“You are a soccer ball magnet.”
Alessio grinned.
Eliana heard their talking and looked out from an open window. Then she walked outside to watch. She stood in the entryway, her arms crossed at her chest.
“All right, here it comes again. Remember, watch the ball, not me.”
Alessio’s gaze was focused. The ball bounced off of him, out of reach.
“Good block.”
“Thanks.”
Ross kicked it again and again, increasing some in speed, but just enough to guarantee Alessio’s success. Alessio blocked all of them but one.
“Man, where I come from they have a name for guys like you. You’re the bomb. You better let me get some through here or I’m quitting.”
Alessio giggled with delight. He would raise each stopped ball triumphantly above his head and do a short victory dance while Ross pretended to get mad. “That does it,” Ross said. “No more mister nice guy!”
Suddenly Alessio noticed his mother watching.
“Look, Mom! I’m good.”
“I can see that.”
Ross glanced over at her and she smiled at him. Then he walked up to Alessio. He put his arm around him, looked over his shoulder at Eliana and said in a whisper, “Listen, Alessio, man to man. You’re making me look really bad here in front of your mother. Let me make just one goal, okay?”
Alessio considered his proposition. “All right. But just one.”
“Thanks.” Ross walked back with the ball under his arm. He set it on the ground and squared off in front of it. He eyed Alessio fiercely then gave him an obvious wink as a reminder. Then he kicked the ball right to him. Alessio fell on it, laughing loudly. Ross threw his hands in the air. “That’s it. Enough humiliation for one day. I quit.”
Alessio laughed. “I won!”
Eliana laughed too. “Good, because it’s time for dinner. Come on, Alessio.” She looked at Ross fondly. “Why don’t you join us, loser?”
“So you can rub it in? I think not.”
“Oh, don’t be a sore loser. It’s fried chicken.”
“
Per favore,
Mr. Story.”
“All right. But I want a rematch.”
The three of them walked into the house, Alessio bouncing the ball on the ground until Eliana finally made him put it up in his room.
Eliana grabbed an extra place setting for Ross; then they sat down together at the dining room table. Alessio snatched a piece of chicken, followed by Ross.
“Mr. Ferrini, what are you forgetting?”
“Prayer?”
“Yes.”
Ross surrendered his piece of chicken. “I forgot too. Sorry.”
She winked at him. “Don’t do it again. Alessio, would you say grace, please?”
He took Ross’s hand, as well as Eliana’s. “Okay.” After the prayer Eliana asked, “Ross, would you like some wine?”
“Please.”
She uncorked a bottle of their house wine and poured him a glass, then one for Alessio and herself as well. “I hope you like our cantina’s wine. It would be seditious to serve anything else.”
“I do. It’s different. What kind of grapes are these?”
“Mostly Sangiovese. This is blended with a little Merlot. It gives it that dark, fruity taste.”
“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
“I know my wine.”
The three of them ate until the chicken was nearly gone. Eliana offered Ross the last piece of chicken.
“Do you like it?”
“I love it. It’s not something you can get at the local pizzeria.”
“I like cooking American dishes now and then.”
Alessio asked, “Can we play again tomorrow?”
“Mr. Story doesn’t have time to play soccer,” Eliana said.
“Mr. Story does have time,” Ross said. “In fact I demand a rematch.”
“What’s a rematch?”
“Another chance for me to win.”
Alessio smiled. “You can’t win. I’m the
bomb
.”
“Yes, you are the bomb. I’m going to have to practice.”
“Okay, all bombs to the bath,” Eliana said. “And wipe your hands on the napkin, not your shirt.”
“Can I take a shower?”
“Whatever. Call me when you’re done.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Story.”
“Good night, Alessio.”
Alessio ran up the stairs. Eliana followed him up with her gaze then looked back at Ross.
“Thank you for doing that.”
“For doing what?”
“Playing with my son. It means a lot to him. He doesn’t have a lot of friends out here and doesn’t get to play much.”
“It was my pleasure. He said the other kids tease him sometimes. What’s a
lumaca
?”
Eliana frowned. “Did someone call him that?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “It’s a snail, no, it’s a”—she had a momentary lapse of English—“it’s a slug.”
“Children can be pretty mean.”
“What makes it harder for Alessio is that the Italian children say Americans can’t play soccer. Come to think of it so does his father. He forgets that Alessio is listening.”
“Do the children think of him as an American? He has an Italian last name, he speaks perfect Italian.”
“They still do. They know I’m American.” She stood up, collecting the plates from the table.
“If it makes him feel any better, tell him that Italians can’t play basketball.”
“Unfortunately neither can he,” she said from the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No,
grazie
.”
She came back into the room. “I finished the backdrop of the portrait this morning. Do you want to fit in a session?”
“Sure.”
“I need to get Alessio to bed first.”
“I’ll meet you in your studio in, what, half an hour?”
“Great. Just let yourself in.”
When Ross returned, Eliana was already upstairs in her studio waiting for him. An Andrea Bocelli CD played softly in the background. The lighting was already set, the spotlight focused on the empty chair, the room lights dimmed. The smell of oil paints wafted through the room. Eliana was touching up a few spots in the background and she looked up as he entered. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He stepped inside. “Is Alessio asleep?”
“I hope so. He was still talking about your soccer match when I put him in bed.”
“He’s a good little kid.” Ross sat down in his chair, positioning himself the best he could remember. “Is this close?”
“Come forward a little. There. Now turn a little to the right.”
“I was wondering, is it dangerous for Alessio to participate in sports with his asthma?”
“There’s always a risk. Sports can provoke asthma, especially sports with a lot of running.”
“Like soccer.”
“Like soccer. That doesn’t mean he can’t do it. There’s been Olympic gold medalists who have asthma. You just need to know your limits. Maurizio thinks I baby him. Maybe he’s right. It’s a fine line between teaching him independence and keeping him safe. I just hope I’m not ruining him.”
“He’s hardly ruined. He’s a bright, cheerful little boy. What more do you want?”
She smiled. “I guess nothing.”
Ross looked around the room. “So Machiavelli really lived here.”
“Lived and died here. In fact most of his works were written here.”
“That’s amazing. I was reading about him the other day. Most of his stuff is pretty heavy. What I didn’t know is that he wrote some comedies.”
“I didn’t know that either.”
“One was called
Belphegor.
It’s about a devil who takes the form of a man and comes to earth in order to try marriage. After a little while he finds himself so wretched that he gladly returns to hell.”
“Maybe it’s his ghost that haunts this place.”
“Cosa?” What?
“Nothing.”
“So what are you working on today?”
“Shades. I always paint my pictures in black and white before I add color.”
“Black and white.”
“I prefer black and white. A lot of artists use burnt umber.”
She looked over her brushes, carefully selected one, then rolled it in the paint. Then she looked at Ross, her eyes direct and unblinking, studying his face, the subtle curvature of his cheeks, his strong nose. She studied his features and as much admired them as she thought to commit them to the canvas. The colors would come later—it was the shades and proportions and distances she was concerned with now. It was nearly ten minutes before she spoke again, her voice coming calm and unexpected like a hypnotist’s. “So you’re really never going back to America?”
“Never.”
She cocked her head. “Surely you miss something there.”
“I miss a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“My brother,” he answered immediately.
“Then what?”
He thought for a moment. “Then, I would have to say Swedish pancakes.”
“Swedish pancakes?”
“You know the thin kind with those berries on top, dusted with powdered sugar.”
“I know what they are, I just expected something more . . . meaningful. And more American.”
“Since when aren’t Swedish pancakes meaningful?”
Her eyebrows rose playfully.
“There are other things. I miss real maple syrup, the kind from Vermont. Decent corn on the cob. Ice in drinks. Lots of ice. Mexican food. Binaca. Doritos. Being able to eat out at two in the morning. Good plumbing. And Minnesota Vikings football.”
Eliana liked his answer. It reminded her of home. “Anything else?”
“I miss hearing the Rolling Stones on the radio. 7-Elevens. Cars without the driver’s side mirror ripped off. Hot chocolate with three inches of whipped cream. Streets wide enough to turn around on and people driving like they don’t have a death wish. Dick Clark on New Year ’s Eve.”
“Now you’re making me really homesick.”
“So what do you miss?”
“My mother. And my horses.”
“You have horses?”
She sighed happily. “Two of them. A sweet, old Appaloosa named Apples. Also a part-Arabian named Sheba.”
“Apples and Sheba.” Ross smiled. “I’ve only ridden a horse twice. It just wasn’t part of my city boy upbringing.”
“Oh, and a clothes dryer,” she suddenly added. “I miss having a dryer.” She opened a tube of black paint and squirted another small circle on her palette. “What do you like most about Italy?”
“Another list. Cenci during the Carnival and porchetta sandwiches.”
“It’s always food with you, isn’t it?”
“Hold on, there’s more. I like the way the Italians respect the ancient. I love that no one cares when all the scooters move to the front of the intersection. That people don’t walk around looking for someone to sue. I love Smart Cars. I love the whole idea that every town has a bell tower and a piazza. I love that you can park anywhere your car can fit. That people dress up for everything. And that they drink espressos that could clean an engine. I like how the women look sexy riding scooters. How the whole city just shuts down for holidays. I love the whole idea of Venice. The feel of a train station. Frutella candy.” He glanced at her. “Okay, I’m back to food. It’s your turn.”
She thought for a moment. “I love the people and their sense of family. I love all the beautiful cathedrals. I love that Italians work to live instead of the other way around—at least most Italians. And the time I love most of all is the
vendemmia
. The harvest.”
“You help pick the grapes?”
“Well, not really. I usually take Alessio out for the first day of picking when everyone’s still fresh and excited. But there’s something spiritual about the harvest. I don’t know if I can describe it; there’s a smell to the earth, when you’re tramping through the grapes—you just have to experience it.” She smiled. “And you will. We’re starting the harvest next Wednesday morning. If you can come, we’d love to have you.”
“I’ll plan on it.”
She lifted her brush again and began painting. “So what’s the most unforgettable thing you’ve seen since you came here?”
He thought for a minute. “That’s a hard question. Maybe St. Peter’s Basilica and the Sistine Chapel.” Suddenly his face brightened. “No, I know what it is. The Church of the Immaculate Conception.”
“I’ve never heard of it. Where is it?”
“In Rome. It’s just a few blocks from the Borghese Gardens. Near the American Embassy.”
She peeked around the canvas. “Is it beautiful?”
“I thought it would be. There’s kind of a nondescript staircase that leads up to it from the sidewalk. So I walked up thinking there might be some murals or tapestries inside. Instead there are rooms decorated with human bones and skeletons. On one wall I counted more than two hundred skulls. Different bones were set in plaster in mosaics. The chandeliers were made out of clavicles and pelvic bones and they hung from the ceiling by human spines.”
“Are you making this up?”
“I’m not that macabre. And in the last room there were skeletons dressed in monk robes and a sign on the floor. It read, ‘As you are we once were. As we are you someday will be.’ ”
“This is morbid. I don’t like talking about this.”
“There’s a moral to this. As I walked out, I thought,
They’re right, you know. It’s all going to end. How can you justify wasting a single day of unhappiness? Not chasing what you really want in life.
That’s all that divides us and those bones, time and this ethereal thing, life.”
Eliana was suddenly somber. “So what if the things you want are in conflict with each other?”
“You either change what you want, or you find the back door.”
“The back door?”
“There’s always a back door. Sometimes you have to look for a while. But it’s there.”
Eliana looked at her portrait. “I’m not getting much done tonight.”
“I talk too much. May I stretch?”
“Yes.”
Ross raised his hands above his head. “What are you doing in the morning?”