“I don’t know what CNEN is,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Comitato Nazionale Energia Nucleare.”
“Okay.”
“They’re like your Atomic Energy Commission.”
It was flattering that Francesca assumed I knew what the Atomic Energy Commission was.
“I can go,” I offered, because somewhere along the way it had begun to feel like she wanted me to answer for the sins of the Nuclear Propulsion Program or maybe the entire U.S. Navy, and I just didn’t feel equipped. “I’m sorry for—”
She held up a hand, a signal that I should stay and perhaps she would let the matter rest, at least for now. “Can I make you a coffee?” she asked.
“I’d love that,” I said, and followed her into the kitchen, where she began messing with an aluminum contraption that I’d soon learn was a moka pot. She took it apart, filled it with water and then coffee, and set it on a low flame. All the while, she kept talking.
“Your husband really works in Radiological Controls?” she asked as she removed two miniature cups and saucers from the drainboard. I interpreted the question to mean she was horrified by how little I knew about anything.
“He has a top-secret clearance,” I offered weakly.
She gestured at a newspaper,La Spedizione, which sat folded on the counter. “It’s all right there. In the paper. Nothing secret about it.”
I glanced at the paper, which was—of course—indecipherable to me. “Yes, well, I can’t read Italian, or speak it, for that matter.”
She laughed a little. “I suppose that is why you’re here.”
“I understand you give lessons.” I almost saidto American wivesbut stopped short. She seemed like she’d had it with Americans, so I didn’t want to remind her that I was one.
“It’s three thousand an hour,” she said, which was a good bit more than Sheila had quoted me. I suspected I could thank whoever this Amendola guy was for the price hike.
“That’s fine,” I said quickly. I was desperate for her to take me on as her student and without a house or a car, the lire Paul doled out to me still felt like fun money. “When can we start?”
The pot on the stove had begun to gurgle, and Francesca lifted the lid and stirred the concentrate with a spoon. When she was satisfied, she poured the espresso into our waiting cups and handed me mine, then led me out to the balcony, where there were a couple of rickety chairs and a weathered teak table. “How about now?”
46.
FRANCESCA AND I HAD AGREEDthat I would come to her apartment on Tuesday mornings at ten. Between now and the following Tuesday, I was to go to the stationer’s, which she called thecartoleria, and acquire two notebooks—one for the vocabulary words she’d already begun to feed me and another for written assignments. The first of those assignments was to conjugate the verbsessere, avere, andvivere, and to write a dozen short sentences using the handful of words she’d taught me.I am a woman. I have a husband. I live in La Maddalena.
I was so eager to get started that I walked directly from her apartment to the cartoleria, where there was a small selection of notebooks with pretty paper covers. I picked out two, along with a fancy ink pen, then made my way to the counter, where a young guy, maybe a few years older than I was, was trying to make a marionette move. He was saying something in Italian to the woman behind the counter, then turned to me and asked me the same thing.
“Sorry,” I said, before remembering that my English was going to get me nowhere. “Non parlo italiano.”
“But it sounds like you do,” he said with a wide smile.
I laughed, then admitted thatNon parlo italianowas the only phrase I knew.
“I was asking if you think this is a good gift for my niece.”
I eyed the marionette, which was maybe a foot high and bore a striking resemblance to Pinocchio. This made sense, since Pinocchio was an Italian fairy tale. I was interested in the marionette—I’d never seen one in real life—but I was as interested in this man, who spoke better English than I did and reminded me of Al Pacino, if Pacino had gotten his big break playing a librarian and not the youngest son of the Corleone family. He had wiry hair that looked like it rarely saw a comb, and gold-rimmed glasses, which had to come with a strong prescription, judging by how thick thelenses were. He wasn’t tall—I could look him directly in the eyes—and he was skinny as a rail, the type who didn’t lift weights and also forgot to eat, or considered four cigarettes and a handful of cashews a meal. Still, he made great eye contact and had warm chocolate-brown eyes that twinkled when he laughed.
“How old is your niece?” I asked.
“Five,” he said. “Do you think she’s old enough to manage this?”
It seemed like it might be a headache, keeping the strings from getting tangled, but I didn’t think it was my place to tell him that. “I don’t see why not.”
He said something to the woman behind the counter, who obviously did not share my opinion, then he handed the marionette to me. “Try it.”
It was harder than I expected, getting the doll’s joints to move at the right time. I’d bob the head and inadvertently wiggle the butt, kick a leg out and accidentally thrust an arm in the air. My new friend showed me how to wrap the marionette strings around my fingers for extra control, and soon I had the thing sauntering past a rack of magazines.
