“And Vincenzo mentioned Ava might be a bit ubriaca, Gi. So be prepared.” She finishes with a dismissive hand wave.
“She’s drunk?” I ask, trying not to laugh.
Nina lifts her shoulders and opens her palms.
“I’ll walk then,” I say, whistling for Verga. “She’ll need the fresh air.”
Though it’ll be a lot of fun to watch her normal swagger teeter out of control. No one at the table gives a shit about what I do now that Ava is accounted for. They are all digging into the dessert that I am missing for the drunk American. I get a nod and a wink from my uncle as I pass through the front door and tell Verga how much I appreciate him.
“Just me and you, buddy.” I get beneath the wrinkles by his ears and he pushes his head against my thigh. “You wanna help me pick up the drunk American?”
And he’s off. Kickin’ up dirt like he’s Seabiscuit racing for the Triple Crown as he disappears down the road and around the hill. And I’m alone again. What. The. Fuck.
Admittedly, there is something charming about the American—if she doesn’t despise you, of course. Even the students were taken by her as she sat beside them and listened to their ideas for what they wanted to write about for the assignment we gave today. When she’s not fixating on some contrived plan, she is a natural people pleaser. Until she looks my way.
I touch the worn leather strap around my neck, twist the dial of the camera to bring it to life, and center the giant illuminatedkeystone of Porta Valbona as soon as it comes into view. A few buses are left in the huge square outside the city’s walls, dropping some of the college students off after their trip to the beach in Pesaro. The smell of suntan lotion and exhaust fumes hurries me along through Borgo Mercatale as the students chatter about which bar they’ll meet at after showering. No matter that it is ninePMon a Monday night. To be young.
I ignore the young potential drunks and focus on finding the nearing-thirty-already-drunk that is unwittingly in my charge. It takes only moments to find her outside of the tiny osteria two buildings up Via Mazzini as I pass beneath the archway.
I stop. Lean into the shadow that runs beneath the stone, lift the viewfinder and let loose.
She’s wearing a man’s homburg hat—Franco’s from the looks of it—her hair still twisted like earlier beneath the straw brim that turns up in the front. And she’s smoking a cigar, one far too large for her tiny frame; she wets her full lips, takes a drag, bright eyes wide on Vincenzo across from her. Her brows lift as her mouth makes a tiny O and she tries to mimic the donut holes Vincenzo makes across the table. She’s so focused on the task at hand, her body leaning over the iron table scattered with empty plates as she studies her mentor, that she doesn’t even notice when I get close enough to capture the way her nostrils dilate as she exhales carefully. She succeeds in making a round puff, no O in the center, and her face lights up with excitement as Franco pats her shoulder in encouragement. I lower the camera when I see Verga lounging beneath her feet. She’s kicked off her flats and is stroking her bare toes into his fur. I try to compose my face into something that masks the wonder. Who the hell is this? Surely not the uptight American who wrinkled her nose at me at the airport.
I pull out a chair at the table beside Vincenzo and he puts his arm around my shoulders onto the back of the iron seat. Francotilts his head toward Ava and widens his eyes at me, lifting his gray brows up into a question. Verga doesn’t bother to move.
“Where have you been hiding this charming little thing, Gi?” he asks, pointing his cigar at Ava. She pushes the tip of her index finger into her cheek and twists and tips her hat at me with her other hand.
“I take no responsibility for that.” I nod toward her as she fills the wine glass in front of me from the bottle of Vernaccia. Franco’s favorite wine.
“You didn’t make it very far into the city,” I tell her as she tops off the rest of the glasses.
“The wine in the window spoke to me. And then Franco got me drunk.” Franco puts his hands up in surrender. “A wine store just inside the gate is entrapment, no?” She smiles at Franco and he nods his agreement.
“And you?” I poke Vincenzo’s meaty flank. “How’d you get into the mix?”
He shrugs, his suspenders lifting and falling as he purses his lips beneath that impressive silver mustache. Vincenzo taught me to cook when I was sixteen. And Franco. Well, Franco taught me to drink when I was fourteen. Ava was in far better hands with them than with me.
“She must eat,” he says, standing and collecting the plates.
Ava stands from her seat and nearly tips over on the cobblestones before Vincenzo steadies her.
“I can help,” she protests, and Vincenzo’s deep laugh drifts into the open sky.
“You can help tomorrow when I make you coniglio in porchetta,” he promises.
Ava looks at me and grins. Then whispers, “That’s bunny rarebit.”
“Okay, Elmer Fudd, sit down before you end up with a concussion,” I tell her, pointing to the chair and, surprisingly, she does as she’s told, just as Franco excuses himself to check on the shop. I glance over my shoulder to find the shop window completely dark and decidedly safe.
“How much Renaissance art did you learn about today?” I ask her. The light from the single candle on the table keeps catching flecks of emerald in her eyes. If her at-ease smile hadn’t already transfixed me, that color would have done the trick. I look away, reminding myself what lies beneath that beauty.
“So,” Ava begins, her S only the tiniest bit softened by the wine. “Funny you should ask that. I learned a lot about the work of a local photographer. Talented man. Well-liked by the locals. I doubt he runs in your circle.”
She flicks her wrist and waves off her sentence, trying hard not to laugh at her own sarcasm. She’s seen some of my work.
“Anything they told you about me is a lie,” I say, letting the crisp Vernaccia slide over the back of my tongue.
“Well, that must be true since it was all good.”
