“Well, you were the one to save us, Izzy.” He leans toward me. “You fucked it all up.”
I can’t help but let out a laugh. “I tried,” I say, throwing my hands up in surrender, soap bubbles flinging off my fingers as I do.
“I know what you mean, though,” he says. “All I ever wanted as a kid was to go to London or to New York or Paris. My parents loved the quiet, small-town life, but I never wanted it for myself, and now. . .” He trails off.
I feel a twinge of empathy for Benito. Maybe we’re more alike than I realized. “And now you’re back.”
“Now I’m back,” he repeats.
“We’re both losers,” I say. “Is that how we ended up here?”
Benito laughs. “No, you’re the loser. You’re here because you failed and ran out of options. I’m the sad sack who chose to come back even though he swore he never would.”
My heart sinks. I’m a failure. Even Benito sees me that way. The once-great Isabella Rhodes flown in from California to stand as a monument to how quickly greatness can crumble.
He must notice my change in demeanor, because he delicately takes the plate I was washing out of my hands and dries it with a rooster-print towel. “Sorry, I don’t mean failure. I know it’s more complicated than that.”
“It’s really not,” I say back quickly. “Why do you hate La Musa so much?”
“I don’t hate it,” Benito says. I cock my head at him, unconvinced. Benito takes a deep breath. “I don’thateit. La Musa is my home. I love it. I want more for it. That’s part of what I’m going to do here.”
“Maybe you’re too close to it and you can’t see. It’s beautiful here, and with the right exposure, more people could appreciate it,” I say.
“And maybe it’s too special to you that you can’t see it clearly either,” he says. “You came back because you had such a wonderful study abroad experience, right?” He asks. I nod. Benito continues, “And that’s not nothing, but it’s not a sustainable tourism business model. La Musa needs to change, it needs to evolve.”
I think of the aged buildings like the one we’re in right now. Other than light maintenance and upgraded technology, everything is more or less the way it’s always been. “So, what, you want to add in a Whole Foods and an Apple Store?”
Benito shakes his head. “No, of course not, but look at cities like London. The old exists alongside the new. People say they want to travel and have new experiences and see new things, but ultimately, they want to stay inside their comfort zone as much as possible. With modern touches, La Musa could become a real destination, known for more than just old buildings and pasta.”
I consider. With modern touches, wouldn’t La Musa be like every other homogenous, globalized small town in the world? “Do we really need to reshape a historical medieval hilltop fortress into a shrine to chain hotels and big box stores?” I ask.
“I don’t want that,” Benito says. “But less and less people want to live and work in small towns like this. We have very little economy, very little business. If we want to survive, we have to change.”
“No,” I say, a reflex to the rising storm in my stomach. We were having such a nice conversation, but of course he had to ruin it with talk ofrevitalization.
Benito laughs, amused. “No?”
“No,” I repeat. “Don’t do that. I came here because it’s nothing like the world I’m used to. There are so many other people who’d want to do the same if they knew it existed.”
“So you’re saying La Musa shouldn’t change because you, Izzy Rhodes, don’t want it to?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes,” I say. “Literally that.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “I think I’ll keep to my original plan, but thank you for your input.”
He puts the last of the plates onto the drying rack and pats his hands against a dry towel, leaving the kitchen once he’s done. I can’t let him turn La Musa into a cheesy tourist stop with branded photo ops disguised as art installations. But at the same time, it’s really none of my business. The public service part of my life is over. It’s not my problem to fix.
Chapter Six
By Saturday, my brain is brimming with ideas on how to make La Musa more popular with tourists. I could reach out to my contact at Condé Nast and convince them to feature La Musa as one of the top travel destinations for next year, same withThe New York Times. My campaign used Los Angeles-based influencers to help get out the vote in my district and beyond; I could reach out to a handful of them, though I doubt La Musa has the budget to pay for branded content. Maybe I could post about it to my own Instagram—no, that’s not what I’m here to do. I don’t want people to know where I am. I want to maintain my anonymity.
That’s why I’m wearing a scarf around my head and giant sunglasses for my and Benito’s Roman holiday.
On the way to the train station, I stop in Caffè del Duomo for a cappuccino. Inside, I see Giac standing at the counter, ordering from Giuseppe. “Buongiorno,Giac,” I say, grinning probably too hard.He stares back at me, squinting his eyes. I take off my sunglasses. “It’s me, Izzy.”
He laughs. “Ah, yes. Izzy. I did not recognize you. How are you?”
It’s my turn to order, and Giuseppe stares at me. “Un cappuccino, per favore,” I say. I turn back to Giac. “I’m doing well. I’m actually headed to Rome.”
