unlike my usual self, I push the conversation at first. I’m not one for conversation and yet now the words have a life of their own. “So, where are you from?” “Are you guys married?” (an odd question). And “How long have you lived in the neighborhood?” The Russos’ attitude is hard to read: a mix of aloof, yet thoughtful, as Giovanni was with me in the park, and somewhat stoic, but kind. Francesco says he is from Naples, Italy, and met Greta in Chicago, which I believe is where she’s from. They had their children, Giovanni and his sister, before their recent move to my neighborhood.
Greta is polite and graceful in all of her answers and although I’m trying to be polite too, I begin to wonder if I’m coming across as overly inquisitive. I slow my questions and then my mind goes blank and I am left with nothing else to say. Moments of silence pass, each one more awkward than the last. Finally, after the moments turn to minutes, I give up trying to catch a glimpse of Greta’s eyes, which I’m sure are beautiful, through her lenses, which are too dark for me to see through.
“So, Mr. Russo . . .”
“Call me Francesco.”
“Sorry, Mr. Francesco, what brings you to the neighborhood? I mean, what exactly do you do?”
Francesco’s fork drops and hits the plate with a clack. He wipes his lips with a white cloth napkin, rests his forearms with their rolled-up sleeves on the table, and leans close to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Greta turning her neck, looking away. They’ve answered all my questions up to now, but this time they don’t answer. Instead Greta elaborates on her answer to a different question. She says they don’t believe in marriage and instead have a civil union.
When Francesco speaks again, he also doesn’t answer. Instead he says once again that he knows all about me. In fact, he knows not just about the incident with his son, but much more. He knows my last name, where I currently live, and that I’m from the inner city. He describes me, or at least my actions and persona: flaunting authority, believing myself to be street-smart and untouchable, trying to express a carefree vibe.
And then he says something that hits hard, that he knows I have a troubled home life. This feels like a step too far. I go from uncomfortable to nervous to scared, a part of me even petrified because I can’t figure out how on earth he would know what happens in my home. Again I fall silent, this time because I’m too shocked to ask how he knows so much about me. Francesco continues on and even though I’m entranced, his accent is so thick that at times it’s impossible to decipher his words without having to think really hard about what he’s trying to say. What comes through loud and clear though is his telling me that he and I are at a crossroads, a focal point, and that he wants to make a deal. At one point, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a key, and tosses it in my direction. It makes a ringing noise as it hits the table.
“You can have the girl of my son if you accept this key of friendship.”
My eyes widen at this and I am baffled to the extreme. We’ve never met before and yet not only do they know all about me, they’re offering me what I think is a key to their home. I nervously turn to look at Giovanni and notice for the first time that he has a peach fuzz mustache and dark eyes, just like his father. His spiked hair makes me think of a frightened cat.
“What’s this mean, dude? What do you guys want?” I ask Giovanni, spilling my insecurity all over the place. He is quiet, so I look back at his father. “I can be friends with Giovanni, sure, no problem,” I say, the worlds tumbling out. I just want to leave.
“You don’t make threats to my family without . . . Greta, what’s the word?”
“Repercussions,” she chimes in with such charm that I become enthralled all over again.
There is silence for a moment, and then Francesco clears his throat. “Good,” he says. “If you are friends with one of us, you are friends with all of us.” He holds his arms out wide, gesturing that the friendship will include Giovanni, Greta, and himself.
“What if I don’t want to?” I ask, squirming. The panic that’s been stored in my gut since I arrived is finally releasing.
“Then I take you into the garage and I break your fucking legs with a baseball bat.”
Greta smiles, picks up the key, and holds her hand out to me. I reach for it because they’re all looking at me and I’m not sure what else to do.
She says, “That is a house key, young man, and you can come over whenever you like.”
The instant my fingers grasp the key, Francesco, with a raspy voice and a grimace, asks, “Friends?”
“Yeah,” I reply coolly, though with a tangible feeling of danger, “Friends.” I begin to hate everything that’s led to this moment.
Time passes and somehow I agree to join them for dinner. I think I have to. I’m certainly keen on staying far away from Francesco and his baseball bat. Besides, while I’m utterly confused and pretty freaked out, I’m also very curious. And then there’s the fact that I can avoid my parents while I’m here.
Once seated at the dining room table, Greta serves dinner: meatballs floating in a large rectangular dish with some sort of balsamic vinegar and red wine sauce; two metal trays of grilled sliced vegetables, kinds that I’ve never had, stuff like eggplant with parmesan sprinkled all over; a bowl of cheese-stuffed ravioli pillows mixed with spaghetti noodles; a napkin-laden basket with sliced Italian bread, which is steaming; and bowls of red and white sauce for the pasta. Everything is homemade, even the noodles, and smells so good. “What’s that stuff?” I ask as I point to a cutting board with several types of meat sitting next to a knife.
“Shark, alligator, and iguana,” Francesco answers, and then, “Want olives?” He passes me a bowl of gigantic olives. I ask if I can try the mysterious meat and when he asks which one, I tell him I don’t know. He laughs and says, “You want all of it.” Then he turns to Greta. “I like him, he’s very brave, not afraid to try something new.”
While we’re eating, they say that they’ve been fascinated with me and indicate that they think I’m respected in the neighborhood and at school, which is weird. Giovanni must have told them everything he thought of me, and then some. “With respect, a man can do anything, and without it, he’s got nothing,” Francesco says. “You can do anything you want and get away with it.”
I try to normalize the conversation, complimenting the food as the best I’ve ever even caught a whiff of, let alone eaten, and they pour me a glass of red wine, which I’ve never had before. Then Francesco and Greta tell me that if there’s anything at all that I ever want, all I have to do is ask one of them for it. I’m confused, but nod thank you and let them continue to lead the conversation. Francesco looks at me and asks, “Do you ever ask questions in your mind?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, so I mutter, “Uh, yeah, I guess,” and then what he says gets even harder to follow. The conversation, if you can call it that, quickly becomes impossible to make sense of, as if they’re speaking a different language. Eventually, I’m so lost that I can’t help but ask what they’re talking about. Francesco answers vaguely, his accent so thick that his words become even more unintelligible. I can make out only that he’s suggesting I can talk to the universe—that I can talk to the universe and the universe will answer me. I nod, but my body recoils and I start to feel repulsion sinking in. Under the table I crumple a napkin in my sweaty palms. I can tell that they’re deep into some spiritual shit. I’m now thoroughly creeped out—yet captivated.
The
