The Deception Dance (3 page)

As I stroll, my gaze follows the ridges, rough and smooth surfaces of
columns, arches, steps and sculptures, spaced throughout the facades
of each building I pass. My fingers want to trace all their lines, to
run across each wall, to consume their symmetry.

A lanky man cuts in front of me: “Hello, pretty lady.”

My gaze snaps down from the second story row of archways I was
examining to the man. Pulling up my lips in something that might
resemble a smile, I duck my head and veer around him. I can hear the
man, still calling after me, as I turn onto a smaller street. Unless
I want to tattoo ‘tourist’ on my forehead, I have to stop
walking and gawking at the same time. Keeping my staring to a
minimum, I meander from avenue to alley. Many of the fountains and
churches I pass are probably important enough to be red blobs on my
map, but I decide to leave my “tourist evidence” in my
purse.

I order a shot of espresso in a small café, where no one else
is drinking anything that resembles a latte or mocha. There are no
seats, so I stand at the bar next to a pair of chatting Italian
women, and sip from the small white porcelain cup. I’m usually
a cream and lots of sugar kind of coffee drinker; actually, my
beverage of choice has a whole lot of chocolate and milk. But when in
Rome, guzzle down espresso, black and strong, as the Romans do. I
snort into my espresso, and then . . . decide to leave the rest.

Even though I spend only a couple of minutes in the café, when
I exit, the day has changed from warm to hot. I finger comb my hair
into a ponytail, before my neck gets all sweaty.

Crossing the street, I wander into ruins.
Lonely columns stand sentinel with nothing to support, and colossal
structures jut into the sky in every direction; some connect at the
top, others crumble to their roots. The expanse looks like a
destroyed forest of stone or like a giant graveyard with temple-sized
mausoleums. I drift from stone to stone; each has existed in this
spot for centuries. Crouching over a carved boulder, I run my finger
along the ridges on the surface.

Glimpsed out of the corner of my eye, a flash of movement makes me
look up.

Across the way, a man peeks out from behind a column; the blaring sun
casts his face in shadow and I can’t tell what he’s
looking at.

I glance around to find, I'm alone. So, he must
be looking at me. I return my gaze to the man, but he’s gone.

I walk back and lean into the shade. The day is heating up; I need
some water. It’s time to head back to the hotel.

There he is again. The man now peeks out from behind a stone
structure.

I step away from the column and towards him. "Hello?" I
call.

He doesn't respond, but remains motionless, staring at me. Yeah,
that's not creepy.

I stop short with a small gasp.

Even though he’s a good distance away, his features are
handsome enough to accelerate my heart rate from “Sunday drive”
to autobahn speed. Realizing that I'm standing, staring, with my
mouth ajar, I shake my head to jog my brain.

He raises his hand and beckons with the international sign for ‘come
here.' I step back into the shadow of the column.

If this guy can make me stand, gaping like an idiot, from this
distance, no way am I walking closer! I think… it is about
time I head back. I look to where the guy peeked out a moment ago, a
fractured doorway in a ruined stone building; he's vanished, again.

This place is too hot to play hide-and-go-seek, even with a guy that
cute. I cross to and walk up an ancient avenue, hopefully, in the
direction I came from. There’s a crowd of tourists strolling up
and down a larger walkway, which makes the atmosphere decidedly
un-graveyard-like. I jump a little when my phone suddenly vibrates in
my bag.

“Where are you?” Linnie says, her voice full of mock
severity, the moment I answer the phone.

I glance around. “Um, I'm a little lost; I’ve just been
wandering all morning.”

“That’s
smart
,” Chauncey says. Obviously,
I’m on speakerphone and Linnie neglected to mention it.
Chauncey continues, “well, we’re driving around to find
you for lunch, so find your cross street or ask someone where you
are.”

I look around: there are definitely no cross streets, anywhere. I saw
no sign entering the ruins, but, from my research from before the
trip, I can deduct that this is the Roman Forum and the Coliseum
should be somewhere nearby. "Maybe near the Coliseum?"

I hear some talking in the background; then, Chauncey says, “be
at the large archway in front of the coliseum in fifteen minutes.”

Scanning my surroundings, I spot the Coliseum up the hill. Just my
luck, it’s probably two miles away. I'll have to run it, and
I'm already sweaty and stinky. Well, lunch will definitely be
interesting.

I shut my phone and drop it into my bag, while starting to dash up
the path. Then, I run directly into someone and lose my balance. My
butt smacks the paving stones, sending pain shooting down my legs and
heat shooting into my cheeks. I look up to see the damage caused by
my clumsiness with, "I'm so sorry” on my lips, but instead
I gape. My hot cheeks broil.

It had to be him: the same absolutely gorgeous
guy from the pillars. Great. I just smacked into him, in all my
sweaty, stinky glory and sent myself sprawling across the paving
stones. At least, he is still standing.

He reaches down to offer his hand. The features
of his face are easier to make out from this distance. His eyes are
two bright green spheres, contrasting enough with his skin that I see
them clearly. I’ve never seen eyes that bright— they must
be contacts.

Mr. Contacts could be Italian; he has that
chiseled look that would make him pretty, if not for his strong
masculine jaw. Unlike my pallor, his complexion is a deep olive, made
even more obvious by his pastel blue shirt. His hair curls over his
ears, not too long; it is like mine, jet black.

I realize, I’ve been staring at Mr. Contacts for far longer
than is, um, normal, and right myself into a more dignified position.
I grab my purse, stand up, brush myself off, and then realize I
should have taken his hand.

He stands straight and drops his hand to his side. "Stai bene?
Are you hurt?" Mr. Contacts has some sort of smooth
accent.

I intend to say something intelligent, or funny, or at the very least
normal, maybe, “no, I’m fine, how are you?” What
comes out is, "Bleah-...” Which isn't even a word. I stare
at him for another panicked moment, like a crazy person, while his
eyebrows hike higher and higher up his forehead, from questioning to
real concern.

Then, I just book it. I'm running up the hill, halfway to the
Coliseum, before I register that my leg is half asleep, probably from
the fall, and I slow down.

I grab my face and start laughing; pretty sure a lobotomy is the only
cure for my level of dorkiness. I can't wait to tell Linnie.

Day Three

“Do you like Italian men?” the Italian guy asks, with a
thick accent.

“Yes, they're great with chips,” I grumble; he doesn’t
hear me. It was a weird comment, anyway.

Chauncey giggles, as if this is the first time we have been asked
this question; it is not. I can’t even count how many men have
asked me if I ‘like Italian men,’ since Chauncey’s
driver picked me up for lunch, yesterday.

The car drove from the Coliseum to where we lunched, in a small
restaurant near the ‘heart’ of Rome. After reading the
menu, I ordered the only thing I could afford, water. Chauncey had
insisted we sit outside and then, the men closed in.

It’s almost as if all the sleazy men in this country attended
the same seminar, where they learned that all American women go to
Italy to sleep with them. The teacher at the seminar told them, “You
don’t need to learn English to seduce an American woman, you
only need to learn one word: ‘bella.’ If you say it,
their belts will snap and pants fall from their hips.

If I ever find that seminar teacher, I’m going to kick him in
the shin. If someone else calls me ‘bella,’ I’ll
probably kick
that man
in the shin.

Another group of men, four this time, approach, ignoring the three
who already surround us. From the new party of prowlers, a tall man
reaches forward, grabs my chin and says, “Bella.”

He read my mind; I know it.

I resist kicking him, slide my chin out of his grasp and back up
another step on the pedestal where we sit. I chose the bottom steps
of this statue tower pedestal to watch the sunset, thinking the spot
was ideal. Several young people were already sitting and drinking
beer on the steps, when we wandered into this piazza. The statue
stands centrally in the large oval piazza, so we have a terrific view
of the sun, disappearing behind the Roman cityscape.

Surrounding us on all sides, restaurants and cafes bustle with
waiters, and diners in their outdoor seating. White awnings stretch
into the piazza, protecting their upper-class diners from the last
rays of the sun and glaring light at everyone else. Just outside the
nearest awning, a disheveled, bent-backed man and young boy play
violins. I’ve never heard music played like this: their melody
is unrestrained and wild like the flight of a bird caught in a
windstorm.

Watching the sky ignite with color from my
perch, while listening to the furious melody of the duo, would be the
perfect end to a wonderful day, if I didn’t have to keep
shrugging off the arm of Ramiro, the man who has insisted on sitting
too close beside me. And now, I have a new man in hot pursuit. I’m
getting annoyed. They truly must believe we Americans are here only
to slip between their covers.

Sitting on the step below me, Chauncey is not doing the best job of
overturning this rumor. While fixing her hair, her pinky flicks open
another button from her silk blouse and she licks her lips, before
smiling at the guy who just called me ‘bella’. Chauncey
seems ready to flirt with all four of the approaching Italians
and
the one who has his arm wrapped around her waist. Please, take Ramiro
too!

With a pang, I notice Linnie: she's having a full out tongue battle
with the man who had wrapped her with attention. Great! This is too
much; much, too much.

I stand up, extract a Euro from my back pocket and whisper, “Excuse
me,” to the crowd of guys, blocking my path.

Before I make it out, fingers clasp my shoulder. I turn to find the
Italian man who just called me ‘bella.’ Giving him an
uneasy grin, I free my shoulder from his grasp.

He struggles with his words, “Do not, eh, give they money,”
He points to the violinists. "They are... eh, how do you say?”
He turns to his friend; they exchange a few quick sentences in
Italian and his friend supplies, “Trash.”

My straight-lipped smile is so cold, I swear, he shivers. I turn from
the men and shake my head. When I stop in front of the musicians, I
empty my pockets into their open violin case. I only have five and a
half Euros, but I hope the men see my gesture.

I close my eyes, as the sun ducks behind a
church. Standing near the violins, I could almost be the bird, lost
in the tornado of their music.

A tap on my arm makes me open my eyes. A preteen girl, who would fit
in well with my musicians, holds a white rose out toward my nose.

I inhale its perfume, then step back and wave. "I have no
money,” I say.

She steps forward, keeping the bloom in my face.

I pat my pockets and show empty hands. "No money, sorry.”

She points at a table in the nearby café and holds out the
flower. When I don’t take the rose, she repeats the gesture. I
stare at the table she’s pointing toward, where a man raises
his hand.

“Oh.” I tap my forehead. "I get it now, that man
paid for the flower.”

She holds out the rose once more; as soon as I take the thorn-less
stem, she bustles off. Even though the last thing I want right now is
more attention from random men, the scent of the white rose is the
perfect complement to my sensory delight. I know the only polite
thing to do is to thank the man for the flower, but I don’t
want to break the magic. I stand for another song as the first stars
peek through the evening sky.

When I glance back at the table, the man's jacket sits abandoned. I
survey the crowd and find the flower guy, walking toward me. He
doesn’t look the least bit Italian. His hair is a sandy blond
color and combed back. He wears a suit and tie and, though he’s
probably only a year older than I, this guy obviously considers
himself a man.

He smiles, and there's no option but to smile back. His grin holds
nothing back, as if pure joy explodes across his face.

All this attention! Maybe these men think I’m some sort of
celebrity. I examine my jean shorts, tank and sandals, displaying my
chipped blue toe-nail polish. I shake my head. No, no sane person
would think I’m rich or famous.

The man weaves between the crowds that gather in the square, then
stops and spins, as if he heard someone call his name. If someone
did, I didn't hear it. People all around group themselves together,
laughing and drinking. The blond man stares off toward some Italian
men. At the center of that group is a face, I can't believe it, but,
I recognize.

The sight makes my already racing heart accelerate. It’s him. I
swear it is, the guy I nicknamed Mr. Contacts from the Roman Forum.
For some stupid reason, I've been hoping to see him all day. Even
though the logical part of my mind kept saying:
Rome has a
population of two and a half million, there's no way you'll ever see
him again
. Yet, logic didn't stop my gaze from searching the
crowds for his green eyes, while Linnie and I walked from monument to
monument, since nine this morning. Now he’s here.