“I’ll stay,” I said once more. I swallowed hard, hoisted my duffel back on my shoulder, grabbed the handle of my suitcase,
and began dragging.
The problem was, I had no idea where I was going. It was one thing to decide to stay in Rome, but it was quite another to
figure out exactly how to do that. I did the calculations in my head; I didn’t have enough to stay in a hotel for the next
thirty days, but a new airline ticket home would cost me a fortune, too. What was I doing?
I headed away from the river. I doubted my decision more with every step. As the sun rose higher in the hazy Roman sky and
the dust began to rise in the air like it always did when the streets began to bake in the heat, it was becoming harder to
breathe. I was sweating everywhere now, and my pathetic date skirt and too-heavy polo shirt were sticking to me like glue.
I knew without looking at my reflection in one of the shopwindows that my hair was a mess. I usually blow-dried it straight,
but left to its own devices, it looked like a pile of burned straw.
I glanced up and recognized the top of the Pantheon ahead. Its perfectly rounded concrete dome seemed to glow like a beacon,
and for some reason, Michael Evangelisti flashed into my mind again. He had mentioned the Pantheon, hadn’t he? Isn’t that
the neighborhood he’d said his friend Karina lived in? I stopped and dug in my wallet until I found the folded piece of paper
he’d given me with the name of the restaurant where Karina worked. I stared at it for a long moment, just thinking.
I couldn’t stay with some Italian woman I knew only through a cheating, lying man with whom I was barely acquainted, could
I? I stopped in my tracks and thought about it. It wasn’t like I’d be forgiving Michael. Staying in a room rented by someone
he’d known years ago wouldn’t bring me back into contact with him. And if I wanted to stay in Rome, I had few other options.
So with nowhere else to go, I crossed the street and began walking toward the Pantheon. I made my way down a side street,
and as often happened in the twisting, turning alleys of the city, I lost sight of the dome for a moment. I felt strangely
lost, even though I knew it must be up ahead still, simply obscured by the buildings along the way. I felt oddly deflated.
The road was more uneven here, and it was getting harder to drag my suitcase.
And then, as if I hadn’t had enough to deal with in one morning, one of the wheels of my suitcase snapped off suddenly and
rolled cheerfully away, down the cobbled street, heading straight for a gutter.
“No!” I cried. I dropped the handle of the suitcase, and the bag flopped decisively on its side as I dashed after the escaping
wheel. People around me stopped and stared. I dove for the little black wheel, landing flat on my belly, but I was a second
too late; it was already disappearing into the entrance to the sewer.
“No!” This time it was more of a whimper. I was lying facedown in the middle of the street, covered in dirt, grime, and sweat,
gazing into the mouth of a sewer. I closed my eyes for a second, collected myself, and stood up, gathering as much of my dignity
as I could. Around me, people were still staring. I saw an old man dressed in faded, suspendered corduroys make a face at
another man and wind his index finger in a circle near his ear, making the universal sign for crazy.
I raised a hand and waved faintly, forcing a smile, like an actress acknowledging her audience. The onlookers turned quickly
away, some clearing their throats loudly as they went back to their business, pretending that they hadn’t just been staring
at me.
I brushed what grime I could off my outfit, resigning myself to the fact that I now had a streak of dirt down the front of
me to tie my mismatched outfit together. I crossed the street to my tipped-over suitcase, righted it, and with as much pride
as I could muster while pulling a one-wheeled suitcase down the street on its side, I held my head high and began walking
again, knowing that the suitcase was mere minutes from being ripped wide open, thanks to the harsh cobblestone surface digging
into its fabric.
Scanning the street, I searched desperately for someplace to stop before my suitcase tore, spilling my underwear all over
as a final indignity. To my relief, up ahead on the right, I saw a little outdoor café that looked open. I squinted at the
sign. Squisito, it read. It was the place where Michael had said his friend Karina worked.
“Thank God,” I said to myself. I glanced at my watch. It was only ten in the morning; most restaurants in the city didn’t
open until at least eleven. But despite the fact that it appeared devoid of customers, the outside tables and chairs were
already out, the forest green umbrellas extended as a shield against the sun, and the doors to the interior were all flung
open.
A moment later, after using all the muscle power I could muster to drag the suitcase the remaining half block, I collapsed
into one of the outside café seats, pulling my luggage up next to me so that I didn’t block the pathway in and out of the
restaurant. I glanced around for a waiter or waitress, and seeing none, I took a moment to flop forward onto the table. The
shade of the umbrella felt good, as did the cool stone of the table under my arms and face. I tried to catch my breath and
wished desperately that someone would see me soon and bring me a glass of water.
Okay, Cat
, I said to myself.
Let’s get a cappuccino and some breakfast and we can go from there.
I was trying desperately not to cry.
What was I doing? Had I really decided to stay in Rome? I tried to comfort myself with the thought that it could be as temporary
as I wanted it to be. I could stay a week, for instance, and concoct a story, for the benefit of those back home, that Francesco
unfortunately had to depart on an important business trip to somewhere far away and that I’d chosen not to go with him. Or
perhaps I could say that he’d been called away suddenly for a family emergency and that I hadn’t wanted to intrude, but that
he’d promised to come visit me soon, because he knew he’d miss me terribly.
Just then, I heard footsteps from the direction of the restaurant. I looked up hopefully, expecting to see a polite waiter
making his way toward me with a notepad in hand, maybe even with a glass of water balanced on a tray.
But instead, the sight that greeted my weary eyes was that of a tall, slender woman, about my age, flying toward me, her gypsy
skirt swirling around her like a cloud as her eyes blazed. Her pale cheeks were flushed, and her huge mass of long black curls
streaked with red highlights shot haphazardly every which way from her head. As soon as my eyes met hers, she started speaking
to me in sharp, rapid Italian, shaking her index finger at me for emphasis, in case I couldn’t tell by her tone that I was
being scolded.
But for what, I didn’t know. I tried in vain to follow her words, but they were so rapidly spoken and they ran together in
such sharp staccato that I couldn’t make out more than a bit of what she was saying.
“
Mi dispiace, ma non parlo bene l’italiano
,” I said haltingly, using one of the first phrases I’d learned when I spent the summer here.
I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Italian very well
.
But this only seemed to anger the crazy-looking woman more. “Oh, I should have known!” she snapped, switching to sharply accented
but near-perfect English. She was practically dripping sarcasm as she arrived at my table. “An American woman! Of course!
Ah,
mi scusi
! If you are American, apparently you can go to any café you want and sit down, even if it clearly does not open for another
hour! Who am I to tell you no?”
I stood halfway up and tried to apologize, to explain, but she wouldn’t let me get a word in.
“Apparently, if you are American, you own the world!” she continued angrily, waving her arms around. I shrank back into my
seat, staring at her. She was clearly nuts. “Do rules mean nothing to you in America?” she demanded, still wildly gesticulating.
“Do you get to just come over to my country and do what you please?”
I gaped at her. She raked a hand through her curls and made a disgusted face. “Oh, so you have nothing to say for yourself
now, Miss America?” she asked dramatically.
I found myself without words. I opened and closed my mouth.
The crazy woman rolled her eyes. “You can’t talk?” she demanded.
“Well, I—” I began.
She cut me off. “You are looking so good.” She looked disdainfully at my clothes. “You do not have the words to back up your
fashion sense?” She laughed at her own joke.
“No, I… ,” I began again. I fumbled for words, but I was entirely at a loss. And to my horror, I felt tears welling up in
my eyes.
No
,
no
,
no
, I thought to myself desperately.
But apparently, my tear ducts weren’t listening to the voice in my head, because before I knew it, big, fat teardrops were
rolling down my cheeks.
The woman stared at me for a moment in disbelief. She opened her mouth, and for a moment, I fully expected her to unleash
another tirade. Perhaps she’d like to tell me that I was pathetic, that only wimpy Americans cried.
But instead, her face softened a little, and she said, “Okay, so maybe I was being a little hard on you, but there’s no reason
to cry.”
She looked uncomfortable now. She glanced from side to side. “Really,” she added. “I didn’t mean it.”
I wiped my tears away angrily and stood up, hating that my dignity was being stripped by the pathetic rivers racing down my
cheeks. “It’s not
you
I’m crying about,” I said, glaring at her. “I was just looking for a friend of a friend who supposedly works here. But I’ve
had the worst morning of my life, pretty much, so it’s no big surprise that I’d wander in here and encounter the most unpleasant
person in this city.”
The woman stared at me.
“So I was just looking for a waitress named Karina, okay?” I continued. “But excuuuuuuuuuse me.” I drew the word out dramatically
and made a big show of collecting my things. “I clearly walked into the wrong place. So I’ll just be going now.”
I grasped the handle of my beat-up suitcase and tried to storm huffily away. But thanks to the missing wheel and my growing
exhaustion, I could barely budge it. I tried again. No dice. I looked down and noticed that the one remaining wheel had somehow
gotten wedged in a crack in the pavement.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered. I tugged again, but to no avail.
And then, to my surprise, the Italian woman began laughing. I looked up and noticed that the anger had melted from her face.
“Sit down, sit down,” she said, rolling her eyes as she gestured to the seat I’d just been sitting in. I looked at her uncertainly.
“Sit, sit!” she commanded. I glanced at her once more and sank slowly back down into the seat.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I am just so tired of these American tourists who come in here like they own the world. But I have
misjudged you, I think.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, no kidding.”
“Okay then,” she said. “Let me start over. I am Karina. Welcome to Roma.”
I just stared at her. She was smiling now and looked almost pleasant.
“Usually, when someone introduces herself, the thing to do is introduce yourself, too,” she said after a moment. “At least
in Roma.”
“You’re Karina?” I continued to regard her warily.
“That is what I said.”
I took a deep breath. “You’re kidding, right?”
“That would not make a funny joke,” she said.
“No,” I muttered. “No, it wouldn’t.”
“Do you have a name?” she asked. “Or do I have to guess?”
I stared at her. I couldn’t imagine what I was still doing here after receiving such a bizarre welcome. But the more she smiled
at me, the more my icy exterior melted. There was something oddly warm—albeit crazy—about her. “I’m Cat,” I finally said.
She looked puzzled. “Cat… like
gatto
?”
I sighed. “No. Cat, like short for Caterina.”
“Ah. Well, Cat-short-for-Caterina. You are welcome to sit here, okay?”
I just stared at her.
She cleared her throat and went on. “Really. I am sorry. I will go get you a cappuccino, okay? On me. On the house, as they
say in America.”
I started to protest, but she cut me off with an amused look at my suitcase. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere, anyhow,”
she said. “So why don’t you relax for a moment? Okay?”
I slowly nodded my assent.
She strode away, her long black curls swishing behind her from side to side. She swung her hips in that well-practiced way
many Italian women had and yet Americans didn’t seem to be able to master. Maybe if I’d been able to master that sexy swing,
I wouldn’t be sitting at a café table by myself in the middle of the morning with filthy clothes and a tear-streaked face.
Karina returned a few minutes later carrying two steaming cups.
“Cappuccino is okay?” she asked, setting one before me. I nodded. She smiled, reached into the pocket of her apron, and emerged
a second later with two spoons, two packets of sugar, and two pieces of gold-wrapped dark chocolate. “The best way to drink
cappuccino, no?” she said with a wink.
I felt myself starting to warm to her, but only a little. It was obvious that she was trying to make up for her initial reaction
to me. “Thank you,” I said. I put the piece of chocolate into the coffee and stirred until it melted.
Karina watched me until I took a first sip. “You drink your coffee like me,” she said. “No sugar, just
cioccolato
.”
I nodded. I didn’t feel particularly compelled to make conversation with her.
But Karina didn’t seem to understand this. Instead, she sat down across from me at the table and took a sip of her own coffee.
Any passerby would have assumed we were a pair of close friends, out for a morning chat.
“So,” Karina said after a moment. “You have been sent to me by a friend?”
I paused, unsure whether I should correct her terminology. I wanted to tell her that Michael was no friend, that he was a
cad. But that didn’t seem to be the correct way to ingratiate myself to my prospective landlord. So I nodded. “Michael Evangelisti,”
I said.