Italian for Beginners (34 page)

As the last rays of saturated sky deepened to a dusky dark blue, I made my way toward the Ponte Sant’Angelo, a place that
still felt magical to me. But this time, as I snapped photograph after photograph of the illuminated bridge, I watched the
angels spring to life in sharp focus. And for the first time, I wondered if perhaps what had always made me feel so comforted
here was that there really was something angelic about this bridge. Maybe, just maybe, the legend of the angels guarding the
city from atop the bridge was true. And if it was, maybe my mother’s ghost visited here from time to time, too, to look out
over the city that had once been her home. The thought, however irrational it may have been, made me smile.

I perched on the near side of the Tiber’s banks and began shooting. I strolled up and down the bank, crossed the bridge, shot
the angels close up and far away, photographed the Castel Sant’Angelo from across the water. I must have snapped a hundred
photos altogether, most of them of the bridge in its entirety, from all different angles as the sun vanished from the sky,
finally leaving the bridge to bathe only in the lights of Rome.

Three days later, I awoke to my last full day in Italy. Hundreds of digital proofs had been sent off to Gillian in New York,
and she had promised to get back to us within the week about which photos she’d like to use. Karina had initially been joking
about deducting a 10 percent commission, but I knew I wouldn’t have it any other way. She had been the one to listen to me
and to take the initiative to help me break out of my shell of safety. She had worked hard. And I wanted her to reap the benefits,
too—if there were any. I told her I’d love it if she’d officially be my agent and accept a 10 percent commission for everything
she was able to sell. The thing was, I still wasn’t sure if this was just an overly enthusiastic, overly hopeful dream. As
far as I knew, this gallery owner had terrible taste, and the photos would never sell to anyone.

“Does this mean I get to shop your photographs everywhere?” Karina had asked, rubbing her hands together excitedly.

I smiled. “I give you full control”—I paused and added—“to shop Audrey Verdicchio’s work wherever you please.”

She stared at me for a moment. “Good,” she said. Then, in a tone that made her sound like she’d been doing this forever, she
added, “I’d like to see some line sheets of New York photographs within the next week or so, so that I can start shopping
those over here. Americana sells, you know.”

“Okay,” I said with a laugh.

“And of course if your Roma pictures sell well in America, you’ll have to come back often to visit,” she said. “For work purposes,
of course. You’ll need to take more photographs.”

I grinned. “If you say so. I can’t ignore my agent.”

Karina had organized a going-away dinner for me that evening, with her, Nico, and her mother, as well as Marco and my aunt
Gina. I was excited for them to all meet. There were a few things I needed to do before the dinner, though, so I headed out
early on that last day.

I stopped by a print shop to pick up an order I had placed two days before, and I emerged carrying a big, bulky bag. I considered
walking the twenty minutes or so to Gina’s shop, but I knew it would take forever lugging my purchases. So instead, I flagged
down a cab and gave him the address. Ten zigzagging moments later, I emerged in front of the scarf store. I hadn’t told Gina
I was coming, but I hoped she would be happy to see me.

Her face lit up the moment I entered. She was helping a customer, an elderly woman who seemed to be having trouble deciding
between a gray scarf and a beige one. I couldn’t understand the Italian conversation, of course, but Gina seemed to be patiently
talking the woman through the decision, letting her make up her own mind. I smiled as I watched them. It reminded me of my
mother talking to Becky when she was little, waiting patiently for her to choose which fairy tale she wanted to read that
night.

Finally, the woman made her decision and went to the register to pay. When she left the shop, Gina came over and hugged me.

“My dear Cat!” she said. “I was not expecting to see you until tonight. But now you have made my day twice as happy! What
do you have in the bag there?”

I smiled at her. “I wanted to bring you something that means a lot to me.”

“What is it?”

I felt shy and a little nervous as I slowly pulled one of the twenty-by-thirty-inch photographs out of the bag. I hadn’t had
time to frame them. They had been matted to white cardboard, though, and could be easily slipped into a frame.

I slowly turned the big photo around and showed it to Gina. Her eyes widened as she stared at it.

“
You
took this?” she asked, incredulous.

I nodded, feeling a little color rise to my cheeks.

“Cat, it is beautiful,” she said softly.

I smiled, feeling a swell of pride. I had given her my favorite photo of the Ponte Sant’Angelo at twilight. It was a place
that had felt magical to me, and I supposed I wanted to give a little piece of that magic to the one person on earth who made
me feel as though I had a second chance with my mother. Knowing that she seemed to be genuinely impressed with my photograph
made me feel a little bit like I was getting my mother’s blessing, too.

“Thank you,” I said.

“But how did you know?” she asked after she had studied the photograph for a while. She looked up at me, her brow creased.

“How did I know what?”

“How did you know this was your mother’s favorite place?”

I felt the breath go out of me. “I didn’t,” I said after a moment.

She looked puzzled. “But why did you give me this photograph?” she asked. “Of all the places in Roma?”

“Because it has always been
my
favorite place in Rome,” I said.

We stared at each other for a long moment. Somehow, my mother and I had both chosen the same spot in the city to claim as
our own. It wasn’t like choosing the Spanish Steps or the Trevi Fountain or the Colosseum or any of the other monuments that
graced postcards and calendars. It was like choosing a needle in a haystack.

Finally, Gina smiled. “Perhaps, then, your mother is not so far away, after all.” She smiled and looked around us.

“I think maybe you’re right,” I said after a moment. We chatted for a few more minutes, she insisted on pressing a beautiful
pale pink silk scarf into my hands, and then I gave her directions to Karina’s apartment and said I’d see her that night at
seven thirty. She kissed me good-bye on both cheeks.

Next, I made my way to Pinocchio, where I knew I’d find Marco working.

“Cat!” he said happily as I came in through the front door. He was standing near the busing station, drying glasses. “Come
in, sit down!”

I shook my head. “I can’t stay long,” I said. “I just wanted to bring you a gift.”

He looked puzzled. “But it is you who is going away,” he said. “You should not be giving me a gift.”

I smiled. “I want to.”

We sat down together at a table near the back of the restaurant. I took a deep breath and pulled his photo out of the bag.

He stared for a moment, his eyes moving around the image slowly. Then a smile spread across his face. “It’s the place I found
you sleeping,” he said.

“Yeah.” I nodded and looked at it with him.

It was my favorite photo I’d taken a few days earlier. In it, the two birds that had landed on the edge of the bench were
facing each other, their beaks nearly touching. It almost looked as though they were kissing, or perhaps preparing to tell
each other an intimate secret.

It was sweet, and I felt like it fit perfectly with what I wanted Marco to remember about me, about us.

He gazed at it for a long time. “Princess Ann,” he said finally. “I will treasure this forever.”

I leaned forward to hug him as we both blinked tears out of our eyes.

I left the rest of the photographs with Marco and asked if he’d bring them to Karina’s tonight. I’d had three printed for
her, and I wanted them to be a surprise. Plus, I had one more thing I needed to do before I left Rome.

I set out from Pinocchio thinking a bit about the restaurant’s namesake and the meaning of the truth. I followed the map I’d
printed out earlier, and within twenty minutes, I was standing at the door to Francesco’s apartment building, feeling very
much like I’d come full circle.

I took a deep breath and went inside. I walked up the four flights to his door, held my breath, and knocked.

I told myself that coming here had been enough. If he wasn’t home, it didn’t matter; it wasn’t meant to be. I listened for
footsteps, but I didn’t think I heard any. I knocked one more time just to be sure. Nothing.

I breathed a sigh of relief. There was a part of me that wanted to tackle my last remaining ghost, but a bigger part of me
was relieved that I wouldn’t have to see the man who had hurt and humiliated me just four weeks earlier. Despite all that
had happened since then, the wound was still raw.

I was just about to turn away and retreat down the stairs when the door swung open, revealing Francesco standing there, shirtless,
in just a pair of tight jeans and bare feet.

“Cat?” he asked surprised. He glanced from side to side. “What are you doing here?”

I stared at him for a long moment, wondering how it was possible to have felt so much for him when I stepped off the plane
but to feel absolutely nothing for him now. And it wasn’t that I didn’t like him anymore; I didn’t hate him, either. I just
felt incredibly, refreshingly indifferent. “I need to talk to you,” I said.

He smirked at me a little, and I could swear he sucked his gut in a bit, as if he was conscious, despite himself, about how
his body looked to me. “I didn’t know you were still in Roma,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered simply. I didn’t owe him an explanation.

“What did you do to your hair?” he asked. “You look good.” He looked me unabashedly up and down, then waited for a response.

I knew I was supposed to answer in kind, but instead, I simply smiled and said, “Thank you.” Then, on second thought, I added,
“I know.”

He looked a bit startled to have not had his ego stroked in return. He blinked a few times and cleared his throat. “Do you
want to come in?”

I thought about it and shook my head. “No,” I said. “I have just one thing to say to you, and I think I can say it here.”

He swallowed hard. It was finally hitting him that I hadn’t come here to beg him to take me back, or to tell him much I missed
him, or to ask him for one last roll around in his bed.
“Cosa?”
he asked warily.

I took a deep breath

“Thirteen years ago, you had a fling with me, and that’s all it ever was,” I said. “It meant too much to me. And when I was
gone, you moved on to the next young, foolish girl.”

He looked at me for a moment and shrugged. “It was not just a fling,” he said. “I had some feeling for you, Cat. But yes,
I moved on quickly. I think that you loved me. And I did not love you the same way.”

I shook my head and smiled slightly. “But that’s just the thing,” I said. “I don’t think I loved you, after all. I thought
I did. I was young and foolish. Which is exactly what attracted you to me in the first place. But you know what, Francesco?
I think I loved the feeling of being wanted and needed. And I blamed myself when it didn’t feel like that between us anymore.
But it was never about loving you. It was about me trying to complete something that felt empty.”

“I don’t understand.” He was staring at me blankly. “Why are you telling me these things?”

“Because I think it’s important to be honest,” I said. I took a deep breath. “I also wanted to come here to thank you.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For being you,” I said.

He looked at me warily, as if he wasn’t sure whether I was making fun of him. I wasn’t. I meant it.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You’re a complete asshole,” I said. I hardly ever cursed, but I knew it was fully deserved this time. He opened his mouth
to protest, but I held up a hand to stop him. “And I’m glad that’s who you are,” I said. “Because if you’d been a better person,
if you’d been a decent man, I might still be here with you. And I would have missed having the best four weeks of my life.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, looking at me in confusion.

I smiled. “And you never will.”

And with that, my head held high, I walked away from Francesco for the last time. I could feel his eyes following me as I
left, but I didn’t turn back. There was no reason to. He was in the past. As I walked down the stairs and finally emerged
into the sunshine outside, I felt like I was walking straight into the future.

T
he dinner party that night was lovely but bittersweet. It was wonderful to be surrounded by the people who had come to mean
so much to me in Rome but terribly sad to know I wouldn’t see them again for a while. The sadness, however, was tempered by
the fact that I knew I’d be back someday soon. It was a promise I’d made to myself already. Regardless of whether the photography
thing worked out, I’d vowed to begin living my life. And now, a big part of my life was here. I had the feeling I’d only begun
to discover it.