The Other Language (48 page)

“
Grazie di essere qui, Roma! Sono felice di essere con voi!
”

His voice boomed in an almost perfect Italian accent as the band began to play the opening track. A roar, like a wave echoing and rippling, responded. They loved him. No, they were crazy about him. You could feel their adoration rise and fill the auditorium like a fog of sweat, love so thick you could cut it like cake. These were not casual fans, this was a crowd of diehards, faithful followers, the majority of whom seemed to be deep into their forties. They must have attended many of his concerts, because there was some kind of script they all knew and performed with uncanny discipline. They were doing funny stuff with their hands, raising them and flapping them loosely above their heads, so that the stadium seemed to flutter and vibrate as if filled by thousands of butterflies. They sang the lyrics of each song as soon as Barker gave them a cue, and stopped as soon as the chorus ended so that he could pick up from where they had left it. It was a dance, a well-rehearsed duet between him and a disciplined crowd of thousands responding as a single monstrous individual.

Soon even their cordoned-off VIP section was standing up, dancing like the rest of the audience, singing along with everyone, their arms up like a bunch of teenagers. Sandro looked at Elsa, in what seemed a hopeful way, as if expecting for her to say or do something that would confirm an expectation. He had taken off his jacket and cap, and was moving his hips to the beat. Two of those paper cups of Champagne had warmed him up and he was glowing. Elsa smiled encouragingly so he came closer and wrapped an arm around her waist, his femur thumping lightly against hers. Elsa accommodated his tentative steps, felt the warm dampness of his sweat through his shirt. By now everybody around them was touching and pressing against one another as Barker emitted an
irresistible sexual energy, conducting their dance from the giant screen.

Sandro turned to her, his breath warm on her neck.

“Isn’t he just the best?”

Elsa nodded, feeling the increased pressure of his hand around her waist.

“I am glad you came.” Sandro blew softly in her ear. There was definitely a spark now, the chemistry of the night was beginning to take effect. It was a good feeling, though Elsa wondered whether it would have been wiser to come alone, in order to be free to focus on Barker’s physical manifestation in all his glory, and on the unforeseen effects this manifestation might have on her. Hers was a completely different reading of Barker’s performance from anyone’s crammed in that auditorium. The crowd of VIPs were getting sloppy and slightly out of hand. But her experience was private, and one she couldn’t possibly share with anybody.

The sax played a vibrant solo. Barker ran back and forth across the stage. The notes kept climbing higher and higher, driving the crowd to the limit. Until they became delirious.

Then the lights dimmed, the music seamlessly turned from rock mode to acoustic solo and the audience reacted with a giant intake of breath, a mix of wonder and delighted surprise. Flickering lights dotted the darkness. And then, as if on cue, everyone was holding up their cell phones as Barker began to sing “Roman Romance.” The flashes and the lit displays turned the dome of the auditorium into a starry sky. The audience followed the lyrics in a hushed chorus, waving their bluish screens in a gentle motion.

It was an apotheosis. Most of the audience knew, from gossip, star mags, blogs if not from Wikipedia, that Barker had lived in Rome when he was young. There he had fallen deeply in love with a mysterious girl, so that now “Roman Romance” belonged to the
Romans by birthright. It had become their hymn to love, just as Marta the receptionist had said. And tonight tens of thousands of them were singing those lines with increasing pathos, till they became one fervent voice.

Elsa sensed a flutter around her, she could tell the VIP crowd was watching her, pointing, whispering. Sandro Donati studied her face but she pretended not to notice and fixed her gaze on the stage. Although she didn’t remember all the lyrics (after hearing it that first time she had carefully avoided paying attention to them) she felt she should try and sing along with everyone else. It was a gesture of atonement, like an atheist attempting to remember the lines of a prayer. The words reemerged, unstrung.

Girl, girl
,

combing your hair

You will need me
,

you will want me

more than you think
.

Girl, girl
,

in a beautiful coat
,

you will be cold
,

you will be dead

without me

Elsa was suddenly overwhelmed, swept off in a giant wave as if by the rupture of a dam. A burst of longing seized her. All she had been able to see at the time had been Barker’s ruthlessness, all that had mattered to her had been her broken heart and her revenge. Then, because of his vulnerability and his unexpected kindness, she had disregarded him, brushed him off as this Midwestern bumpkin without future or depth. How could she have been so unreasonably unforgiving, to the point of refusing to own a single track of his?

… golden light shines on your pillow
,

Botticelli hair covers your face
,

you are killing me even when asleep
,

kill me, kill me

I saw you

My Renaissance queen

running toward me

calling me, calling my name

across the Ponte Sisto

I have loved you in Rome

Yes I have

Loved you loved you

In Rome

So many years later, in the gigantic auditorium, the melody of “Roman Romance” came as a revelation, as if her heart, throat and lungs had been plugged into a light switch and her brain had lit up. Yes, they were all connected: Barker, Elsa, the tens of thousands, the leggy Texan art student in the song, Artemisia beheading Holofernes, her past and present. They were all one big dot-to-dot constellation like those lights quivering in the dark.

Did it matter that it wasn’t her in the song? And what difference did it make now? The song was no longer about anybody. It was just this beautiful thing that Barker had created nearly twenty years ago that would survive all of them. Really, she thought, what a waste of time. To have kept her distance, to have waited so long to see him in his full splendor. Why not rejoice and accept his greatness, his fabulous talent, and just love it, like everyone else?

Anyway, even the girl from Texas must be over forty by now, and maybe she, too, had gained weight and chopped off her Botticelli hair.

The gorgeous dark-haired actress was coming toward her. She spoke directly to Elsa, ignoring Sandro.

“We are having a small party at my place after the concert. Please join us, I’d love to talk to you.”

Elsa nodded, almost condescendingly. Sandro held her closer to him as if to exhibit her as his private property.

“Are you going to go backstage afterward?” he asked, somewhat nervously.

Elsa was lost for a moment, then she regained control.

“It gets too crowded backstage,” she said. “I’m going to see him tomorrow for lunch at his hotel. We always do that when he comes back. It’s our little ritual.”

Sandro looked at her with admiration and awe. He pressed his body harder against her, testing if he could still dare claim her after this last statement.

“How does it feel to listen to this song among so many people?” he asked.

He must have been waiting to ask this question since the day they’d met at the café by the Palazzo Farnese.

“It always feels sweet,” Elsa said. She turned to him, feeling tall, mysterious. She smiled.

“Music is such a miracle,” she said.

He leaned toward her and kissed her. His mouth was soft and his kiss had a delicious taste.

· ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ·

The writing of this book would not have been possible without the support of the M Literary Residency. My gratitude to Michelle Garnaut, Arshia Sattar and DW Gibson for the opportunity they’ve given me to write at Sangam House, to Lynne and June Fernandez, Bijayini Satpathy and Surupa Sen for their warm hospitality at Nrityagam, and to Jordan Pavlin for the poem. My deepest thanks go as always to my editor at Pantheon, Robin Desser, for her encouragement, enthusiasm and invaluable help, to Jennifer Kurdyla, and to my literary agent, Toby Eady.

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Francesca Marciano is also the author of the novels
Rules of the Wild
,
Casa Rossa
, and
The End of Manners
. She lives in Rome.

About This Guide

The questions, discussion topics, and other material that follow are intended to enhance your group’s conversation about
The Other Language
, a breakthrough, transporting collection of stories from internationally acclaimed author Francesca Marciano.

About This Book

Hailed by
The New York Times
as “a natural-born storyteller,” the much-admired author of
Rules of the Wild
gives us nine incandescently smart stories, funny, elegant, and poignant by turns, that explore the power of change—in relationships, geographies, and across cultures—to reveal unexpected aspects of ourselves.

Taking us to Venice during film festival season, where a woman buys a Chanel dress she can barely afford; a sun-drenched Greek village at the height of summer holidays, where a teenager encounters the shocks of first love; and a classical dance community in southern India, where a couple gives in to the urge to wander, these remarkable stories bring to life characters stepping outside their boundaries into new passions and destinies. Enlivened by Marciano’s wit, clear eye, and stunning evocations of people and places,
The Other Language
is an enthralling tour de force rich with many pleasures.

Question and Answer

1. How does the very first, and title, story of the collection explore the chasms and common ground that can be found between different cultures through language? Consider Emma’s observation of how her brother Luca and Nadia relate—“They no longer needed a common language to get along”—and her own almost magical, unconscious assimilation of English (
this page
). What happens to people when they are forced to speak a language not their own—do they stay the same or become someone else?

2. In “The Other Language,” the three siblings who lose their mother at a very young age assume that “death must be an impolite subject to bring up in conversation, a disgrace to be hidden, to be put behind” (
this page
). How does this belief affect Emma’s developing relationships with her brother and sister; her father, David; and later, Jack? What are the other characters’ relationships to loss and to death?

3. Travel is the jumping-off point for many of the stories. How are characters both bound and liberated by a sense of “home”?

4. What are some reasons people in these stories travel, alone or with others—physically as well as metaphorically? Consider Stella in “Big Island, Small Island,” Lara in “The Presence of Men,” and Mrs. D’Costa in “The Club.”

5. What do you think is behind the way that Pascal and Caterina play their game in boutiques, in “Chanel”? Is the promise of Caterina’s dress fulfilled, even indirectly, by the story’s end? Why or why not? And what does Venice as a particular location add to this story?