A Semester Abroad (32 page)

“I’m sorry, G, I just wanted water.”

“Get it. I’m done slutting it up. I should go somewhere else.”

“Look at him,” Michelle said, gesturing to Gaetano. “He’s ready to kill me.
Mi dispiace,
Gaetano. Shit, what happened to his face? Forget it. Tell me later. I’ll get out of your way.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s your house.”

Michelle quickly got a glass of water, muttering sorrys and
mi dispiaces
as she left. I walked back over to him and scratched the back of his hair. He closed his eyes, enjoying it.

“I’m sorry that happened,” I said. “We could go to my room.”

“So then when Lisa hears us, she can decide she wants to look out your window.”

“She probably would.”

“Come back with me.”

“To the monastery?”

“Yes, we’ll sneak you in. All of them on the bottom floor will be asleep.”

“You mean the monks? All of the monks will be asleep?”

“Yes,
faccia di cazzo
. It will be fine. We will be quiet.” He whispered in my ear. “At least when we are on the first floor and later…”

I smiled up at him, “Later I’ll brush my teeth and have a great breakfast.”

He stopped the
vespa
just outside the gate. I had only been on the grounds that one time during the day, so I held his hand tight. We walked the bike over to the rack.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, seeming a bit nervous himself.

“Yes, are you?”

“A little.”

“Have you done this before?”

“Never.” He moved his face close to mine so I could see him in the moonlight. “Really, never. I never wanted to risk this before.”

“What will happen if we are caught?” I whispered.

“
Tutto
finish,” he said, mixing our two languages so I took him seriously. I took a deep breath.

A long hall, a long dark hall. It does feel like a monster. There are doors on all sides. He will not turn the light on. Before he opened the giant wood
portone
, he knelt before me and slipped off my shoes. I balanced on one foot, bending to hold his shoulders for support. He squeezed my leg.

I follow his instructions. I run quickly down the long hall. There are a few windows, where the full moon shines in so I can see the doors on all sides. It is a straight hall, but without the moon I couldn’t find my way. He is still at the other end, watching me run through the moonlight. Waiting to make sure.

My heart is beating fast as I make it to the first step. When he sees that I make it, he turns the light on. I am at the landing when the light comes on–before me, an illuminated giant statue of a saint. I am not expecting it, I squeal

Then I get scared that one of the sleeping monks will hear me and
tutto
will be finished. I run quickly down his floor to the end of the hall as he’d told me. I’ve heard him running down this hall to get my phone calls many times, but he never ran as fast as I am running.

His room is the last one on the left. I open his door and go in, relieved. Safe at last, at least until a few hours from now, when I have to do this again. I hear him coming, laughing all the way down the corridor. I am ready when he opens the door.

I watch his face change as I turn to him. This is his gift. It is mine. Soon I will be going away.

I undress him, moving around his body as if it were my own. He lets me. We stand looking at each other and then laugh at the strangeness of finally seeing each other like this. I like what the sight of my body is doing to his. My body changed since I’ve been here. The hills of Siena have made my legs stronger. The fresh food has done my body good.

“You are beautiful,” he says. I step closer to him. I reach across to touch him. Without clothes, he seems different, less himself. I take his hand and bring him to the bed.

What we do is new for us, and yet it feels familiar. He looks at me for a while and rubs his hands against me. I began to touch him, too. We kiss. I am careful of his lip. Hands on skin explore. He speaks to me, saying things that would embarrass me in my own language. They come to my mind in a musical string.

“
Mi fai morire. Quanto sei bella. Si. Si. Voglio fare amore con te. Mi piace quando mi tocci. Quanto mi piaci. Bella. Bella. Sei bella, tu sai. Mi fai morire.”

We take turns, looking up at each other to see what makes the other’s eyes close. We grow more confident. The room fills with us.

“
Gira ti
,” he says, turning me over on the bed, running his face down the length of my back. I cannot see him. I can only hear, feel and smell. The word for all of those is sometimes the same in Italian,
sentire
, to feel, and now I understand why. All of the senses are a part of what we do. My body rises up to meet his.

Turning me again, he buries his face into me. I am no longer the girl on the plane. I am a woman now. Our bodies move together. I hear the sounds we make and worry briefly about the monks sleeping below, but it floats out of my mind when everything else does.

And then I can’t think anymore.

My final weeks in Siena were a blur. I kept catching myself trying to mark time, trying to hold it up, but it all happened so quickly.

Gaetano and I alternated between sneaking into the monastery and staying in my tiny bed. He distracted me from my final papers, because he could, because he knew that he would spend a solid hour helping me work on them, so that I would do okay.

I gave my speech on the Medici. Signora Laza complimented my pronunciation and research.

Duccio and Michelle were thrilled about Gaetano and me. Duccio drove us to the restaurant where we went the first night together as a foursome. He gave a toast about how happy he was to have met these
ragazze americane,
he said. It wasn’t like him to be emotional, but that night, holding on tight to Michelle, he was.

The next morning Michelle knocked on my door. I got up quietly to not disturb Gaetano. We crept through Lisa’s room and into the dining room, where I gathered Michelle was on her second cup of instant coffee. She was pale and antsy. I got nervous.

“Are you okay?”

“Duccio’s mom finally wants to meet me.”

“Cool,” I said. “Right? Cool?”

“I guess. They have a country house, which I don’t understand because we’ve driven to the grounds and it’s only, like, 20 minutes away from here, but his parents spend the summer there. They want me to come for
cena
tonight. They’re ‘opening up’ the house or something. His aunt is going to be there and his sisters and brothers. And their spouses. And his aunt’s kids. The whole fucking family.”

“Michelle, that sounds awesome. Right? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I’m just nervous. I think she’s been suspicious of me this whole time and now I’m suspicious.”

“Maybe she is just accepting you’re Duccio’s
ragazza
and she wants to know you.”

“Can you and Gaetano come?”

“I guess,” I said. “Sure. If it makes you feel better. Now let’s make some real coffee. We’ve got a big day, and those boys are never going to go for this instant stuff.”

In a car again. And though I did love it, the one thing I didn’t love was the way the Italians took the curves. I was safely buckled in and clutching Gaetano’s hand, but Duccio was a speed demon.

“
Duccio, piano, piano, per favore
,” Michelle implored every few minutes. It didn’t help. The men were laughing at us and calling us
americane
.

“
Si, siamo americane
,” Michelle said, finally. “Now slow the fuck down.”

“
Cosa
?” Duccio asked to our laughter. “
Cosa hai detto
?”

“Fuck sumding fuck,” Gaetano said in English, unsure.

“Fuck something fuck,” Michelle and I said in unison and then cracked up, turning the tables. Michelle had been so on edge the whole morning. It was good to hear her laugh.

And then we were there.

“
Allora, americane
,” Duccio said pulling up the driveway to the large brown home. “
Ci siamo. Pronte?
”

Gaetano whistled his approval. He had never been here either.

“It’s so big and
bella
,” Michelle said.

“It’s like the brochure,” I said, getting out of the car.

“
Cosa ha detto
?” Duccio asked Gaetano. And then to us, “
Vi piace
?”

“Yes,” I said. “I like it.”

Duccio nodded, smiling. I realized he was nervous too.

There was something new and sweet in the air.

“What’s that?” I asked Gaetano. “The smell.”

“Aghh, lavender. See it starting to come up.”

Duccio’s mother came out, clasping her hands to the sides of her face. She looked like so many of the Sienese women we saw around. Her pumpkin-colored silk blouse tucked into a well-cut skirt and good pumps. She shone with bright chunky gold jewelry. The women around the town were always so cold to us, but Duccio’s mother, Bruna, exuded warmth. She welcomed us all to her home with kisses on the cheeks.

Bruna ushered us through the house, which was beautiful and simple out through the back doors onto their patio. Under a pergola, a table was set, but for the time, Duccio’s family was milling about with glasses of prosecco. He had an older and younger brother, Nicola and Andrea, and one sister named Lucia. His father was Piero and there was an aunt named Gianna. Gianna was dressed almost identically to Bruna, but her smart silk blouse was a shade of silver.

I was trying to keeping track of all the names for Olivia, who still loved noting Italian names. I couldn’t quite catch the names of all the cousins or the spouses of Duccio’s older siblings. I completely lost the names of the gaggle of children except for little fat Pino, who kept getting reprimanded and Alessia, a smart four-year-old who questioned why Michelle and I spoke funny.

As usual, the Italians tripped over Michelle’s name, repeating it wrongly and asking her to spell it before finally deciding to call her Michele like the Italian boy name. I noticed only Duccio’s mom made the attempt each time to pronounce it properly. I considered this her blessing.

My name got a typical reply, too. “
Aghh, Gabriella, italiano, semplice.
”

There was something roasting in an outdoor oven and that wood burn scent that I once associated with the cold winter streets of Siena was now mixed with this new perfect lavender scent to create something unique and ecstatic in my brain.

We sat for dinner, or early lunch, or midday meal, under the pergola looking out over the countryside. Lately, the shops around Siena had begun putting posters outside their stores for the tourists to buy. It was this kind of scene that they were selling. This was the picture of Tuscany everyone wanted to experience.

I didn’t know if this was a typical weekend meal for Duccio’s family, but the food kept coming. Starting with crostini and a plate of cheese and wild boar sausage. Then Bruna passed a cut pasta served with lemon and peas.

“
Fatta in casa
,” Gaetano said to me in case I couldn’t tell it was homemade. He complimented the hostess, and Michelle and I followed suit, nodding and agreeing that we loved all the pasta in Italy, but this was the best we had.

We took our time between courses. The wine flowed. Everyone was talking in little groups, and I realized that I couldn’t just turn the noise of Italian out anymore like I once had. I heard it and I understood. Still, I wished Gaetano and I had our own dialect that we could speak. I wanted to tell him how awesome it was to be around women. Real Italian women. Save for the women who worked in stores and café and the ones who carried trays high above the crowd at Barone Rosso, I didn’t get to interact with them. Now I was here at a table with them, talking about things like school and travel and family.

The
secondo
was
cinghiale,
and it was served with tiny potatoes, mushrooms and herbs in a light sauce. I could taste the fire in it. I looked across to Michelle and smiled. She was eating the meat even though she was a vegetarian. I raised my eyebrows. She shrugged.

It was Bruna and Gianna’s show. They refused help clearing the table, returning with a light
rucula
salad with pepper, lemon and oil. And then there was the requisite break for cigarette smoking. At once, everyone pulled out their respective packs. I grinned across the table at Michelle.

“
Perché ridi
?” Gaetano asked.

“I’m not laughing, but it is funny,” I said, quietly again wishing I spoke his dialect. “You almost think the kids are going to pull out cigarettes. Everyone is smoking.”

“
Si
.” He nodded, noticing. “But these are good vices.”

I took one of his cigarettes and shook my head.

Then dessert: Bruna had made a
torta della nonna
. And there were little cookies and chocolates for the children that the adults ate, too. The cake was delicious. It was ubiquitous in Tuscany and always slightly different, but here under the pergola with the sun just a red puddle over the countryside, no other cake really stood a chance.