Letters to the Baumgarters (2 page)

“I don’t believe you.”

Then that bright smile was back again. “But don’t American women like
‘bad boys?’”

“Where did you hear that?”

“American television of course.”

I snorted. “Of course.”

“So it’s not true?”

“Oh it’s true.” I nodded sagely. “All American woman like bad boys. And
men in uniforms. And men with big bank accounts. And great big…”

I let my sentence trail off, looking sideways at him.

“Well one out of four isn’t bad, eh?” He shrugged, using his long pole—
no
metaphor there,
I thought wryly—to steer us through the waterways of
Venice.

“Are you going to make me guess which one?” I teased. I knew I was
flirting with him, encouraging him, in fact. What was wrong with me today?

“No, I would never make you guess.” He met my eyes, his look quite
serious. I felt my cheeks flush and was glad for the chill in the air. The rain
had finally stopped, and although the water was choppy, it reflected a bit of
hazy sun trying to make its way through the clouds.

“So what are you doing here in Italia, Americano?” He changed the subject
as smoothly as he navigated his boat through the water.

“I’m in an exchange program. Studying Italian.”

“Of course.” He nodded, as if he’d guessed. He probably had—there were
plenty of foreign exchange students in Italy, although most were
undergraduates, still in their college partying days, spending long hours
drinking wine in the cafés during the day when they weren’t in class and
dancing at clubs into the wee hours of the night. I was a graduate student, far
more serious about my studies and the time I spent in Italy, since I had to
finish my thesis in just one year.

“Do you need a study partner?” he asked, flirting again.

I didn’t rebuff him. “Are you offering your services?”

“In any way I can assist you.” He swept his hat off his head and bowed
low. His balance up there on the edge of the gondola took my breath away.

“Do you think I need practice?” I protested.

“Your Italian is good,” he admitted. “But practice makes perfect, eh?
Isn’t that what Americans say?”

“Oh look, yet another masked man.” I pointed toward the shore where
someone was dressed up in costume. They were everywhere I turned this week,
men, women and children all made up in masks and feathers, satin and lace. “I
feel like I’m in an episode of
The Lone Ranger.
”

The Italian blinked at me. “The Lone…what?”

“I thought you watched American TV.” I smiled. “It’s an old television show.”

“How can you come to Italy and not attend Carnavale?” He looked genuinely
puzzled by my lack of interest.

“It’s just a big Mardi Gras, right?” I shrugged. “You’ve seen one, you’ve
seen them all.”

“There is nothing like Carnavale!” the Italian man protested.

“Yes there is. We celebrate it in New Orleans just like you do here.
Parades and costumes. Well, we’re a little more crude about it I guess. Women
flash their breasts for some beads and baubles. Typical Americans, eh?”

“I like this custom.” He grinned.

“I’m not religious,” I admitted. “So I don’t give up anything for Lent or
do much on Fat Tuesday.”

“Not Catholic?”

I shook my head.

“My mother is crossing herself and saying a prayer for you right now.” He
winked. “So what do you Americans do on this ‘Fat Tuesday?’”

“Well, in America, mostly people go to work and eat Paczkis.”

“Paczkis. Aren’t those Polish donuts?”

“Indeed they are,” I agreed. “About five hundred calories a piece.”

He smirked. “Sounds delightful.”

“Now you start to understand why I’m in Italy instead of the states.”

“But you’re not at Carnavale!”

I glanced up at him, shading my eyes, the sun finally making a full
appearance. “Neither are you.”

“Ah, true, but a man has to earn his bread.”

I looked around the empty canal. There were a few boats docked and some
people on the streets, but most of them were at the Piazza. “You do a lot of
gondola rides during Carnavale?”

“Yes, it’s our busiest week in the winter, although I thought about
taking today off and attending the festivities. The last day of Carnavale is
always the grandest.” He smiled down at me. “But now I’m glad I didn’t.”

“Do you own your own boat?” I asked, trying to change the subject,
nowhere near as smooth as he was. Going to post a letter usually took me ten
minutes via the waterways, tops, but taking a gondola was slowing down the
whole process considerably.

“I do,” he said. “My boat, my business. I like to be in control.”

My breath went away at his words, my mouth dry. I looked away from him,
not able to meet his gaze, grabbing the blanket he’d left and pulling it over
my knees.

“I think the whole Carnavale thing is overrated. It’s all for tourists.”
I made another attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere. “It’s been costumes
everywhere I go for the past two weeks. Too much noise, too many crowds.”

“Ah, but bella, the food alone is worth the crowds on the streets!” His
eyes rolled back and he rubbed his belly, smacking his lips as if he could
taste some delicacy on his tongue. Italians were always so overly demonstrative—that
was one stereotype that had proved to be true.

“Is it good?” I found myself thinking of the bread, cheese and fruit I
had left for dinner back at my flat.

“Good?” His eyes snapped open and he threw his arms wide, nearly losing
his pole. “Mio Dio! It’s to die for! Isn’t that what you Americans say when
it’s too good for words?”

I smiled. “Yes, that’s what we Americans say.”

“You should come to dinner with me at least.” He concentrated now on
steering the long boat down another narrow canal—we were almost to the post
office.

I quickly made excuses. “Oh, I really don’t feel like going out, not with
all the people…”

“Not out.” He slowed the boat using his long pole. “To my home. Come see
how we really do Shrove Tuesday in Venice. You’ll leave so full I’ll have to
carry you home.”

“Is that your evil plan, bad boy?” I teased as the gondola came to a
stop. He used a rope around a post to pull the boat in closer to the shore.

He laughed. “Yes, that’s my evil plan. Are you a willing victim?”

“I don’t even know your name,” I reminded him.

“Nico Bianchi.” He held out his hand and I shook it, feeling the warm
press of his palm against mine.

“Dani,” I replied. “Danielle Stuart.”

He nodded, satisfied. “See, now we are not strangers.”

“Let me think about it.” I accepted his help onto shore, glancing up at
him. He looked so hopeful—but I knew I shouldn’t. Cara Lucia had invited me to
her family’s Carnavale celebration but I had begged off, planning to just
snuggle up with Jezebel and read the whole day away. “I need to post this
before they shut their doors.”

It was nearly noon, and I barely made it in before they closed for the
holiday. The postal workers were all in costume, chatting about Carnavale. They
were headed down to the Piazza as soon as they were done and seemed annoyed to
have to deal with my little package, but I was glad I’d made it.

I glanced out the window and saw the gondolier chatting with another man,
a little bit older, not in costume. He was wearing a suit and carrying a
briefcase, a strange sight during Carnavale, when masks and make-up were the
norm.

The men laughed together and then hugged—something unheard of on the
streets of America, but very common in Italy—but when the man in the suit
kissed the gondolier on the lips, I nearly dropped my bag in surprise.

Hugging, yes. Even kissing each other on each cheek, or—strange to
Americans—patting each other on the behind, all of those things I’d seen. But a
full kiss on the lips between two men? That could only mean one thing.

The encounter was over by the time I went outside, the man with the
briefcase gone, but I couldn’t help voicing my curiosity.

“Who was that?” I asked as Nico offered me a hand and I stepped onto the
boat.

He glanced at me in surprise as I settled myself on a seat. “Just a
friend.”

“Looked like a
very
good friend,” I remarked, hiding a knowing
smile.

“He is, still.” The gondolier untied and pushed off, and we were on our
way again. “He lives in Sicily now. I see him very rarely. It was a coincidence
to run into him here.”

He was so cavalier about it, not embarrassed at all, but it was clear to
me—Nico was gay. Which, I had to admit, relieved me of some of my trepidation,
and I began to look back over our conversation with a different lens.

“So are you ready for a real Italian Shrove Tuesday?” he asked as we
maneuvered back down the little canal. “My mother has been cooking all week for
today. If we get there early enough, we can eat all the
Zeppole
before
my sisters arrive. What do you say?”

I’d denied myself the revelry and masked silliness in the streets, but I
had to admit, I’d been longing for some company, a little good food and wine
and conversation. Who could turn down homemade Italian cooking on Carnavale?
Why not?

Smiling, I accepted. “
Si, signor!
You’ve convinced me.”

Nico smiled as we headed into the more open water of the Grand Canal,
steering us toward his home.

* * * *

“Nico brought a
girl
home!” Nico’s mother—“Call me Mama
Dorotea!”—stage-whispered into the phone to one of his sisters, glancing over
at me perched on the edge of the sofa. I got the feeling Nico didn’t bring
girls home often—go figure—and they were all trying to be casual but I’d heard
the phrase, “Nico brought a
girl
home!” at least ten times since I’d
arrived.

“No, a
girl
.” Mama Dorotea cupped the mouthpiece with her hand as
she spoke, as if it might make sound travel slower in my direction. “Are you
coming soon?”

That was the third daughter on the phone, I deduced—the other two were
already present and accounted for. The oldest, Anna, was married and had two
children, a boy and a girl, who ran straight to the kitchen when they arrived
to “help” grandma with the food. Helping, of course, involved a great deal of
tasting. The youngest daughter, Caprice, still a teenager, seemed intent on
beating her older—and only—brother at Scrabble. Nico was sprawled out with her
on the floor. Out of his gondolier uniform, wearing jeans and a gray pullover,
he was even more handsome. It never failed—the cute ones were always gay.

“Another glass of wine, Daniella?”

“It’s Dani,” I corrected her again, accepting the glass from Anna, the
oldest daughter. Her husband had parked himself in front of the television for
a football game—which, in Italy, meant soccer—and hadn’t said a word to anyone.
His wife, on the other hand, had attached herself to me, talking almost
non-stop since I arrived.

She paid no attention to my words, going on about the issues they were
having with their flat, the landlord refusing to fix things. Nico, from the
floor, offered to help repair the leaky sink, but Anna didn’t listen to him
either. She seemed more focused on complaining about her problems than she was
on actually solving any of them.

I sipped my wine—homemade, according to Mama Dorotea—and watched Nico.
Strangely, now that I knew he was gay, I gave myself more freedom to really
look at him. His olive skin still retained a bit of a summer tan from working
outside all year round. He was my age, probably early-to-mid-twenties,
sandwiched somewhere between his younger teenage sister and the next oldest,
who had just gotten married the year before. The siblings all had the same dark
hair, the girls’ long and thick and wavy, Nico’s short and curly; the same
striking, bright blue eyes; even the same full, sensual mouth.

Nico glanced up at me and winked, putting tiles down on the Scrabble
board as his youngest sister protested using “Qi” as a word. I still couldn’t
believe I’d said I’d come to dinner, with his family no less. I was clearly
more lonely that I wanted to admit. But he was sweet, and more importantly, he
was safe. Maybe we could even be friends. I’d been in Italy eight months and
didn’t have any real friends to speak of, aside from Cara Lucia.

“I’m getting a dictionary!” Caprice jumped up, racing for the bookshelf
in the corner.

“Look it up.” Nico rolled to his back, putting his hands behind his head,
and grinned. “Fifty-four points, triple letter, double word score. I win!”

“You’re far too proud of yourself,” I commented, sipping my wine to hide
a smile. Beside me, Anna had thankfully been distracted by one of the children,
the girl, Maria, coming in to ask her mother a question. Everyone spoke Italian
and no one seemed to notice that I wasn’t a native speaker. It was quite a
compliment and I was rather proud of myself.

“You want to play the winner?” Nico asked me.

“You’re so sure you’re the winner.”

“I am.” He shrugged. “Qi is a word.”

“It’s not an Italian word,” I replied. We were all speaking in Italian
and I was proud of myself for holding my own. “I don’t even think it’s an
English word.”

“It’s an Oriental word.” Caprice sighed, reading from the dictionary.
“Oriental medicine, martial arts, etcetera. The
vital energy believed to
circulate around the body in currents.”

“I win!” Nico pumped his fist in the air and his sister stuck her tongue
out behind his back.

“Time to eat!” Mama Dorotea appeared in the doorway wearing an apron,
stained and covered in flour. That was a good sign. My stomach was growling and
I definitely needed to eat something—I’d had far too much wine on an empty
stomach and my head was swimmy.

“What about Giulia and Will?” Anna herded her kids toward the dining room
table.

“They’re going to be late,” Mama Dorotea announced, using the remote to
turn off the television. It was the first time Anna’s husband, Sal, had looked
at something other than the screen since he sat down. He grunted, getting up,
and followed his nose toward the table. “They said to start without them.”