“It’s not a sin to have a sexual appetite. Nor is it sinful to move softly and delicately. I was trying to be tender.”
Emily bolts outof bed. She stripsher pajamas and parades nude to torment me. She gets out a pair of black leggings and a blue athletic tank top from the closet. She dresses without any undergarments. She clutches her socks and runners in her hands and gets ready to leave.
“If I wanted softness I would have become a lesbian. Why don’t you satisfy yourself? Slow is
boring. Soft is weak. You shield yourself behind words. ‘Love me tender’ is not better than hardcore or kinky. I’m going for a morning walk. Yesterday’s pasta and pizza is settling on my hips.”
“Why don’t you just be open and direct about how you feel towards me?’
I sit up ready for the challenge.
“Why can’t you stop the lying, look at me, and be open with your true feelings?”
“Fuck you.”
Emily escapes with her runners still in hand and slams the door.
I glare at the walls. I study the indecipherable painting hanging on the wall next to the sheer orange curtains. It is a sketch of a medieval female jester with bare boobs. It seems to mock my predicament. I ache for the courage to do something drastic. I expel a grunt as I swing and sink the back of my right fist into Emily’s pillow. The injury to the
pillow is a big yawn. To me, it is bottomless.
Chapter 16
Spormaggiore, northern Italy
Emilio is driving up Strada Statale between the ancient church of Saint Vigilio with its Romanesque bell tower on his right and the Municipio building on his left. He stops his car in front of the driveway that separates the church from its parkette and takes in the view with deep breaths of the cool mountain air. He is glad to be home. In this town, time slows to a standstill. He longs to become a humble man surrounded by a loving family and faithful friends.
There are several small cars parked in the vicinity along with vans and lightweight trucks but there are no pedestrians in sight. It is very early Sunday morning and the city streets are abandoned.
Townsfolk are interned, preparing grandiose meals and getting dressed for church.
His brother, Father Giancarlo who serves as the town’s clergyman, appears through the main church door. He busies himself updating the bulletin board to the right of the doorway with this week’s community news. He does not even notice his brother. Only the sound of the departing vehicle attracts his attention. There is an expression of surprise but not recognition on his face.
Emilio turns left just before the Allegro Pizzeria Bar onto Piazza di Flera and heads for home. He passes the Macelleria Bruno, its storefront shielded by a rolling steel garage door. There is some activity inside at the supermarket, more of an extra-large convenience store, but the doors remain shut. Numerous wooden window shutters are open. Laundry and carpets hang astride numerous balcony railings keeping company the many pots of flowers and satellite dishes. The vista is a medley of colors: green blue, white, brown and even gray.
At Via Coalof, Emilio ascends right and parks the car in front of the wooden garage door. The garage, built into the side of the hill, is the undercarriage for the front porch and entrance to his house.
The sounds of the car rumbling to a halt in the silence outside beckon the residents to peek through their windows. Screams suddenly echo throughout the dwelling onto the stone pavement of the narrow road.
“Daddy is home! Daddy is home!”
Four kids, one male and three females burst
outside like caged animals going back to the wild. The children welcome their father with capricious jumping and hugging. In unison, these Geppetto puppets screech.
“Daddy what did you get us? What did you
buy?”
“Good to see you too, Andrea, Paola, Luisa,
and you too, my little man, Angelo. Just try not to stampede each other but all your gifts are in the trunk of the car. Here are the keys Angelo. See if you can control your sisters.”
“Of course, papa.”
Turning to his siblings, Angelo holds the keys in the air above his head. “
“Okay, who is going to bake some biscotti for
me this afternoon?”
Emilio laughs and walks away from the trifling tempest. He looks at his wife, Grazia, waiting for her man. A smeared apron is covering her Sunday best clothes, but her smile spices up the homecoming.
Emilio hastens his steps wrapping his arms around Grazia’s solid frame. While she grips his face to plant a sensuous kiss, he grabs her ass and tugs at her, signaling his desires for later that night.
“Did you have a productive trip? Did you visit your brother Pio? What about our dear friend, the Pontiff? Did you close the art deal for the professore? Was he there?”
“Stop. Stop.”
Emilio cannot contain his amusement. “Let’s just say that everything is well and all
is done. At least, for now.”
Looking back at his kids rummaging through gift boxes by the side of the car, Emilio thirsts for a proper espresso.
“Signora, I report to the professore tomorrow. Right now, I need a double espresso with a double shot of grappa.”
Grazia, knowing her place, understands that additional questions are not appreciated and will be ruled out-of-order. Emilio has his limits and “You break them at your peril.”
Chapter 17
Tarquinia, central Italy Piazza Cavour
I feel naughty eating my pastry al fresco. The sunny day sky lessens the gloom and doom drawn up in the daily news. However, I cannot help but muse about how many cappuccinos does it take to equal the feeling of a syringe of morphine?
“May I get you anything else, Mr. Salvo?” The waiter waits patiently. He is a handsome man with calloused fingers, athletic but not muscular with bronzed skin either from regular excursions to the beach or playful afternoons on the football field.
“Yes, another cappuccino, per favore.”
We exchange smiles. A cordial connection that eludes definition links us.
The two-story Albergo Americano rests just
past the entryway to the old town of Tarquinia. It features a café-American restaurant and bar. It is the premier hotel in the old town, central to the tourist attractions and convenient for more casual business or social meetings for locals.
The hotel is located across the street from Piazza Cavour, which is Tarquinia’s first square that flanks the town’s prized museum. From afar, the archaeological museum, situated in Palazzo Vitelleschi, looks boxy. The museum is among the best collections of Etruscan finds in all of Italy. The Etruscans were Italy’s earliest civilization. They settled in the Lazio region and established an aristocratic class of immense cultural and economic power within the Roman Empire. Relics displayed include an Etruscan representation in terra cotta of Cavalli Alati, winged horses from the 4th century BC. This motif smacks of conflict rooted in history threatening the most powerful of modern day, Italian outlaw societies – particularly, the Mafia.
I prefer sitting on the patio rather than in the interior, cavernous restaurant with its smoking patrons. Feeling the heat of the Mediterranean Scirocco breeze, I relocate and plant myself from under the twin canopies to a small table and chair in proximity to the gazebo-style, newspaper stand that shares the quadrangle sizeable space.