reply calmly hoping to smother the flaming
fire.
“I was born in Tarquinia. I am Roman, if
anything. Do you wish to see my passport? I told you. I had to go to the washroom. You have been harping and arguing silliness. Why can’t we simply enjoy this breathtaking city? Just let it go.”
“If we didn’t have kids, I know what I’d let
go.”
For my sanity, I dodge Emily’s innuendo. I
avoid any entanglement in her desired lunch-and- learn, shadow boxing session although I digress and wonder whether I would be better as Sonny Liston or Muhammad Ali. Our levelheaded son, Mark Anthony looks ashamed. Christina, our precocious daughter, frowns in utter revulsion.
“I would really like us to eat our lunch in peace,” I propose truthfully.
“I’m causing you stress, am I? Why don’t you write it in your notebook? Perhaps, a cathartic poem, in pentatonic verse, criticizing me. Alternatively, you could call back home and check up on your real estate business, Mr. Executive. I am sure that you have lots of time before the meal comes. These damn Italians take way too long to cook a modest meal.”
My wife is the daughter of Italian immigrants but her American preferences call for neon lights, fast
food and quick service not the slow movement and rhythms of Europeans who scorn cuisine shortcuts.
I divert my attention to a busboy that has just cleared and reset a table next to Emily. He turns, face flushed, to address Emily but before he can utter what I assume would have been appreciative words, a waiter and a juvenile female helper arrive to deliver the order.
“Pizza con prosciutto for the signore; pizza Margherita for la signora; Calzone for la signorina and Stromboli for il giovanotto. Eat, okay?”
Hostaria Al Colosseo, an old-style restaurant situated opposite the Coliseum, with its colorful red, blue and white tablecloths is high on passion and even higher on prices for tourists. The wait staff claims that while sitting in the shadow of the centuries old structure, the sounds of battling gladiators echo on a Strega (bewitching) night.
The Coliseum, the largest amphitheater in the world, is at the centerof aroundabout that echoes with the sounds of vehicular traffic and legions of pedestrians in the piazza. Of course, there is the predominance of motorbikes that are as common as mozzarella and pepperoni on pizza. Their horns beep away but their frail sound is difficult to take seriously.
The food tastes reheated. As anywhere in Italy, side street eateries offer better fare at a more reasonable cost than main street outlets targeted to tourists. I slip a pizza slice to a mutt sitting by the edge of the curb. The mongrel sniffs and moves along.
The pizzeria is a nice-looking establishment
and a convenient place to meet. It is active with tired, famished vacationers and locals engrossed in animated conversations. Even several off-duty carabinieri sit at adjacent tables. One of them keeps whispering in his sweetheart’s ear. She reacts, like a woodpecker in heat, with kisses to his face.
“Emily, afterwards, do you want to go back to St. Peter’s Basilica and take in the celebrations? It sounds like a spectacle to remember.”
“What for? So you can leave us stranded
again?”
It is best I do not engage her further.
Emily does not desire to adjust to the
downshifting, laid-back Italian life-style. She craves excitement. With my slide into silence, she turns her venom on Christina.
“Stop slouching and take that frown off your
face.”
“Don’t talk to me lady. Do not tell me what to
do. Just leave me alone. You are so annoying.”
“Are you going to let her talk to me like that?” spouts Emily in my face.
I am not so secretly amused. I snicker and remain resigned to Christina’s emulation of my wife’s true nature. A ‘just dessert’ is the phrase that echoes in my brain.
Christina interjects as she bolts from her chair, “I’m not really hungry. I am going over to see if I can get a personal tour of the Coliseum. Marc Anthony, come with me.”
Mark Anthony seizes his Calzone and leaves the table before Emily or I get a chance to protest. They both jog down the sidewalk and cross over to
the Roman Coliseum.
“Nice role model you are for your kids,” bites
Emily.
“Will you lay off? Stop breaking my balls.
You are always demeaning me in public, in front of strangers and in front of our family. I have told you hundreds of times not to quarrel in front of the kids. There is no mileage in arguing and lying in front of them. All you’re going to do is get them to hate you and me.”
“First I’m a flirt. Now I’m a liar. Is there no end to your twisted view of me?”
“You’re both. Flirting is a mix bag of white lies that communicates dishonesty and deception. Lying, by doing or remaining silent, is contempt for the trust and the feelings of another person. You demean me when you flirt and lie. You also disrespect yourself.”
“Really, professor? You are quite the arrogant bastard! I suppose you do not keep secrets. What about that bimbo who sat next to you on the plane? Were you authentic with her or did you put on a façade?”
“Actually, I do not have any regrets about that conversation. Ali is just an arts professor familiar with my hometown. Nothing was said that could not be said in your presence.”
“Ali? Ali? Ali is it? How nice for you.” I reach into my shirt pocket.
“Look, she gave me her business card.”
“Ali did. Indeed, she did. Allegra Lupo, Associate Professor.”
Emily, with the exaggerated face of an
amateurish actor, sneers sternly at the card.
“You are either a man of matchless integrity or a blind simpleton. I choose the latter,” and with that Emily rips the business card into four pieces and tosses the remnants onto my plate.
Without raising my eyes from the fragments, I negotiate a different course.
“I need to pick up our rental car before 8
p.m. tonight. If we leave after breakfast tomorrow,
we should be in Tarquinia by 11 a.m.”
“Great, perhaps you’ll find someone there who will confirm you are not a Mafioso’s errant child.”
Emily
