The house is quiet once I’m dressed and venture downstairs. I guess Benito is at work, assuming Mayor of La Musa is an actual job and not just a vanity title. I walk outside. The wind whips against my face as I close the wrought-iron gate behind me. There’s a fog settled over the hillside below and as a result, it looks like the town is floating above a cloud. I take a breath in. Air, fresh air. This is good for me.
I follow the cobblestone street to the center of town. My destination is Caffè del Duomo, the coffee shop that was my favorite study spot when I was a student here. I’m not surprised to find that it hasn’t changed at all: a tiny space with stools crammed around a few high-top tables, and the same surly-looking barista behind the counter. I think his name is Giovanni or Giuseppe or one of those Gi-names. There’s a spattering of tables on the patio outside that fill up as the day goes on, but for now there’s not another person in sight.
That is, except for Giovanni or Giuseppe, who doesn’t seem thrilled to have a customer. He looks up when I enter but then goes back to fiddling with the cash register, using the end of his wrinkled gray T-shirt to clean its buttons. I stand at the counter and wait for him to perk up, but several moments go by without any movement.
“Hi—uh,buongiorno,” I say. Giovanni/Giuseppe doesn’t budge. “Buongiorno,” I decide to take a stab, “Giovanni.”
This gets his attention. He glares at me. Oh no. “Mi chiamoGiuseppe.”
“Damn it. That was my second guess.”
He glares at me more. I realize he’s expecting me to order. “Vorrei un cappuccino, per favore,” can I please have a cappuccino, I ask, “and do you by any chance have oat milk?” I’m too tired to try to translate and I don’t think oat milk was a thing the last time I spoke Italian. “Mi dispiace,” I apologize. “Parla inglese?”
Giuseppe doesn’t reply and starts working on my cappuccino without another word.
“Grazie,” I say, once he sets the finished drink in front of me.“Quanto costa?” I ask, taking out my wallet to pay. Even pre-caffeine, my Italian is thankfully much sharper than yesterday.
Giuseppe waves his hand and goes back to his button-polishing project. “For you, nothing. No oat milk.” I think I see the slightest of smiles briefly cross his lips.
Alright, Izzy, I think to myself.You are doing it. You are in Italy. I take my cappuccino to one of the tables outside that overlook the Piazza del Duomo, the church’s giant frescos shimmering in the morning sun. A few people mill about. A flock of sparrows descends into the piazza, squawking at each other for a few moments before flying away.
I take out my e-reader and scroll through the books I pre-downloaded. They’re all nonfiction, the heady, intellectual dram I consumed in the before-times: a biography of Madeleine Albright, the untold story of female combat nurses during World War II, a bookabout Grover Cleveland’s sister who served as his first lady because he was unmarried. I wonder who would do the job if an unmarried woman became president? I don’t have any siblings. Would my first lady be my mom? Kate? My childhood bestie, Priya?
I put my Kindle back into my bag. There’s no need to escape to other worlds. Ihaveescaped to another world. A mother with her two children walks by. The clock tower chimes, signaling the top of the hour. Giuseppe sweeps the floor inside. It’s so quiet outside—which is nice, and I love it.
A well-dressed older woman walks by me, her heels clacking against the cobblestone. A man enters the café, orders a shot of espresso, drinks it quickly, then leaves. A hawk circles above the town then flies away.
I can relax here. I can do anything here. But Jesus Christ, what the hell am I supposed to do, and how do I relax?
I finish my cappuccino and walk back to the house.
My stomach growls as I walk inside and smell something delicious. My body’s all out of whack, but it’s nearly lunchtime. I follow the scent into the kitchen, where a person I’ve never seen before is standing over the stove, watching a simmering pot. He’s a portly man with hair thinning at the top of his head and a sheen of sweat visible all over his body.
“Hello?” I say.
“Buongiorno!” he says with a genuine ear-to-ear smile. He walks over to me. “You must be Isabella from California.” He shakes my hand.
“Yes, that’s me. I go by Izzy.”
He walks back to the pot and stirs whatever’s inside. “I am taking my daughters to California next year. My younger one, Antonia, has always wanted to meet Elsa fromFrozen.” He presses a palm to his forehead. “She kill me for saying that. She’s supposed to be too old and too cool to care aboutFrozennow, but I hear ‘Let It Go’ coming out of her headphones.” He laughs. “And my older one is too cool for everything, but I want to send her down the big water ride. Feel fear, you know?” He laughs heartily. “No, no, I am kidding. They are both good girls. I am a lucky man.”
I think I see him start to tear up. I interject, “I’m sure they are. And you are. . .?”
He laughs uproariously. “I go on and on about Antonia and Beatrice and I don’t even say my own name! I am so sorry, Izzy from California. I am Vincenzo. Vincenzo from La Musa.”
“Very nice to meet you.”
“I work here. . . I. . . how do you say, watch the house?” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, my English is not so good.”
“Your English is excellent,” I say. “Do you cook for Anita and Benito?”
Vincenzo looks at the pot and laughs again. “Oh no. No, no. I see how you thought that, Izzy from California. No, I watch the sauce for tonight’s dinner for Signora Anita. She gives me orders, I listen. That is my job here. And that is my job at home with my wife.” He laughs heartily again. “Oh, Benito, hello.”
I turn and see Benito walking into the kitchen. “Hi,” he says, barely nodding in my direction. “I see you two have met.”
“We have,” Vincenzo says. “And with Izzy here, I might get my English up to the level of you, my posh British boy.”
Benito looks up slowly. I laugh. “No, please, if I’m going to be here, I need to learn Italian. Don’t speak English on my account.”
