I take a bite of my club sandwich. "Oh, that's good."
Anna eyes her burger as though it's a challenge to be defeated rather than a meal to enjoy. I realize I shouldn't have pressed her to order it. Some people have a difficult relationship with food and I don't know whether she's one of them. I'm relieved when she finally picks it up, takes a huge bite and grins.
"It's amazing."
As I lift my sandwich to take another bite, Santo produces his phone and points it at us.
"Signore Volante asked me to take photos of your day, since you don't have your own phone yet."
I lean across the table a little, motioning to Anna to do the same. We flash goofy grins at the camera and Santo takes the picture.
"Will you send it to Gabriele?"
Santo nods. "Already doing it. He wanted to be kept up to date."
I can't decide whether that's sweet or controlling. It hasn't escaped my notice that Gabriele likes to be in command of things. I choose to see it as a sign he's interested in how my day is going. That's more comforting than the alternative.
"Can we walk up the Spanish Steps when we're finished here?" I ask Santo.
"Of course, Signora. I can take more pictures if you like."
"Eccellente."
"Look at you, learning the language," Anna says.
"I'll be fluent in no time." Once I find a decent course to follow I intend to dedicate myself to mastering Italian. I don't like not knowing what people around me are saying. "How long did it take you to learn?"
"I already knew it from school," Anna tells me. "But I'm still picking things up. German is my native language, of course, but I also know English, obviously, and French."
I pout. "Why does nobody ever learn Russian? It's a beautiful language."
"It seems complicated though, with the different alphabet."
"Languages are easy," Santo interjects. "You pick them up in no time if you immerse yourself in them."
I glance over to his table. "How many languages do you speak?"
"English, French, Italian, German, Greek, a bit of Cantonese and some sign language."
He moves his hand, spelling out something I can't decipher.
"Show off," I grumble.
As we eat the rest of our food, Anna and I chat about various friends of hers she thinks I'd get along with and she tells me about her husband. I, of course, say nothing about mine. Even if Santo wasn't listening to every word and no doubtreporting back, I know better than to share information about my marriage. Loose lips sink ships, as my English nanny used to say.
When we finish lunch, we emerge into the mid-afternoon sun. It's so hot I almost rethink my desire to walk up the Spanish Steps. As we climb them, I spot a plaque on a building and go to take a closer look.
"It's the Keats-Shelley House," Santo tells me. "The English poets."
I nod. "Is Keats the one who wrote about a terrible beauty?"
"No, that was Yeats. He was Irish." I exchange a look with Anna. Who is this man and why the hell is he guarding mafia women for a living? "Keats wrote the seasons of mists…."
"And mellow fruitfulness," Anna and I chorus. It's a pretty famous line. I look at the plaque. "And he lived here?"
"Died here, too. He was twenty-five."
Only a few years older than me. That's a sobering thought. I stand there for a moment, feeling oddly melancholic over a man who died more than two centuries ago. I glance at Santo, who’s probably the same age Keats was, and shudder.
