Katya
In hindsight,not realizing there is something off about the restaurant will be the first thing I reproach myself for. I should have trusted the doubt that flickered when the car pulled up outside and asked Santo to drive on.
This place is not what I'd have expected my mother to choose. She has an almost pathological need to be seen in the most exclusive places, by the right people, while wearing the latest clothes.
She eats only at the top restaurants in St. Petersburg, switching her loyalties whenever somewhere newer and trendier comes along.
The place she's chosen for our lunch is quiet, discreet. Tucked down a side street off the Via Veneto, it's too modest for her tastes. Rome is full of the type of restaurants she would normally choose, so why here?
Daniele's has the appearance of being a small, family-run trattoria. It strikes me as an odd choice but perhaps she’s not so concerned with maintaining her image here. She doesn’t knowanyone in Rome, apart from me and I’m not someone she’s ever tried to impress.
When I go inside, my sense that something isn't right intensifies. The restaurant is clean and comfortable, but it's dated. I don't think the walls have seen fresh paint since the eighties and some of the wooden tables have visible wear and tear on the legs.
There's no maître d', another thing I'd expect of any establishment my mother chooses to patronize. Instead, I follow a waiter through to a private room at the back.
My mother is already there, inspecting her red-tipped nails as I enter. She rises and offers her cheek. I kiss it because to do otherwise would be an insult, and one thing I have learned over twenty-three years is that you do not insult my mother without paying for it.
She looks me over with a critical eye.
"You look surprisingly well," she says.
I frown. "Why wouldn't I?"
"With all your little adventures lately, I thought there might be a toll.”
I curl my fists as I will myself not to rise to the bait. One of her favorite pastimes is telling me I look tired, or ill. She takes great pleasure in telling me if my hair is a little limp or my pallor too pale.
"Little adventures?” I ask.
"Yes." She settles back into her chair. "With your Italian.”
She makes it sound as if Gabriele is some random man I’m having a fling with while I’m in Rome.
"You mean my husband.” I tilt my head to the side, daring her to dispute that is precisely what Gabriele is.
She purses her lips. The conversation is going exactly as I expected it to, which is why I told Gabriele not to come. It's better that he stayed at home to prepare for tonight's meetingwith Maroni. He's already tying himself in knots over that. He doesn't need Irina Kuznetova in full swing on top of it.
I pick up the menu and study it. There's pasta, of course, and a few meat dishes. My eye snags on the Frutti di Mare. That's tempting. I haven't had seafood since arriving in Rome.
"This place is different," I say.
"A friend recommended it. The food is supposed to be exceptional."
I say nothing. My mother doesn't care about exceptional food. None of it ever passes her lips.
The waiter enters with a bottle of wine. My mother inspects the label and nods. He pours.
"I prefer French, of course," she says, "but when in Rome." She laughs as though she's said something original.
I taste the wine. It's good. The flavor is rich, fruity, with a hint of something I don't recognize. A slightly bitter note arrives at the finish.
Maybe the grapes were sour when they pressed them. I don’t know much about wine, other than what I like. Perhaps I could ask my new brother-in-law for a crash course if I ever get to meet him.
"I find myself enjoying Italian more and more," I say, to be provocative.
My mother glowers at me. Well, as much as her extensive facial work will allow. She watches me, saying nothing.
"So, how are you, Mama?" I ask.
