So, of course, here we are in Rome. We are in a taxi on our way from the airport known as Fiumicino, with a driver who has a death wish, weaving through a tangle of traffic that beats Manhattan’s and is twice as noisy. Leaning on the horn seems to be a way of life here, and driving is a macho one-upmanship contest that has Livvie on the edge of her seat, Nonna with her eyes closed and probably praying, and me clinging to the strap as we swerve around roundabouts and dart down narrow side streets, missing other vehicles by a whisker.
I’m beat, not only from the long journey but from the stress of having to rearrange my carefully planned life and take four weeks of my accumulated vacation days to accommodate this trip. And the only reason I am here is not because of this foolish “inheritance,” which I believe can only amount to a couple of cows in some tumbledown barn, but because I got the feeling that for some reason Nonna really wanted to visit Bella Piacere. She wanted to go home again.
It is dusk, and Rome’s lights are switching on in a zillion sparkles, bathing the city in a golden glow, illuminating domes and ancient monuments, ruins and piazzas, and twinkling in trees full of very noisy starlings. Could that really be the Colosseum, trapped by traffic and somehow looking smaller than it did in
Gladiator,
when hunky Russell Crowe braved tigers and soldiers as well as that wicked emperor, cheered on by a crowd of thousands? I turn my head to look as we whiz by. This is almost reason enough to come to Rome, though I guess I’m unlikely to find Russell Crowe among the ruins.
The great dome of Saint Peter’s, which no doubt we would visit tomorrow, glows over the city like a beacon, and the famous Spanish Steps are jammed with tourists spilling into the piazza below, milling around as though waiting for something to happen. I think somebody should tell them that nothing will happen, but then that’s just me talking, the mean-spirited, reluctant tourist.
Not for the first time, I’m regretting my weakness in saying yes to this trip. I was so determined not to come. All I want is to be back in New York, back at Bellevue, back doing what I did best. Safe behind that barricade I built for myself.
The taxi jerked to a stop and we heaved a collective sigh of relief.
“Buona sera, signore.”
A top-hatted doorman threw open the door. We stumbled wearily out and were immediately surrounded by a crew of liveried porters and bellboys. They had our battered duffel bags and Nonna’s ancient Samsonite, the one she has had for at least thirty years, loaded onto a gilded cart in a flash.
I stared, stunned, at the imposing facade of the Hassler Hotel, and then accusingly at my mother. She avoided my eyes, but she knew darn well what I was thinking—
that this place must cost a fortune
. And I was thinking it even harder in the ornate marble lobby, surrounded by old-master paintings and crystal chandeliers and huge displays of fresh flowers. I was also thinking of my poor AmEx card, and praying.
I collapsed into a gold brocade sofa, fumbling in my purse, trying to work out the necessary tips in lire, wondering why Italian money had to have so many zeros—even a taxi ride cost millions here. Livvie flopped down next to me, muttering that the place was like a museum, attempting futilely to dial friends in New York on her cell phone, quite oblivious to the fact that people were staring at her. I didn’t blame them: her red crocheted shawl was more holes than wool, her cropped hair was banana-blond tipped with lime, and her fingernails were the red of dried blood. She could have been an extra in
Nosferatu.
Meanwhile, Nonna headed for the reception desk and announced our arrival to the youthful dark-haired Adonis in charge. She leaned on the counter, friendly, smiling at him, as she told him who we were and that she would like an upgrade.
My jaw dropped. I didn’t even know she
knew
about upgrades. I mean, Nonna hasn’t been farther than Manhattan in twenty years, and that only for a Macy’s sale.
“I was born in Italy,” she said to the desk clerk, “and you know what? I have never seen Rome. Imagine! Not only that, I’ve inherited property in Bella Piacere,” she added, as though he could possibly know the tiny village in Tuscany.
But the desk clerk was leaning on the counter, hands clasped in front of him, beaming at her as though he had all the time in the world. “Congratulations,
signora
Jericho,” he said finally. “This will be a memorable visit. You will enjoy your stay here,
signora
. And of course, we have put you in one of our two-bedroom deluxe suites. It is already arranged.”
“Bene, bene, e grazie, signore Antonio.”
She patted his hand as though he were her own son, and I held my breath, praying she wouldn’t kiss him, but no, she turned, all smiles, as the bellman escorted us to the elevator and we were wafted upward. We trailed down a plush-carpeted corridor and waited while he flung open a pair of tall double doors. Then we stepped into an earthly paradise of gold and rose-pink luxury.
We stood like country bumpkins, staring at everything, while the bellman rushed around switching on lamps, opening curtains, pointing out the view, the two marble bathrooms, the minibar, explaining how things worked. Finally I pressed what I hoped was a hefty tip into his hand and said
grazie,
and he smiled, gave us a little salute, and departed.
I turned and looked accusingly at Nonna. “Do you have any idea what this must be costing?”
She straightened a silk cushion, avoiding my eyes. “Of course I know. I booked the hotel, didn’t I? And let me tell you, this is a bargain.”
“Yeah,” I said dispiritedly, “the Heiress got us an upgrade.”
She gave me a nonchalant shrug. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I have decided to sell my new property. And I’m going to spend the money now, instead of leaving it to you in my will. So enjoy it, Gemma. Just enjoy.”
And with that she strode into her elegantly silk-curtained bedroom, leaving me with my mouth open.
Oh my God, I thought, panicked. At best the inheritance is going to be a barren plot of land with a couple of ancient olive trees and a few clucking hens. And now she thinks she can sell it for
real
money. And what’s more, she’s
spending
that money now.
I could hear her murmuring appreciatively in Italian as she discovered the delights of her marble-and-gold bathroom, the rose-shaded bedside lamps, the waffle-cotton robe and matching little slippers, and the white linen mat placed precisely next to the bed so that she need not sully her bare Heiress feet on the beautiful carpet.
And meanwhile, I was wondering how I could double up on my hospital hours when I got back. Somebody was going to have to pay for all this.
I did not want to go to dinner in the Hassler’s smart rooftop restaurant. It was late, and I was tired and sulky as I lingered in the shower, wondering how I could get out of it. But Nonna was lively as a cricket and ready for anything—and dinner was what she wanted, whether we were dropping from jet lag or not.
I sighed wearily as I washed my hair and fluffed it dry with my hands. The little black dress I’d bought in a swift half-hour foray into Banana Republic was creased from being packed in a hurry, but it was too late to do anything about it. I dragged it over my head, powdered my nose, gave a token flick of mascara, and applied the same innocuous lipstick I’d been wearing for years.
“Come on, Gemma, hurry up.” Nonna’s voice had an excited lilt to it. I put on my glasses, took one last disconsolate look in the full-length mirror, and went reluctantly to join them.
The elegant rooftop restaurant overlooked Rome, sparkling below like a New Year’s fireworks display. Alabaster urns brimmed with flowers, a bartender in a white jacket jiggled martinis in a silver shaker, and candlelight flickered on crisp table linens and gleaming crystal glasses. A smart maître d’ eyed us from behind a polished wooden lectern. He didn’t actually do it, but I could almost feel him raise his eyebrows as he looked at Livvie. As usual, she was as out of place as a tropical fish in a pond of elegant swans.
Nonna said,
“Buona sera,”
and told him who we were and that we had a reservation. This time the maître d’s eyebrows really did rise, and like the young Adonis at the desk, he beamed at her. “Of course. You are the lady who has inherited property in Bella Piacere. Congratulations,
signora
. I hope you will enjoy your stay in Rome, and our wonderful restaurant.” Then he picked up a sheaf of menus, said, “This way,
signore,
please,” and led us to a prime table near the windows.
We sank into striped silk chairs, and without missing a beat Nonna ordered Bellinis for the two of us and a Coke for Livvie. Then she opened her menu and began to study it with a pleased little smile.
“E allora,”
she said happily. “First a little antipasto, don’t you think? But no, no, maybe not. Perhaps some soup, then something delicate, very light, since we have been traveling.”
I stared wonderingly at her. She was to the manner born. All these years and I never knew my mother was really a rich woman in disguise. Meanwhile, Livvie slumped tiredly in her chair, still trying unsuccessfully to reach New York on her cell phone, until Nonna snatched it away, informed her once again that it was impossible to get New York on a cell phone, and told her to remember where she was and to behave like the lady she was brought up to be.
Livvie glared huffily out the window, and I took a gulp of that Bellini.
What am I doing here?
I asked myself one more time.
All I want is to go to bed, or even better—go home. This is madness
. I took a second gulp of the champagne and peach juice, letting the flavors prickle my tongue. I had to admit it was delicious. Actually, I thought I could get very used to it. Fatigue filled my eyes with a kind of fog, but I sat up and took notice when the Italian movie star made an entrance. And what an entrance!
He was in his forties, I’d guess: dark hair brushed smoothly back and silvering at the temples, tall and rugged, elegant in black tie, and
very
attractive. He was holding the hand of a little girl, aged perhaps eleven: black velvet dress, long blond hair, velvet headband.
She
was a princess. And
he
was something else.
I felt sure my mouth had dropped open as I watched them walk to a nearby table. They were so remote from the reality of my own life it was like watching an Italian movie, and
this
was definitely a Fellini moment. He was Richard Gere, and any minute Marcello Mastroianni would make an entrance with Sophia Loren or maybe Catherine Deneuve on his arm.
“That kid’s a geek.” Livvie’s lip curled contemptuously as she watched them. “Like, where did she get that dress? And a
velvet headband
!”
“That is a very well brought up child,” Nonna said.
“Oh, and I’m not, I suppose?” Livvie glared at her grandmother.
“Of course you are, but
her
mother has better taste.”
I drained my Bellini and summoned the waiter for a second one. I was beginning to feel maybe I needed it. I wondered if Bellinis would become a fixture in my life.
Maybe in Italy, but not in your real life at Bellevue,
a little voice in my head reminded me as I took another sip of the cold, sparkling drink.
Too true
, I thought, with a tinge of something that felt almost like regret.
I took off my glasses and let my fuzzy myopic gaze rest on the movie star and his daughter. He was studying the menu, nodding gravely as she made her choices, treating her the way he would a grown-up. And the little girl sat up straight, elbows off the table, attentive, polite, and well behaved. Where did he find a child like that? I wondered. Not in my neck of the woods, that was for sure.
“Where do you suppose his wife is?” Nonna said. “My guess is that she’s probably in the hospital giving birth to his second child, and that’s why he’s here alone with his daughter.”
I contemplated this version of a perfect little dream family, forgetting for a moment about Bellevue and the high-tension life-or-death scenes that made up my own daily life.
“And he,” Nonna added with an admiring sigh, “is a true Italian gentleman. The kind they don’t make anywhere else in the world. And she is such a little lady. Just look, Livvie, at her beautiful long hair.”
Livvie’s lip curled again. “That’s not a kid, it’s a Barbie,” she said.
I took my daughter’s hand with its bitten blood-colored nails and kissed it, just to show love and support. Livvie had good manners when called for, but she would never wear velvet and act like a princess, whatever Nonna said.
By now we had finished our second Bellinis and the waiter had become Nonna’s new best friend. He was pouring a white wine he had recommended. “A simple Pinot Grigio from the Veneto,
signora,
” he said to her. “It will be
perfetto
with the fish, very light.”
I tasted the wine, nibbled on the delicious bread, sipped the tomato soup with fresh basil that was my first taste of real Italian food and which was like manna from the gods, but then I could get no further. Only Nonna managed to finish the fish. Jet lag and sheer bone-aching weariness took over. I signaled the waiter for the check. When it came I didn’t even bother to read it, I just signed it. Hey, what did it matter? Nonna’s inheritance was going to pay for this, right?
I checked the Italian movie star’s table. He was on his feet and had his tired daughter by the hand. On their way out, they passed by our table. For a moment, his eyes met mine. I was suddenly aware that I had no lipstick left and that my little black dress, which no doubt had cost a fraction of his daughter’s black velvet, was severely creased. Yet somehow, in that brief instant, he managed to make me feel that I was the only woman in the room. Then he nodded, said a brief, polite
“Buona sera,”
and they were gone.
I felt that hot blush rushing up from my neck to my cheeks, the way it used to when I was the teenage Dancing Queen and the best-looking guy in the room had asked me to dance. I hid my blush behind my table napkin and heard Nonna say, “I just wonder
who
he is.”
She satisfied her curiosity on our way out by asking the headwaiter, and was told that he was an artist.
“Of course,” Nonna said triumphantly, as though she had known it all along. “Another Michelangelo.”
“But no,
signora,
his name is Ben Raphael,” the headwaiter said. “And he’s American.”
I laughed, thinking,
So much for the Italian movie star
. This Michelangelo was probably from Long Island.