to the dash, then pivoted around in his seat, rapid-firing a steady stream of loud, plosive words at us. He slapped his meter again and made a “gimme” gesture with his hand.

“What’s he saying?” I asked out of the corner of my mouth.

“I heard the word
lire,
but I’m not sure about anything else.”

I snapped my head around to stare at her. “How can you not be sure? I thought you spoke Italian like a native?”

“It’s like this. I’m pretty sure what
I’m
saying; I don’t always know what
they’re
saying.”

UNH! I buried my face in my hands and bent forward, banging my head against my knees.

“Emily? Stop that!” She grabbed my shoulders. “What are you trying to do?”

“Kill myself. Slitting my wrists would be quicker, but Mom has all my sharp objects with her.”

“I have a fingernail file.” She rummaged in the side pocket of her bag. “Whoops. Make that an emery board. That won’t do you much good.”

I looked up distractedly, noting the long row of digits on the driver’s meter, then higher, where the holster for his cell phone hung on the dash. Phone? EH! I grabbed Jackie’s arm. “Ask him if we can borrow his cell phone.”

“Hel-loooo? You don’t have any numbers. You can’t even call yourself!”

Maybe not, but I knew one number that was bound to get some results. “Would you just ask!”

“All right already. Jeez.” She turned to a page in her phrase book and smiled sweetly at the driver. “
Scusi, signor
…” She pointed at the cell phone and proceeded to unleash a flood of halting Italian that caused the driver’s eyes to light up beneath his sagging lids. I’d heard Italians were extremely generous, but this guy seemed so excited to have someone else use his phone that he looked as if he was about to spring into handstands. He plucked the phone out of its holster and thrust it at Jackie, a broad smile creasing his unshaven face.

“
Che corpo,
” he rasped, his eyes roving her body, his tongue roving his lips. “
Vorrei leccare il sudore della tua pelle.
”

“What’s he saying?” I asked, as she handed me the phone. I hoped this phone was equipped with the right chip to connect me with another country. If not…I pushed away the thought and punched in the number while Jackie flipped frantically through her book.

“It must be an idiom. He’s either saying his testicles are the size of cabbages or he’s telling me I’m fat. If he’s telling me I’m fat, he can kiss his tip good-bye.”

At the other end of the phone line, I heard a torrent of static that was suddenly interrupted by the welcome sound of a man’s voice. “Miceli,” he answered in his beautiful French/German/Italian accent.

“Do you know the name of the hotel where I’m staying in Rome?”

A pause. “Emily?”

“I e-mailed you my itinerary. Remember?” Ever since his injury last month, he’d been battling migraine headaches and slight memory problems. He could recall all the major stuff, like the fact that his name was Etienne Miceli; he was a Swiss police inspector; he’d met me nine months ago when I’d visited Lucerne; he was in love with me. He was just having a hard time with minor details, like remembering that he wanted to marry me.

“I remember perfectly, darling.”

“I’m going to hand the phone over to someone. Would you please tell
him
the name of the hotel?”

I shoved the phone at the cabbie, who responded to Etienne with a,
“Si? Si. Albergo Villa Barduccio Mastrangelo? Ah, si!”

“What’d I tell you.” Jackie eyed me sternly. “You gave him the wrong name.”

“Hey, I was close!” The driver pitched the phone back at me and peeled out of the parking area. I pressed the phone to my ear. “Hi,” I said to Etienne. “Thank you so much.”

“Was that a test?”

“Yup. And you passed.” I lowered my voice to a sultry whisper. “I wish you were here so I could give you your prize.” I heard a clamor of voices in the background on his end. “Are you at the office?” He was such a workaholic, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was nosing around the department in an unofficial capacity. Officially, however, he was on leave until his migraines disappeared.

“Actually, darling, I’m in northern Italy. Campione. Visiting my cousin. We’re celebrating my great-aunt’s ninetieth birthday. I thought I told you.”

“Nope. You must have told someone who looks like me.” His doctor assured him that his memory and headache problems would be only temporary. I was keeping my fingers crossed that he was right. The voices in the background reached a crescendo and erupted into excited cheers. “Your relatives sound like a rowdy bunch,” I teased. Had to be the Italian side of the family — the gene pool responsible for Etienne’s black hair, classic style, and awe-inspiring…hardware. I hadn’t had a chance to try out the hardware yet, but I remained hopeful.

“They’re complete strangers.” He laughed. “They’re cheering someone on at the roulette table. I’m at the local casino, trying my luck at
chemin de fer.
Did I forget to tell you the odd thing that’s happened in the last month?”

I guess he meant
other
than the fact that he’d forgotten about his intention to pop the question. “Have you thought about writing things down? Making lists? It works for some people.”

The cabbie growled something over his shoulder at Jackie.

“I seem to have developed an uncanny ability to maintain a mental picture of what cards have been played at the gaming table, what cards are left in the deck, and what my odds are of being dealt the card I need. I think it’s called, ‘being in the zone.’ ”

I thought it was called “card counting.” I’d come back from Ireland hot-wired to sense disaster; he’d come back a card shark. Go figure. I watched Jackie scroll her finger down a glossy page of her phrase book and stab a word with her highly lacquered nail. “Are you making any money?” I asked, as the taxi swerved suddenly, slamming me into the door. Horns blared around us. A scooter zoomed past, nearly clipping our front bumper. I covered my eyes with my hand.

“I’ve only just begun, but I have a modest number of chips in front of me at the moment. The betting limit in Lucerne is five Swiss francs, but in Italy there’s no limit, so as they say, if I play my cards right, I could make a killing.”

Or be wiped out. Unh-oh. I was getting a bad feeling about this. “Tell me again why you can’t come down to Rome?”

“The Jubilee year, Emily. There’s not one room left in Rome. I did try.”

And sharing my room was out. Not with Mom on the tour. “What about a rendezvous in Florence?” If he didn’t lose all his money, he might even be able to spring for the train fare.

“
I nani mi divertono nel circolo!”
Jackie fired at the driver.

A pause at the other end of the phone line. “Where are you, darling?” Etienne asked, a humorous lilt to his voice.

“In a taxi.”

“Who’s with you who just said, ‘Dwarves amuse me at the circus’?”

“That would be Jackie. She’s demonstrating her flair for languages.”

“
Non sei spiritoso!
” the cabbie fired back, gesticulating wildly.
“Come sei sciocco! Sei proprio scemo! Ma vorrei leccare il sudore della tua pelle!”

“Did you hear that?” I whispered into the phone. “Can you translate?”

“He’s telling her she’s not funny, she’s tasteless, and she’s really stupid, but he still wants to lick the sweat off her skin.”

“Hold on.” Jackie posed one finger in the air as she consulted her book. “Okay, he adores my spirit, he loves my taste in clothes, and…he thinks I have killer legs.” She smiled like the Cheshire cat. “I might give him a tip after all.”

“Figlio di puttana!”
wailed the driver, jamming on the brakes.

“ ‘Son of a bitch!’ ” said Etienne.

“What’s wrong?” I winced into the phone. “Did you just lose all your money?”

“I was translating what your taxi driver just said. What’s happening there?”

I peered out the front windshield at a major commotion surrounding a building that looked vaguely familiar. Cars. Trucks. Sirens. People clustered in knots on the sidewalk, pointing fingers at the upper stories.

“That’s it!” cried Jackie. “That’s our hotel!”

Unfortunately, it was on fire.

“The fire started in the kitchen and spread from there,” Duncan announced to us three hours later over the bus’s loudspeaker. Duncan Lazarus stood a couple of inches over six feet, had shoulders like a lumberjack, thick, sun-streaked hair that was a hint too long, and a voice that resonated with calm authority. I suspected his early ancestors might have played the gladiatorial circuit in Rome or resided somewhere atop Mount Olympus with the other immortals. “You’re all aware this is Rome’s Jubilee year. Unfortunately, that makes it difficult to find accommodations for fifty-five tourists anywhere in the city, especially on such short notice.”

A low hum of discontent spread through the bus as we headed north on the Autostrada, watching cars the size of windup toys roar past us in the outside lane. It had taken a couple of hours for people to recover from the shock of their luggage, laptops, and powerpoint presentations becoming charcoal briquettes, but to their credit, all the guests had made use of their neck wallets, so no one needed to replace either passport or credit cards. A handful of people had lost their daily meds in the fire, but they’d followed Landmark’s instructions to carry scrip for all their prescriptions, so they’d already replaced them in a pharmacy near the hotel. And since the structure had already been fully engulfed in flames when the tour bus pulled up, no one in the group had been injured, but my knees still felt a little gimpy at the thought of what might have happened if the fire had started later in the day rather than earlier. The bright note here was that we were moving on to our second city and everyone was still alive! Was I on a roll, or what?

Beside me, Nana flipped through some fresh photos taken with her Polaroid OneStep. “See this corner window that’s engulfed in flames?” She slanted the picture toward me. “That was my room. It was a pretty nice one, too.” She heaved a dejected sigh. “I spent a fortune on naughty bloomers for this trip, Emily, and they all went up in smoke. I didn’t get to wear my reptile print Dream Angels teddy even once, and it looked real good on me. Slimmed my hips right down to nothin’.”

I stared at her, wide-eyed. “You bought a reptile print teddy?”

“What? You think the leopard print woulda been better?”

“Given our housing problem, we’ll be leaving Rome and traveling to Florence a couple of days early,” Duncan continued. “We’ve located a hotel within walking distance of the famous Holy Mary of the Flowers Cathedral, which the Florentines refer to as the Duomo, and by a stroke of luck, it can accommodate everyone until we move into our assigned hotel in Montecatini. The upshot of this is, you’ll be treated to a much more intimate tour of Florence than you ever expected, and I give you my personal guarantee that you won’t be disappointed. Florence is a great medieval city. More manageable than Rome. It’s a walking city, with less traffic and noise, fewer fountains, and incredible bargains on gold and leather goods.”

“What are we supposed to wear while we’re there?” Gillian Jones yelled out. “In case you need a reminder, our clothes are toast!”

Duncan flashed her an indulgent smile. “The miracle of insurance. Once we reach Florence you’ll each be given a stipend of six hundred thousand lire to replace some of the items you lost in the fire. And when you fill out a more detailed insurance form, you’ll receive the full replacement cost of all your belongings, so I suggest you start thinking ‘shopping spree.’ ”

“Six hundred thousand lire?” Nana said, tittering with excitement.

I deleted the three zeroes and divided by two to calculate just how much. “Three hundred dollars.”

“That’s a lot a money. If they got a Super Wal-Mart over here, I’m thinkin’, new wardrobe!”