“Not too bad,” Davide rumbled. His voice was nearly as low as the car’s engine. “Where are you from?”
“The US. Kansas City. But my parents were from Iran.”
“Iran! Mosaddegh!” Davide grinned in the mirror. “Viva Mosaddegh!”
Ramin nodded, bewildered that Davide even knew who Mosaddegh was. Ramin himself hadn’t known much until he got to college. His parents had been kids when the coup happened, and surely Davide hadn’t even been born.
He didn’t dwell on it, though, as Davide moved from dead Iranian politicians to telling Ramin about the sights to see in Milan. The Duomo, the Castello Sforzesco, Davide’s favorite piazzas, the best spot for an aperitivo. Ramin nodded and tried to remember them all, but he was eager to explore and discover things on his own. Get to know the city. Live like an Italian.
Be interesting.
At last they pulled up at his apartment building: a tall edifice painted saffron yellow with white trim around the windows and balconies, nestled between similar buildings in pink and sienna and white.
Davide shook his hand, shouted another “Viva Mosaddegh!” with a raised fist, and sped off without even using his blinker. Ramin took a deep breath, twisted his studs, fixed the hem of his shirt, and finally rang the buzzer his email instructed.
“Dimmi,” a deep feminine voice said.
“Uh. Ciao? I’m Ramin? I’m renting—”
“Ah! Ramin! Be down shortly.”
It wasn’t long before the metal gate swung open and his hosts stepped out.
“Ciao, Ramin! I’m Paola, and this is Francesca.” Paola was stunning, her red hair long and flowing down the back of her sleek, rose-red dress. Francesca, on the other hand, had a short black pompadour, and she wore jeans, a sport coat, and a bolo tie.
Ramin didn’t like to make assumptions, but he had the feeling he’d rented from a pair of fabulous Italian lesbians.
Being Interesting New Ramin was off to a great start.
“Ciao. Piacere,” Ramin said, shaking both their hands. He didn’t see any wedding rings—though same-sex marriage still wasn’t legal in Italy, a fact he’d forgotten to look up while drunkenly making plans—but they wore a matched set of gold pendants that looked like they’d join together to form a heart. “Thank you for hosting me.”
“Please! We’re excited! Come, come. Where’s your luggage?” Francesca asked, holding the door for Ramin.
“Amsterdam,” he said with a shrug.
Paola laughed, a musical thing that set her very white teeth against her very red lipstick, but then she realized Ramin wasn’t joking. “Truly?”
“Yeah. I’ll be okay, though.”
“What a disaster, having to shop for clothes in Milan,” Francesca said drily as the three of them piled into an elevator that looked suspiciously like it was only rated for one person. Ramin sucked in his stomach but still got jabbed by an elbow as Paola hit the button for the seventh floor, which was also the eighth floor, because in Italy, the ground floor counted as zero and not one.
Ramin was trying to be Interesting and New, but he hadn’t been able to help occasionally googling “things to know about visiting Italy” when he couldn’t fall asleep. It was either that or think about Todd.
“Here we are!” Francesca said when they spilled out of the elevator. The seventh (eighth) floor landing was wide and open. Sunlight poured in through the skylight above.
She and Paola led Ramin down the hall, past identical gray doors, to his apartment—8D.
It’s an omen!little devil Arya whispered into his ear.
Ramin hoped so.
Francesca pulled out a heavy keychain and let Ramin in—first through the outer gray door, which had a dead bolt and a lock in the knob, and then through the heavy redinnerdoor, which had a latch and what looked to be the lock off a bank vault. You had to stick the key—a weird-looking thing without teeth—in and crank it hard, three times, before the door finally opened into Ramin’s apartment.
Ramin stepped inside and took in the space. The afternoon sun streamed in through the windows over the long, narrow kitchen. It had a kitschy-looking yellow refrigerator and a lurid green IKEA dining table. Beyond that, through a set of sliding doors, was the living room, with a bright red couch and a TV and more windows; to the right, a short hallway led off to the bathroom and bedroom.
“It’s perfect,” Ramin said once Paola finished a quick tour. “Thank you.”
“If you need anything, we’re right next door,” Paola said. She made to leave, her heels clicking against the floors, but Francesca stopped her and said something in Italian way too complicated for Ramin to understand.
